Note the correction above, unless there's supposed to be something between "on" and "and."
And Gregor's brother gets revenge for the burns inflicted on him years ago.
I was right about the Ned being the one dreaming of battle. Given the number of wargs in the next generation, I'd say outcrossing to southern houses (both Tully and Targaryen) was good for the Stark bloodline. The Hungry Wolf should be mindful of that.
Howland was beside himself with worry. His worst fears had come true, and the Dothraki scouts belonged to a Khalasar. His misfortune was somewhat limited, as the foe they had provoked wasn't one of those infamous horselords commanding tens of thousands of screamers. Still, the man they faced was more than the Northmen could handle.
Ten days ago, Khal Polo, with over six thousand horsemen, had arrived before the gates of their fort, demanding surrender.
Of course, no such thing happened, and arrows had started raining after they told him to sod off. The Northmen were stuck in the fort with no way out. It defended them well enough, for even the overproud horselords weren't foolish enough to charge at a tall wooden wall. But they had sufficient patience to besiege them.
Worse, they were outranged - the enemy's bows had far longer range, and it quickly became clear that the Dothraki had far more arrows than the Northmen.
Even the wooden wall and the hill barely gave them a slight advantage, but the advantage meant nothing when they lacked the arrows and proper bows to leverage it. True, they scavenged the fallen Dothraki arrows and salvaged some for their use, but their enemy had a dozen mounted marksmen for every bow the Northmen possessed.
"Forty dead so far," Wylis Manderly said, plump face grim at the dawn of the ninth day. "Most of those are the sailors lacking proper armour, but we are starting to bleed archers; Knott, Harclay, Burley, and the Slate men have ten dead and five times as many wounded.
The hail of arrows was relentless and could go over the walls, forcing everyone to walk around clad in armour, huddle behind shields, or cluster at the top of the hill where the Dothraki bows failed to reach. At night, they used their spare timber to hastily construct a few motley sheds down the slope with wooden roofs for protection, which gave them some relief.
Howland's shoulder was still sore from lugging a hefty heater shield everywhere. His back and waist were no better; wearing his bronze scaleshirt day and night had begun to take a toll on his thin frame.
The bigger problem was the water. There was plenty of food to last the Northmen for another fortnight, but their fort was thirty meters from the nearby river, and the Dothraki shot down anyone who went to fetch any. It forced them to ration, but their supplies were dwindling; Vayon Poole said they had just enough to drink for five more days.
At least today was rainy, which meant the Dothraki would leave them alone. The petering of the arrows was replaced with the rhythmic raindrops. It also meant they could gather more water for drinking, though men had gotten sick from it unless it was boiled.
"Unlike our wooden recurves and longbows, the glue holding their composite horn bows comes apart in the rain," Rickard Ryswell, who had turned quite knowledgeable about the Dothraki, had explained the first time it had rained.
"How many arrows do those savage fucks have?" Damon Dustin was frothing mad, but even he wasn't crazy enough to charge six thousand horsemen with less than half a hundred lancers.
"The Dothraki live and die on the saddle," Ben Burley grunted. "Each one of them makes their own arrows."
They were fucked, everyone knew that. The Dothraki had no mercy either, and Damon Dustin had been the one to slay the scouts. Not that it would have mattered; the only way to get rid of the horselords was to give them some tribute, and the Northmen had very little riches and were too proud to part with them at the point of a bow.
It was even questionable if they would accept anymore; Ben Burley had managed to take down a handful of important-looking horselords with his weirwood longbow, though it only made them attack harder.
Cregan Knott and a few others wanted to sally out at night, but it was too risky, for the Dothraki could simply retreat and wear them down with their bows or surround and charge them from every side. The Northmen had at least two dozen ideas on what should be done, but none could agree on even one, and thus, they turtled up behind the walls.
It was an ugly conundrum, for Howland himself couldn't decide what to do.
Should they wait inside the fort and pray for something to happen before they run out of food and water?
Or should they fight against terrible odds? Even if they chose to fight, the question was how, and he had no idea, despite the score of different plans offered to him. If this had been a bog, a marshland, or a forest, Howland Reed was confident to come up with dozens of plans that would see the Dothraki dead or fleeing sooner rather than later, yet they were in a makeshift fort atop an open hill. Subterfuge had little place here, and the Crannoglord did not like the chances a direct battle would offer.
Each day, the mood in the camp turned grimmer, and Howland still didn't dare make a decision.
Damned if he did, damned if he didn't, but they had not only a royal prince to protect, but the Lord of Winterfell as well. May the old gods forgive him, but Howland Reed struggled to make any decision, as it looked like he was faced with a dead end in each direction.
A commotion near Ned's tent grabbed his attention as noon approached. Everyone was flocking to it, faces filled with trepidation, excitement even–Slate, Knott, Burley, Manderly, Liddle, Ryswell, Harclay, Glover, Flint, Dustin.
Howland Reed couldn't believe his eyes when Eddard Stark walked out, hale, hearty, and unbothered by the downpour. His eyes had gone flinty, cold, and fierce like a winter blizzard. He was met with stunned silence amidst the pittering rain; many had given up on their liege's awakening after nearly four moons.
"Report!" The Lord of Winterfell's voice was no less cold than the white winds of winter and even more full of authority than the Crannoglord remembered. Suddenly, everything was right in the world, and Howland could feel the tension bleed out from his shoulders.
Ned was finally here, and the Lord of Winterfell always knew what to do, especially where fighting was concerned.
"We crashed in Andalos…" Wylis Manderly was the first to gather himself and quickly explained the situation to Ned. Howland chimed in now and then with things the merman knight had forgotten.
"You have done well to wait. Tommen," Eddard Stark barked, "my arms and armour, now." The golden-haired prince scrambled into the Stark tent.
Damon Dustin's eyes were full of hope, "We fight?"
The Lord of Winterfell unsheathed the crystalline sword, stepped and twirled it. It blurred, whistling with a shrill cry through the rain under his deft hands–the bone-chilling sound was nothing like Howland had heard when Ned practised before. The motion was impossibly smooth and practised as if the icy blade had become an extension of his arm and been wielded for decades, not a few weeks.
"Rain means they won't drown us in arrows, and they would be foolish to charge us in the mud lest they risk killing their horses," Ned explained, voice steely. Tommen struggled to help him in his armour, for the suit of plate seemed to be half a measure too small on the Northern Highlord. "We fight!"
The deafening cheer almost knocked Howland off his feet.
In one hour, everyone was clad in steel. The gods smiled upon them, for the rain had yet to halt or lessen. Howland was on the wall with a hundred and fifty marksmen and a hundred sailors who were good at slinging stones and spear-throwing.
Ned quickly arranged the Northmen in front of the wooden fortifications in a tight line of muscle, steel, shields, and spears. With a few words, all the proud, prickly, and quarrelsome men Howland had struggled to rein in had become like obedient pups eager to please their master.
At the front of the line was Eddard Stark, clad in his suit of heavy grey plate from head to toe. Aside from the pauldrons forged in the shape of snarling direwolves, the armour wasn't too fancy, with a padded surcoat depicting the running direwolf of Stark on top. To his left was Jory Cassel, armoured in grey lobstered steel, while to his right was The Red Wake's hulking form clad in his new armour acquired from that Qohorik master smith in King's Landing.
As in every battle, the Giant of Winterfell carried the enormous banner of House Stark. Only this time, the fluttering direwolf banner was attached to his titanic poleaxe. Twelve feet long, it was a monstrous weapon with a wickedly sharp head made by Tobho Mott and an ironwood handle so heavy that Howland struggled to lift it a few inches from the ground.
It didn't take long for the Dothraki to notice them.
Across the field, the horselords quickly assembled. In five minutes, they were already riding at the line of Northmen. As Ned had predicted, Khal Polo had accepted the unspoken challenge.
Ben Burley grunted as he palmed his bow. "If those mad fucks used lances instead of those curved swords, this would have been far scarier."
"Or if they weren't charging up a muddy hill and had armour," Howland admitted, reluctantly stringing his short bow, a gift from his wife Jyanna he would be forced to ruin.
"Enough with the chatter," Artos Harclay grounded out. Ned had assigned him to command the men at the wall, and the clansman was tense. "Nock. Draw!" The bowstrings all turned taut, and the air was filled with the whistle of slings whirling as the Dothraki were fast approaching. Their lack of armour had made them lighter and thus faster and more manoeuvrable. "Loose!"
It was usually ill-advised to throw projectiles over your own men's heads, for the slightest mistake could end in tragedy. Yet the Northmen were beyond confident in their prowess with their marksmen, especially after more than a hundred days of practice. Javelins, arrows, and stones soared through the air, and scores of Dothraki and their horses fell. Those struck down tripped a few more behind them, yet the horselords were undaunted and continued their charge.
The marksmen didn't dare release another volley as the foe closed into the shield wall; the rain was already loosening their strings. Yet the horsemen's momentum was lost, and they tried to break apart the Northern shield wall.
They failed.
The curved swords did little against armour, shields, and spears. As Ned had said, only fools charge into a disciplined line of heavy spearmen. And for good or bad, their group was the cream of the crop of the North, the personal retainers of all the Northern bannermen. They were veterans who had fought in at least one war, bred and trained for battle from childhood, and clad in the finest armour their lieges could afford.
The collision was bloody and filled with pained neighing and cries of agony, muffled by the pittering of the rain. Yet, by the time the Dothraki retreated to allow another group of horsemen to charge, the ground was strewn with blood and corpses, both of horses and their riders.
A few Northmen had been wounded, but no deaths had occurred. Artos Harclay had Howland and the other men on the wall release a second volley at the retreating horsemen, bringing down dozens and scattering horses away.
Despite the slope's width only allowing three hundred or so horsemen to charge at a time, it did not stop them from trying. The horselords were stubborn; Howland would give them that, for they charged again, with even less success this time.
Eddard Stark leapt into the fray like a hungry wolf, holding a shield in one hand and his ice blade in the other.
Each swing of his blade was aimed at vitals and killing. And kill it did; some curved dothraki swords were sliced cleanly before the ice effortlessly dug into their flesh without armour to block it. Ned had never been a bad fighter, but now it was as if he had awoken with bloodshed in his heart.
His crystalline sword became a blur again, and all Howland could see were red arcs gleaming in the rain as Ned slaughtered the horsemen with uncanny speed and laughable ease. Red Wake Walder was by his side, not allowing any foes to flank his liege and gleefully cleaving through flesh and bone with his gigantic poleaxe.
A stronger strike of the monstrous weapon could cleave a screamer in twain and dig into the horse below, slaying it on the spot. The direwolf banner attached to it was now dripping crimson, like a grey direwolf who had feasted itself bloody on prey.
Jory followed on his liege's other side. If The Red Wake was violence personified, then Jory was skill and finesse, elegantly slicing through any savage trying to flank his lord. The last moons had been good for the Stark captain; sparring and fighting with his fellow Northmen had significantly sharpened his skills.
Seeing their liege lord fight with such valiance inspired the other Northmen, and the fighting became increasingly savage.
The Dothraki wheeled around; this time, they took their time deciding who would charge. Ned's cold voice echoed through the rain as he stepped back: "Reform ranks, do not give chase!"
Following Stark's example, everyone hastily returned to the line.
The Dothraki came again, their numbers visibly dwindled.
And again.
And again.
And again.
It was a brutal slaughter, and Howland's fingers began to ache from releasing arrow after arrow until he halted as his bowstring began to loosen dangerously under the rain.
The Dothraki stubbornly charged eleven times yet couldn't even dent the Northern lines. By the end, the Crannoglord no longer saw Khal Polo in his painted vest or bloodriders. The reddish mud was filled with small hills of bodies.
The horselords, now significantly reduced, hesitated halfway up the hill and began cutting their braids and throwing them on the muddy slope.
According to Ryswell, cutting off their braids meant their fighting spirit was broken, and they acknowledged their defeat!
"I do not accept this!" Eddard Stark's bellow echoed through the rain. "DAMON, NOW!"
The gate behind them opened, and the Northern lines split apart to make way for Damon Dustin, garbed in his bright yellow plate, leading their fifty lancers, all clad in iron and steel like a grey wedge falling down the hill.
At the same time, a loud, blood-chilling howl echoed from the nearby forest up the river, unsettling the Dothraki horses. An enormous grey direwolf dashed out from the tree line, followed by a veritable army of smaller but no less vicious-looking shaggy wolves.
Horses liked wolves very little and direwolves even less. The Dothraki horses weren't used to it, and Winter's presence had made them all mad with fear, kicking off their riders or even running straight into Damon Dustin's mad charge.
The Mad Lance had earned his nickname once again. In the end, thousands had escaped, but they had forced over half a thousand horsemen to surrender, captured thrice as many horses and left five times as many dead, while the Northmen had only a dozen dead and about half a hundred injured.
Was this what Ned meant when he said tactics, terrain, armour, and discipline trump ferociousness and numbers?
Eddard Stark had been in the thick of the fighting, and he looked like a demon from the Seventh Circle of hell, with his armour dripping with crimson from head to toe. Winter by his side was no better; the grey direwolf had his damp fur caked with gore and mud.
The other wolves were cautiously feasting on the fallen Dothraki and their slain steeds, and nobody disturbed them.
While the Northmen were binding the surrendered horselords, Wylis Manderly and his men counted the newly acquired horses.
Damon Dustin and his lances arrived after looting the Dothraki camp. He proudly showed off… a Valyrian Steel Arakh looted from the corpses of one of the horselords.
Gods, Howland shuddered to imagine the Mad Lance with such a weapon. But behind the Dustin Barrowknight was a long line of cattle followed by men and women, most bound in chains.
Slaves.
Eddard Stark personally stepped forth, followed by the Red Wake, and all the chained ones started trembling and crying with fear.
Yet the crystalline blade whistled through the air, and dark irons were cut in twain. A second, a third, a fourth, and the Lord of Winterfell personally struck down the chains of every man, woman, and child. They all stared with wide eyes before falling to their knees.
"STARK!" The Northmen cheered, and even Howland joined in, "STARK!"
There was no sweeter thing than to follow in the footsteps of victory, and Eddard Stark had always led the Northmen to triumph on the field—what more could one want than a capable and righteous liege?
The slaves eased when they saw they weren't being cut down. Cregan Knott had found the keys from some corpse and was unlocking the cleaved shackles. After nearly three hundred pairs of shackles were sliced through, Eddard Stark finally stopped, not looking even remotely winded.
"Rise," his voice had gained a sliver of warmth now, "You're now free, and one only kneels before a king."
An old, copper-skinned man with a completely bald head rose first and bowed deeply.
"We not go," his voice was chalky, speaking in a broken common tongue. The man looked in his fifties, yet his body was sinewy and tough. "No place."
"I have no use for slaves," Eddard Stark stated as Winter obediently sat beside him like an obedient horse-sized dog. "You're free."
"Freedom useless in the open. We be all useful. I raise horses good," the man proudly slapped his chest. "Can fight with whip and bow and know to speak many tongue."
Someone behind translated his words into the rough, harsh language of the Dothraki. About a third of the slaves began to leave skittishly, turning around every few yards to check if the wolves or Northmen wouldn't give chase. To Ned's chagrin, the rest, all men, women, and even the occasional child, stubbornly remained, all clustered behind the bald old man.
After a few moments of silence, he finally relented, "I can use more aides, but I live in the cold North across the sea. I am Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. What is your name?"
"Name is Mallo," the bald man puffed up. "We no disappoint."
"Should we fear another attack?" Rogar Wull grunted, face bloodied and left ear missing. "Thousands of horsemen fled."
"No, no, they no dare," Mallo waved energetically, "Loss too big, no more fight."
"We have captured six hundred, Lord Stark." Wylis came over. The Manderly knight, pale green plate covered in blood spatters, had lost some of his girth and joviality but now looked like a tougher barrel of ale. "What shall we do with the captives?"
"The Dothraki don't give or take ransoms," Rickard Ryswell grunted while cleaning his bloodied sword with a rag.
"I say we kill 'em," Damon proposed, still inspecting his newly acquired Valyrian Steel arakh and swinging it with glee. "They are savages. Even if we showed mercy, they know nothing but reaving and banditry."
Many seemed to agree with that statement, and Morgan Liddle also coughed, "Six hundred mouths to feed for nothing are useless."
"Lead me to them," Ned grunted, finally removing his helm. "Mallo, with me. Jory, send all these new camp followers to Vayon for sorting. I'm sure he'll welcome the additional hands."
Howland and most of the Northmen followed after their liege, curious about how he would deal with the tricky captives.
The captured horsemen looked miserable on the muddy ground. Most had bare chests, and all silver, gold, and steel had been removed from their persons, leaving them only in boots and trousers. They had all cut off their hair earlier, so many looked like poorly- sheared sheep.
"Loser become slave, Khal Stark," Mallo explained to Ned. "But you no need slave?"
"Indeed," Ned waved the words away as if they were annoying flies. "Can you translate for me?"
"Yes," the former slave nodded eagerly.
"Tell them they are free to go. I gift them their freedom but no horses, bows, arrows, or arms."
Mallo paled considerably, "I will tell, but this big slight."
Eddard Stark just stared at the bald man, blood-splattered face looking like stone.
The newly freed translator spoke quickly in the harsh tongue of the horselords. Some of the Dothraki began to weep, others looked indignant, and a few leapt up angrily, their faces twisted into snarls, only to be cut down by the mountain clansmen when they advanced towards him.
One of the captives, a tall, muscled man, spewed a river of harshly angry words.
"Zolo begs for way out," Mallo translated. "No good for slave, no good for horse be Dothraki's highest insult and dishonour. Death be better than it."
"Ask him what way out?"
The former slave did, and the copper-skinned waved his bound hands as if swinging a blade, and many of the captives looked slightly hopeful at his words.
After half a minute of silence, Mallo tilted his head and sighed as if disappointed.
"He say they ride for you to death, Khal Stark. You give freedom and horse back, and they be your men until the Ghost Grass covers the world."
Ryswell whispered from behind that the Dothraki considered that to be the end of the world.
The words were meant with a deafening silence that you could even hear a pin drop. Accepting Dothraki–nobody had done such a thing before. And the horselords notoriously disliked sea travel.
But it seemed the Stark of Winterfell dared to tread the roads untravelled.
"Very well," Ned declared, "But they will follow my rules or be left behind, with no horses or anything else. If they're to follow me to death, every single one of them must learn my language and the Northern customs."
Over five hundred Dothraki recruited later, Eddard Stark's face grew even frostier as he finally turned to the entirely too-happy Tommen Baratheon.
"And why were you on the wall instead of in my tent as I commanded?"
"I wanted to help," the princeling ducked his head. "I used the sling as Jeor Norrey taught me to take down three riders-ow-ow-ouch," Eddard Stark had grabbed him by the ear like an errand child, much to the amusement of everyone else.
"In battle, you always follow orders, Tommen. Your courage is admirable, but when fighting, insubordination is grounds for treason. And traitors lose their heads, remember that." Ned's face softened as he finally released the now whimpering prince. "You'll be helping us burn the bodies now since you're so keen on killing. And you'll be digging latrines until we return to Westeros on top of your other duties."
The young prince's eyes widened, and he clenched his jaw with a hint of defiance before shaking his head. "Yes, Lord Stark."
23rd Day of the 2nd Moon, Vaes Dothrak
Daenerys Targaryen
She woke in a sweat, feeling weak, facing the familiar ceiling of her quarters. The last thing she remembered was waking up in pain, and pain again, someone shouting and crying…
"What," her voice was hoarse, and her throat as dry as the desert, "where is Drogo?"
"The Khal is gone, Khaleesi," Doreah came over, face filled with concern.
So her beloved Sun and Stars was out hunting again. Would he bring her another trophy, a different pelt this time?
Her gaze settled on her arms. They looked thinner than she remembered, and moving felt even more tiring than Daenerys remembered. Yet more urgent matters weighed on her mind.
"What of my sons?"
"There's no son," the handmaid shook her head regretfully.
Her insides tangled into a knot.
"What do you mean there's no son?"
Doreah smiled, but her eyes didn't look too happy, "Two healthy girls, Khaleesi. They are there."
Daenerys tracked her finger to the corner of the room, where two cribs lay, padded with purple sandsilk. She struggled to get up to see, but her limbs felt as heavy as lead, and she failed. Was Drogo out hunting because he was disappointed with the lack of sons? Dothraki didn't put much stock in daughters…
"Wise woman said you stay abed until you get better," the handmaid shook her head, and Daenerys finally stopped attempting to sit up.
"Bring me my… daughters here," she ordered. "And fetch for Ser Jorah."
A minute later, two little bundles were placed into her hands. Both babes were small and wrinkled; one had skin the colour of copper with a silver-gold tuft of hair, and the other–had pale skin with coal-like small curls. Her daughters were silently looking at her with great interest with their dark eyes, and the second one was already curiously tugging on her silver hair with her chubby fingers.
Daenerys loved them already; the first would be named Rhaella for her mother. And the second would be Visenya, after that fierce Queen.
Jorah came quickly, garbed in a painted vest and horsehair trousers like the Dothraki, but his grim face looked foreboding.
"My princess," he bowed. "How may I serve you?"
"Look at my babies," she smiled. "They're beautiful, aren't they?"
"Indeed," the Bear Knight stiffly agreed.
Why were the handmaids and Jorah acting so… odd?
"What's wrong? How long have I been sleeping?"
"Twenty days now." This explained why she felt so thin, so feeble. Jorah bowed his head, "Drogo is gone."
"I know, he keeps going hunting," Daenerys muttered, feeling her insides twist into a knot.
"No, he rode off, leading his Khalasar to raid the lands around the Jade Sea," the knight muttered sadly.
He rode off to the Jade Sea.
He rode off… Daenerys began trembling, her eyes suddenly swelling with tears.
"...He left me behind?" She croaked out weakly. "Why?"
"The healers said you will not be able to ride a horse for at least two moons," Jorah sighed. "The birth took a heavy toll on your health. And he was displeased with the lack of a son. Daughters cannot become Khals, let alone the Stallion Who Mounts the World or lead the Khalasar when the Khal grows old or falls in battle. The Dothraki are a hardy people, and those who cannot ride a horse for long are disgraced." Like you, he did not say it out loud, but Daenerys heard it regardless.
"But… I can give him more babes," she said, despairing. Her heart clenched as if someone had stabbed it. Her daughters began wailing then as if having felt her despair. "At least one of them will be a son!"
The Bear Knight frowned, "You cannot even get up from bed, child."
Why were her daughters crying? Did they feel her sorrow? She tried to sway and sing to them gently, but her voice was hoarse, and they only wailed harder.
Daenerys, feeling too tired and unsure how to deal with the two crying bundles, weakly waved over Irri and gave her the crying babes, "Take Rhaella and Visenya. And calm them."
Then, she attempted to sit up from the bed, but her arms buckled, and she fell on her silken pillows.
"You must rest, Khaleesi," Jorah insisted. "Do not despair; the Khal will return sooner or later; the horselords always return to Vaes Dothrak. It is only normal for Drogo to be impatient after half a year of waiting. For now, you are left here to recuperate."
24th Day of the 2nd Moon, 299 AC
Arya Stark
They said the war wasn't going well. Robb had yet to fight, but Winterfell was covered by worry. At least Uncle Benjen was winning big at the Wall. Her mother, however, was even more worried about all that heretic nonsense and the two High Septons in the South.
Arya, however, still struggled to see why people even cared about the Faith of the Seven. Septs were stuffy, smoky, and boring.
"The Reach and the Stormlands can easily command over a hundred and twenty thousand swords after the long summer," Luwin had explained a few days ago. "With Ser Edmure Tully, Ser Stafford Lannister, and Ser Jaime Lannister suffering defeats, the Riverlands, Westerlands, and Crownlands probably have half or less now."
"This is bad?" Rickon had asked childishly.
"Very," the maester had grown grim. "While numbers are not all in war, your elder brother will have a hard time tilting the scales of victory in King Joffrey's favour."
"Uh-uh," Rickon puffed up his cheeks. "Robb will win!"
Luwin just smiled sadly, "Perhaps. Victory is never decided until the armies meet on the field."
Arya inwardly agreed with her younger brother; there was no way Robb would lose. Still, war sounded stupid and didn't make sense when she tried thinking about it.
"Why was Aunt Lysa sent to the Faith?" Arya had inquired another day when word from the Vale arrived.
"Word is she went mad with grief and was killing her household on a whim," the maester nervously tugged on his chain. "It is a dangerous thing to lose the trust of one's retinue."
"Then, why must the Valemen fight to decide who raises cousin Robert?"
"Because there are many powerful lords in the Vale, and each has a different idea of how such things should happen." Luwin's words made her frown. It all sounded very stupid, but then again, all lords in the South sounded stupid. "Many have ulterior motives, like wedding their daughters to Lord Robert Arryn."
Arya vaguely remembered her lessons on laws and succession.
"Shouldn't they arbitrate with the king for such a matter?"
"Indeed, but there are two kings now. Should the lords not like Joffrey's arbitration, the others might not acknowledge it because of the contested throne or outright turn to Renly instead."
The kingdoms were at war, but Arya couldn't bring herself to care about people she had never seen or who were dying in a faraway land. To her, it was as fantastical as Old Nan's tales. As Luwin had once said, thousands of people died from Asshai to the Arbour every day, and it was the way of the world.
Despite all the worry, Winterfell and the North were peaceful.
At least Arya's punishment had finally ended. She now knew how to dance enough not to step on her partner's toes. Her mother even reluctantly allowed her to hawk with Ava once a few days ago, if with a hefty escort. Nymeria had joined, hunting down a boar.
Despite what the falconer said, the snowy eagle definitely became her friend and always came back, and Arya even dreamt of flying some nights. Her archery lessons were coming along very well, even if Theon had left with Robb. Arya knew many thought she would give up, but she was nothing if not stubborn!
Stubborn and consistent practice paid out, and she could shoot a bull's eye from nearly thirty yards at least seven out of ten times. Most importantly, Arya finally had something she was better at than Sansa! While her sister was not terrible, her aim was simply less steady.
At least she no longer had to suffer Myrcella's giggling retinue; her hall was constructed—although they now called it the Maiden's Manse. It was a beautiful three-story structure with colourful glass windows capped by a fine slate roof with walls, a snowy edifice plastered in white with various animal motifs, an inner courtyard, and even a steaming hot marble fountain. Even the whole first floor, where the parlour and the ballroom were, was lined with polished white marble.
The place would be very interesting if it weren't filled with tittering ladies-in-waiting talking about boring stuff like boys and gossip.
But now, with all the builders and Robb gone with his group of friends, Winterfell felt empty.
For some reason, the Stark seat was being fortified again; Ser Rodrik was fervently training the overly large garrison, refilling it to the numbers from before Robb left.
Myrcella's belly was swollen like a ball, and she got easily tired and more irritated than usual. Arya's mother had swelled even more, and Luwin speculated she might be carrying twins this time. Not only were boys icky, but pregnancy also looked like some terrible sickness that would not go away for moons, and Arya's decision not to get wed and bear a gaggle of children for some stupid idiot only solidified further.
Shaking her head, Arya put away her practice bow and made a beeline for the kitchen, trailed by Nymeria and Lena Harclay. She had finally warmed up to the clansman's daughter, for Lena didn't do stupid giggling and mooning over boys, and they often played together.
In the yard, they intercepted a new face in Winterfell.
"You're not from around here," Arya pointed suspiciously at the man in a gaudy black velvet coat with gold squiggles and lines embroidered on the hems of his sleeves.
"Indeed, little lady," he bowed deeply with a flourish. His voice possessed an annoying twangly Southron accent. "I am Alastor, the finest Arbalist in the Seven Kingdoms!"
She scratched her nose with confusion.
"So… you can shoot a crossbow very well?"
"What?" The man seemed outraged and theatrically waved his hands. "I don't do something as pedestrian as shooting crossbows, little lady. I make them, and there is no finer maker of the beauties than me on this side of the Narrow Sea!"
"Uh, sure," Arya shrugged. Crossbows sounded dreadfully lame. Unlike bows, they required very little skill and practice to be good at it. Mastering a bow meant something.
Lena, however, squinted her eyes suspiciously, "What are you doing here in Winterfell?"
Those words shook Arya awake, and she grabbed her dagger. Even Nymeria growled threateningly, forcing the man to hastily retreat with raised arms.
"I apologise if I offended you, m'ladies," he waved weakly, his pale eyes not moving from Nymeria, who was now taller than Arya. "I am here to answer Princess Myrcella's personal summons!"
It didn't take much to find Ser Rodrick and confirm that Alastor the Arbalist was indeed summoned by Cella from King's Landing. It did make sense; otherwise, the man would never have been allowed in Winterfell. Still, Arya chided herself for the lack of caution.
Afternoon came, and it was time for embroidery, but the usual chamber now only held Lyra Mormont.
"Where are the rest?" Arya asked.
"Dismissed." Lyra's gaze was distant as if it weren't seeing the two of them. "The babes are coming."
"Already? Both mother and Myrcella?"
The she-bear gave her an amused smile. "Aye, it's been nearly over nine moons now, and fortune sometimes comes together."
Lena returned to her quarters while Arya went to Great Keep's upper hallway, where her siblings were waiting before the birthing chambers's oaken door, behind which Luwin was toiling with a midwife. The pained shrieks and angry curses coming from behind the door had her vowing again not to get married ever.
Even Sansa had grown pale, and Rickon was fretting around the hallway. Lady was sprawled on the floor, covering her eyes with her paws, while Shaggydog was playfully chasing Arya's brother.
"Luwin expelled the direwolves," her sister explained with a faint voice laced with worry.
"Aye, childbirth is no place for beasts," Lyra Mormont murmured. "It's a battle where no amount of steel, claws, or fangs would be of use."
Arya cringed at a pained scream that she recognised as her mother's. Was Rickon's birth so bad? She couldn't remember… because Septa Mordane had dragged Sansa and Arya away until their brother was born.
"Will Mother be fine?"
Lyra patted her shoulder.
"Don't worry. Your mother had five healthy births before," she explained with a strange, distant look in her eyes. "Screaming is a part of it, and her body is used to delivering babes. I've heard Maester Luwin is an experienced hand at birthing, which is also important. You ought to be more worried about Myrcella. She is a bit young as she has just become six and ten, and my lady mother says first births are the hardest."
They descended into silence as the pained wails didn't stop.
The heaving Rickon finally got tired after ten minutes and stopped to rest near Arya.
"I want three new brothers," he declared breathlessly.
Sansa came over and ruffled his hair.
"Robb's child will be a niece or a nephew, not a sibling," she explained gently. "And I think it will be three girls."
Yet Rickon was more stubborn than a mule, "Nuh-uh. Three brothers that I will play with."
"Three-girls-"
Arya didn't care if the new siblings would be girls or boys as long as they were like her and Jon.
The birth dragged on even after sunset, and Arya's ears had grown number than her legs from the screams and cries. She couldn't even begin to imagine how painful it would be to give birth.
Lyra Mormont corralled the three of them to dinner. All the ladies-in-waiting and Winterfell's household had gathered in the Great Hall and were dying to find out how the situation with the birthing bed, but all the Stark children remained silent.
When they returned, the screams were replaced with baby wails, and the hallway was choked with a heavy metallic stench. Maester Luwin was already waiting outside the door, his grey robes damp with sweat.
"How are Lady Stark and Princess Myrcella?" Lyra asked.
"In good health but asleep from exhaustion," he croaked out, his voice hoarse. "Lord Robb has a robust son, now named Edwyn-"
"Like the Spring King?" Rickon interrupted excitedly.
The weary Luwin gave her brother a tired smile. "Indeed. And Lady Catelyn has twins—Artos and Lyarra."
"Can we see them?" Arya asked hopefully. Did they look like her? Or perhaps they looked like her mother or even Myrcella.
"Perhaps tomorrow," Luwin shook his head. "Young babes have fragile health, and only wet nurses and the parents ought to visit regularly."
Author's endnote:
So here we go. Ned awakes with a taste for battle, and oh boy, does he fight! Use of terrain, weather, equipment, discipline, and defensive fortifications. I wanted to cut the Dothraki some slack, but they canonically simply lack… literally everything that made the Mongols fierce. And Eddard Stark, a very good tactician and strategist, leveraged everything else in his favour.
This battle was meant to show what happens when light cavalry charges head-on into disciplined heavy infantry in the most unfavourable conditions.
Also, five newborns! Daenerys simply gave birth late, while Catelyn/Myrcella did on time. Fun fact: I rolled dice for Catelyn (the option was death by childbirth, triplets, etc, and she won alive + twins).
The new OCs introduced in the chapter are Artos, the Arbalist, and Mallo, the horse breeder. Zolo is one of the captured Kos that negotiates. Rhaella and Visenya are Daenerys' twin daughters. Edwyn is Myrcella's firstborn, Artos is Catelyn's fourth son, and Lyarra is his twin(Cat's third daughter). 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 Battle of Rushing Falls had been bloody, and Garlan could remember it too well. He remembered every foe he had slain, but one young face haunted him—brown, doe-like eyes full of fear. It wasn't anyone special of great lineage or a storied house… just some boy too young to even see a battle, let alone fight it.
Ultimately, Mathis Rowan had a thousand more men and a third more knights and used his reserves to surround the left flank and push it back after two days of fighting.
Even then, the Riverlords could have salvaged the battle if Edmure Tully hadn't been knocked off his horse. The Tully heir was a capable knight and decent commander, yet his presence kept the Riverlanders fighting, and the levies fought hard for their lord. His uncle, the Blackfish, proved a serious threat on the right flank with his light cavalry and hit-and-run tactics. Lord Osgrey had lost so many men to the harassing that he foolishly broke ranks and charged after the veteran knight…only to be cut down by an ambush by Bracken's heavy horse.
Even Lord Rowan's gambit with the reserves nearly failed due to Blackwood raining death from above as they were stationed on a small hill behind the lines. So many arrows were falling that Garlan could have sworn they darkened the sky.
Still, they managed to push on the second day, and they would have killed or captured Edmure Tully if he had not turned his horse away from a lance aimed at his neck. Or perhaps his steed panicked. Whether through skill or luck, the lance smashed into the thickest part of the breastplate, knocking Tully off his horse. Yet before the Reachmen could capture or kill the fallen heir to Riverrun, his men recovered him in a bloody scuffle and retreated.
War was a bloody affair, and Garlan killed far too many good men in that battle. Men with whom he would have delighted sharing bread, salt, and wine or even fought side by side with.
The aftermath of the battle was bloody and chaotic, with pillaging and looting rampant in the surrounding villages, as Mathis Rowan lost control of the frenzied troops. The man had been wounded at the end of the battle, and by the time he recovered to command, it was too late. The captured nobles and knights were secured for ransoms, but everyone else had been put to the sword.
Some people were even burned alive for heresy, including Lord Tytos Blackwood's captured heir, Brynden. That the man did not follow the Seven and was supposedly a heathen instead did not seem to matter, and Garlan failed to get there in time to stop such attempts of senseless slaughter, for the men's blood and fervour ran hot from the battle. Blackwood archers were responsible for many deaths among the knights, and Brynden Blackwood commanded the rearguard.
Alas, Garlan had no taste for this brutal savagery, so he swiftly rode back to his father, his mind already focused on the next steps in the war, if with a heavy heart.
The tides of war were turning, and Renly was gaining the upper hand. With Tully in retreat, Rowan could freely rush towards Harrenhal and then try to intercept Stark at the Trident. The Lannister army in the Westerlands was left in ruins, so the morale of Tywin's men would dwindle by the day.
With the Battle of the Kingswood, the old Lion had three heavy losses under his belt. The Vale was busy fighting over Robert Arryn's regency, which could take years to decide. They only had to beat Tywin Lannister, and King's Landing would be theirs. Yet that was easier said than done, for the Lord of Casterly Rock was not someone who would just bend the knee and surrender.
Even though all his success on the field was achieved by surprise or with a vast numerical advantage, which was not in his favour this time, Garlan couldn't help but feel… tense. A cornered rat was the most dangerous, and Tywin Lannister was far bigger and more dangerous than any rat.
The split in the Faith was even uglier. Burning people alive reminded him of the Mad King's deeds, yet such deeds were supposedly backed by Renly, Joffrey, and each of their Septons.
The Rose Septon was crowned with the old Crystal Crown of the Faith by Renly and Baelor Hightower. And if the rumours were true, it was the same crown the Faith used before Aegon the Conqueror came.
What in the Seven Bloody Hells were they thinking?
Garlan had seen it first-hand in the aftermath of the battle, with the burning of Blackwood and some of the surrendered levies that followed the Old Gods. He remembered his history; the wars fought on the matters of the Faith were long and bloody. Giving such power and authority to fanatics was never done, and now the fighting would take a much uglier turn.
At least the Mountain's rampage had been stopped by his younger brother, of all people.
Winning a war would be difficult enough, but a rift in the Faith of the Seven could leave wounds lingering for decades.
Alas, he was just a knight, even if his father was the Lord of Highgarden and the Hand of the King. Because his father was Mace Tyrell, Garlan had to be seen supporting him as a dutiful son. House divided could never Grow Strong, and any doubts and questions had to be voiced privately.
To his surprise, Renly's army had moved swiftly. It had been over a hundred days since his sister's wedding in Highgarden, and they were now approaching the Kingswood through the rose road. The army camp blotted out the road and surrounding countryside as far as Garlan could see. Rowan, Crane, Oakheart, and all the houses from the Northmarch and west of the Lesser Mander were absent, for they were now fighting in the Riverlands and the Westerlands. However, everyone else's banners could be seen fluttering in the skies. From Hightower to Ashford, Selmy, Dondarrion, and a handful of lesser ones from the Stormlands, even.
Yet what Garlan did not expect was the seven-pointed star displayed on so many banners.
A group of outriders left the camp and set out to meet him. At the head was a knight Garlan knew–Ser Mark Mullendore, a cheerful knight from the Uplands.
"Ser Garlan," he greeted him.
"Come now, do away with the pleasantries, Mark," Garlan chuckled. "We've known each other for over a decade."
"As you wish," Mark snorted. "I miss those times when we fought side by side in the squire tourneys."
Garlan was pushed to compete by the knight he squired for, Ser Mern Beesbury, the uncle of Lord Warryn Beesbury. Ser Mern was a very demanding taskmaster, especially in tourneys. Garlan was entered into every squire tourney for experience and found himself fighting together alongside Mark against others more than thrice when the rounds called for a clash of two groups.
"It was certainly preferable to war," Garlan agreed with a sigh.
Mark's eyes lit up.
"Ah, I heard you already fought by the Rushing Falls." His friend's voice was laced with awe. "Lord Rowan covered himself in glory from head to toe. How was it?"
Garlan grimaced.
"Bloody," he said. "Stank badly, and there's no worse sound to hear than that of hundreds of men dying slowly, choking on their blood or trying to keep their guts in their skewered belly." It was nothing like hunting a small group of brigands. Besides, the screams of men being burnt alive were a close second, and those would haunt Garlan for quite some time. But it did not happen during the battle.
His friend waved the words away, "Aye, I've heard the first battle is rough, and you've always been too serious by far. Anyway, I was supposed to bring you to your Lord Father."
"Lead the way, then," Garlan sighed and spurred his steed to follow the Mullendore knight as the other outriders quickly dispersed. "Why are there so many seven-pointed star banners?"
Mark's face darkened.
"The High Septon has been making overtures to reinstate the Faith Militant," he muttered. "Many second, third, and fourth sons and hundreds of hedge knights support him openly. Word is Hightower, and some of the most pious lords also back him, but not openly."
Which meant that even more were in silent agreement.
Garlan rubbed his face. "I hope His Grace isn't quick to agree?"
"Renly is recalcitrant," Mark sighed. "But it got worse after the Hound killed the Mountain, and the High Septon himself forgave the man the sin of kinslaying. After some promises, Sandor Clegane started acting as the Rose Septon's sworn shield."
"But holy men are forbidden to bear arms," Garlan pointed out weakly as they rode between the tents.
Mark shook his head, and his cheer was replaced with grimness.
"None could mistake Clegane for a priest. Of course, you will see none of the Septons or the Septas wielding swords or maces," he explained. "Too many Septs burned by the Mountain's hand. Rumour is the crown can no longer act as a Protector of the Faith, and many pious knights are disgruntled."
"And what of that heresy I hear about?"
Mark Mullendore shook his head as his face darkened, "Madness, that's what."
"Father," Garlan bowed stiffly, "I have failed."
They were in the large green tent with the Tyrell banner proudly fluttering above.
"'Tis fine," his sire waved off and dismissed the servants. "The cunning old lion sent his cousin in person with a bride. I would have sent ten maidens with you if I knew."
Garlan chuckled.
"It would have made the journey slower," he pointed out. "They love their wheelhouses."
His father handed him a cup of Arbor Purple from Paxter's personal stash, "Drink."
With a sigh, Garlan took a sip and almost melted. It was just the perfect mix of crispness that melted on your tongue with a sliver of sourness and a hint of sweetness.
Yet, no matter how good, the wine could hardly put his mind off things.
"Who's that tarred head outside the royal tent?"
"The Kingslayer," Mace chuckled ruefully. "The bones were sent back to his father, but Penrose gifted the head to His Grace for his crimes. Who would have thought a knight of two and thirty could be so reckless like some green boy?"
"If he had succeeded, things would look different now," Garlan shook his head. Alas, Cortnay Penrose was a veteran knight and experienced commander. "Why is this new Rose Septon so troublesome?"
The Lord of Highgarden emptied his cup in one breath and frowned.
"Robert and Joffrey insulted the Faith too much. The Heart Tree in the Red Keep, the unpunished burning of Septs in the west of the Lesser Mander, and the crown's refusal to repay the debt when they sent gold to the bankers across the sea was too much."
"Even then, they would need some backing," Garlan muttered suspiciously.
"They have it," his father scoffed. "Renly thinks the Faith would be another dagger at the lion's back. Your Hightower cousins hope to spread their influence through the Starry Sept again, and there are too many pious knights and lords."
Garlan just sat on one of the chairs and ran a hand through his dirty hair. Gods, he needed a hot soak.
"Surely it can't be that bad?"
"It does sound worse than it is," his sire explained grimly. "Yet despite Renly's assurances, the Faith has yet to be appeased after the string of insults and indignities it has taken. At least His Grace has yet to promise them anything aside from repaying the crown's debt in the future. But Clegane's rampage has sent tens of thousands of women, children, and men fleeing south to the Mander. And as you know, the roads are already full of vagrants, and they're all flocking to Highgarden and the prosperous Tyrell lands…"
"But no lord can take in so many people," Garlan frowned. "Neither would they be willing to. Outsiders are rarely welcomed and considered beggars, troublemakers, or outlaws by most."
"Indeed." His father's face grew severe. "Indeed. We have more than enough camp followers, tradesmen, farmers, fishermen, and labourers. But the Faith welcomes them with open arms, preaches about the Father and the Warrior, and gives out alms. With nothing to do, too many are flocking to the banners of the Seven-Pointed Star. Those wandering septons have now begun preaching about burning heretics."
Garlan closed his eyes, trying to forget the screams of agony of the Blackwood heir as he burned on that stake with his men. Giving purpose to those who had not even a home left was what the Faith was supposed to do. It sounded good; only Garlan feared what would happen if they were all allowed to bear arms.
"This is madness," he muttered. "Surely, it has to be stopped. We can't be burning people like the Mad King. They burned a Blackwood boy, father!"
"Stopping it is easy enough," his father's face went cold and grim. "It's just the brutality of war. Rowan strung up the Septon responsible already. Let it not be said that King Renly's forces condone the assault on a noble's dignity. But it does not help that the boy sitting on the Iron Throne throws oil into the fire with his heresy drivel and love for trees. It forced our own High Septon to respond in turn. We must root out the Lions and their fat septon from King's Landing."
The confidence in his father's words was inspiring, but things were rarely so simple.
"I do not think Tywin Lannister will give up without a fight."
"Oh, he'll scrape and struggle, plot and scheme," his sire scoffed as he filled another chalice of wine from the oaken barrels. "But he has only a set of walls and barely thirty-five thousand swords. We have over half a hundred thousand in this host alone, and Penrose shall join us with another fifteen thousand soon enough. The only problem is the Imp-our contacts across the Narrow Sea are saying he's hiring enough sellswords for him to become a problem, but not for long."
That sounded ominous enough, and Garlan was not sure he even wanted to ask.
Fifty thousand men–an army so big had not been gathered in one place since the Conquest and the Field of Fire. This time, there was no Aegon with his sister-wives to set fire to the field of dry grassland from above. Yet Tywin Lannister would be facing more, and that was without Mathis Rowan's support.
Knowing his father, barges were used to ferry the footmen swiftly up the Mander while the cavalry rode down the road.
Garlan inhaled a heavier gulp of wine to soothe his mind and grimaced. Paxter's private stash was not some Dornish swill to drink like beer but something to be tasted carefully, enjoying each mouthful. Alas, he needed something to soothe his parched throat.
"What of Stark?" Garlan asked. "The North is far away, but if Tywin holds off long enough, they can try and rally the Riverlands and even the odds. Many Riverlords managed an orderly retreat and would be eager for vengeance."
His father sat on his throne–a smaller, moveable replica of the Oakenseat of Olde, lined with intricate golden roses encrusted with emeralds.
"I suppose you haven't heard," he muttered with a disappointed shake. "Robb Stark has only taken twelve thousand men ahorse with him. The boy has traded numbers for speed and, for some reason, has now decided to act like a common brigand, looting the lands of his uncle's bannermen."
Garlan blinked. Only one house in the northern Riverlands could be in Robb Stark's way.
"You mean… the Freys?"
The Lord of Highgarden chortled, face alight with amusement.
"Oh yes," he said as he took a deep bite of the apple pie, sauce dribbling down his chin. "The Late Walder Frey refused to commit once again, and Hoster's grandson had declared him an oathbreaker and punished him. Rash boy, but it made the old weasel's heart give out from anger."
The infamous Lord of the Crossing's death would surely leave ripples. Walder Frey left half a warband of progeny sired from his loins. Yet the ugly affair seemed to have assuaged his Father's concerns about House Stark. The North was dangerous, but not when led by a green boy like Robb Stark.
"And what will the new Lord Frey do?" Garlan asked curiously. The Freys were not a small or weak house, even before the Late Lord of the Crossing had spawned so many weasels.
His father leaned forward and licked his apple pie's sweet crumbs and juice from his fingers.
"Officially, all Stevron Frey's brothers and broods have been kicked out of the Twins. But they have split into three groups–the first retreating to their mother's houses, the second moving to join Edmure Tully with five hundred men-at-arms, and the last group might show to join Renly soon enough."
It seemed the younger weasel was no lesser than his sire in cunning, but instead of trying to avoid fighting after being shamed, he decided to 'support' both sides indirectly.
"I don't see how this will help our problem with the Faith," Garlan huffed. "For good or for bad, the gate has been opened, and now it seems like the new High Septon is no longer content with taking bribes and lip services from the nobles like the old one. The support he receives from the nobles and our Hightower kin has galvanised him."
Mace Tyrell smiled. But it was not the jovial one he presented to the others or his family, but full of teeth.
"The High Septon can be replaced once he has outlived his usefulness," he explained softly in a way that gave Garlan chills. "After the war is won, His Grace will have no choice but to curb the Faith. They are nought but a tool which shall be returned to the shed."
Truth be told, Garlan did not like the sound of it. Not only was it blasphemous, but Maegor took six years and couldn't cripple the Faith even after the High Septon bowed, and he had Balerion by his side.
"But the longer the war goes on, the harder such a thing would be," he mouthed mournfully.
"Then we'll just have to win quicker," the Lord of Highgarden said coldly before the usual joviality returned to his face. "Enough, you seem tired by the road, my boy. Go, take a hot soak and some food in your belly, and see your sister. She's been asking for you."
The bath and the auroch steak did little to soothe his worries.
After a single battle, Garlan struggled to imagine the bloodshed and feuds that would form. The more the fighting dragged on, the more brutal things would become.
Once one side started resorting to cruelty and savagery, the other had to respond in kind, lest they looked weak. And Tywin Lannister had already thrown that glove with the Mountain before even Joffrey had decided to involve the Faith.
All that training he sought to do for war made him feel dirty, and no amount of scrubbing could wash the grime off his mind or soul. Striking down brigands and outlaws was one thing–they were brutes and savages who showed the lowest humanity could fall. Garlan could bring himself to dispense such justice and cut out the rot from the land.
Yet the levies, men-at-arms, and knights he had fought at the Rushing Falls had done nothing wrong but answer their liege's call to arms. They were law-abiding men, having fathers, mothers, children, wives, and sisters.
Some were as young as four and ten or even younger. The face of that beardless young boy, eyes wide in fear while choking on his blood, would not leave his dreams. It was a face full of regret, broken dreams, and the painful realisation that his life was over before it began. Garlan would never forget the heartbeat when the light left the boy's eyes as he grew limp.
Was this glory?
Was this honour?
Was this valour?
It was just one boy… dead at his hand. How many more would have to be slain? How many more wives would become widows, and how many mothers would have to lose their children?
What of all those who had surrendered after the fighting?
Word had arrived earlier at the camp while he was taking a soak–Crakehall had fallen, and the keep had been sacked. The men were bloodthirsty, for the defenders had resisted fiercely instead of surrendering. The storming of Crakehall took a toll on Lord John Oakheart's army, but they were victorious nonetheless–the word was four attackers had fallen for every defender.
The feast in the army camp had already begun, and celebration was due, for Lord Oakheart would next march on Lannisport, and there was no army to stop him. After ten years of summer, the Westerlands were ripe for plunder, for Tywin Lannister had taken the swords that could defend his kingdom, and Ser Stafford Lannister had lost many of those remaining.
Wine only tasted like bitter poison on Garlan's tongue. Yes, it was a great victory, even if his father celebrated it as if he was the one who had led the storming of Crakehall when there were no Tyrell swords in the Westerlands.
Should Garlan celebrate the rampant looting and burning, where men took things by the sword only slightly better than common brigands and outlaws that he oft hunted down?
Should he celebrate that daughters and wives would be despoiled just because they were born to the wrong man or served the wrong lord?
It was easy to forget it all in the heat of battle and to swing your sword for glory, valour, and honour. Yet then the fighting stopped, and you saw a field full of hungry crows, corpses, broken families, and shattered dreams.
This was the ugliness of war that none of the bards sang about… The Seven-Pointed Star claimed no sins can ever be committed for a righteous cause.
But was their cause righteous?
Garlan wanted to say yes. Joffrey was a cruel, bastard-born boy usurping a throne he had no claim to. It was something Renly genuinely believed, even if the Lannister twins' incest was pure conjecture if only pushed to slander their side.
But was their cause truly righteous? Why did nobody mention Shireen Baratheon, Renly's niece from his elder brother?
Everyone forgot and ignored the young lady of Dragonstone, especially when a former smuggler was her regent. The precedents had shown that a daughter's claim was weak, but that did not mean it did not exist.
If their cause was righteous, why was Renly more interested in Garlan's brother than his sister? Or perhaps it wasn't a sin because their cause was righteous, as the Seven-Pointed Star dictated?
Garlan hated it. He hated war and wished peace had lasted forever, but he loved his family more and would fight for it. Victory was bloody, but defeat was worse, if not fatal.
There was no mercy in Casterly Rock's cold heart, and should Tywin Lannister prevail, nothing good awaited them all. So now that Renly was crowned, there was no choice but to fight and win. All those daughters, men, and wives his heart wept for could be men and women he knew. Those who lived in the Reach, smallfolk and nobles–the Mountain proved he would spare nobody.
His sister could be raped and torn apart like Princess Elia if by a different brute than Clegane. His siblings and parents would all be slaughtered without an ounce of mercy.
Yet Garlan held a grain of hope. There could be honour and reason in war; Eddard Stark had shown this aplenty, especially after returning Dawn to the Daynes.
Many would have claimed the legendary greatsword after their young sister's untimely and dishonourable death. But not Eddard Stark, who went through the desert, tired and alone, to return the blade to Starfall in person.
Across the Seven Kingdoms, you could find many who hated the Starks for one reason or another, but none could claim not to respect Eddard Stark. Even his father, Mace, admired the late Lord Stark so much that he taught Garlan to learn more about him.
The weather had grown windy, and the banners and other flutters were furiously whipping above the sea of tents. The sky was littered with clouds that reminded him of pieces of cotton.
With a heavy heart, Garlan Tyrell strolled to the camp before heading to his sister. He was shown the way to a fancy tent painted green and gold near the hill where the royal pavilion was crowned over the camp.
Ser Bryce Caron stood guard outside, wrapped in a bright yellow cloak and a yellow suit of plate to match. It made him stand out like a sore thumb.
Garlan still wasn't sure if Renly was mocking the Faith with his rainbow guard or trying to honour them. Yet here stood the Lord of Nightsong, the last of the Carons if you did not count his bastard brother, joining the new knightly order.
"Greetings, Ser Garlan," the Stormlord nodded respectfully. "Her Grace awaits you."
The tent was warm and choked with the scent of roses and tulips. Margaery sat amidst a sprawl of pillows while a gaggle of her cousins were with her, all dressed in colourful gowns reminding him of a garden. Elinor, Alla, Leona Tyrell, Desmera Redwyne, and a few others he struggled to recognise.
"Go now, leave me to speak with my brother," his sister quickly dismissed them. Half of them winked at Garlan on their way out for some reason, baffling the knight. "Hello, Garlan!"
"Marge," he smiled weakly as he glanced at the slim golden crown inscribed with intricate roses and vines atop her head. "A war camp is no place for a lady, let alone a Queen."
A dark shadow passed through her face.
"I would agree, but the king needs an heir," Margaery stated firmly, though her voice was bereft of feeling. Every trace of her usual cheer was gone, replaced by ice.
Garlan swallowed the bad feeling in his chest.
"Are there difficulties with the marriage?"
He felt foolish for asking the question. His sister wouldn't be acting so… queer and distant if everything was fine. Yet he had to ask regardless.
"No," his sister avoided his gaze as her eyes wandered anywhere but him. "Renly is very kind but not very eager. The difficulties have been overcome," her eye twitched. "I have missed my moonblood for a cycle now, but I'm unsure if it would take, so I have decided to remain for another moon or two."
It was the truth, but not the full one, spoken without a single ounce of feeling. Garlan couldn't help but feel a surge of anger; here she was, Margaery Tyrell, more beautiful than ever, with her hair braided with roses and gold, a crown atop her head, and her dreams fulfilled.
His sister was the queen now and had never looked more miserable and cold, like a wilting flower instead of a blooming rose.
"I am here for you, sweet sister," he whispered, grasping her dainty hand between his callous fingers. "You only need to say the word if you need any aid."
Margaery's jaw tightened, but then she exhaled.
"It's fine," she smiled. This time, it reached her eyes, if barely. Garlan wanted to weep; his sister was half gone, and the queen had begun to take her place. "Look at you, all knightly. Willas was right to call you the Gallant, and I hear you did more than well in the last battle! You killed two knights and captured three more the first time you took the field!"
"Pah," it was his turn to grimace. "There's nothing uglier than a battlefield, Marge. Besides, the knights I killed were tired, and the rest only surrendered because they were surrounded and outnumbered. There was far more to that bloodbath than fighting knights."
And it was far different than fighting brigands. It was everything he trained for so fervently and had done well, much to his regret. May the Seven forgive him, for Garlan had become a skilled killer.
"I'd rather be praised for doing something other than bloody butchery."
Margaery slipped her hand from his grasp and poked his cheek with a finger.
"Perhaps you should try and visit your wife?" A sly smile spread across his sister's face. "Poor Leonette has seen you only once since the wedding night and is afraid you've forgotten her. She almost cried with joy when I agreed to take her with my retinue."
Garlan coughed. He had, in fact, completely forgotten about Leonette, the dainty maiden he had only seen on the day of his hasty wedding, which he had tried his best to forget. It had been the eve just before that trip to King's Landing.
1st Day of the 3rd Moon
Tyrion Lannister
He stared at the dungeon's wall from his straw-covered cot with absolute boredom. Or, well, as far as he could see, the damp grey stone in the darkness. For good or for bad, his eyes were slowly getting used to the lack of light. The scratches on the wall indicated that over thirty days had passed. In hindsight, he should have seen the trap coming.
As usual, he had been visiting the pleasure houses after a long day of bargaining with sellswords. Every city had to be sampled, and Tyrion liked to start from the middling whorehouses to the more reputable ones.
He had just finished a round with Maelora, a bright-eyed lass with silver hair from Lys when an angry-looking wastrel waylaid him. Garbed in expensive purple silk with a golden belt, the blonde-haired man looked rather important, but so did most small fishes with a sliver of wealth across Essos.
"How dare a dwarf such as you soil the magnificent Maelora!"
"Boy, you seem quite pent up," Tyrion had laughed, slightly surprised that the man spoke in the common tongue. "There's no need to fight for some whores. Here, you can have the whole night with the girl on me."
The young man stormed off angrily, red-faced, leaving the gold-filled pouch Tyrion had thrown on the varnished ebony floor.
Some people were too stuck up to appreciate his generosity.
Yet half an hour later, the whole might of the Tyroshi city guard had collapsed on him and his men. Even when well-equipped and trained, his retinue, barely a dozen swordsmen, could not contend with over a hundred city guards, and they had surrendered. Tyrion was dragged to a dark, damp cell under the Archon's palace.
The reason? Attacking and insulting the Marinar family, which prided itself on its Valyrian heritage. They were claiming the coin pouch had intended to maim the thrice-cursed silkpants.
In hindsight, this could have only been a setup–why else would the Archon's brother of all people raise such a fuss over a whore?
Besides, how many nobles in the Free Cities spoke the common tongue so well? After a few months through Myr and Pentos, Tyrion could confidently say–pitifully few. The language of the Freehold was the tongue of Essos, and while most spoke the bastardised version, the highborn tended to stick to the High Valyrian.
When Lothor Brune had caught rumours of other Westerosi ships, Tyrion should have investigated. Alas, his mistake was to dismiss them as the usual merchant vessels from Tarth and Greenstone.
And now, Tyrion Lannister, the Master of Coin and heir-apparent of Lord Tywin Lannister, had been stuck in a cell for over a moon. It reeked badly despite changing the chamber pot every three days.
They provided him with half-decent bread, like those in a run-down inn in the Westerlands, a slight serving of mutton, and a cup of weak cider.
The worst part was the darkness and the silence–none of the stone-faced guards ever deigned to utter a word, even when the food was served. The name of Tywin Lannister also elicited no reaction here, alas. Yet it gave him ample time for contemplation, for all the good it would do.
While disliked, his father was a dangerous man to provoke. Yet to do so, they must have had assurances; the only one who could give them such was Renly.
Figuring out why didn't take much either. The money owed to the Tyroshi trading Cartels was ignored, and here he was, splurging money on sellswords instead, especially after the Iron Throne had spat in Magister Sarrios' face.
The same magister whose daughter was married to the Archon.
Yet the question was… why would Renly even bother with Tyrosh? They had no armed force outside their city guard, and pulling the Archonate into the war when Renly had an advantage could drag other Free Cities into the conflict anyway.
No matter how Tyrion thought it over, it didn't make sense, which was troublesome because he couldn't dispute the trumped-up charges with his influence here. These barbaric Essosi did not respect customs like trial by battle, so freedom seemed far out of grasp. Worse, he couldn't talk his way out of this conundrum because no matter how much he yelled, threatened, or demanded to see someone, all he received was silence and a hoarse throat.
Tyrion still couldn't wrap his head around how Jaime had died like some nameless fool, even two moons later. In a night battle in the Kingswood against some old knight, no less? His brother had always been so proud, tall, strong, and unflappable that Tyrion couldn't imagine him dying.
Yet the sinking feeling in his stomach that accompanied the hunger made him believe. Somehow, his proud brother had died, and nobody else loved him in this family. Tommen and Myrcella probably still liked him for all the good it did.
Everything was dreadfully boring and dark until today when he had a visitor who did not bring food.
Tyrion had to blink wearily because the bright oil lamp let him make out three, no, four shapes in the darkness.
"Short son of Tywin Lannister." The words were spoken in High Valyrian. "You might wonder why you are here. Go on, girl, translate."
"Son of Tywin Lannister," the reply was in a sweet, strong voice with a slight accent. "You might wonder why-"
"I can speak High Valyrian," he croaked out. "No need to waste your voice, girl. Who am I speaking to?"
Finally, his eyes adjusted to the annoying lantern, if barely. Flanked by two Unsullied, before him stood a tall, plump, olive-skinned man with a bored face, with a young slave girl with a flat, dusky face adorned by beautiful golden eyes. Her features reminded Tyrion of the exotic Naathi whores he had spent a few nights during his stay in Myr.
"This is Magister Zaphon Sarrios," the young girl continued in flawless High Valyrian.
His blood ran cold; this was the powerful Tyroshi magister who had lent over half a million golden dragons to the Iron Throne—the same one whose envoy had been mocked in court.
"Greetings, esteemed magister," Tyrion bowed as deeply as the cold iron shackles allowed him to. "I must apologise for my unkemptness. I also profess myself disappointed, for this establishment does not offer a warm bath or a clean change of clothing."
"You speak the word of the Freehold well, dwarf. I'd say you would make for a fine jester," Zaphon chuckled. "And you have a good eye for men, I'd say. They all agreed to work for me for some coin. The one with the bear paw on his steel was more reluctant, but a promise of a beautiful wife did buy him."
Tyrion almost choked on his anger. His men… his men all bought out!? Even Lothor Brune, his right hand? All his effort and gold invested into his retinue, all the wine they had drank together like bosom friends…
He had promised them everything! Tyrion had given them riches, opportunity, recognition, and respect.
Alas, it seemed he wasn't enough. A dwarf couldn't inspire much loyalty, and this… magister could outbid him where gold was concerned. The valyrian steel rings embedded with diamonds and sapphires on his finger spoke volumes of his wealth. The last time Tyrion had seen more dragonsteel in one place was when Robb Stark lopped off Mance Rayder's head with Ice.
Tyrion swallowed down his fury and schooled himself.
"I did not know Essos lacked for sellswords, esteemed magister?"
"Ah, but those men from the Sunset Lands train in different ways," Zaphon smiled, almost blinding Tyrion again. All of his bloody teeth were made from gold. "Far more disciplined and knowledgeable in the matters of war than the riff-raff from around here."
"Surely they cannot compare to Unsullied in formation," Tyrion motioned to the two stone-faced guards clad in half-plate, with ringmail peeking underneath.
The magister stroked his sparse goatee.
"You are not wrong," he agreed. "But, I wanted Jon Snow, you see."
Tyrion blinked. That was not a name he had heard in quite a while.
"Jon Snow? What does he have with anything?"
"Aye, the Stark bastard. Magic and sword, working hand in hand, raised by the High Lord of the North himself," Zaphon's eyes burned with desire as if he was a celibate man looking at a ripely flowered maiden. "And made a name for himself with a blade in hand at six and ten. With such a fine specimen, he could have any of my daughters as he wished, and the Sarrios line would finally gain a capable sorcerer along with his lineage."
"But Jon Snow is… missing," Tyrion pointed out, ignoring the silly claims of magic. "It's been nearly two hundred days since anyone had caught even a glimpse of him."
The magister sighed.
"Yes, this is very true. Which is why I must resort to the lesser pick."
"Still, why my sellswords?" Tyrion asked insistently. "Their lineage is nothing compared to Jon Snow. Or skill if half the rumours are believed. A bunch of distant cousins hailing from cadet branches or a handful of miller sons. Surely, they can't be superior to the Unsullied's discipline?"
"Discipline is all good, Tyrion Lannister. But the Unsullied are just a tool." Sarrion Zaphon poked at the guard on his right, who remained unmoving, his face expressionless. "The Good Masters of Astapor break the slave-soldiers—not once, not twice, but thirteen times, until they are perfectly obedient."
A regretful sigh rolled from the magister as he continued, "Yet such things come at a cost and are very rigid. Still, they are inflexible and incapable of subtlety or thinking much outside the given orders, not to mention they lack the tools to further their ranks in case a fine specimen is found. The Unsullied are only as good as the one who commands them. But those sellswords of yours? They can be useful to me in different ways, especially in these trying times."
Tyrion was outplayed. He could recognise it, no matter how bitter it tasted on his tongue. The name of House Lannister meant nothing here, and he was at the mercy of Zaphon Sarrios.
"Very well, esteemed magister. Could I be so bold as to inquire why I am held here? Surely the spat with Jorelos Marinar was a misunderstanding that could be resolved easily?" Tyrion finished with his most subservient bow, even if it filled his veins with fury to do so. "I am more than willing to offer my sincerest apologies and provide restitution for any insult given."
Zaphon laughed. It was a cold, cruel sound that made Tyrion's spine crawl.
"Clever dwarf," he said, tilting his head. "Truly as silver-tongued as they claimed, but I do not see the barbs that were supposed to accompany it. I suppose you have no way of knowing–your father is losing the war. After your brother fell, that fish lord lost a big battle in his land of rivers and half of the lion army was bested in your home."
"This has nothing to do with Tyrosh," Tyrion whispered. "The Free Cities have never interfered directly in the affairs of the Seven Kingdoms."
Zaphon snorted.
"Ah, you speak true," he smiled, revealing his golden teeth that mocked Tyrion. "But that was before I gifted a third of my debt to the Archon and another third to the city. Do you think the Iron Throne could insult the great Zaphon Sarrios and get away with it?"
It was not fair, and it was not just. Yet the Free Cities cared little for justice or fairness. Why always him?
Tyrion struggled to see a way out of this dark situation. This was beyond ugly–he had gone to Essos to hire sellswords, not to earn a new enemy for his mercurial nephew or rot in some dungeon.
His mind raced, trying to grope for some solution in the dark, for any way out.
"The gold can be returned, esteemed magister," Tyrion tried with a deep bow, gritting his teeth. "It shall take some time, but it will be returned. Perhaps a marriage as an apology-"
"I no longer care about some paltry sum," the magister waved away the words as if they were an annoying fly. "It is a matter of respect. Besides, the Archon had already reached an agreement with Lomas Estermont thirty days prior. King Renly Baratheon has agreed to pay back half of the debt immediately, and the City of Tyrosh shall back Renly Baratheon's claim. Anyway, I tire of this talk, dwarf. Alas, you're too cunning to serve as a court fool."
"Wait," Tyrion hastily cried as the dungeon turnkey was about to close the door. He had half a dozen questions running through his mind. "What shall become of me?"
"The Archon has yet to decide," Zaphon snorted. "So, for now, you get to enjoy this establishment, as you called it. Goodbye."
"Wait-" The heavy oak door slammed with a bang, cutting off the light and the sound.
Tyrion Lannister was once again alone in the darkness, left to stew in despair and anger.
How exactly would Tyrosh back Renly's claim to the Iron Throne?
Things were looking hopeless. No matter what it was, it would be bad, especially if his father was already losing. If Uncle Stafford and Edmure Tully had been smashed in battle… his House would be even more outnumbered than before. Worse, no war had ever been won by losing on the battlefield.
Even ignoring that, indignity and fury gnawed within Tyrion's gut like a hungry beast.
Zaphon Sarrios had come here for no reason but to mock him and entertain himself. The magister's gloats about his father's losses were too real and too honest to be lies. Worse, he wanted him to play a fool, a mummer, for him?
Many had called him Imp, Dwarf, or even Demon-Monkey, but Tyrion Lannister endeavoured never to break the laws of the land, no matter how petty. After all, why look for trouble and give a reason for his father to make his life even more miserable?
Yet this cruel set-up was aimed at him.
Just because he was a dwarf. Just because he was the son of Tywin Lannister. Just because they could, and there was nobody to stop them. Just because he was short and weak.
Now, Tyrion Lannister had been reduced from the Master of Coin with budding wealth and business of his own to a dwarf inside a dungeon.
Yet the Archon of Tyrosh made a grave mistake–they left him alive.
Now, no matter how little, there was a grain of hope.
Tyrion closed his eyes and prayed to the Stranger. For his brother, Jaime, let the gods forgive his sins in life; let him not burn in the Seven Hells despite all of the woes he had caused.
He swore, then, to the Stranger. Should he leave this dungeon alive, Tyrion would do everything he could to ensure Tyrosh and Zaphon would rue the day they crossed him.
A Lannister always paid his debts!
Author's Endnote:
Starring: Garlan 'I don't like this- wait, what, I have a wife?' the Gallant, and Tyrion 'You messed with the wrong dwarf, fuckers' Lannister. We see the war is escalating hard. People are already burned for believing the wrong thing… (and losing a battle).
Oh man, this chapter ended up far longer than I expected.
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.
She looked at the bright comet streaking betwixt the stars. Once, she would have thought it a sign from the Lord of the Light. Yet there were still no visions in the flames.
Not that Melisandre needed them anymore. Now, her eyes were open, and she could see. She could see so much that it felt as if she had been blind before.
Subtle colours wiggled into ribbons and danced around or clung to men and beasts like cloaks of… something.
It was hard to make much sense of it all. But now, the dragon's breath tearing through the sky brought a rich, sanguine ripple through the sky.
She could feel all of her powers grow.
The direwolves seemed to feel it, too, for they howled in unison throughout the night, giving many a headache.
"I can hear it in the grass," Leaf whispered next to her. "I can feel it in the snow. The world echoes with power along with the red messenger."
Night had fallen, and Warg Hill was quiet, aside from the sentries patrolling the walls.
"Indeed," Melisandre tilted her head and looked at the surrounding forest. "It has halted the Others' encirclement." For now, it remained unsaid, even though Leaf probably heard it.
The Singers of Ice and Death, as Leaf loved to call them, had been repelled by the Watch. And it was done with laughable ease–the power of an ancient order backed by Seven Kingdoms and some Red Priests.
The competence shown was surprising.
Perhaps… perhaps she was wrong, and the Lightbringer was never the Red Sword of Heroes. Perhaps Azor Ahai was never human. Perhaps it was the Sword in the Darkness all along?
Perhaps it was. But Jon Snow was everything Azor Ahai was supposed to be. His efforts were not meaningless, and she could feel the change that rippled from his deeds. It echoed in the world, if in a very dull manner like a gong from the far side of a city or an enormous stone dropped into the middle of a lake.
In the end, it did not matter. Melisandre had chosen her path and would follow it to the end. The Great Other had to be stopped, and seeing she was far from the only one working towards this goal was relieving.
Even if Warg Hill fell and Melisandre with it, things would be fine. The fight against the darkness would continue, for many were now bearing the torch.
"It's a quiet before the storm," Leaf muttered. "They would probably attack as soon as the comet is gone."
Melisandre sighed.
"The Great Other knows it is losing the fight and returns to his slumber," she said. "But what is left of his cold children are unwilling to continue throwing their lives away. But they are unwilling to lose, too."
Not that it mattered. Even if the Others decided to assault Warg Hill, Jon Snow had made more than ample preparations. Besides, the wildlings seemed to fear waiting for the unknown more than they feared fighting.
Yet she could feel the fight approaching. It was not a vision or anything, but the cold thrum in the surroundings grew deeper and tighter in a way that had nothing to do with the weather. When Melisandre glanced at the frosted treeline of the Haunted Forest at night, she could feel them watching. She could sense their hatred for the warmth of life, the fire within the minds of men.
She could see the death creep closer, the miasma of rot and darkness reaching out, seeking a weak spot. But they found none, for Jon Snow had prepared.
There was not much she could do anymore but trust the path she had chosen, for their survival was all in the hands of Jon Snow and his unyielding valour.
Or perhaps she could try and tilt the scales of survival, if slightly, even if it would require the Singer's assistance. It was a bold idea bordering on madness and blasphemy, but she had already treaded such roads before, so what was once more?
"Raging against destiny is futile," Leaf muttered, staring at the sky as she lay in the snow unbothered. "If the men were so easily bested, Westeros would still belong to us, the singers and the giants."
"There's still a way forward, even for you," Melisandre chuckled.
"Twilight has come for my kin," Leaf shook her head. "If not now, maybe in three or four centuries. The giants shall follow, too. Yet they say the falling star burns the brightest at its end–we have decided to follow Jon Snow to the Seventh Circle of Hell if he dares tread there."
"Is this why you ignore poor Jarod? I grow tired of watching his attempts to woo you."
The old Liddle bastard was undoubtedly trying to catch Leaf's attention. It was subtle, but a skilled seductress like Melisandre could read the signs, no matter Jarod's caution. She could see the swirls of lust around him–a pink ribbon of desire. However, it paled before the intensity of feeling and passion between Jon Snow and his heavily pregnant wife. Theirs was almost like a blinding halo.
Some days, she wondered what it would be like to experience such raging passion.
What would it be like to feel such a genuine wreath of emotions?
What would it be like for them to be reciprocated?
The strongest flames of desire could be fanned not only by lust but also by love.
But her feelings had long withered with time; the years of training in Asshai had ensured it. Any emotion she was capable of would be dulled at best and hollow at worst.
The singer's small shoulders sagged.
"Perhaps if he were thirty of the man years younger—he has less than ten left… such a love would be too painful. I do not desire a fleeting moment of joy to be soured by centuries of mourning."
"Then find another," Melisandre pointed out. "Indeed, the leaf kin are not favoured with fertility, but you can have children with men, can you not?"
"It would still spell the end of us," Leaf muttered mournfully. "A human's seed is too strong, and any such children shall be more human than singers."
"Yet a part of your legacy shall live on."
Her friend gazed at her sharply with a pair of golden-green eyes.
"What of you? Do you not desire to leave a babe of your own? A legacy in the flesh?"
The priestess chuckled ruefully. Alas, Melisandre had forfeited the chance to have progeny of her blood for other boons in Asshai.
"I've had three sons before, but they expired quickly." She shook her head with a grimace. "Perhaps… but it might be for the better that this world never sees my children again."
5th Day of the 3rd Moon, 299 AC
Howland Reed, Essos
A bright red comet split the skies like a red-hot sword. It appeared last evening and could be seen throughout the day, streaking above the clouds. It was an omen, but Howland couldn't begin to guess what exactly. But it looked sanguine–which meant bloodshed. Yet blood was being shed around the four corners of the world at any moment.
"This is a sign from the gods," Damon Dustin proclaimed loudly in the morning. "Our path will be ripe with fighting and plunder!"
Unsurprisingly, that got plenty of clamour. Yes, the Northmen were all too eager for fighting and looting, especially since the last battle was the stuff of legends–a heroic victory the likes of which had not been done. Defeating ten times their number of horsemen with scarcely any casualties was what the songs were made of.
Unlike other comets, this one was different. The red comet did not go away; it soared and spun through the sky like an angry red hornet, as if trying to chase something.
The clansmen called it the Red Messenger, an omen of vengeance. Vengeance against what nobody could say.
The Dothraki called it shierak qiya, which meant bleeding star.
Winter probably thought it was the moon because he was busy howling at it most of the time. Many of his pack had died in the battle, and the rest had dispersed into the wilderness.
Ned, however, remained silent, taciturn even. His demeanour had gone even more solemn after his beauty sleep, as the Red Wake liked to call it. There were other, more subtle changes that Howland could only spot because he knew his friend all too well.
Any traces of hesitation on Ned were gone, and he carried himself with even greater authority than before—as if he had ruled for a hundred years instead of twenty and fought in a thousand battles instead of a handful. Of course, the Northmen loved the change.
The Lord of Winterfell always had his bannermen well in hand, but now they all obeyed his command with even greater ease and unmatched eagerness.
Heroes were forged on the battlefield, and Eddard Stark had once again proven himself such.
"What happened when you were asleep?" Howland had asked.
"Too many things, I'm afraid," was the only answer he received.
His friend had changed, yet the Lord of Greywater Watch couldn't decide if it was for the better or worse.
Of course, there were some woes. The Dothraki who had joined them, now officially the newly sworn freeriders of House Stark led by Zolo, were like oil and water compared to the Northmen.
The language barrier was harsh, and the horselords had become accustomed to a different way of life. Although the defeat had shaken them badly, they still had some sort of savage pride in their ways.
Yet Eddard Stark did not need them to understand; he needed them to learn and obey, especially since they had sworn their lives to him. It was a new sort of tyrannical behaviour that did not suffer any questioning.
The three riders who thought they could shirk Eddard Stark's marching formation or scouting orders were beheaded by the icy blade for disobedience.
Tommen's training only increased in pace. Everything he was doing before, he was doing now, in addition to being taught by Ned in person and performing his page duties.
Yet, he was on latrine duty every day for sneaking into the battle.
The golden-haired princeling collapsed from exhaustion every day, but he had won the hearts of the Northmen. His first battle at almost nine years of age and three kills with a sling!
With their numbers swelling to nearly fifteen hundred, their pace slowed as they headed south to Pentos. Even the leftover horses were used as beasts of burden to carry their additional supplies and personal effects. Another Dothraki had objected to using the horses as mules, only to be chased out, head shaved bald and without a horse.
It was the last time the horselords objected about anything. Asking questions was allowed and encouraged, but defying the Lord of Winterfell was not.
"Why are we dawdling so much?" One of the Northmen had asked, looking rather homesick. He was far from the only one; many missed their wives, brothers, and children. They would take the cold, harsh land that birthed them over these stifling foreign shores that looked similar yet felt different. There were no weirwood trees here, no stuffy septs with their long-winded septons. A few days prior, they saw the first signs of life, of civilisation, even if only a handful of smaller villages nestled around the riverbends and shores.
"I do not trust this land," Ned explained. "It is easy to ride forth on a road you traversed before through a land you know well, dealing with people you are allies or friends with. But there's neither a road nor do we have any allies or friends in this gods-forsaken place. Caution is not only advised but paramount."
Scouting parties, both Dothraki and Ryswell, screened their road. Every night, they made a camp surrounded by rows of sharpened stakes hammered into the ground.
Howland prayed the Mad Lance was wrong and that their way home would be smooth, peaceful, and worry-free, even if Eddard Stark had prepared to face all sorts of adversity.
The Northmen did not seem worried, but the Lord of Winterfell became more solemn by the day. He continued his tradition of riding at the head of the column with a different man each day, listening to their woes but not showing any favour towards one House or clan over the other.
Yet Howland's fears seemed to have been brought to life.
As the afternoon sun began to crawl westward, Ryswell's scouting party returned, all agitated. Howland cursed while the Northmen quickly flocked to the Lord of Winterfell.
"A Greyjoy ship was sighted, my lord," Rickard Ryswell reported breathlessly, his face flushed. However, Howland couldn't tell if it was from excitement or exertion. "Less than two leagues down the coast."
Rogar Wull spat on the ground.
"Fucken' squids. What are they doing here?"
"Reaving, probably," Morgan Liddle eagerly palmed the shaft of his axe.
Mallo translated to the Dothraki, who seemed pale. The sea scared them still for silly superstitious reasons, and those who crossed it were considered madmen.
"I told you the red comet was a gift," Damon smiled savagely. "It's been ten years since I've killed some Ironmen, and my new blade is thir–"
Ned raised his hand calmly; all the clamour died instantly, and even the Mad Lance swallowed his boast.
"Were there any other ships, Rickard?"
"No, Lord Stark," Ryswell's voice quivered. "Only the single-masted dromond with a dark red hull…"
"One ship isn't enough to ferry us all back home, damn it," Ben Burley groaned with disappointment. Many others joined him, but Howland's gaze was on Rickard, whose face was pale as chalk. His agitation had not been from excitement but fear.
"This can be only the Crow's Eye," Wylis Manderly shuddered. "Balon Greyjoy's mad brother."
"What, the one that torched the Old Lion's fleet?"
"The very same, but I heard the Lord of Pyke exiled him two years prior for some foul deed…"
That gave all of them pause. For even a madman like Balon Greyjoy to exile his flesh and blood, Euron must have done something unimaginably vile.
"And what," Ned's voice was so cold it made Howland shudder, "was Euron Greyjoy doing when you saw him?"
"Looting a fishing village," Ryswell grimaced. "Slaughtering the men and putting the rest of 'em in irons."
The mention of slavery darkened the face of many. It was a taboo in the Seven Kingdoms for millenia; the Old Gods and the Seven had decried such practices, and only the Ironmen still clung to their thralldom.
"It's a terrible thing," Jory Cassell said. "But it's none of our concern, is it? This is not the Seven Kingdoms. These are not our lands or allies, so Greyjoy isn't breaking the King's Peace. By royal decree, the Ironmen have the right to raid and reave outside the Seven Kingdoms. In fact, as a fellow Westerosi, we have less reason to be hostile to him."
His words sobered many, and even Howland could admit the Stark captain was not wrong.
"What do you suggest, then?" Rogar Wull scoffed. "Should we ask a slaver cunt like Greyjoy for aid instead? Or should we go around him?"
"Well, the Greyjoy heir is a hostage in Winterfell, is he not?" Ser Wylis muttered weakly. "Perhaps we could leverage that fact for assistance-"
"Enough," Ned's voice whipped through the clamour. "Some Ironmen can never be trusted, and Euron Greyjoy is one of them. We shall fight–and try to capture Greyjoy alive if possible. If not, we'll send the bones back to his brother. Mount up and get ready for battle. Rickard, tell me everything you saw."
Maelor of Myr, Essos
Another village burned around them. Maelor had lost count of how many settlements they had sacked and how many people had been slain and sacrificed, but it had to be thousands.
Greyjoy's mutes were mighty proficient at what they did. They struck quickly, cutting down any warriors or fools daring enough to resist. The women, children, and those who had surrendered were rounded up with practised ease as everything of worth was being looted while the houses were put to the torch.
It was an ugly sight but one you could see everywhere. From Yi Ti to Westerosi, they all did the same, no matter the tongue they spoke, the colour of their skin, or any fleeting claim to righteousness. From the plains of Jogos Nahai to the Arbor, noblemen would pillage and plunder when the opportunity arose. The so-called dukes and princes of Yi Ti, the barbarians of the far plains, the Dothraki, the Slavers of the Myr or Tyrosh, and the lords of the Sunset lands would all do it.
The strong devoured the weak. In this cruel world, there was no sin bigger than weakness.
In three hours, all of it was done; the village was squeezed for its worth, as Euron loved to say in his rare bouts of wordiness.
The silence the Crow's Eye loved so dearly was mighty unnerving. He loved drinking his shade of the evening and oft whispered to himself. The Greyjoy was mad in that there was no doubt. But there was a method to his madness, a goal.
Maelor would have lost his wits travelling on theSilence for so long if it weren't for the flames of his ambition roaring hotter than ever. They kept him warm, and they kept him sane down the dark road. Weakness was a sin, and he would grasp the ultimate power.
Now, Maelor could feel the egg pulse with life in Euron Greyjoy's gloved hands. It was done, and only one thing remained to be done.
"I can feel it. The power inside," the Crow Eye crooned with a wide, bloodthirsty smile. His gaze moved above at the sanguine dragon's tail whipping through the heavens. "And surely this is the herald of change."
"Yes," Maelor confirmed, his throat dry.
His powers had swelled by the day; now, he could do things he did not even think possible. Yet, as soon as the red sword split the skies, the Myrish mage could feel it in his blood. It was calling for him, his destiny.
Today was the day he would ascend, casting off the fetters of weakness and mundanity.
"And you said it shall be done with thirteen innocent lives on a pyre?" Maelor nodded as Euron waved at the chained women and children huddled together as his men poured oil and pitch over the pyre of firewood. "Very well, it's time to hatch my dragon."
The tendons of the slaves were all cut so they could not escape, and their moaning bodies were tossed onto the pyre after being bathed in cooking oil for good measure. The egg was alive, and a living funeral of fire and blood had to be enough to hatch it.
He felt it in his bones. The red sword of destiny cleaved from the sky. It was time.
It was time.
He gripped his staff with all his strength and steeled himself–victory or death?
The more he looked at Euron's back, the more monstrous the Crow's Eye seemed. The hellhorn was brought nearby while a mute approached his captain with a flaming torch.
"Thank you, Maelor." Euron's voice was joyful as he tossed the torch over the prisoners with one hand and the egg with the other. The flame spread in heartbeats.
The wretched screams of agony as the women and babes burned raked at Maelor's ears, but he ignored them. The stench of cooked meat choking the air, but all he could smell was victory.
More importantly, he could feel the power thrumming from the roaring whirlwind of fire and blood, and he couldn't help but watch with anticipation and fascination.
"You have been very helpful, my friend," the Crow's Eye turned to him, and chill crawled down Maelor's spine, realising that in his fascination, he had missed his chance to strike first. "But I'm afraid you're no longer of use."
He barely managed to avoid the axe of a mute and focused on his powers.
Petals of fire streaked from his staff. Yet Maelor had no way of controlling them–most harmlessly licked at the ground while a handful set some of Greyjoy's men on fire. Many mutes moaned, writhed, and rolled on the ground to douse them off; others rushed towards the sea while some tried to run Maelor through.
He brandished his staff again, sending more streaks of flame, but it only hit a single reaver. The mistake became apparent to the wizard then. Maeloar's powers had swelled, but he had not dared practice and train openly lest Euron's suspicion was aroused.
Just as he tugged on his powers and brandished his staff for a third time, the air was filled with a hundred whistling sounds. Maelor's mind was frozen by confusion for half a second, but the brief pause was a grave mistake.
The Myrish mage gasped in pain, unable to even scream; all he could see were stars, and his body felt like it was on fire. Someone was shrieking in pain, and it took him a few heartbeats to realise the sound was coming from his lips.
Even his staff slipped from his grasp as he writhed on the ground. Three arrows had sunk into his flesh, and he was barely aware that the ground around him was covered in a forest of grey-brown arrow fletchings.
The whistling rapidly approached again. A rain of arrows, Maelor realised. A pained moan escaped his lips as pain bloomed in his right calf.
"What?" Euron's furious yell echoed above, but Maelor couldn't care.
Jolts of agony ran through his flesh, and even breathing felt painful. Weak, wheezing breaths slipped from his mouth as he groaned with pain. Trying to suck in breath sent slivers of pain through his chest. One of the arrows had pierced his lungs, he realised.
His hands felt sticky and wet. A dark puddle was pooling below him.
Even his precious power was rushing out of the flesh like a river from a broken dam.
It was over.
Maelor was dying. He crumpled on the dirt before, coughing painfully. Yet his tongue only tasted iron as he struggled not to choke. Blood.
He was dying. The realisation made the Myrish mage slump weakly.
"WINTERFELL!"
"WULL!"
"BARROWS!"
"RYSWELL!"
The fading yells… sounded distantly familiar, as if he had heard about them before. But it didn't matter, for Maelor could feel life and warmth quickly seeping away like wine leaking from a broken jug, the pain turning numb as his consciousness dwindled.
Something shrieked in the distance.
He shuffled weakly, only to catch a glimpse of Euron Greyjoy, whose face was filled with loathing and fury. At least the damned Crow's Eye wouldn't succeed, either, judging by the tinge of fear in his blue eye as he struggled against a fierce steel-clad mounted warrior wielding a blade of ice.
Both of them would meet in hell together.
He could feel the frigid cold taking him as the world darkened.
Maelor died choking on his blood while trying to chuckle at the irony.
Howland Reed
He had the pleasure of escorting Tommen while making sure the prince didn't decide to try his slinging skills in battle again.
They were on a small hill overlooking the burning village nestled by a crescent beach. On a small dock, a red, single-masted galley looked like an ugly bloodstain amidst the green waves.
A disgruntled Artos Harclay, two dozen men-at-arms and the rest of the retinues who were not fighters accompanied the Howland and the prince. While their new followers, the former slaves, did not want anything to do with fighting, the same could not be said for the mountain clansman.
Unlike the previous battle, this one was easy. They had the number advantage. The Dothraki peppered the utterly unprepared Ironmen from the south with arrows, while Ned led the charge from the north, and Dustin struck with a hundred riders from the east.
It was an easy envelopment, and the reavers, far smaller in number and drunk on their victory, stood no chance.
It was hard to see what was happening from the distant hill unless you had a myrish far-eye like the prince.
"Uh, they are folding," Tommen muttered as he peeked through the elongated bronze tube. "Lord Stark just lopped off Greyjoy's head. Wasn't this Euron Greyjoy a great fighter? He lost in less than a dozen exchanges!"
"Pah, shitty Ironmen," Harclay spat on the ground. "Only good for pillaging and raiding villages and empty castles. No good even for a decent fight, not on solid ground."
"Well, a hundred unprepared raiders against an ambush from nearly a thousand horsemen in the open," Howland pointed out wryly. "Greyjoy never stood a chance. Besides, Lord Stark was mounted while the squid was on foot."
It wasn't even three minutes before the fighting was predictably done. Heavy lancers were the bane of disorganised footmen, and the reavers had never been particularly disciplined. And Eddard Stark was nothing but a deft hand in leveraging his every advantage and exploiting his foes' weaknesses.
"Yes," the prince wisely agreed. "They couldn't even form up in a proper line. The fighting is done."
Somehow, the fire had spread to the ship by the time they rode down to the village.
The heads of the fallen Ironmen were being cut off methodically while their bodies were searched for loot.
They were met with a rather comic scene–a stern-faced Ned was facing off against Winter, who was munching on something.
"Spit it out, boy," he ordered.
The direwolf looked reluctant but eventually opened his maw full of razor-sharp teeth, and a pale, mangled thing of leather and scales rolled down on the dirt. It was as big as a kitten.
"Seven hells," Wylis Manderly swore. "Is that a bloody drake?"
"It was a bloody drake," Damon Dustin chortled, "but now it's a bloody chew toy."
"Gods," Morgan Liddle groaned, his face dark and his eyebrows singed. "I thought I was going mad when some flash of white started spewing fire at me from above!"
"What the fuck was that bloody fool Euron doing?" Rogar Wull burst out in a storm of curses.
Ned, meanwhile, kneeled and picked up the small mangled thing.
"It has no eyes or legs," he said. Sure enough, the beast's colourless pale head had only two stubbly horns and a gaping toothless maw but not even slits for eyes. It even lacked hind legs–reminding Howland of a large, scaly white eel with wings. "Must have come out wrong from the egg itself. No wonder it was attacking everyone."
Cregan Knott came over, his surcoat missing and his brigandine covered in soot.
"Aye, that flying little bastard set the ropes on the ship on fire before Winter snatched it from the air. Now we don't even have a ship because the flames spread."
The hull was intact, but the vessel was useless to them without ropes, cordage, and sails.
"Dragons attack anyone who wasn't a Targaryen," Howland noted dryly.
"Well, good riddance, I say," the Mad Lance nodded wisely. "We don't need bloody fire-breathing beasts soaring through the sky again. One of these can kill hundreds in a minute if it grows, or worse, melt castles."
Many murmured with agreement, and Howland also nodded his head. When the Conqueror came, they bent the knee before the dragon. It did not mean they liked it, though. The Targaryens considered themselves above gods and men with those enormous, fire-breathing beasts at their beck and call.
Such power that could not be contested by anyone but other dragonriders invited fear, hate, and loathing when used. And many from the House of the Dragon never shied away from using it to get whatever they wanted. All you could do was bow and swallow whatever indignity they asked of you or die.
Howland shuddered to imagine what the likes of Euron Greyjoy or Aerys the Mad would have done with a grown dragon under their command. A madman with a sword could be defeated, but one with a dragon?
Ned sighed and tossed away the mangled corpse back into the waiting jaw of Winter. The direwolf quickly crunched through it with relish as many watched with morbid fascination.
Yet that was far from the only surprise. Half an hour later, the loot and some of the effects of the burning ship were gathered. The sailors claimed the Silence was cursed by all those souls Euron had sacrificed aboard his ship, so nobody shed a tear about it.
There was plenty of gold, gems, and good quality arms and armour, but that was not everything.
For once, nobody was even glancing at the chest of wealth, not even the sailors, camp followers, or the Dothraki.
"So much Valyrian Steel," all the eyes were on the small pile before Lord Stark.
"Have you not heard?" Damon Dustin tutted as he patted the scabbard of his dragonsteel blade. "If you're lucky, you can find these things around every corner in Essos. I read some book when I was young claiming there were nearly six thousand named blades here, and gods know how many unnamed."
"You wouldn't know a book even if it smacked you in the face," Artos Harclay jeered.
"Bold words coming from-"
"Stop squabbling like children," Ned said impatiently, cutting through the argument.
Knott, Slate, Liddle, and Manderly were almost drooling at the sight and were far from the only ones.
"I thought they didn't make armour from dragonsteel," Rickard Ryswell muttered as his eyes were set on the scaled mail coat taken from Euron Greyjoy's corpse. It was forged of overlapping dark, smoky rhomboid scales inscribed with Valyrian glyphs. The armour lacked a helmet and a gorget and had not saved its previous owner. Its collar was covered with crimson bloodstains, tokens left of Greyjoy's beheading.
"Let us test it," Eddard Stark unsheathed his icy sword, filling the surrounding air with a soft chill, and he lashed out at the sleeves of the armoured coat.
TING!
The sword bounced off the dark metal, and Howland cringed as the air was filled with a lingering sound akin to a wounded beast's cry.
"Definitely not ordinary steel," Walder grunted.
"I shall be using this one," the Lord of Winterfell declared, daring anyone to challenge him. But none did, for he had been the one to kill Euron Greyjoy. There was also a Valyrian Steel dagger on the hip of its belt.
"What of the rest?" Damon Dustin pointed at the two axes, five swords, and seven daggers of various sizes on the pile. There were a handful of trinkets–rings, cups, pendants, and a few inscribed circlets hacked off by the barrowknight from some dark horn, but nobody seemed particularly interested.
The Mad Lance already had a dragonsteel arakh and was not as eager as the others for such a blade.
Ned picked up a greatsword with a decayed and rusted golden lion-head pommel.
"Brightroar?" Manderly muttered.
"I think so," Rickard Ryswell tilted his head at the blade. "Did that mad bastard Euron sail into bloody Valyria?"
"That would certainly explain where he got a dragon egg and this much dragonsteel," Ned sighed. "Brightroar goes to Tommen."
Many nodded seriously, and the greatsword was shoved into the stunned prince's hands. It made for a comical sight, for the blade was slightly taller than himself at five feet.
Nobody objected.
Not because Tommen could claim the blade through House Lannister but because it was taken from the corpse of Euron Greyjoy. It was Eddard Stark's spoils or war, and he was the one to decide what to do with them. Yet the declaration was made without any hesitation–none could ever doubt Ned's honour and integrity.
However, the remaining weapons received many glances filled with greed and desire. They had been looted from Euron's captain quarters in the Silence, not taken in battle, which meant they technically belonged to Lord Stark.
But Ned was not one to cling to excessive greed or ambition, which meant some people would walk away with dragonsteel arms today.
"As for the rest… we shall count kills, and the top can pick amongst them."
It took another twenty minutes of pointing fingers, arguing, explaining, and counting until Ned figured out who killed how many.
It came to nobody's surprise that Red Wake Walder had killed the most. The Giant of Winterfell gruffly picked the bigger axehead, probably to mount it on his poleaxe. The man was terrifying even without a dragonsteel weapon, and Howland shuddered to imagine the carnage he could unleash on the battlefield with one.
Ned was second, and he graciously picked a Valyrian Steel necklace encrusted with a diamond for his wife.
"Ah, the Lady Stark is a lucky woman," Damon Dustin chortled. He had been third in kills, courtesy of that dragonsteel curved sword of his that simply allowed him to slice through armour when ahorse. "If Lord Stark is so gracious in his choices, I cannot be any lesser! I'll take a ring for that lass I fancy."
"Since when did you even notice women?" Arland Slate sniggered. "Everyone knows you have eyes only for horses, lances, and swords."
"Pah, I like women well enough, you dolt," the Mad Lance snarked fiercely. "You can forget getting an invitation to my wedding."
Morgan Liddle got the second axe, Rickard Ryswell snagged a purple-tinted longsword, Rogar Wull took a dark greatsword, and the surprised Ashton Ironsmith picked another greatsword with sanguine smokey ripples. Jory Cassell won the final pale bastard sword.
"What do we do with the corpses?" Howland asked.
"Line their heads across the shore on top of spears and spikes," his friend decided. "Boil Euron's bones so we have something to send to Pyke."
"The damned reavers toss their dead into the sea," Rogar Wull gruffed. "To join that drowned god of theirs."
Yet Ned's face was an icy mask.
"It doesn't matter. True, Euron was a vile man, but so what? Today, we killed him despite not doing any of us any wrong. The least I can do is return his bones to his brother. Let Balon throw them in the Sunset Sea should he wish."
8th Day of the 3rd Moon, 299 AC
The Spider, King's Landing
"It's an omen of blood and murder," Cregan Karstark had claimed, looking at the red comet soaring above the clouds. "Of the resurgence of the Old Gods."
"Crimson for House Lannister," the king had declared. "My grandfather shall return victorious."
Varys was more inclined to agree with the Northman. The comet looked like it tore through the starry sky, weeping tears of crimson in its wake, like a gaping wound.
King's Landing was fully prepared for a siege; the gates had been fortified heavily, and the gold cloaks and all men-at-arms were drilling daily.
Tywin had ordered everyone who could not gather three years' worth of food to leave the city on pain of death. The waterfront between the Blackwater Rush and the city walls had been scoured by flame, and all the houses huddled within five hundred yards of any of the walls were burned to ash.
Of course, many were slow to comply, and the city's citizens were becoming disgruntled.
The Fat One urging his septons to preach about heresy to combat the Rose Septon did not help.
Alas, the war was not going very well for Joffrey. Three devastating losses left Tywin alone. Over five thousand Westermen had died in the disastrous defeat near Crakehall, and many more had been captured. With Crakehall fallen and sacked, John Oakheart now marched towards Lannisport completely unopposed.
Dozens of raiding parties thirsty for gold and vengeance were ravaging the Westerlands unopposed as retaliation for Clegane's raids.
The old Lion was dangerous, but no assistance was coming in. Robb Stark did not seem to have inherited the mind for battle his father possessed and even managed to turn away a lord with four thousand swords from his cause. Lord Mathis Rowan would doubtlessly block or crush the young wolf-pup at the Ruby Ford if he dared attempt a crossing.
The Lord of Goldengrove was an experienced veteran of many battles and three wars, and he had the numerical advantage, while the young Lord Stark couldn't be any greener.
Nobody doubted the outcome of that battle.
Mace Tyrell, however, was a wily fox, and he would doubtlessly be wary of the cornered lion.
Penrose also showed restraint, caution, and foresight. After Jaime Lannister was slain and his host broken, he dug himself up at the edges of the Kingswood and started furiously chopping down lumber. Within days, three tall layers of palisade were raised, and the rest was piled up for drying. A few raids from the royal marines across the Blackwater Rush tried to stop him, but with no success.
Tywin also had not dared to cross on the other side of the Blackwater and confront his son's killer, lest Mace Tyrell blocked his way back to the city–the only bridge across the Blackwater Rush was sixty miles upstream.
"The next two battles are essential," Kevan sighed in one council meeting where Joffrey was absent, again busy with his whoring. "If we lose them both, it is over for us."
Nobody harboured much hope for Robb Stark, but the old lion had a chance to succeed.
"If that bridge is as narrow and as long as you say, Renly would have to paint the Blackwater red to force a crossing," Karstark hummed. "And even then, he might fail."
If Robert's brother wanted to take King's Landing, he had to take the bridge up the Rush that linked the Crownlands with the gold road. The Blackwater was deep with quick and treacherous currents, and the only fords were far upstream, deep into the Riverlands and useless to Renly's goals.
Yet it was not an easy bridge to cross, for Tywin was turtling up at its end with forty thousand swords and was dead-set not to allow Renly to pass. However, a tenth of that were all Essos mercenaries and unreliable.
While Renly's host neared double the size Lord Lannister boasted, the old stone bridge was a narrow, long passage where numbers didn't matter much. However, according to Kevan and Karstark, Renly would fan out his forces, building barges and wooden bridges and force Tywin to stretch himself thin and defend many beachheads along the river.
Yet Varys professed to know little about warfare.
He wanted Joffrey to lose, but not yet. The Old Lion was supposed to fight a long, brutal war and weaken both sides.
Tywin Lannister was not supposed to lose every battle. What happened to his lauded command and warfare skills?
Even fear did not work as much, for how could they fear a Hand who suffered three devastating defeats in a row? How could men be afraid of someone they now mocked in their cups?
Men planned and schemed, and the gods laughed. Aegon was far from ready. Barristan had filled the boy's head with dreams of glorious victory and the swill of breaking the chains of slavery. Or some worthless faded connection to the legacy of Saera the Whore.
Varys still struggled to wrap his head around how they convinced Connington, let alone the Golden Company, to support a slave revolt in Volon Therys and start a bloody war against Volantis.
Now, he had no choice but to delay Joffrey's looming defeat as much as possible so that Aegon could return to his senses. If Renly won and had enough time to consolidate his place on the Iron Throne, his nephew's quest would become ten times harder, if not outright impossible.
Things were looking so bad that even the Imp had stopped sending sellswords. Or perhaps he had stopped looking and decided to cut his losses and move to the Summer Isles?
Alas, Varys had no connections in Essos–he was using Illyrio's network instead. His good friend was limited to Lys, Pentos, and parts of Braavos. The Free Cities were far more used to the workings of soft power, and spreading your spies and influence too far and wide unnoticed was a slow and costly endeavour.
Sadly, no matter how hard he wanted to aid Joffrey and delay his looming defeat, Varys could not conjure swords, spears, and knights out of thin air.
Mace Tyrell and Renly had solidified their force, and three victories only added to their momentum.
Now, they were at yet another council meeting, trying to find a way to tilt the scales of war in their favour. Of course, Joffrey was absent, visiting his favourite whore, some silver-haired chit named Arael from the Mermaid.
The establishment was an old pillow house founded by Roggerio Rogare, who sold it quickly after the Lyseni spring had ended. However, nearly two centuries later, it was still considered an upscale brothel employing women from Lys. All of them were freed pleasure slaves who had supposedly decided to continue plying their trade as free women.
"Have any of the ravens or messengers returned?" Kevan asked.
Before he departed to fortify the bridge, Tywin had sent many letters and envoys to Dorne, the Iron Islands, and even the Vale, trying to cajole some sort of assistance or alliance, but no response had arrived. Varys was dying to know what the old lion had offered in desperation, but Pycelle guarded his letters jealously.
The Grandmaester just wrung his wrinkled hands nervously.
"None yet, I'm afraid."
"At least the Redwyne fleet has yet to leave the Arbor," Varys muttered weakly. And his efforts to smear Renly's name had continued. Rumours about his tendencies and unholy love for swords began spreading like wildfire, but it was too little to tilt the scales of victory.
Cregan Karstark scoffed.
"This war shall be won on land. Besides, nobody wants to join a king in defeat, no matter what you offer." He cracked his knuckles. "We need one win. One victory and those who hesitate will turn amiable to our side."
"You speak wisely, my lord," the Spider bowed. "We shall pray harder for Lord Tywin's victory."
That only earned him a glare of annoyance; the Northman had no love for eunuchs. Yet Varys' words were genuine this time. He prayed for one victory to delay Renly's advance. Two, even maybe three, would be better. He had also prayed for Aegon to find his wits and abandon the folly he had undertaken with Volantis.
"Don't write off the young Lord Stark," the Northman grunted. "Edmure Tully still has over fifteen thousand swords despite his defeat. If he links up with his nephew, they can pincer Rowan and make him rue the day he allowed hostages to burn."
"Alas, he's too far to make a difference," Varys sighed. "The young Ser Tully is recuperating at Lychester, about two hundred miles from the Ruby Ford or Harrenhal."
Burning of captives had enraged many–especially the Northmen at court. The Blackwood boy and the other followers of the old gods had been fed to the fire by overzealous fools on the grounds of heresy.
The septon inciting them had been hanged, but that gate had been opened. The battle near Crakehall had told a similar tale, and the war was turning ugly. All wars were brutal, woeful affairs, but this one was shaping to be worse than most.
If hostages were not spared, who would surrender anymore?
"Surely we can do something?" Lord Lyden bemoaned.
"Train hard to keep your sword arm sharp," Karstark snorted.
"Pray harder," offered Varys.
"Hope for the ravens to return, accepting the Lord Hand's alliance offers," Kevan replied grimly.
Yet Varys knew it wasn't likely. Balon Greyjoy cared little for Greenlander wars, as he called them; Dorne would rather shank Tywin in the back than join him, and the Vale was busy squabbling over young Robert Arryn's regency. And Kevan or anyone else could do nothing but watch so long as the Bloody Gate remained closed and defended by Arryn's best men.
"We can perhaps discuss the new kingsguard appointments," Lord Lyden coughed.
Ser Barristan was dismissed, and the Kingslayer, Ser Preston Greenfield, and Ser Boros Blount had perished in the Battle of the Kingswood.
The once-lauded order of chivalry and renown was in dire straits–halved in numbers and crippled in strength. Even now, Joffrey always had two with him while he allowed the other two to rest–the poor queen was not afforded the courtesy of a white cloak's protection.
Yet talking about the Kingsguard was futile–Joffrey did not like anyone from his name-day tourney besides Ser Robert Brax, who had been honoured to don the white cloak. Yet the Brax knight was not half as good as Moore or Trant, if better than the late Boros Blount, which was not saying much.
They couldn't even agree on who they wanted to promote to the next Lord Commander. Moore had the most experience, but nobody liked the dead-eyed Valeman. Trant and Oakheart hailed from the Stormlands and the Reach and hadn't done anything of note to be awarded the lauded position.
Alas, the meeting ended again without much success.
They were cornered, and they knew it. Varys despaired inwardly.
How could Renly have all the competent men and numbers under his command while lackwits followed Joffrey? Surely there would be at least one capable commander? At this rate, he might need to cut his losses and disappear.
As he prowled through the lower, less traversed hallways of the Red Keep, Varys heard stifled moans and shuffling of clothes behind one of the less visited passages.
Alas, even as the kingdoms went to shit, it seemed lust knew no rest. Varys didn't know much about lust other than that it made both men and women lose their wits. It wasn't rare for some handmaiden or scullery servants to have a hasty affair with some handsome red cloak, rugged man-at-arms, or dashing knight serving at the royal seat.
Yet he was unable to suppress his curiosity, and he silently approached. He was the master of whispers, and it was his job to know such things.
Behind the corner stood a looming tall, muscled man with a golden wool cloak over his shoulders. A petite woman with pale white limbs clutched his body like a monkey would a tree trunk.
The men taller than seven feet in this city could be counted on one hand. And there was only one of them in the gold cloaks. Besides, Varys had seen this one before, and the messy raven-like locks were a dead giveaway.
Gerold Waters was one of Robert's many bastards, a butcher's grandson and now a rising star in the city watch under Balon Swann. He was taller than his father and just as strong; if rumours were true, he would become a captain in the city watch within three years. Varys had not expected Robert's baseborn children to last that long, but with Cersei stuck in the Maidenvault, there was nobody to even bother with them.
Seeing the bastard follow in his father's footsteps wasn't that surprising. Not nearly as startling as the golden-haired maiden he was fucking.
It was Myrielle Lannister, Joffrey's wife and queen.
And she was wearing the garments of her Lanny handmaid, which meant they had probably swapped places for the day.
The formerly elegant and noble maiden moaned and shook like some wanton whore, clearly enjoying herself all too much. By the sound of it, Gerold Waters seemed far more skilled in pleasing his partners than Joffrey.
Varys cautiously stepped away, careful not to produce any sound. Once he managed to put enough distance, he started to giggle quietly.
Oh, the irony! The gods were surely laughing at House Lannister. Nothing was worse than a spurned lioness; history seemed to repeat itself.
Would Myrielle's children come out looking dark-haired and blue-eyed?
This knowledge wouldn't help Joffrey's cause much, but Varys would gladly add it to his collection of secrets. If that turned out true, it would help to douse any rumours of his parentage.
Yet, as the day slowly dwindled, the Spider busied himself with his birds for hours. When he finally emerged from the secret passages, he found the Red Keep in a rush of panic as guardsmen ran around almost like headless chickens.
"What's happening?" Varys approached an agitated red cloak. Had they caught poor Gerold Waters so quickly?
"There's a riot in the city, and Lord Karstark is sallying out of the Red Keep to clear the streets and find His Grace!"
The sky was already darkening as the setting sun dyed the clouds to the west red. The crimson comet could still be seen streaking through the sky–an omen of blood and murder.
The Spider hastily made his way atop the Red Keep's curtain walls while slowly piecing the story from the passing servants and guardsmen.
Joffrey had gotten drunk. It wasn't a new occurrence since the boy desired to emulate his royal father. However, unlike Robert, Joffrey did not easily take to heavy amounts of wine, and he had gotten heavily inebriated.
Drunk enough to almost run over a septon and quarrel with a disgruntled crowd. Drunk enough to demand the septon's head–and the bloody imbecile Ser Mandor Moore had beheaded the priest without any hesitation.
And once blood had been spilt, everything had gone into a frenzy. And, of course, Joffrey had called for all of their heads.
Varys could imagine it now; the increased taxes, customs, and tariffs made too many chafe. The tension between the Faith and the old gods, the schism, the war, the heresy, and possibly Tywin attempting to kick out a good chunk of the people living in the city had too many on edge.
All it had taken was a single spark to ignite a raging bonfire. A spark that Joffrey had carelessly provided in his drunk rage.
Atop the ramparts, the city could hardly be seen. Fires–torches, lanterns, were like rivers in some streets, yet couldn't be seen in others. With some struggle, Varys could gleam the streets churning with blood and death as the echoes of pain and agony reached even Aegon's hill.
Would Joffrey's terrible luck ever end?
This was too much to be a coincidence, and even Varys was unwilling to admit it.
Were the gods punishing Joffrey and the Lannisters for their numerous crimes?
"Father above," another horrified cry of a nearby guard caught his attention.
Varys spun around and traced the man-at-arm's pointed hand.
His heart skipped a beat.
To the east, the Blackwater Bay was choked with ships and flames. The royal fleet was surrounded and on fire, strangled by a ring of enemy vessels.
He knew their sails. The purple snail was the sigil of a Free City. Varys loathed surprises with a burning passion, and this day had been too full of them.
Why in the seven bloody hells was the Tyroshi fleet attacking them?!
Author's Endnote:
No, Gladiusx, why are you pouring oil into the fire?!
Gladiusx: haha, fire goes brrr!
Starring–things go tits up for various characters, volume XXX.
Idk what else to put in the note, but many of my plans are finally coming to fruition in this chapter, and it was just pure joy to write it.
Someone rightly guessed that Euron's dragon egg (blindworm) would become a snack, so kudos to them. 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.
He knew their sails. The purple snail was the sigil of a Free City. Varys loathed surprises with a burning passion, and this day had been too full of them.
Why in the seven bloody hells was the Tyroshi fleet attacking them?!
Did Euron Greyjoy really hatch Seeth the Scaleless!? Holy shit the world just dodge a massive bullet with Euron and his dragon going down like punks. Poor little dragon bastard, though; of all the ways to go, being a chew toy for a big ass dog would be the most embarrassing. All the other dead dragons are probably laughing their asses off.
Last night had been a disaster, but Joffrey had lived.
Everyone who wasn't deaf could hear his angry shrieks throughout the Red Keep. "I want them dead, all of them, DEAD!"
They had been so close to defeat, so close, and at the hands of some angry gutter rats instead of Renly's blades or Mace Tyrell's schemes. Should Joffrey have perished last night, their cause would have been crushed. Without Tommen or Joffrey, Myrcella would be next in line.
Kevan could admit Cersei's daughter could probably make for a fine ruling Queen, but such a thing could only happen in peacetime. She had the support, but in war, the throne required a king; knights and lords simply fought harder for a king who would join them in battle than they would for a queen who would hide behind the men. Perhaps if Myrcella were in King's Landing… it wouldn't be impossible, but she was far away, safely tucked behind Winterfell's sturdy walls.
Thankfully, Karstark's desperate rush that had left hundreds of corpses within minutes succeeded. The Northmen had arrived just in time to save the young king, but Joffrey did not get away scot-free. His body was covered with bruises and cuts, his sword hand was in a splint, his face was swollen purple, and his right eye… had been clawed out. Even now, a stinky poultice covered the ugly, gaping wound, and Pycelle still fretted over him.
"The rioters have been swept away, and the Tyroshi incursion in the docks has been crushed, Your Grace," Ser Balon Swann knelt, his armour battered and caked red with blood and gore still. They were in the throne room, but the court had been dismissed for today.
The riot had continued through the night, and the Essosi had tried to take the Rivergate and rush into the city. Jacelyn Bywater, the Rivergate commander, managed to hold until Karstark and Swann arrived with reinforcements. The Northern veterans and the red cloaks had swept away the foolish sellsails after the rioters had been slaughtered, yet they could not take, let alone damage, any of the Essosi ships.
As the sun rose from over the murky waters of Blackwater Bay, the cobbled streets were rusty red and strewn with a carpet of corpses as the city watch slowly toiled to cart out each body. Tens of thousands had died last night.
"Where is my Master of Ships?" Joffrey hissed with pain and fury. "He lost me my bloody fleet! Where is that inept fool Lydden?"
"When he saw the attack, he rushed to sail out, trying to rally the royal mariners…" Varys trailed off weakly. "I'm afraid he's yet to return."
Aside from the few ships that had been taken over after their crews had been slaughtered, there was nought but cinders and corpses left from the royal fleet. The poor Lord of Deep Den would be either on the bottom of Blackwater Bay or just another corpse being nibbled by the fishes. It was a proud yet foolish thing to do–go down with the ship.
Kevan tiredly rubbed his head.
"The damned Tyroshi are doubtlessly raiding and pillaging the coast of the Crownlands now." It was a disaster. The defeat might just bring their cause to their knees. Yes, the Archonate's fleet couldn't breach the city, but with the crownlands coast devastated and the flow of food sailing in through the docks halted, the city might as well starve.
"How?" The furious Joffrey pushed away the hemming Pycelle and glared at the Spider. "Varys, why were we attacked by surprise by some Essosi filth?"
"I will find out, Your Grace," Varys bowed, bald head glistened with an unholy mix of sweat and powders.
The boy king balled his fists as his swollen face twisted with fury.
"This can only be that traitor, Renly," he seethed. "My uncle is trying to kill me with a borrowed knife. And those savage street rats broke my favourite gilded crossbow. Someone bring master Alastor to make me another!"
Karstark, Swann, and Kevan exchanged a few glances of confusion while Varys bowed only deeper.
"Why are you all silent? Speak, damn it!"
"I'm afraid Master Alastor has left," the eunuch muttered sorrowfully.
"What do you mean left?!"
The Spider shrank as if he tried to disappear into the marble floor as his head touched the polished marble tiles below. "Your sister, Princess Myrcella, had summoned him to Winterfell, and he has been there with his apprentices for moons now."
Joffrey's swollen face reddened further, looking like a misshapen volcano ready to erupt. His sister was a sore topic for the young king but not one he dared to speak of even now with a crown atop his head.
"Out!" He shrieked angrily. "I want them all dead, strung up on my heart tree!"
Karstark's face lit up with interest while Kevan groaned. He had no idea what Myrcella had done to her brother over the years, but he still dared not lash out against her, which meant someone else would bear the brunt of the royal ire.
"All of them, Your Grace?" The Northman asked eagerly.
At that moment, the Lord Regent knew a struggle awaited him–he had to satisfy the young king's thirst for blood and vengeance while trying not to offend the remnants of the Faith that remained on their side while expelling some of the useless mouths to feed from the city.
"We shall not let anyone who is guilty go free," Kevan promised pointedly before Joffrey could worsen things. They had more than enough religious woes as it was. "Each soul who raised a hand against your royal person shall be caught and punished, grandnephew. I promise you this."
"I want to see the walls of the Red Keep lined with the heads of those treacherous curs daring to raise their hands against their king," Joffrey clenched his jaw, but his green eye flashed erratically with anger. "Out with you now! Someone bring me another master arbalest. And Ser Arys, bring Arael to me at once!"
The white cloak bowed and rushed out as the rest of the councillors made themselves scarce.
"Your Grace, it's not appropriate to bring a paramour in here-"
"I don't want to hear of it, Lord Hand," Joffrey hissed. "I am the king here, not you. Out of my sight now!"
With a sigh, Kevan left the throne room. Mother have mercy; how could Cersei fail so terribly? Even Aerys, Robert, nor even the Unworthy had ever brought a whore to fuck atop the Iron Throne. Poor Myrielle would be shamed even worse than Cersei had been…
And there wasn't much Kevan could do. Yes, he was the Regent in name, but he could not contest Joffrey's authority, no matter how much he wished. Everything else in this cursed city, Kevan could command and order around, but not this. The bloody boy had all the swords in the city under his thumb; even the captains of the redcloaks listened to the young king instead of Kevan.
For all his faults, Joffrey possessed one skill, and one skill only–being able to order people around. It was a skill the boy-king had mastered to perfection, and he knew which tone of voice to use, how to leverage his future position, reward obedience generously and had shown himself more than vengeful. So they all listened to him.
Karstark, however, was one of the men here who genuinely liked Joffrey. Whether about his worship of the Old Gods or something else entirely, Kevan could not tell. But the Master of Laws was eager, fought hard, trained even harder, kept order in the city, and even got his Lannisport lioness pregnant. And all that effort seemed to work because Joffrey was increasingly favouring the Northmen by the day.
In the rare instance that the young king wanted to bother with something, it was done, and Kevan could do nought but deal with the aftermath or try to deflect or at least lessen any harm Joffrey would thoughtlessly do with his whimsical orders.
Yet, after a single night of blood, things had worsened drastically.
Moore, who had beheaded that septon, had perished against the angry crowd, torn apart alive, and now they needed four knights to fill the ranks of the White Cloaks.
Even the plump High Septon, who tried to calm down the commotion, had been killed by the angry rioters, and the Sept of Baelor was devastated as if a storm had passed through it. The riches, crystals, silvers, coins, and golden stars were all looted, and everything else was broken aside from the statues of the Seven.
More than half the septas had been despoiled, and the Septons and Most Devout killed, and it would have been worse if his son, Lancel, had not rushed inside just in time to save the rest with two dozen red and gold cloaks. It had earned his eldest son his spurs as Ser Balon Swann himself knighted Lancel at dawn and promoted him to a captain of the gold cloaks, perhaps the only good thing that had happened last night.
Even some young, strong Waters boy with dark hair and blue eyes–probably one of Robert's bastards, had managed to earn himself a vice-captain after cutting a bloody swathe through the rioters on his lonesome.
Kevan would have wept with anger and despair if it was any worse. But while savage, Karstark was capable, and Balon Swann had performed admirably. The city was secure, if a bit battered and bloodied.
Even now, he could hear the weeping of daughters, widows, and mothers from the Red Keep, but Kevan's heart was set. He would harden himself and expel all those useless mouths to feed, especially now that Tyrosh could block shipments of grain and foodstuffs by the sea. Perhaps even the valuables stolen from the Great Sept could be recovered as the city was being swept. It would certainly mend the strained relations with the Faith.
He would steel himself and do everything he could for victory.
Defeat would mean death–Kevan knew of the likes of Mace Tyrell. He looked amiable, soft, and foolish, but there was no mercy in the hearts of Reachmen. They would smile in your face before stabbing you in the back and make you watch as they burn your children, all the while espousing the chivalry and honour of the Reach.
Hightower, Tyrell, Redwyne, Tarly–all hardened men in Renly's council, which spoke volumes of his desire to grasp victory no matter what. The sacking of Crakehall and the burnings near the Rushing Falls had shown that the whole Reach was rearing for blood.
Surrender was no longer an option, no matter how dire things seemed. Peace… Kevan dreamed of peace, of those warm years when you could travel unimpeded from Casterly Rock to any corner of the Realm. He dreamt of peace, of summer, but Kevan was a cynic.
The only way they would have peace was if one side was broken to a million pieces or vanquished, for in the Game of Thrones, you either won or you died.
11th Day of the 3rd Moon, 299 AC
Davos Seaworth, Dragonstone
The newly arrived maester Pylos had said the red comet in the sky was an omen of death, but Davos had not thought much of it. Sure, he had been careful the next few days lest he got struck by some mishap out of bad luck, but matters were not half as simple.
Whether out of luck or something else, everyone had forgotten about Shireen Baratheon.
"She's just a girl of eleven," Cressen had explained. Unsaid was that her regent was a lowly smuggler, for the old maester was not one to look on lowborn like him, but Davos heard and knew it all the same.
Yet while they enjoyed peace and calm, from the Shield Islands to the Kingswood, the realm was aflame with war, and hundreds, if not thousands, were dying every day.
"Perhaps they respect the proper mourning period," Ser Hardy had said. The small mourning for the highborn was seven times seven days, but the ceremonial one was seven cycles of the moon and seven days. Yet the mourning period was ending soon–over six moons had passed since Stannis had perished. Six moons since Davos felt like a drowning man grasping at straws.
Stannis' bones were interred beneath Storm's End despite the turmoil and trouble that Cressen suspected.
How soon would the flames of war engulf Dragonstone? Forgotten or not, Shireen Baratheon was supposed to be Joffrey's close cousin and Renly's niece. Could she sit out the war, especially after the end of the mourning period was fast approaching?
The former smuggler began to fret.
How soon until the envoys arrived, demanding fealty? Stannis had increased the men-at-arms of Dragonstone over the past year, which prompted the rest of the Narrow Sea houses to do the same. Davos doubted any would ignore Shireen when she could command over four thousand swords and a few dozen ships. The Lady Baratheon had not ordered the recruitment efforts to stop, but the opposite; even more men-at-arms were being recruited from across the Narrow Sea, the Stormlands, and even the Vale.
Davos had seen Ser Roland Storm and Ser Richard Horpe busy helping the master-at-arms train the men.
Worse, Dragonstone was traditionally sworn to King's Landing, so Shireen had to do something sooner or later.
Anything.
Davos spun around in bed for many sleepless nights, unsure if he should burden the young Lady of Dragonstone with the accusations Stannis held so close to his chest.
Had Cersei truly cuckolded Robert? Or had Stannis been deceived? Or was it some other, entirely different conspiracy altogether?
Did the truth even matter anymore?
The knowledge would be damning, but the truth was Stannis lacked proof. Even Cressen was unconvinced by Renly's claims. Not without reading the infamous Book of Lineages, which was rare–one copy with Stannis' younger brother and a second one tucked far away in the Citadel, even deeper into the Reach.
Should Davos share his suspicion with Shireen? Yet her father had ordered to let the matter rest for her safety, and the Onion Knight would not disobey. Davos hated it; he hated the scheming, the intrigue, and most importantly–he hated the war.
Eventually, a side had to be chosen. They might have forgotten for now, or perhaps they respected the mourning period, but that did not change the cold, hard truth.
Yet Davos felt too unprepared to make a decision, regency or not. As a captain of his ship before, he was responsible for the crew's lives. Rewards and risks were shared–and everyone who followed him at sea had agreed to it.
But now, things were different. Nobody had asked the smallfolk ruled by Dragonstone which side they wanted to support. Nobody would ask them. Yet it would be their lives that were at stake. It would be the lives of their sons and husbands, the ones who would pick the sword, the axe, and the shield and die for the claim of one king or the other.
The feeling of approaching danger loomed upon him like the shadow of an axe.
Yet the sliver of peace the Narrow Sea enjoyed had ended, if for an entirely different reason than anyone expected, as Shireen and her advisors urgently gathered in the Chamber of the Painted Table.
"This is a disaster," Davos wanted to tear his hair out. But his brown mop had already gone sparse and was streaked with grey since he had taken up Shireen's regency. Advising the young lady had been hard enough, but he had reading, writing, and history lessons that he couldn't shirk. It felt shameful for an old man like him when a young girl knew so much more, but he persevered.
He might lack knowledge but could provide experience and wisdom where needed. Davos would have laughed if someone had told the former smuggler your head could hurt from too much thinking, but here he was, with a headache every other sennight.
And it had been a terrible one the last few days.
"How can a whole fleet pass through the Gullet unseen?" Ser Hardy groaned. They all clustered around the Painted table, gazes over the part of the Crownlands and the Blackwater Bay.
Word had arrived from King's Landing about the destruction of the royal fleet, and now the Tyroshi were reaving and raiding for slaves and plunder along the coast with impunity.
"From High Tide to Sharp Point is over fifty miles," Davos muttered weakly. "One can easily sneak through during the night if they're daring enough and the royal fleet is not patrolling the waters. A more daring captain could get a whole fleet through on a moonless night."
And the moon had waned three days prior. Worse, the royal fleet had been stationed outside King's Landing, leaving Blackwater Bay vulnerable.
"Why would Tyrosh attack?" Shireen frowned at the map. "If the raven from Grandmaester Pycelle were true, there would have been over three hundred ships. That many vessels would require the Archon to be involved."
"They smelled weakness," Monford's voice was dripping with disdain. "The grand fleet built with so much gold and effort by Stannis was given to Lewys Lydden, who is well-versed in sword fighting but knows as much about sailing as a pig would know about flying. Talk about tying a ribbon of gold on a swine."
The Lord of the Tides had decided to swear fealty and stay here to advise Shireen after she had graciously pardoned his offence. Davos had yet to trust the man, but the vows of fealty had been given, and everyone else was sure he would follow them, if not too enthusiastically.
"Perhaps." Cressen coughed. Alas, the old Maester was growing weaker and thinner with every moon. Valar Morghulis, he had said–all men had to die, and his time was coming soon, no matter how reluctant Davos was to part with his advice and kindness. "Yet Tyrosh can hardly fight against the might of the Seven Kingdoms, element of surprise aside. For such a daring attack, they must have had assurances."
Davos frowned at the map.
"What do you mean, maester? Who would back Tyrosh?" He balled his fists. "Right now, they kill, plunder, and enslave, acting like no better than common pirates along the Crownlands coast!"
The truth was, many of the Free Cities were backing pirates, if not directly being sellsails themselves. The difference was that they had support, safe harbours, allies, and the might of a noble house, whether a merchant prince, a rich magister, or a whole city.
"It must be Uncle Renly," Shireen clenched her jaw for a moment, making her scaled face look like a statue hewn from stone. "There is nobody else. It would weaken Cousin Joffrey, and with the royal fleet out of the way, they can blockade King's Landing from the sea. Uncle Renly is reaping all the benefits of this."
"But… I thought the Lords abhorred slavery and piracy!" Davos was aghast.
Lothor Hardy gave him a harsh, cold smile.
"Aye, they all claim they do when it's easy. But when war comes, and their vows and honour are put to the test by steel and blood, even the most righteous of men can turn to beasts if it suits their goals."
"We must do something," Shireen said, looking at him.
The hall grew as silent as a grave, and Davos squirmed as everyone turned to him for a solution. A decision, a course of action–anything. Because he was the regent, the one who had to make the decisions or approve of them.
But what… what could they even do? He knew nothing of fighting; he knew nothing of lording or negotiating.
The Onion Knight bowed his head, heart heavy with shame, "By your command, My Lady."
It was a cowardly move, but he trusted the man who led and pulled him out of the common muck. Davos was too small, too foolish, too baseborn to take responsibility for this. Now, all he could do was hope that Stannis had taught his daughter well enough.
Shireen's pale face scrunched up as her bright blue eyes hardened with resolve. It was almost an odd side, for the left side of her face was stiff with the Greyscale, making it seem like she was always austere or particularly solemn.
"They are too greedy," she uttered as she climbed the chair to take a good look at the Crownlands from above the Painted Table. "They are pillaging everything from the Rush along the Kingswood's coast. From King's Landing to Rook's Rest, towns and countless smaller holdfasts and villages across the shore are being sacked. Taking their time and looting around the coast means their fleet will be spread out."
"A raven arrived just an hour prior from House Pyne from the Crackclaw Point requesting aid–their towns and villages are also being pillaged," Pylos muttered weakly.
Seven above, may the Father forgive him for this. She was just a girl of eleven, and her shoulders were even smaller than his. Gods, why did Stannis make an old smuggler like him a regent?
Velaryon frowned. "You mean to attack them first, my lady?"
"Yes," she declared. "Look at them–they have spread out across the Blackwater Bay. They will come to us anyway, but we can try to pick them off group by group instead of waiting for their fleet to regroup and strike us first. Like Uncle Robert did in Summerhall: three armies, three battles. I doubt it would have been easy to defeat them combined."
"If we gather all the warships and cogs from Dragonstone, Driftmark, Sharp Point, Crab Isle, and Sweetport Sound, we will have about sixty ships, even if we lack the hands to man them fully." Cressen pointed out.
Sixty ships against Tyroshi's fleet of over three hundred.
Daunting odds, but nobody said a thing. Did they have a choice but to fight?
"Perhaps we can call for aid," Pylos proposed. "My lady has yet to declare for either king. Yet none would begrudge you requesting assistance against these Essosi reavers."
"Any assistance will come too late," Velaryon's words were frosty. "Renly might just block those from the south or the Sunset sea. Even Manderly has how many ships of his own? Forty? Fifty? It's not enough."
The attack route was easy to track; next would be Driftmark, and then Dragonstone. The Lord of the Tides looked particularly pale, his purple eyes glinting with anger and unwillingness.
They all looked at the painted table, trying to look for a way out, grope for some light in this damned darkness that hung over them.
"We'll gather the fleet and strike first," Shireen decided. "Call my banners and ready the ships at once. Their vessels will be slow, burdened with plunder and slaves. Maester Cressen, send ravens to all houses on the eastern coast, asking for assistance against these vile pirates. Better late than never."
Davos rubbed his face tiredly. This was bad, but he saw no way out of it. Shireen's plan was better than anything he could think of already.
"Would that not mean we'd be fighting against Renly, especially if he's the one supporting them?"
Shireen's eyes hardened.
"If truly so, I do not have an uncle. Especially not one who consorts with slavers and pirates. Haste is paramount, my father always said."
The meeting ended then, and Davos felt exhausted deep into his bones. It was a weariness he had never felt; even after that time, he rowed to smuggle Yi-Tish silk in the Fingers for sixteen hours without rest.
Only the old smuggler and the young lady were left around the table as the servants hurriedly gathered the reports, pitchers, and goblets.
"I am coming too," Shireen muttered, voice filled with resolve.
Coming… where?
Davos' heart almost leapt up into his throat when the realisation struck him.
"Battles are dangerous, my lady. Let alone for young maidens like you-"
"I know, Ser Davos," she looked at her feet, but her words were laced with defiance. "But, how can I order all these men to fight and die for me when I sit behind the high, thick walls and watch from afar? It would be easy to pin the loss on Velaryon, should he lead the ships."
Her smile grew wistful as she continued relentlessly, "Or let him receive the accolades and honours of victory if we win. But Monford is not the ruler of Dragonstone. I am. Let it be known that Shireen Baratheon would not shirk her duty. Even if I die doing it, I won't be inked down in the history books like some useless cowering lady."
Seven above, he wanted to forbid her, to tell her no, that her place was with the Septa and the Maester–learning the feminine arts and studying. But those blue eyes stared at him, filled with resolve, shining with the same iron surety her father possessed.
In the end, no words left his mouth.
Davos prayed silently then. He prayed for the Warrior's grace, the Crone's luck, and that Stannis had taught his daughter enough.
14th Day of the 3rd Moon, 299 AC
The Young Wolf, Near the Ruby Ford
"Me and my boys want to join, m'lord." It was a sellsword, Bronn, with five hundred of his ilk, a motley group clad in ringmail, padded coats, wearing swords, shields, pikes, and bows of different sizes, yet no horses. They were all attracted to the rumours of loot. Plundering the Frey lands had interesting and unpredictable results.
"You shall be paid like pikemen," Robb decided after a minute of contemplation. He had no desire to take sellswords under his command, but he had the gold to spare and needed the swords. Just for one battle, he could use them. "But be warned, desertion and disobedience shall not be tolerated."
They were far from the only ones to join. From the Neck to the Trident, from the Green Fork to the Mountains of the Moon, every knightly and lordly house had mustered every sword they could call upon and joined him, lest he plundered their lands. The most notable were Wayn, Blanetree, Grell, and Vypren.
Four hundred hedge knights, six hundred regular knights, another thousand outriders, and two thousand pikes, and his forces had swelled to over seventeen thousand.
Dustin and Ryswell had been sweeping through the enemy scouts with ease; Robb had the support of the locals and the numbers advantage, which made it laughably easy. Grey Wind also found foes, pulling them out of the bushes and hiding spots like squirrels and rats. His men had learned to fear and respect the direwolf; in a week, he had taken down nearly a score of scouts and enemy outriders on his own. And Robb's dreams were getting more vivid with each night. He could feel something on the back of his mind, a niggling yet elusive feeling.
It didn't matter, though. What mattered was the secrets and news the enemy scouts had spewed out to avoid a lengthy torture session.
"This is madness," Medger Cerwyn murmured. "Burning people alive for matters of the gods."
He was far from the only one outraged at the Reachmen's actions, both here and in the Westerlands. Crakehall had fallen, and his Uncle Edmure's defeat had been far uglier than he suspected, yet not disastrous as that weasel at the Crossing implied.
Greatjon's angry rumble echoed in the command tent, "Where did those bloody flowers find the balls to do such a thing? I'll rip it out for them!"
"We must respond in full, or we shall be seen as weak," Roose Bolton coldly pointed out. An angry clamour echoed along; it was rare to see so many agreeing with the Leech Lord on anything, but it only brought out the direness of the situation.
Yet Robb was relieved, for his Uncle was alive and had managed to orderly retreat, albeit wounded.
Which was good. Even better, word had arrived from Winterfell yesterday–he was a father to a healthy baby boy, Edwyn Stark, a boy with striking grey eyes and a mop of dark gold hair. Robb almost cried himself to sleep from happiness that night. He had a new brother, Artos, with his father's dark hair and his mother's blue eyes, and a sister, Lyarra, with the opposite; all were hale and healthy. Yet the happiness ended there.
Being on the back foot in a war was not pleasant.
After the brutal string of defeats, Joffrey Baratheon needed a victory. And Robb intended to bring him that victory. And all the savagery that was inflicted upon his uncle's forces and lands would be repaid in full.
Robb had no feud with the Reach, but Mathis Rowan made this personal. Especially with the vile murder of Brynden Blackwood, the gloves of mercy and courtesy were off.
"Lord Ryswell, did we let that one scout leave as I ordered?"
"Yes, my lord," the Lord of the Rills bowed.
Looking at the map before him, Robb balled his fist. Rowan was content to block the Ruby Ford and loosely screen the southern shores of the Trident with a scout here and there. Yet the Ruby Ford was one of two such crossings. There was also that bridge leagues downstream and the barges he had taken along the Green Fork. With his mounted army, he could make it to the bridge in hours and the further crossing a day at most, while the Reachmen would take days, if not weeks.
They were all underestimating him, Robb realised. Because of that stunt at the Twins...
It stung to be known as a green boy, as a bandit, but the Lord of Winterfell would make full use of it. If they wanted to underestimate him, Robb would make them choke on it until they rolled over and died.
His men were all eager and ready for battle, their morale as high as possible after the generous amount of loot taken from the Frey lands. The lords were also baying for blood, and Robb intended to deliver.
He was a father now, and a new, additional weight settled upon his shoulders.
What would happen to him if he lost it here?
Would he be burned like Brynden Blackwood for following the Old Gods?
Would Winterfell be sacked like Crakehall had been, raping the women and killing the children?
If he lost, would his newborn son Edwyn have his throat cut like the swaddling Tygett Crakehall?
Would Myrcella, his mother, Sansa, and Arya be despoiled and his young brothers killed?
Robb's gloved hand balled into a fist as he looked at the map. He would crush them.
"Here's what we shall do…"
17th Day of the 3rd Moon
Theon Greyjoy
He woke up snuggled next to a voluptuous, warm body.
"Kira?"
His drowsy mumble was rewarded with a stinging slap.
"My name is Lyna, you letch," a feminine voice scoffed, and the angry footsteps quickly dwindled in the distance.
It took Theon a few moments to gather his drowsy wits and remember where he was—an army camp near the Trident after a lengthy ride down the kingsroad.
Being in a war was supposed to be exciting. Alas, reality turned disappointing.
Marching in the North and through the Neck was tedious, but once they had reached the Riverlands, it was all plunder and looting, even if Robb forbade killing. Theon slept with a different woman each night, sometimes two or more at once. While a handful had been unwilling, most were eager, more than willing, to sleep with a high lord's son. A sweet word here, an implied promise there, and they would eagerly spread their legs before he moved on to the next cunt.
Miller's wives, carpenters' daughters, stableboy's sisters, baker's wives, and many more he didn't care to remember anymore–Theon Greyjoy got his fill of women.
Even after they had left the Frey lands, he was not lacking for bedwarmers–camp followers or local whores peddling their wares. He got his first taste of blood in the war, taking down a fleeing enemy scout from seventy yards with his bow—a perfect draw.
He showed himself capable, and Robb trusted him with a party of thirty outriders. It almost made him forget he was a hostage. Alas, it was one of the three rare times his friend had talked to him since they left Winterfell.
Before, Robb had treated him as a companion and confidant, but things changed. His friend married, slowly drifted apart, and he became Lord of Winterfell. Some days, it felt like Robb, the Lord, was no longer his friend. That mantle of leadership had changed him. Alas, in Theon's opinion, the change had not been for the better.
It was like looking at a younger Eddard Stark–solemn, thoughtful, with a hint of coldness in his actions, as if Robb had forgotten how to have fun. It took Theon some time to figure it out. The young heir of Winterfell had been his friend, but Robb the Lord only saw a hostage.
Remembering all that time they happily spent together left a bitter taste in his throat now. Would Arya also see him as untrustworthy once she grew up, even after he taught her so much about archery?
It had all started with that damned marriage with the golden-haired princess. Admittedly, she was beautiful enough to make a man forget everything else. But Theon remembered how things suddenly changed after that wedding, after Eddard Stark had gone South, and Robb became more withdrawn and practised harder.
Some days, he missed Pyke. But from what little he remembered, his time with his now-dead brothers, father, or uncles wasn't warm or pleasant. On those days, Theon felt particularly lost. He struggled to remember their faces, and receiving no word from home hurt: ten years, not a raven, message, envoy, or even a visit. Surely, the Heir of Pyke, the next Lord Reaper, would not be forgotten?
Why had his father or sister not written?
Did they even miss him?
Was Pyke even still his home?
What was an Ironborn without a ship? A squid stuck on the shore would wither and rot, and was he any different?
Some days, when the doubts became too much, Theon asked himself worse questions.
What if even his kin in Pyke no longer wanted him?
Where did Theon belong if neither the Iron Isles nor Winterfell was his true home?
Shaking his head, Theon banished such inane thoughts from his head. It was wartime, and with war came opportunity. It was his chance to prove himself, to earn some loot and glory. He would earn his place here and gain their respect.
Three hours later, Theon, garbed in ringmail and a hefty brigandine with the golden kraken of Greyjoy proudly emblazoned on his padded surcoat, watched from a hill as the battle unfolded with a part of the reserves.
Robb had forced Rowan to spread his forces over the length of the Trident and even to the other, smaller shallow crossing, five leagues downstream, thinking that's where the bulk of Robb's forces were. It was a diversion, of course. Even now, after hours of exchanging taunts, arrows, and skirmishing, the Reachlord was invested in the river once Robb ordered his infantry to slowly advance fifty yards into the ford.
The tangle in the Trident's shallow waters continued for half an hour as the Northern forces slowly retreated.
Then a warhorn sounded, and from the far side of the river, Ryswell, Dustin, and Manderly showed on the left with thousands of lancers as the Reachmen began to panic. A good chunk of their forces were knee-deep in the Ruby Ford. It looked like a river of steel and flesh drowned the colourful Reachmen.
Truthfully, Theon did not remember much from the battle, nor had he been there for the planning, but he remembered Robb telling him Rowan would be either confused, stretched thin, or both.
Either way, they were winning. And it looked like they were winning handily, looking at how the Reachmen's cavalry had been scattered. Their lines were buckling under the cycled charges of the lancers as they wheeled around, performing a devastating attack one after the other on the enemy's rear.
In half an hour, the Reach army crumbled. It was precisely what Theon was waiting for.
The Heir of the Iron Islands was too valuable to risk in the slog of battle.
But chasing down routed foes? That was easy. Theon could kill to his heart's content, perhaps even capture someone important for a ransom.
"Let's go, boys!" With a warcry on his lips, Theon Greyjoy led his thirty outriders after the fleeing enemies.
Crossing the Ruby Ford was easy; the muddy shallows were streaked with blood as the corpses washed downstream into the Bay of Crabs.
Running down a fleeing man required little skill, especially if you were mounted and they were on foot. Rowan's knights and outriders had been broken, and the remnants had already fled, leaving the rest of the forces at the mercy of the Northmen. Robb had an abundance of lancers, and now that the enemy lines were broken, the effect shown was dire. Hundreds of men were being ruthlessly slain by the minute, unable to resist. Those who tried to make a stand were surrounded and hounded by the side.
The day turned to night, and Theon lost count of the men he cut down, but he kept spurring his men further over hills and roads, through mills and farms as the waning moon above illuminated his path forward. His hand and shoulder cried with pain from swinging his sword so many times, and his arse was sore from riding.
The fleeing men-at-arms thinned greatly, especially in the darkness. Yet seeing men fall by his blade, seeing the hot red blood spurting or their bodies tumbling down the ground, brought him a vicious satisfaction that he could not get enough of.
It was not what Eddard Stark had taught him, but the men needed to be slain, and Theon felt his anger and frustration bleed out with each foe cut down.
"Perhaps we should turn around and regroup with the others, m'lord?" It was Derek's voice, a veteran outrider and Theon's second in command. "Or at least rest the horses. The enemy won't be going anywhere in a rout."
"Not yet," he shook his head and spurned his tired steed forward. "We do not stop unless I say I so."
"But–"
"Are you disobeying me? Your lord has placed you under my command, and I say we chase!"
Derek and the rest of the riders looked mutinous, but Theon did not care. He needed to capture a lord. Perhaps an heir or a landed knight. It would be enough to prove himself and grab a piece of glory, and the hefty ransom would not hurt.
A few more hours could be squeezed from the horses until they needed rest. A good horse could be pushed over a hundred miles in a single run, but it would require two days of rest and feeding.
As he led his men into a small valley where he could see a score of fleeing Reachmen, his horse stumbled, and Theon would have had his leg smashed if he hadn't managed to release himself from the saddle just in time.
Tumbling on the grass was rough and would definitely leave bruises. Theon cursed when the whistle of arrows filled the night as horses began to neigh in pain. Between the pain of the rock sinking in his side, the realisation that Theon had fallen into an ambush was even more bitter.
It took him a few moments of groping in the darkness to find the hilt of his dropped sword and force his weary limbs to move.
He stood up to the clash of steel and the sound of men dying. Theon could barely make out the surroundings in the dim torchlight, but when he did, his blood froze. The valley was choked with weary riders, wearing too much steel to be northern lancers.
They outnumbered Theon's outriders by at least five to one. His men were quickly slaughtered, even as Derek and another rider managed to unhorse two knights and steal their steeds to run away. The cowards! The ambushers were led by a man wearing an ornate suit of heavy armour with a great golden tree emblazoned on his snowy white breastplate. House Rowan of Goldengrove, his mind supplied.
Theon was no coward, but even he knew when he was so badly outmatched.
Swallowing his bitterness, he threw his blade on the ground and raised his empty hands above his head. "I am Theon Greyjoy!" he screamed at the top of his lungs. "I surrender!"
After all, it wouldn't do to be cut down like some common man-at-arms in the darkness.
Author's Endnote:
Stuff… some people die, others live, and shit is still hitting the fan anyway.
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.
Tyrek Lannister was a dutiful squire and always did his utmost to fulfil the orders of his lord or knight. Being the late king's squire had been a heavy challenge, and not in the honourable way, the way the mettle of men was forged. It was a relief when his Uncle took him in as his aide.
Yet his relief was short-lived.
The Lord of Casterly Rock was nothing but demanding in every aspect. Shining his armour, spars, courtesies, drills, horseriding, warfare, other lessons, or even lesser chores had to be done with the utmost skill, precision, and speed. It pushed Tyrek to the limit, and he went to sleep each night tired, with his body bruised and sore.
After a week, he almost began to miss Robert Baratheon and his dismissive insults. Almost.
"You might wonder why I do not request the same thing from Roland Moreland," Tywin said once Tyrek noticed his fellow squire was not as burdened as he was. Roland Moreland was a spindly red-haired boy one year older than him and the second son of Lord Moreland.
"I have, my lord," Tyrek bowed his head.
"It's because he is not a Lannister. Our family ruled the Westerlands for millennia, but not through mediocrity. You are my brother, Tygett's sole child, and I expect you to become more than just another knight who struts around after getting his arse knocked out in some joust by his betters."
The Old Lion had grasped his shoulders that day, pinning him with his steely gaze. "Being a Lannister of Casterly Rock is a matter of pride and excellence. Remember that, Tyrek."
The words were hard but fair, like everything else about Tywin Lannister.
So Tyrek gave his all, even when things seemed grim. A rider had come from King's Landing just now, half dead with exhaustion–the man had not stopped until he saw the camp and handed over the message before collapsing with a short explanation. Tyrek volunteered to bring it to Lord Lannister as a dutiful squire. Not many wanted to be the bringers of bad words to his uncle, for lately, any news was of the terrible variety, so the sentries were reluctant to take in a messenger.
What if they brought word of another devastating defeat, another bloody loss?
He still remembered that day when news of Jaime Lannister's death came. None had dared to take the message and bring it to lord Tywin but him. That day, Tyrek had learned even silence could be terrifying, for the Lord of Casterly Rock spoke no words and just stared into the distance, yet the young Lannister Squire felt like a thousand ants were crawling up his spine.
Yet this time–this time was different. If the other squires knew what the tired rider had told Tyrek, they would have brawled to bring this message to Lord Tywin. Even the guardsmen had let the man pass with disinterest once they verified he was from King's Landing. Everyone was treating the messenger as a leper. But their loss was Tyrek's gain.
The neat rows of crimson tents looked particularly dreary this evening, and he could see many disgruntled and morose faces gathered around the campfires.
The gloom had taken hold of the Lannister camp as of late.
"We're fighting alone," plenty of men-at-arms said. After three battles–three devastating defeats, it seemed that Lord Lannister had run out of allies. No relief force was coming, and they falsely thought Stark was too young to win against the capable Lord Rowan.
Worse, the Westerlands were aflame at the mercy of Lord Oakheart, who was now pillaging as far as his outriders could reach while the bulk of his host marched towards Lannisport. Nobody thought Casterly Rock could fall, but the city nestled below was harder to defend than the seat of House Lannister.
Anger and a sense of powerlessness had gripped the hearts of the men–their homes were either being sacked or in peril, and they were far away, unable to defend their kith and kin. Worse, Stafford's army had been slaughtered almost entirely. Now, very few swords were left in the Westerlands: the Lannisport City Watch, a handful of garrisons and less than two thousand who had managed to survive the Reachmen's pursuit.
The Crakehalls–the burly Lord Rolland and his three sons, had sworn eternal vengeance with House Oakheart over the brutal sacking of their seat. Nobody had survived the storming of the keep; cousins, aunts, uncles, wives, daughters and babes had all perished under the Reachmen's wrath.
"My lord, why are the Reachmen being so… brutal," Tyrek had asked when Crakehall had fallen. "They could have surely taken more hostages and not slaughtered the running levies."
"Because they can," the reply was as quiet as a grave, as his uncle did not lift his gaze from the map of the Seven Kingdoms. "Because war is a savage, bloody affair bereft of all honour, and all who claim otherwise are fools or liars. Because Ser Burton Crakehall, the castellan of Crakehall, dared to resist instead of surrendering, causing many to die in the storming. Because the Reachmen think they are winning, the victor takes all, and the loser suffers what they must."
Tyrek had not dared ask more. The Reachmen were not the only ones who thought Renly was winning–everyone in the Lannister camp was of a similar opinion, even if none dared voice it. Was this their fate? To be at the mercy of the so-called chivalry of the Reach?
Across the Blackwater Rush, Renly Baratheon and Mace Tyrell's forces had been arrayed as far as Tyrek could see. Their camp spread out from both ends of the horizon and was full of cheer, vigour, feasting, and even songs that could be heard late at night. Seven leagues downstream near the Kingswood was Cortnay Penrose, leading another fifteen thousand swords from the Stormlands, fervently building rafts and barges.
They had sent an envoy to negotiate–which had predictably failed, as neither side would budge.
The next day, the skirmishes had begun–Mace Tyrell would try to cross the river in force in various locations, probing their defences. The heavily fortified bridge has not been stormed yet. Still, the war had turned into a contest of prodding–Renly's forces would test the Lannister defences, trying to cross the Blackwater or find a weakness, while the Westermen would try their best to prevent them from crossing and plug in any gaps.
Tens of clashes happened across the river every day, stretching for tens of miles as their foes looked for weakness. The Reachmen found none, courtesy of Lord Tywin's meticulous preparation and planning. For now.
Alas, the men were reluctant; they were reluctant to fight for Joffrey.
"The young boy king is cursed," Tyrek had heard a pikeman whisper around the campfires one night. "Anyone who fights for him loses!"
The other men-at-arms around did not deny it. He realised that fighting was not the problem then. It was dying and defeat–an ugly, undignified way to go. How many muttered the same thing away from the ears of the captains and their knights?
Desertion had become a problem–every night, more than a dozen men tried to sneak away in the darkness but were all caught and hanged by morning for everyone to see. Each time a word of defeat came, the resolve in the soldier's eyes dwindled, their faces grew grim, and their postures grew more slack. Every day, Renly's enormous army loomed on the other side of the river, more active, more vigorous, hanging like a headsman's axe over their necks.
Tyrek understood their fear. If they lost here… there would be no mercy, just like Stafford Lannister and the Crakehalls had not been spared. The levies, knights, and men-at-arms would be hunted down, and perhaps, if you were important enough, you would be taken hostage. If you survived the heat of the bloody battle, that was.
And with every passing day, defeat had seemed more and more likely. Each day, the crows and vultures circling in the sky swelled in number like dark messengers of death waiting to feast on the flesh of the fallen.
But not all was lost. Tyrek gripped the roll of parchment in his gloved fist as he finally reached the enormous crimson pavilion atop the hill where his lordly uncle resided.
The pair of red cloaks wordlessly let him in, their faces grim as if expecting bad news, and even his reassuring smile did not help. Tyrek couldn't even blame them…
As usual, his uncle was as still as a statue clad in crimson silk and golden velvet, leaning over a massive table with a detailed map of the Seven Kingdoms strewn over. He always did that as of late, as if he was looking for some way out, a road to victory.
"Tyrek," Tywin acknowledged his presence with an emotionless nod. "What is it this time? Has the Wall crumbled down?"
Tyrek's mouth went dry, and his knees felt weak. His uncle had that effect on people even on a good day.
"No, my lord."
"Has that bandit Oakheart breached Lannisport and somehow taken Casterly Rock, then?"
"No, my lord."
"Has Joffrey slipped down the stairs like his drunken oaf of a father and snapped his neck?" Tywin exhaled, his green eyes flashing with a feeling Tyrek could not even begin deciphering. "Or has Mathis Rowan bested the young Lord Stark? Which one is it this time?"
Tyrek was unsure if he wanted to laugh or cry, but either would see him punished.
"Neither, my lord," he bowed instead. "Lord Stark has won a great victory on the banks of the Trident."
The Lord of Casterly Rock squinted his eyes.
"A great victory, you say," he muttered to himself, a single golden eyebrow slightly raised on his expressionless face.
"Yes. The messenger arrived from King's Landing just now," Tyrek almost choked, trying to push down his joy. "Lord Rowan's forces were flattened, and he barely managed to run away to save his life. Sixteen thousand Reachmen were slain, and word is Robb Stark had all of their heads cut off and lined on spikes along the shores of the Trident."
There was a pause as Tyrek witnessed the Lion of Lannister gawk, actually gawk at him, though it was so short, so fleeting, it could have been his imagination.
And then Tywin Lannister laughed.
His chest shook, producing a harsh, rumbling sound that made Tyrek cringe and step back with fear. He had never seen his uncle even smile, let alone laugh. Many said the Lord of Casterly Rock was incapable of joy, but they were now all proven wrong, and it sent shivers down the boy's spine.
"Give me the message," the lord shook himself, face turning stern as every trace of joy had disappeared as if it had never been there. "And go spread the word across the camp. Let my quartermaster bring out the barrels of ale and wine. Tonight, the men shall celebrate–each man can have a cup and an extra serving of mutton."
Tyrek dropped the message into the waiting hand as if it was aflame and hastily ran towards the quartermaster because he was a dutiful boy. It had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that his uncle scared him.
20th Day of the 3rd Moon, 299 AC
The Rose Queen
"How?" Renly's easy smile was gone; her husband looked like he had swallowed a lemon, and even his hair was dishevelled, for they had probably woken him up in haste an hour earlier than he was used to. "Sixteen thousand men dead! Wasn't Robb Stark supposed to be some green boy?!"
They gathered in the royal pavilion as the morning mists from the river had wreathed it with a shroud of grey. Margaery couldn't help but shudder, but the sun was already peeking from the mist, ready to banish the cold.
However, the royal council was filled with grim, disgruntled, or angry faces for the first time. Even when the Mountain had been burning down Septs and slaughtering villages by the score, they were not as worried. Margaery felt queasy; she had seen death in a tourney before, but trying to imagine sixteen thousand heads lined across the length of the Trident made her feel sick.
"He was far from the only one," Paxter Redwyne muttered, shaking his head.
Renly slammed a fist on the table, making the wood groan.
"Was not Mathis Rowan a veteran commander, a seasoned warrior of many battles?" He hissed, face beginning to redden. "He had more men, bloodied in battle against Tully. He had the superior position. And he bloody lost against a green boy!"
Even Margaery shuffled with unease at this outburst. Her husband had always been charming and mild-mannered. Yet now, when faced with adversity, with defeat, he looked like a completely different man. Her father had always said defeat was a bitter dish to swallow, and it seemed he was right.
The Lord of Horn Hill glanced at the map.
"Stark traded numbers for speed, and it worked. Rowan expected him later and was unprepared, for the Young Wolf arrived too quickly. He baited a part of Lord Mathis' forces towards the White Bridge five leagues downstream, but it seems like five thousand of his heavy lancers had already crossed." Tarly dragged his gloved finger downward at a dot just above the mouth of the Trident. "Probably at the legendary Widow's Ford."
"A costly mistake," Baelor Hightower grunted, a fierce frown on his face. Margaery didn't need to know how to read minds to know what her uncle was thinking–arrogance was a sin, and the gods had punished poor Mathis Rowan for it. If you won–it was because the Seven willed it, and you had their favour. If you lost, it was clearly the reverse. Such dangerous thinking had spread like wildfire across their camp, and men thought their cause was righteous and could do whatever they wanted if they won. "How did the scouts not see his movements?"
Tarly just shrugged.
"Vile sorcery, no doubt," Paxter Redwyne muttered, face pale. "We've all heard of the witchcraft and sorcery of Eddard Stark. Surely, he would teach his son as well."
Whispers around the tent told of the direwolf seen with Robb Stark. Some claimed the young Lord could also turn to one, while others warily looked at the ravens surrounding their camp. Was it because of that red comet that bled across the sky for days, showing favour for the Lion of Lannister?
Her husband had swallowed his anger, though his knuckles were still white as he squeezed his gilded sceptre.
"How can his army move so fast? You told me it would be weeks, if not a whole moon, before we even had to deal with Stark!"
Margaery knew Renly harboured a heavy dislike for the wolves of the North for some reason, but this small victory had caused him to lose his cool and impeccable dignity. It was like a worm gnawing on his insides.
"It is possible," Randyll Tarly's words thickened with begrudging respect. "If he has no supply carts, camp followers, or infantry. Should every man be mounted, mule or horse–even the marksmen and the supplies."
"It doesn't matter," Baelor Hightower raised his chin, face filled with righteousness. "This cruelty must be repaid in full!"
"That's how all of this started, Ser," her father pointed out coldly. "Tywin sent his brigands to sow fear, and he reaped the fires of vengeance. The hearts of men were aflame when the battles happened. Joffrey raised the matter of heresy, and our side had to respond in turn. Besides, what do you want us to do? The West is already burning, and Rowan pillaged a fifth of the Riverlands. This must be Stark's response to the death of the Blackwood boy."
None dared meet her father's heavy gaze, even Margaery.
She felt ill–when the crown was placed atop her head, it felt like a grand achievement, as she was on top of the world, and everything would be a path of flowers and sunshine. And now, tens of thousands were dying for it. It was not just knights and men-at-arms–old crones and greybeards, young boys and girls, women were despoiled or even slain, and the babes at their breast were not spared either.
Yet it was too late to turn back. The crown was already resting atop her head, Renly's son was growing in her womb, and they could only walk the path to victory, no matter how many corpses would pave it.
Margaery, however, had steeled herself. Her childish notions had already been broken, and the Game, as her grandmother called it, had to be won, even if the wanton death and savagery saddened her. The cruel Lion of Lannister would do much worse if he won.
"It is not all doom and gloom. At least we have managed to capture Theon Greyjoy." Her father's face turned pensive. "Mathis Rowan is sending him this way with all haste. The heir of the Iron Isles is an invaluable hostage-"
A hurried Eryk Cafferen entered the tent, making all of them pause. The Lord of Fawnton was the new master of whispers, appointed with Margaery's insistence. She had aimed for a man from the Stormlands so the Stormlords would not feel slighted over being left out of the small council. Of course, her husband had chosen Cafferen, a silent, short man with a face that reminded her of a brick and an eerie gaze that unnerved you the more you looked at him.
"What is it now?" Renly barked out.
"The Tyroshi blockade on King's Landing has been lifted," the master of whispers coughed. It was another bitter topic.
Paxter Redwyne rubbed his face tiredly.
"How?" He asked. "The royal fleet is gone. Did the damned Essosi just break our agreement, pick their things and leave?"
"No, my Lord Redwyne. Shireen Baratheon mustered her bannermen, gathered a small fleet of personal ships, and won seven battles in three days, and the rest of the Tyroshi fleet retreated, laden heavy with loot and slaves."
Margaery's thoughts went blank, but she was far from the only one. Silence. The tent was as silent as a crypt.
"Pardon me, Lord Cafferen," she coughed. "Perhaps you meant her regent, the infamous Onion Knight? Or perhaps her vassal, Lord Monford Velaryon, a seasoned sailor and captain?"
The master of whispers grimaced as he sat opposite the silent Loras. After those nights, Margaery could barely stand to look at her brother; in the rare cases she did, he dared not meet her eyes.
"No, Your Grace. My informants are clear–the young Lady was seen commanding her small fleet from the Fury, her father's flagship in each battle."
"This is madness!" Lord Redwyne's face had twisted with disbelief. "The battlefield is no place for women, let alone young girls! How old is she? Eight? Nine?"
"Eleven, I believe," Hightower supplied glumly. "Well, did you expect the lords of the Narrow Sea to just roll over and let their villages and towns be plundered by some slavers?" Her uncle and the High Septon had been disgruntled with the slaving raids but did not voice it openly–mostly because it was happening to Joffrey's bannermen.
Besides, it weakened Tywin's position without attracting the hatred of the locals towards Renly or House Tyrell.
"I did not expect them to mount a defence," her father retorted. "As for the plundering and looting, it is just war. Only those savage Essosi take in the men, women and children instead of despoiling or slaying them."
"This can only be a ruse," the master of ships continued denying. "She must be a figurehead there!"
Cafferen smiled thinly, "Well, the word is she was seen nailing down the Tyroshi sailors and slavers with a crossbow in battle, my lord."
"My brother's stubbornness continues haunting me even after he perished," Renly's words were laden with distaste. "I would not be surprised if Stannis raised my pitiful niece like a boy, with warfare and fighting in her mind."
Truth be told, nobody had paid Shireen Baratheon any heed. Why would they? After her father and mother died, she was a child with some smuggler from Fleabottom for a regent. The last time Dragonstone had been a power in its own right was before the Dance when the Dragonmont was home to a dozen dragons, not for the paltry number of swords they could call.
Alas, the late Lord of Dragonstone had taught his daughter very well, if in an unprecedented manner. Could Margaery be brave enough to pick up arms, lead men in battle, and defend her home?
"I can sail my fleet and deal with your errant niece, Your Grace," Paxter proclaimed loudly. "Within half a hundred days, King's Landing would be blockaded by sea, and not even a smuggler would be able to pass!"
Margaery barely contained her snort. Her good uncle's boast sounded empty in her ears; he had not dared to fight the full might of the royal fleet–giving one excuse or the other to save his precious trade ships. It was why her father had proposed negotiating with the Archonate of Tyrosh back then–to preserve the Reach's fleets and to take Joffrey and Tywin by surprise, for the movements of the Arbor would be well-watched. And it worked.
"I still remember the taste of salted fish and onions even after all those years, my lord," Renly said with a sigh, and Paxter shrunk at the reminder of his failure as her husband turned expressionless. "No, you will do no such thing. Tywin would doubtlessly have each port in the Crownlands fortified now, and resupplying will be a bitter struggle."
The Hand looked at the map with a frown.
"We face a much greater problem. If Robb Stark links up with his uncle Edmure, they would have thirty thousand swords together," he pointed at Lychester. "And while Mathis Rowan can hold Harrenhal with his four thousand men-"
Margaery tuned out the martial talk. Yes, Robb Stark seemed to have evened the odds to Joffrey's side, but nobody seemed particularly worried; at most, she could see caution and pensiveness in their eyes. Rowan's mistake would not be repeated.
Warfare could be left to the men; it was their duty. She, however, had other things to consider in this loveless marriage. It had been a heavy blow to her, but Margaery had resigned herself to it. But if she would not have love, she would have all the power she could grasp. Her sons would be kings, and she would be the ones to raise them. Perhaps once an heir and a spare were born, hale and hearty…
She shook her head and focused on the present. Renly's seed had thankfully quickened in her belly. The Reach was secure for her backing, but the Stormlands was another thing altogether. She had plenty of ladies-in-waiting and handmaids from the Reach and now was the time to start spreading her influence through the Stormlands, who were woefully bereft of royal favour.
Thankfully, she could consult with someone very well-versed in such matters.
Her grandmother arrived with a gaggle of wives and sisters last evening. They also decided to visit their husbands and kinsmen, as the campaign was dragging on for too long.
Yet Margaery's thoughts kept spinning. Perhaps a short tour in the Stormlands would help her acquaint herself with the storm ladies, escape the dreariness of war, and give birth safely away from the fighting. Garlan would accompany her, and she could visit the legendary Storm's End.
23rd Day of the 3rd Moon, 299 AC
Theon Greyjoy
"So this is the heir to the Iron Islands," Renly Baratheon glanced down at him with disdain, making Theon shrink. The Flower King sat on a carved throne of antlers and roses atop a dais, his gold and green doublet unable to hide the broad shoulders or the powerful figure underneath. "I expected more."
Theon couldn't bring himself to protest, for he had indeed been treated like scum. He thought his days in Winterfell as a hostage had often been boring, and the distrustful glances of the Northmen felt scathing. Yet he longed for that treatment now, as he was before the stern-faced Renly Baratheon, who looked at Theon as if he was some mud on his boots. The rest of the Reachmen and Stormlords were no different.
Rowan had stripped his arms and armour, clasped him in irons, covered his head with a bag, and tied him on a saddle like a sack of turnips atop a donkey. After hours of tortuous bouncing, they stopped. Theon later learned they had reached Harrenhal; from there, he had been put on the fastest boat, this time without the sack over his head. The Gods Eye was the creepiest lake he had ever seen, covered by a thin mist, with that sinister Isle of Faces holding a whole forest of bone-like weirwoods peeking through the fog here and there.
Down the Gods Eye River, and then more turnip riding until his whole body and joints were half-numb, half-aching. Theon was only fed thin gruel and allowed a few moments of short rest here and there, yet it was hardly enough.
He was hungry, tired, angry, and sorely needed a bath. A silky bed with a wench or two also sounded like music to his ears, but none were offered.
Instead, they had dragged him into the bustling war camp of the Reachmen, to many jeers and insults, before finally arriving before Renly Baratheon and his lords. He stank like a pigsty, could barely raise his head, felt like he had done thirty rounds with the Red Wake in the yard and looked like a beggar. They all looked at him as if he was some maggot to be squashed, making him feel even worse.
"Perhaps we should just toss him in a garotte," the austere man clad in silks bearing the Hightower surcoat proposed, making him cringe inwardly. "Ironmen are scum."
"Burn him!" Another voice said, but Theon failed to see where it came from.
"The pyre is too good for the seed of a reaving scum like him. Hang him like a common brigand, I say."
Theon could only shrink, as many, even the king, seemed to be seriously considering such a course of action. He was a hostage–the heir of the Iron Islands, the future Lord Reaper of Pyke, not some… nobody to be butchered!
A wrinkled old man with a white robe and a crystal crown leaning on a weirwood staff stepped forth. The infamous Rose Septon, Theon's numb mind supplied.
"He's a boy born and raised to false gods," the man declared hoarsely. "A sinner through and through, and men had burned in the Seven Hells for less. But the Seven can be merciful. He should abandon those false beliefs he clings to and be cleansed with the Light of the Seven-Pointed Star!"
Theon whimpered quietly. Why were there so many lords nodding? Why did the king look pensive about it? Where was the land of honour and chivalry Lord Stark had taught him about?
He did not want to die.
"I'll do it," he declared loudly, but it came out like a choked rasp as the words raked through his sore throat. "I will take to the Seven-"
"Ironmen's words can scarcely be trusted," a thin, balding man with a handful of orange tufts of remaining hair wearing the Redwyne coat of arms pointed out.
"I can bring you the Iron Isles," Theon ignored the iron fetters bruising his limbs and forced his weary body to turn to Renly and kneel. "The might of the Iron Fleet shall be yours, Your Grace. My father can strike at the Westerlands and the Riverlands, and I'll wed some bride of your choice-"
Someone laughed from behind his back, doubtlessly one of the many nobles. When others joined the mocking guffaws, Theon felt fury and shame creep up his neck.
"Enough," Mace Tyrell stood up, his jovial voice cutting through the clamour. "Such decisions are not taken with haste. His Grace shall take his time to deliberate what shall happen with the Greyjoy heir."
Theon groaned with relief as they brought him to a straw bed in some decent-looking tent and shackled him to a wooden pole hammered into the ground. Even the chains on his hands and feet did not chafe as much as he lay down and passed down from exhaustion.
24th Day of the 3rd Moon, 299 AC
The Bloodroyal, Yronwood.
"Why have you called us here in secrecy?" Larra Blackmont, the Lady of Blackmont, was still a beauty in her forties with her fair skin, dusky hair, and smouldering green eyes. Yet the good looks were deceptive–she was a black vulture through and through, capable of peerless cruelty, just like the sigil of her House.
She had not arrived alone; the smiling Lord Dagos Manwoody of Kingsgrave, the stone-faced Lord Walton Wyl of Wyl, and the blonde Lady Delonne Allyrion of Godsgrace had also been invited here. The first three had been traditional allies for centuries, even before Nymeria had come to their shores, and Lady Allyrion's heir was wed to Anders' eldest daughter.
It was a careful selection of attendees–each did not hold House Martell with favour or had been slighted or passed over for marriages, alliances, and other benefits since the Conquest. It was a dangerous game Anders was playing, one that was treading dangerously close to treason.
Yet the death of his father had not been forgotten, neither had it been forgiven. Oberyn Martell might have perished a far better death than he deserved fighting foes of legend, but the Bloodroyal had not forgotten the humiliation. Ten years of waiting before some paltry restitution of a second son and even marriage talks were rebuffed.
"I have a most polite invitation from Lord Tywin Lannister," Lord Anders Yronwood clasped his hands and smiled. It was most courteously worded, but it reeked of desperation, and he had no intent even to entertain such matters.
"He should try courting Doran Martell if he's that desperate," Wyl scoffed.
Larra Blackmont scowled.
"As if our Prince would ever move without a thick, juicy carrot dangled before him." She was right, of course. Anders suspected that Tywin had indeed tried writing to Sunspear, but Doran was not easily moved. "He would keep waiting for a sign and call it a plan."
She had tried courting Quentyn Martell as a consort for her daughter Jyessa, only to be firmly rebuffed. None of Doran Martell's three children were being entertained for a Dornish match. It had been the same thing with the previous Princess of Dorne and the one before–only a second son of a landed knight near Sunspear who had been Princess Loreza Martell's consort, her childhood friend and lover.
Anders knew the Martells were an ambitious House and would wed either for love like Doran did or for ambition. Only the gods knew what matches he was angling for his children and what trouble Dorne would be dragged into next for it. It would be entirely different if Elia Martell's marriage had brought the benefits of a sitting Queen. Still, that move had ended with tragedy, and even her Dornish ladies-in-waiting had perished in the Sack.
"Why would we struggle for Tywin Lannister's dying cause?" Delonne Allyrion tilted her head, looking bored enough to fall asleep. "Everyone knows he's done for, and the Reachmen would bury him soon enough with their countless swords. On the way here, I heard it in every tavern and inn, and even the whores were celebrating. His greatest martial achievement was defeating a foe he outnumbered thrice and sacking a city that opened its gates for him. One more defeat would crumble Joffrey Baratheon's cause like a paper castle in the rain."
"Perhaps," Anders smiled thinly. "But the Reachmen have been on the back foot as of late. Stark rode down the Kingsroad and smashed the Lords of the Northmarch."
Impressed silence settled around the table; defeating some of Reach's finest was no easy feat.
"Well, the boy takes after his father, then. But the other Houses will bury us if we side with Tywin Lannister," the solemn Dagos Manwoody pointed out.
The Bloodroyal took a swallow of spiced mead and laughed.
"Who said anything about calling banners or declaring for kings?"
Wyl was the first to smile; it was a bloody, savage thing–the Black Adder knew what he meant. The realisation sank into the rest of his guests, and he saw them all lean forward with interest.
Even better, no Martell was left to lead Sunspear's banners with the Red Viper dead. Prince Doran tried to hide his gout, but Anders' spies in the Water Gardens had reported the man looked even older, more feeble, and had to resort to a wheeled chair to move.
Doran Martell had never been a fighter, but now he was physically incapable of leading a war, even if needed.
Arianne Martell was busy sleeping around with the next boy toy and knew nothing of warfare, unlike her ancestor Nymeria. Quentyn… Anders had tried hard with the boy, but he was too weak, too hesitant, and he lacked the spine to lead a band of knights, let alone the Lords of Dorne. Perhaps if Quentyn were wed to his daughter, the Bloodroyal would have tried far harder…
The last prince was too young even to consider, and in Dorne, men followed steel and daring, and right now, House Martell had none left from the direct line.
In their arrogance, the Princes of Dorne had forgotten a most important lesson. Being at the top required strength, respect, power, valour, adherence to duty, and martial might–and the current generation was woefully bereft of it all.
Plans upon plans were swirling in Anders Yronwood's mind. An open rebellion was impossible without due cause, but he could reveal House Martell's weakness for all to see while keeping to his vows and lining his coffers with gold.
25th Day of the 3rd Moon, 299 AC
The Black Wolf, Castle Black
"You sound troubled, Lord Commander," Aemon's raspy voice awoke him from his stupor. "Does it perhaps have something to do with the grey owl perched atop the Wall I heard the men speak of?"
Benjen frowned; he had not heard the old maester or his walking cane approach, probably because he was staring at Jon's second letter. Midnight, the traitor had noticed, judging by the lazy sway of his black tail, but had not alerted him either. Even the black direwolf, now approaching the size of a warhorse, seemed to have liked Aemon's presence.
"Indeed, maester," Benjen sighed. "It seems you are more observant than others even after your sight has failed you."
"I consider myself blessed, for it is sad to have eyes but unable to see." The old man's lips twitched as he groped for a chair and sat across Benjen. "And some have ears but cannot hear. Perhaps an old man like me can help you assuage some of your worries. I have found that sometimes simply voicing your woes is quite liberating."
The Lord Commander smiled wryly at the jest. But the maester's presence here was always welcome. Even when over a hundred years of age, Maekar's son still had his wits sharper than most and with a century of experience to back it. "As you guessed, another letter arrived from my overly daring nephew."
"I assume it is from the nephew in the far North, not the one to the South?"
"Indeed," Benjen confirmed. Word of a great victory at the Trident had arrived, and he no longer worried about Robb, for Ned had taught his son more than well. "He writes that he is under heavy attack. A horde of wights rushes his walls every night, looking for weakness."
The crude roll of skin also contained a very politely worded request for his pregnant wife to be allowed passage south of the Shadow Tower, should he fail and nothing else. The request was easy to grant, but everything else in the letter made his heart grow heavy.
Benjen could not find it in himself to feel joy about Jon having wedded that foxy spearwife; his nephew fought for his life every night. The owl was still atop the Wall, doubtlessly waiting for a reply.
"Yet… he would not ask for help if what you told me of the boy was true," Aemon murmured, staring at him with his beady, clouded eyes.
"No, he is too proud and knows the Night's Watch does not assist wildlings," the Lord Commander admitted as the lump at the back of his throat grew heavier. And Jon… Jon had over ten thousand wildlings under his command.
The maester sighed, rubbing his thin, fleshless neck.
"Yet you want to help him anyway, but not at the cost of your duties."
"I am the shield that guards the realms of men," Benjen's words were laced with resignation.
"But my lord, do you know why the Watch scarcely dealt with only select wildlings before?"
Benjen paused for a moment, mouth drawing thin.
"The Black Brothers have only assisted and traded with a few individuals like Craster because they were willing to assist the Watch and proved trustworthy." Thinking of how they had been deceived by the vile kinslaying, Others-worshipping fool, his blood turned to molten metal in his veins, even if he remained as still as a statue. Midnight, however, felt his fury and stirred from his cot, silently trodding over, his hackles and tail raised as if facing a foe.
"Indeed," Aemon agreed. "Larger clans and warbands could change course with a change of leadership. Yet, for the first time, there is a large gathering of wildlings, united under a single banner, with a trustworthy man to lead them that are not hostile to the Watch."
"What are you trying to say, maester?" Benjen pushed down his emotions, peeled off his glove, and rubbed the dark fur at the base of the direwolf's skull, just as his companion liked. A warg, some would call him–and rightly so. He could feel his companion's presence and his mind, a connection that went both ways.
Yet there was nobody to teach him about warging at the Watch. Sure, Moqorro knew some sort of sorcery, but it had nothing to do with skinchanging. His powers were of the more fiery variety, just like the other red priests that had joined the order.
"It is possible to aid your bastard nephew while keeping to your vows and keeping the interests of the Watch in mind," Aemon coughed. "It will be a hard road, but it can be done. I am the fire that burns the cold. Were the Others not repelled from the Wall already? Did they not retreat deeper into the Haunted Forest? It would be our duty to chase them."
"It will be risky," Benjen muttered. The Watchmen were all veterans and knew how to fight against the Cold Ones and their dead thralls. Tens of battles against the Others, and every single ranger and many others were bloodied. Yet they had always waited for the Others to attack, preparing traps and tricks; only one battle had been won on the offensive–where Jeor and hundreds more had perished.
"Ah, but with great risk comes great reward," Aemon let out a raspy, wheezing laugh and stood up. "Did not your nephew reach out first with an offer of limited cooperation? The wildlings behind him are clearly willing to entertain the idea. Having a steadfast ally on the other side of the Wall might be invaluable, and bonds of friendships are forged on the battlefield."
Benjen was still reluctant. He wanted to help Jon with all his heart, but ten thousand wildlings were another matter. Could he risk the lives of his rangers for those whom the Watch had fought against for thousands of years?
His duties weighed upon his shoulders like a mountain and bound his limbs like iron shackles. His hands were tied with vows he dared not break.
"Many would not be happy if we range out to risk our lives to assist wildlings." It wasn't even a matter of happiness but a matter of worth. Benjen held the life of each black brother in his hands, and each death would be on his shoulders.
The maester paused at the door, looking so feeble and old that he could die any moment.
"Perhaps it is so." Aemon remained still with his back turned to him, but Benjen felt the old man was smiling widely. "But is not Jon Snow a Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, ennobled by royal decree of the Demon of the Trident himself? Would you be assisting wildlings or fighting alongside an allied Lord against the Others, one hailing from a House that has supported the Watch for millennia?"
The echo of the cane tapping on the wooden slowly dwindled in the hallway, leaving Benjen alone with his thoughts.
Oh, Jon, you foolish, reckless, brave boy. Without him, they would have been in a far worse position, clueless or dead. Westeros owed him so much, but they would never know. They could never know.
How many would perish if Benjen decided to aid his nephew, no matter the cost? How many men could the Watch risk in such a daring, no, foolish endeavour? What if they failed anyway, and both Benjen and Jon perished?
Benjen grabbed a quill, quickly inked down a reply, and summoned his steward, the dour but reliable Eddison Tollett.
"Lord Commander," the Valeman bowed.
"Summon Thoren and Moqorro here in half an hour." Benjen grabbed the handle of Longclaw. The cold stone pommel felt soothing to his bare hand. I am the sword in the darkness. "And call for volunteers for a Great Ranging–tell Aemon to send the ravens to the other castles, too."
May the old gods forgive him; he loved his nephew too much and had to try. Even if he perished in the attempt, the Watch had the strength, the tactics, and the knowledge to continue fighting against the Others. Preparations for that also had to be made should his likely demise come to pass.
"Volunteers?" Edd blinked.
"Aye, volunteers only. We're venturing deep into the Haunted Forest to hunt Others. Let everyone know the risk is grave, and we might not return." Benjen loved his nephew but would not order unwilling men to march to their deaths. He might be Jon Snow's uncle, but he was also the 998th Lord Commander of the Night's Watch and had said solemn vows not once but twice. Today, he had chosen to chase death, and he had to prepare for when it came.
Dolorous Edd bowed and hastily ran off to fulfil his tasks while Benjen, stringed and sealed letter in hand, made his way towards the lift and then up atop the Wall. The sky was bereft of snow and even clouds, supposedly a good omen.
Yet Benjen stopped believing in such things long ago. Men like him made their luck and grasped destiny with both hands or perished in the attempt.
Author's Endnote:
Robb enters the war with style. Stannis proves his mettle as a parent and a commander from beyond the grave. Benjen is faced with an uncomfortable dilemma, and the Dornish plot as they always do.
The Tyroshi fleet is mightily unprepared for further resistance after their "great" victory. They are not destroyed by any means but have suffered enough casualties to encourage them to retreat with the loot they already have.
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.
It's been nearly over six moons since he left King's Landing. Nearly a year since he had seen his wife. How was Cat faring?
Did she give birth yet?
Did she miss him?
How was Robb dealing with Winterfell and the North?
Did his family think he was dead at sea?
'It wouldn't matter soon enough.'
Eddard Stark ignored the whisper in his mind. Yet it was not wrong; soon enough, he would sail home. Besides, fretting over things he had no control over was useless, so he focused on the road ahead. Essos was not a place to be underestimated, and House Stark had no allies or friends here.
It made him feel wary and vulnerable.
Twenty leagues ago, signs of civilisation began to emerge. The once savage lands covered by bushes, weeds, and forests melted to give way to the roads that helped them travel faster. With them came green rolling hills and orchards, small farms and villages that slowly grew into large estates, enormous pastures teeming with cattle, and fields of golden wheat stretching as far as the eye could see. A city like Pentos, supposedly more populous than King's Landing, would require an immense amount of food daily.
Of course, the Northern force had paid for their supplies, for there was no need to look for trouble where none existed. Ned had plenty of coins in his travel chest, even before Euron Greyjoy had graciously tripled it.
"Why do most of the smallfolk look so… dull and downtrodden?" Tommen nodded at the poorly dressed peasants who dragged their feet around a smaller field of corn, looking disinterested in everything. Not even the presence of Dothraki or Winter scared them.
"Slavery," Rogar Wull, the chieftain's son riding with Ned today, grunted sourly.
Tommen scrunched up his face, making him look almost adorable. Almost.
"But I thought Pentos no longer kept slaves?"
"They are not slaves in name, if only half a step better," Ned explained icily. "'Free bond servants', the Pentoshi call them. Yet magisters control most of the estate and land, and to simply live here, you must pay more than you could ever earn; thus, they have no choice but to work for the magisters until they die. Still, at least indentured servants cannot be sold like cattle, so there is that mild difference."
Taking a deep breath, he continued, "It's a sham, however, a poisoned scheme, for they can't own anything that could be used to pay their debts. The clothes on their back, the boots on their feet, the tools they use–all lent or sold at exorbitant sums by their masters, only increasing the debt. So, most of them work just enough not to be punished."
"Aye," Rogar nodded. "And if they get some coin, they won't bother saving it up to pay off their debts or freedom. No, they use it to drown themselves in wine or whores to forget their misery for a night."
"Look at him," the Lord of Winterfell pointed at a man herding a flock of sheep on a grassy hill to their left. "He has an iron collar on his neck, and his shoulder is branded with a shepherd's crook as they do to their slaves in Myr, Lys, and Tyrosh. Pah, free by law, they would claim. What a farce."
Tommen frowned, face turning fierce.
"I don't like this," he muttered angrily.
"I like it as much as you do," Ned sighed, patting his page's shoulder. "But you will oft be faced with things you mislike and are powerless to change. Our goal is to return home, not make an enemy out of an entire city."
'You could always loot the lands and sack the city,' the hoary voice whispered in his mind. It was Theon, his hungry ancestor. 'These are all soft people, unused to war, and those Braavosi have even forbidden them to hire swords if what you say is true. With a thousand men, you can grab that city.'
The Lord of Winterfell ignored the voice in his head. It made Theon Stark speak less, and Ned had yet to forgive him for insulting his wife. There had been no apology either, and Eddard Stark had not forgotten. His ancestors' advice was too similar–smashing through each obstacle and not trusting outsiders. It was a foolish way to gain more and more foes, and it was little wonder the Hungry Wolf spent his whole life fighting.
Yet, Tommen kept looking around, his green eyes dimming darker as he inspected the brands and collars.
"But… isn't slavery considered a sin by both the old and the new gods?"
"It is. But different gods rule these lands."
It was good that the prince had a soft spot in his heart. After moons with the Northmen, he had shed his shell of shyness, allowing the young prince to thrive and spread his wings. Yet Tommen had shown himself quite headstrong and stubborn. There was a pride in him that reminded Ned of Robert and the Queen. It was not necessarily bad, for a prince had to be proud, so long as he had the wits and skill to back it up. Ned would do his best to nurture those skills and temper his pride lest it go out of control.
Gods, he missed his wife and children. He longed for the pleasant chill of the North and the white veil of snow that would cover the land. The chafing heat of the South and Essos had made him irritable, and all those irksome, buzzing flies and other insects that got almost everywhere but were absent in the North did not help his mood either.
Some days, Ned idly wondered how the realm would fare in his absence.
Things would be fine, for Tywin would be a capable, if ruthless, Hand of the King. Robert might mislike the old lion, but none could deny his competence. Ned also had no love for the Lord of Casterly Rock, but even he would begrudgingly admit the man's capabilities.
This assurance was one of the reasons Ned was not in a great rush to return to the North. True enough, he wanted to see his wife, but excess haste would leave them vulnerable to adversaries. This land was foreign and unsettling, and he did not trust the Essosi one whit; on this, Ned agreed with his bloodthirsty ancestor. So, even in these seemingly peaceful lands, scouts were being sent out to screen the road for ambushes or other foes. Everyone was armed and at least lightly armoured, just in case.
Yes, the Pentoshi were supposed to be banned from having any sort of military aside from a very limited city guard, but that did not mean much. If they mocked the laws against slavery, what was to stop them from stepping over the Braavosi ban?
So Ned and his men rode undisturbed until Pentos slowly appeared in sight, and the dirt road was now lined with crushed gravel. Tall walls surrounded a bustling city at the shore of the enormous circular eponymous bay. The only other thing of note that could be seen from the outside was the enormous brick towers that seemed like reddish spears poking at the sky.
Surprisingly, the stench was far lesser than that of King's Landing.
The scouts returned, warning them that the gates were closed and the walls were manned with pikemen and crossbows. Soon enough, a force of two scores of riders garbed in ringmail rode down the road, escorting a plump, silver-haired man clad in red silks.
"Tommen, go behind with the Liddles." The prince hastily obeyed the stern order, spurring his Dothraki steed. It would do no good to show the young prince. Not while they were vulnerable and out in the open.
The Northmen stopped by his command, and the most veteran Stark guardsmen assembled behind him, with Jory and Red Walder at his sides, while the Wull heir remained, ready to draw his dragonsteel greatsword. The Lord of Winterfell wore that wondrous scale armour looted from Euron Greyjoy that fit perfectly over his arming doublet. It was a marvel of the Freehold: flexible, light, comfortable, warm, and hidden in plain sight as he wore a padded white surcoat with his coat of arms embroidered on the chest. Ned could feel Winter stalking behind a handful of trees by the road, ready to leap into an ambush.
'Peh, so much for a city watch. Steel greaves, arming doublets, cuirasses, kettle helmets with coifs, some well-forged swords and war lances. And those are all well-bred warhorses, not some draft beasts. It seems that whatever agreement those fat magisters signed with the Braavosi isn't worth the parchment it was inked on.'
If there was anything Theon Stark knew well, it was matters of warfare and fighting. He seemed to know what Ned knew somehow but rarely cared for it. Nothing went past the Hungry Wolf's gaze, not even the slightest side arm, posture, or other small things Ned would have overlooked two or three years prior.
Now, though, his senses were sharper, honed by the brutal whetstone of countless battles. Even his connection to Winter, which now felt like an additional limb that had always been there, only sharpened it further. It was not all good, though. Ned remembered nine times he perished in battle, and it was a harrowing feeling that left him reeling for nearly a sennight after he woke. The feeling of blood, too much blood on his hands, never went away either, no matter how much he washed them.
The Pentoshi retinue finally arrived, a white parlay flag fluttering atop a long spear. The silk-clad man slowly approached at the head, his blue eyes warily drifting above where the direwolf banner fluttered proudly.
"Greetings," he spoke in the common tongue with the slightest accent. "I am Nysaro Narratis, my friend. What brings House Stark to Pentos in such numbers?"
"I am Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell. My men and I require safe passage back home," Ned inclined his head slightly. "Ships, crews, lodging–everything shall be paid for out of our purses."
Nysaro shook his head, looking quite regretful.
"I'm afraid the city of Pentos cannot grant such a request."
'Seize the city, boy,' Theon whispered. 'You know you can. Sack it clean. Take their riches, their craftsmen, and their women. At least they had the wits to bring a parlay flag. Otherwise, you could have killed the fat fool and his men.'
Ned ignored him, even though his hand sought the comfort of the cold hilt of his blade. "May I inquire why?"
"Why, you ask?" The Pentoshi chortled, waving his arm behind him. "Pentos is forbidden from consorting with armed groups such as yours, sunset lord. All of your men look hard and eager for blood. The council of Magisters has seen fit to deny you entry into our city. Besides, you somehow have hundreds of Dothraki under your banners. Can you even control them?"
"I can." Nearly a score of the horselords had been beheaded for impugning his good name and not following orders–looting and raping without permission when they arrived in the city's hinterlands. Naturally, it kept the rest in line. "On my honour, I give my word that there shall be no trouble from me and mine in the city. You will see us all gone by the next dawn."
"Word? Words are wind, my friend, and the answer is still no. Alas, the magisters simply cannot afford those shenanigans you Westerosi started pulling lately."
The Northmen behind him all felt uneasy, restless, ready to draw steel and fight.
Eddard Stark had to swallow his disgruntlement and the angry tug at the corner of his mind. "There is something you are not telling. A different reason."
Winter could smell it, and so could he.
"Ah, how canny of you," Nysaro's words thickened with begrudging respect. "It is not untrue, I must admit. These are troublesome times, my lord of Stark. You, Westerosi, are considered a bad omen as of late. Too many of the Free Cities were met with fighting, revolts, or even other matters that bode ill for trade and peace. It is nothing personal, my friend. I wish you good fortune on your journey, preferably far away from here."
Words said, the Pentoshi nodded one last time, wheeled his uneasy steed, and rode back to his city along with the escort.
'He speaks of war. I can feel it in my soul, boy.'
Eddard Stark did not like the sound of that at all. But his blood sang with something primal, something he now recognised easily. May the gods forgive him; he wanted to fight, even though he hated the bloodshed and slaughter.
"What do we do now, My Lord?" Rogar asked glumly. "How are we to return home?"
The rest of the Northmen looked just as indignant. Everyone had expected that they would be sailing back home tonight or tomorrow, even. They longed to meet their wives, children, siblings, and parents, and Ned was no different. Alas, fate had other plans.
Howland came down from a tree atop the tallest hill; the Myrish far-eye looted from Greyjoy in his grasp. "I counted at least a thousand men on the walls alone and four times as many gatherings on the city's squares. The shine of their arms and armour was unmistakable - those aren't simple city guards."
'Easy to crush on the open field with your horse,' Theon muttered as always. 'Probably unbloodied, but they have no balls to sally away from their walls. Damn, if you had engineers or sappers…'
"No armed forces, my arse. No matter, there are other ports than Pentos," Ned sighed, pushing down the tangled feelings in his breast. "We continue southward."
Another moon or two of delay wouldn't matter much, would it? Doubtlessly Robert was still drinking and whoring, while Tywin was keeping the realm together. Robb had his mother to hold the North, and Benjen held the Wall. His only real worry was for Jon, but even if he was in Winterfell right now, there was nothing Ned could do for him aside from venturing beyond the Wall.
He could have made trouble for Pentos. Become a nuisance, freeing 'free' bond servants, sacking farms, and slowly starving the city. But Braavos backed them, and the Braavosi could be troublesome foes with their large fleet so close to the North. Besides, such tactics would waste more time than travelling further south to the next port.
The Wull heir glared at the walls, a heavy frown on his bearded face.
"But what if they do not let us in like the Pentoshi?"
"Pray, for their sake, that they do."
Let things be peaceful. Let their journey be smooth. Eddard Stark would loathe to find out the lengths he would be willing to go to return home if his way was barred again.
1st Day of the 4th Moon
The Young Wolf
After all the fighting, Ice felt more comfortable on his back. Dozens had died to the wicked dragonsteel greatsword at the Ruby Ford. While not easy to wield on horseback, with the momentum and weight of the horse beneath his hips, Ice's oversharp edge cleaved through steel and bone with little effort. Even a knight in full suit of plate had been cut in twain. It was a long, cumbersome sword, even if it was lighter than a normal greatsword, yet it was very effective on foot. Robb still had a one-handed war axe on his hip and his trusty lance while on horseback.
The Northmen were greeted like heroes everywhere they passed. Cheers, flowers, and even supplies were being offered to his men. Each day on the march, scores, sometimes even hundreds, of volunteers flocked to his banners, eager to kill more Reachmen and protect their lands. The promise of loot was also a big factor, for his men did not shy away from showcasing what they captured.
Seven bloody hells, four young maidens had even tried to sneak into his tent at night simultaneously, and Robb had to throw them out and triple his guard until they gave up. Grey Wind seemed more amused than anything else at the conundrum, and Robb suspected the wolf purposely let the maidens through, but the young lord would remain staunchly faithful to his wife.
Even the Greatjon approved with a few words of wisdom, "A happy wife leads to a happy life."
His uncle's retinue rode out to meet them a few miles from Lychester. Of course, the rumoured wayward Freys that supposedly joined were absent.
"Nephew," Edmure's eyes lit up as they met in a field. "You're a sight for sore eyes."
Yet the Tully heir did not look like Robb remembered. His face had grown gaunt and possessed a stiff harshness; his usual cheer was nowhere to be seen, and his posture was rigid and choppy. Even his well-trimmed beard was sheared clean, showing an angry, clenched jaw underneath, with a wicked scar on his left cheek.
His bosom friends were behind him, but in lesser numbers, looking far grimmer than Robb remembered. Judging by his coat of arms, there was an additional older knight, the Blackfish, but Robb couldn't see Hugo or Ronard Vance, and Lymon Goodbrook was also absent. They could have been with the army, yet the shroud of sorrow and anger over his uncle said otherwise.
"I'm glad you're well, uncle," the young Stark smiled. "Perhaps it would be best to talk further in private."
Half an hour later, they were in a sprawling pavilion looted from Rowan's camp. It was far from the only thing looted, of course. Robb owned nearly two hundred thousand dragons more, cattle, supplies, thousands of sets of plate armour, brigandines, barding, and hauberks–all looted from the slain and captured Reachmen. It was not an honourable thing to do, but the Reach had shown themselves as curs unworthy of such courtesies. It also saw Robb's men better equipped, which would save many lives in the coming battles.
Even the Valyrian Steel blades were not spared. The Greatjon had taken a greatsword from the corpse of a Rodden knight, and two more dragonsteel blades found their way into the hands of Lord Matrim Wells and Lord Halys Hornwood.
Robb had often heard the Reach was abundant, not only in food and coin. Yet, seeing it was an entirely different matter. Over a third of the two hundred twenty-seven Valyrian Steel blades in Westeros lay in the Reach, according to Maester Thurgood's Inventories.
Grey Wind obediently joined him, curiously inspecting the wary Blackfish, whose craggy face was full of caution as he eyed the direwolf.
"Was it wise to bring such a beast on the campaign?" Edmure asked. "Gods, he's the size of a bloody warhorse now."
"Wise? Maybe not," Robb ran a hand through his companion's grey fur. "He makes for an obvious target, yet he killed a knight, three men-at-arms, and almost routed the Reach cavalry with his mere presence. The horses don't like direwolves, and while the northern horse has grown used to Grey Wind's presence, the Reachmen were not - and that is before he started howling."
"So he has tasted human flesh," Brynden Tully sternly pointed out. "What's to say he wouldn't partake again?" It amused Robb that their problem was not the sixteen thousand Reachmen butchered. Nor their heads lined along the Trident. No, that casual show of butchery that made his insides twist and still gave him nightmares was accepted without question.
Yet a direwolf in the battle? Now, that merited questioning as if none had previously used war dogs on campaigns. They might be his kin, but Robb was irked by their lack of trust in his companion.
"He will. In the many battles that await us and under my orders. Grey Wind, sit." The direwolf obediently sat by his side with his tongue lazily lolled out, his big eyes looking at him for more orders, and the Blackfish nodded in acceptance. "How is my grandfather? I have neither seen nor heard of his presence."
Edmure's face grew solemn while the old knight just rubbed his face, looking tired.
"Alas, Hoster was ailing on his deathbed," his voice thickened with grief. "His wits had left him, but the word of the cruel defeat at Rushing Falls was too much, and he died five days later."
"Damn those Reachmen," Robb swore. "They broke all rules of warfare and decency to prop up some jumped-up uncle… out of what? Greed? No matter."
The damned Reachmen had not even offered the captured lords and knights the chance to take the Black for life in any of the battles they had won so far. So Robb had returned the courtesy in full; he wouldn't want such honourless curs forced upon his burdened uncle.
"They have gotten too drunk on their glory and success," Edmure balled his fist. "What now, nephew?"
"Now, I give you the hostages I have captured," Robb said. "I have more than enough spoils, and dragging those fools through the campaign would be ill-suited." All the lords following in his wake were already heavy with plunder and gold after looting the Frey lands and a single battle. They were more than willing to let the Reachmen be handed over to the Riverlords as a sign of good faith and confirming their previous alliance.
His uncle leaned in closer, blue eyes hardening. "Oh, who did you manage to capture?"
"Sers Reynard and Triston Rowan, Lord Wilbert Footly, Ser Egbert Footly, Lord Ronel Cordwayner, his son, Ser Renald Cordwayner, Sers Harrold and Perryn Osgrey," the Blackfish's face began twitching, and Edmure was almost gaping like a fish, but Robb continued with amusement, "Lord Myles Cobb and his sons, Rodden, Deddings, Perry-"
"I want those traitors," Edmure grunted. "Gods, Tytos would love it if he could get his hands on the Footlys who burned his heir."
"They're all yours, uncle," the young Stark smiled. "There's a few more, but not worth mentioning."
The Blackfish looked quite impressed.
"You've captured quite a lot," the old knight murmured. "We can perhaps free some of the Lords, heirs, and knights the damn Reachmen captured at the Rushing Falls." At least plenty of tarred heads were sent to King's Landing as a gift to his royal good brother.
"Well, it would have been twice as many if some fools refused to surrender to heathens and heretics," Robb shrugged, yet his anger rose. "Though, it's not all good news. Theon Greyjoy, my father's hostage, defected to the damn fleeing Reachmen after the battle."
Gods, Captain Derek's words had infuriated him so much. Why would Theon force his men to blindly chase in the dark and then surrender at the first chance? The evidence of his guilt was incontrovertible. All the trust, all that friendship, the chance for Theon to prove himself capable and rack up some achievements was pissed away.
The betrayal stung; it stung so badly. If Theon had fled for his kinsmen, it would have hurt less, but no, it was those damned prancing flower men. What sort of imbecile surrendered to the losing side? Did Robb ever know the Greyjoy heir? Had it all been just some sort of well-crafted facade?
Yet the harshness of their situation sank in quickly; the Blackfish managed to look even grimmer, and Edmure swore.
"Damn. Those flowery Reachmen would surely try to leverage his presence there for one alliance or other."
"Aye," Robb's face darkened. "My father told me Balon Greyjoy is not a man that could be trusted or reasoned with. Regardless, the reavers were always going to be a nuisance sooner or later. It would do us good to prepare. I have already sent a raven for Winterfell to bolster the defences on my western coast. I suggest you do the same."
"I'll speak to Patrek and his father. Still, the Mallister warships could hardly repel the Iron Fleet alone, and I don't know whether Lord Lannister has fully rebuilt his Lannisport fleet. With those damned Tyroshi burning the Royal Fleet, the Redwyne fleet could potentially work with the Ironborn to put more pressure on our coasts." Edmure pulled over a map and sprawled it over on the rough table. "What shall be our next course of action? Siege Harrenhal? Join Lord Tywin? Rush south for the Gold Road to give Renly and his Reachmen a proper buggering from behind?"
"Too predictable," Robb cracked his knuckles. "Rowan ought to have at least three thousand men in Harrenhal, and such a castle would not fall by storm without paying a bitter price. Renly's men are not fools, no matter how much we wish them to be. They will prepare for all of those options. Besides, Lord Lannister is too stiff and too passive in his command. Instead of rushing for King's Landing, he should have struck Lord Rowan hard and fast and linked up with your forces."
The Blackfish snorted, "The Seven help me; you'd be the only one calling Tywin Lannister a passive man, grandnephew."
"Tywin Lannister is not someone I would want to be commanded by. And well, if I were Renly or his commanders, I would force a crossing at the Rush. Split my forces into four, five, or six groups of over ten thousand men and push, but Lord Lannister lacks the swords to plug all gaps. It would be bloody, but Tywin would be forced to retreat to the city, where he could be sieged and have hundreds of thousands of mouths to feed."
"You have a plan," Edmure rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Well, let's hear it. You certainly have more victories under your belt than everyone else fighting for King Joffrey."
The acknowledgement warmed Robb's heart. Seeing that he would no longer be dismissed as some green boy was a relief. While being underestimated was useful, it still made his insides twist uncomfortably as he had to swallow the insults. However, he would have to contend with something possibly even more daunting.
Being put on a pedestal and expected to make miracles.
"First, you shall take all my sellswords and all those Rivermen that deigned to pick up their arms and join the fight."
Robb had taken a liking to his way of travel. Lightning quick and taking his foes by surprise - he did not need the newly joined pikemen of Darry, Wayn, Vypren, or the rest to slow him down.
"I suggest either marching south to the gold road or slowly starving that rat Rowan out of the castle he's taking." He tapped on Harrenhal. "Unless they lost all their wits, the Reachmen would expect us either way. Yet even with a few thousand men, Rowan could be a dagger pointed at our backs."
"And you?"
Robb Stark smiled.
3rd Day of the 4th Moon, 299 AC
The Iron Captain, Pyke
"You called for me, brother?" Victarion bowed.
The Lord Reaper of Pyke was still gaunt and thin, yet bitterness and age had only hardened him. The Iron Captain knew his lordly brother had not grown weaker for it. His sword hand was stronger than before, his blood tempered, and his mind sharper, especially after that accident a few years prior.
"Yes." his brother's voice was even, completely unreadable. The meeting was in Balon's private audience chamber, which meant he did not want anyone else to know what they spoke of.
But Victarion had never been one for thinking and plotting; that was for the lords, for Balon. But fighting? Few could rival him; none was the Iron Captain's equal at sea, bar Stannis Baratheon—a brave, hard man and better sailor than most. Almost Ironborn. Victarion had sent an empty driftwood raft soaked in oils and kindlings with a suit of armour and set it aflame to send the great man who had given Victarion such a fierce yet deserved defeat.
"Why the funeral without a body?" Nute the Barber, his right-hand man, had asked.
"It's for the sailing stag. If those damned Seven don't take him in, may he be welcomed in the Drowned God's halls." Dying in a bed, ailing from some sickness–the worst way to go for a worthy warrior.
Alas, they could no longer meet in battle to test each other's mettle, and the Iron Captain would not have a chance to salvage his defeat. Not in this life. Perhaps they would meet in the Drowned God's watery halls for a proper rematch.
Victarion shook his head, banishing the memory as he drained a cup of Arbour Gold.
"Are we finally going to join the war?"
"Not yet," Balon's fists tightened. "I have received an interesting proposal from the Flower King."
"Peh," Victarion spat. Renly Baratheon's flowery ways garnered little respect in the Iron Isles. What sort of cunt usurped his nephew? "What would a soft Greenlander like him even be able to offer? Was that what those ships I saw in Lordsport were about?"
"I know not what Renly Baratheon wants, but he offered tribute and gifts." His brother leaned forward, face turning sly. "You are drinking some of that tribute. They claim they have Theon and request an audience. Those Greenlanders have enough sense not to make any demands of me."
"Peh, what would you even speak of? As if Greenlanders could ever be trusted. All flowery promises, nothing more than false words. Words are wind, as they say, and the only good wind is the one that blows in the Iron Fleet's sails."
"I am aware," Balon ran a hand through his greying mane, yet his lips curved into a savage smile. "The old lion wants our aid too. He's almost begging for our assistance. Can you imagine that? The proud Lord of Lannister cornered enough to bow his head and offer terms that would make even a Codd blush."
"Bah, fuck those Greenlanders, I say. We follow the Old Way–take what we want and pay the iron price for it."
His brother nodded eagerly.
"Aye, I do not need any permission from some fools far away to reave and raid."
Victarion slammed a fist over his chest. "Say the word, brother. I will sail the Iron Fleet down the Sunset coast and smash all their ships. Loot their towns, villages, and harbours, take their women, children, and men. Sack their septs for all the gold they leave there for us to take."
Victarion was not smart, but the Greenlanders had lost their wits. Unlike the Drowned Priests, who shunned worldly wealth, the Seven Gods and their mewling clergymen were greedy. Almost all Septs were covered with gold and silver, ill-defended and ripe for the taking. They believed some statues would stop an Ironborn from taking what he could. Madness!
"Not just yet," Balon's face twisted into a grimace. "The Demon of the Trident is dead, and so is his seafaring brother by blood and his wolfish brother by choice. Their death must be a sign from the Drowned God. Yet that defeat taught me something I would never forget. Eight years it took us to rebuild our strength and our ships. Each vessel lost was a heavy blow. The Greenlanders think themselves cunning, dangling my son before me like a bait for a hungry fish. I will hear them out, just this once."
"We should not stay far from the sea," Victarion cautioned. Far from shore, the Drowned God no longer protected them, and if an Ironman died away from the sea, he would never enter his halls.
Balon knew this and nodded. Of course, his brother was always the cunning and smart one.
"I do not trust them," he grunted. "But at least they have the sense to send me a proper tribute and propose the meeting on the docks of Greyshield. Aeron claims to have foreseen great glory and bloodshed for the Drowned God should we take this opportunity. The Great Kraken is already preparing for a small voyage. I want you to join me."
The Iron Captain kneeled. "It will be an honour, brother."
5th Day of the 4th Mon, 299 AC
Myrcella, Winterfell
News of Robb's victory was more than welcomed–and Myrcella organised a small feast to celebrate. Her fears melted away. All the naysayers and nights filled with doubt and brooding over the war that Myrcella could not affect would no longer plague her.
Yet the end of the message arrived with an order like a dark cloud over the silver lining of her husband's victory.
And now, Myrcella was going to the birthing rooms, where the babes and Lady Catelyn still resided. Maester Luwin had advised against moving them to their prepared quarters, preferring to keep them near at hand in case his aid was needed. Myrcella still felt winded after a short flight of stairs; even her legs felt swollen, if less so.
She had believed that the pains would be gone after birthing Edwyn. Oh, how wrong she had been.
"It takes nearly two moons for your body to recover with proper food and plenty of bedrest," Maester Luwin had explained when everything still hurt after a sennight, and she struggled to walk for more than ten minutes.
Robb would have loved her teats, which were swollen and heavy with milk that her son enjoyed. Edwyn turned out to be a voracious baby, with lusty cries that could wake half the castle. A hale and hearty son, just as she had promised her husband. With his striking silver-grey eyes that could still change and his mop of golden hair, Myrcella did not doubt that he would not only be a great warrior but a charmer.
Still, she was recovering very well.
Alas, Lady Catelyn had not been as lucky. All the babes were healthy despite Luwin constantly fretting over them. Yet carrying two babes was heavier than one, the dowager was no longer young and spry, and the birth had taken a toll on her. Even now, she was abed and would not leave the newborns out of her sight.
"What are you three doing here?" She asked breathlessly as Arya, Sansa, and Rickon crowded the hallway again with their shaggy companions. Nymeria, Lady, and Shaggydog wanted to see the babes, but Luwin had yet to allow it.
"We're here to see the babes," Sansa cooed dreamily. "They're so cute."
"Uh, uh, speak for yourself," Arya snorted. "I'm here to see Mother. At least Edwyn, Artos, and Lyarra are no longer all wrinkly and red like gremlins. Artos almost looks like me!"
"Arya, language," her sister chided. "Besides, hair could darken once our siblings grow up. Eyes too, for half a year, according to Luwin."
Rickon, however, looked disgruntled.
"They're too small to play with, and all they do is cry," he whined.
"You were much the same," Myrcella chuckled, ruffling his hair.
"Was not," the denial came in an instant. "I was born big and strong."
Sansa grabbed her brother and pulled his cheeks despite the flailing arms.
"That's a lie, brother. I still remember you as small and adorable, and you couldn't even crawl for moons."
"Lemme go!" Rickon finally detached himself from his eldest sister's grip and angrily rubbed his cheeks. "'Sides, I came here to tell Mother I had a dream."
Myrcella stiffened but swallowed the wariness deep down. At first, she had thought the young boy's dreams were just that–dreams. But after too many of them had proven uncannily accurate in time… in fact, she could not remember a single wrong dream, aside from the more childish ones. The line was thin.
Rickon Stark had dreamed of his bastard brother fighting icemen in the cold lands. Which Myrcella knew had happened. Dreams of his dead brother, stuck in a throne of pale roots, looking like a corpse. Dreams of his Uncle Benjen, dreams of his father, and even dreams of Robb trimming a golden tree were all centred around family, but rarely did any of them bode well.
"Oh, and what is it this time?" Myrcella tried to ask calmly, yet the crack in her voice betrayed her trepidation.
"I told Father to wake up, and he did." Rickon nodded, looking very proud of himself. "He's now fighting with the horsemen."
"Rickon, you know dead men do not wake," Sansa chided mournfully, wiping her budding tears with a handkerchief, but her eyes reddened as if she was about to weep.
Yet the young boy was nothing but stubborn.
"But Father isn't dead; he only fought beside the stone men, woke up, and now fought with horsemen. Ugh." He adorably rubbed his face, looking as confused as the rest.
Arya patted his shoulder with a surprising amount of patience.
"These are just dreams," she nodded wisely. "I also dream of soaring through the skies some nights. Doesn't mean much."
"But I told you Robb will win. I even dreamed of it later," Rickon ducked away from her hand and bared his teeth like a wolf. "Jon and Uncle Benjen have been slaughtering the Icemen for a while, too!"
"But Jon is lost-"
"Enough squabbling," Myrcella interrupted. At moments like these, it was too hard to tell with Rickon if his dreams meant anything or if it was just nightmares and childish stubbornness. "If you have enough energy to sit here and raise a ruckus, you can go for another round of training with Ser Rodrik. Off you trot now."
After a few weak protests, the Stark siblings finally fled, and Myrcella entered the nursery.
The three babes were asleep, wrapped in the softest Torrentine cotton gold could buy.
"Myrcella," Catelyn Stark quietly greeted from the bed. "You seem troubled." She was in a thick sleeping robe, sitting upright with her back to a small hill of pillows while working with a needle on a small tunic. The birth had taken plenty of the dowager, the loss of her husband even more so, but the former Lady of Winterfell had only emerged stronger for it. Harsher. The only warmth she showed was for the babes, and even Sansa, Rickon, and Arya were commanded with an iron hand and severe strictness.
"Because I am," Myrcella muttered quietly, not to wake the babes, and took out the scroll that had arrived from the Riverlands. "Robb won a great victory at the Banks of the Trident."
For a short moment, Catelyn Stark's face softened ever so slightly. But after a heartbeat, it was gone, as if it was never there. "Good. Yet a victory would not trouble you so."
On days like these, Myrcella felt naked under those heavy, piercing blue eyes. Her good mother was too cunning, too observant, completely unlike Cersei.
"Indeed," she muttered sourly. "Robb writes Theon Greyjoy has defected to the Reachmen when chasing the routed foes. Yet… you do not look surprised."
"Balon Greyjoy's boy was just a hostage with no allegiances to House Stark," Catelyn scoffed. "My son lied to himself about their supposed friendship. Maybe with time… maybe. We argued about this, you know? I told him Theon must remain here, tucked away in Winterfell, as a hostage against his father. Yet Robb insisted that he keep the Kraken's son close."
"What's done is done. Now, the Lord of Winterfell has ordered the garrison boosted further, and the Houses along the western shores prepared for an attack by sea."
And it was good that Myrcella had drawn the master arbalist and had him start his work with Ser Cassel. Of course, poaching Joffrey's favourite had been amusing, but she thought crossbowmen would make Winterfell far more defensible in the very unlikely event of a siege. A man, or even a woman, could easily use a crossbow after a few hours of training.
Bows? That required years of dedication and far more effort that could be spent on better things. It did not help that Robb had taken most of the hunters and woodsmen of Winterfell - those who make the best archers, with him south.
Catelyn Stark's stern face grew even more grave.
"Good," she muttered. "See it done, then. You hardly need my permission to run this castle anymore." Such was the fate of widows, and Myrcella had turned six and ten and was considered a woman grown at the turn of the first moon.
While that was true, Catelyn Stark commanded too much respect from the household and the Northmen. After nearly two decades, she had sunk her roots deep into the place. But it was odd to see such a frugal woman not even blink at the additional spending. Sword and armour had to be forged, steel and iron had to be bought, arrows and bolts had to be fletched, and new men had to be hired and trained, all of which cost plenty of gold.
"Even so, I must rely on your experience in such matters." Even now that she was just a dowager, Myrcella felt obliged to consult her good mother to keep a harmonious household and to borrow a measure of her cunning and experience if needed. "Surely, there could be something that could be done to aid Robb?"
"It's in the hands of the gods now," Catelyn shook her head. "Pray to the Warrior to keep his sword hand strong and his blade–sharp. But perhaps it would be a good idea not to keep all our eggs in a single basket."
"You can't mean Winterfell might fall!"
The cry woke Edwyn, who announced his displeasure with a mighty wail. Artos and Lyarra followed suit, and now Myrcella was forced to grab the twins and deposit them in Catelyn's waiting arms while she picked up her boy and softly rocked him.
"Do not let arrogance go to your head, for it can easily be your undoing," Robb's mother warned as she pulled aside her loose robe and plugged the weeping babes with a hefty breast in each mouth.
"Very well." She focused on softly cooing at Edwyn, who quickly calmed down and decided that grabbing for one of her golden locks was far more entertaining than crying. "Who would you send off?"
"Rickon," the words were uttered with the greatest reluctance as if they raked at Catelyn's throat. "To Last Hearth." Near his Uncle Benjen, who commanded nine thousand men, was left unsaid, but Myrcella still heard it. "Umber has a younger daughter and a son his age. As for Arya… the First Flints."
"Sending off a girl to foster implies some sort of betrothal or even marriage," Myrcella frowned fiercely. "Surely, she could find a far better match than mountain clansmen?"
"The Northern Mountains are one of the safest places for anyone named Stark. Besides, Arya's great-grandmother was a Flint of the Mountains, and the clansmen have longer memories than most. They are not the same as those savages in the Vale. Do not disparage them, for they are the fiercest supporters of House Stark, and it would do well to reward such loyalty." Her good mother's voice was cold, and Myrcella turned to her son to hide her bashfulness.
"Perhaps the gods will take pity on my poor girl, and some boy will catch my daughter's eye. I know… it's not the best match. But Arya is too much like a wolf. No matter how many lessons I give her, how many different approaches I try, or what I try to teach, she remains too wild to be a proper lady. At least… at least she could visit me in Winterfell often, should she wed in the Mountains. They always come to Wintertown in winter, after all."
"Very well," Myrcella nodded, noting to pull in more clansmen and spend more time with Lysara Liddle. "Not Sansa?"
"It's better she stays here," Catelyn closed her eyes, looking particularly tired. "Sansa is four and ten now, and it was time to start looking for a proper match."
Author's Endnote:
Starring: Ned "My patience is slowly but surely dwindling. At least Tywin would totally keep the kingdoms together while we're away." Stark. Robb "Plenty of loot and hostages for everyone. I'm sure there's more to go around," Stark. Victarion "Great man, almost Ironborn. I will battle against him in the afterlife," Greyjoy.
The Free Cities are in turmoil (slave revolts, wars(Tyrosh) and more(to be revealed in the coming chapters), and Westerosi are a sign of trouble –remember, Tyrosh was dragged into a war, we have plenty of slave revolts, especially in Volantis where a famous sunset knight is involved. And obviously, the Essosi scoff at the supposed honour of the Sunset lands.
Robb has plans.
Renly is trying to fish out an old Kraken, and he might just catch him.
Rickon keeps dreaming stuff. We see the three babes; poor old Cat has been hardened by loss.
OC list introduced in this chapter:
Nysaro Narratis-pentoshi nobleman (magister) with silver hair, blue eyes, and plump. Envoy.
Hostages Robb caught–Sers Reynard and Triston Rowan, Lord Wilbert Footly, Ser Egbert Footly, Lord Ronel Cordwayner, his son, Ser Renald Cordwayner, Sers Harrold and Perryn Osgrey. Lord Myles Cobb and his sons, Rodden, Deddings, Perry, and more. 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 burden of command was no longer upon Howland's shoulders, and everything was right in the world. Sneaking, scouting, tracking, assassination, or even fighting in the marshland were his strengths, not leading a group of unruly Northmen. It was a double relief that his friend was back, and it no longer felt as if they were cornered with no way out.
After the Pentoshi had refused to let them in the city, Eddard Stark grew more aggressive in his marching tempo, decisions, and even scouting, sending the outriders far further than before. The Northmen's disgruntlement from staying in the foreign land was pushed down, as the Lord of Winterfell seemed to have everything at hand with iron discipline. Ned started sending scouts in disguise to screen the nearest towns without any distinctive heraldries from tens of leagues away.
Howland could feel the intangible tension hanging in the air like a dark shroud that had taken hold of them. It was not just the heaviness that had rooted itself in the Northmen's hearts or the realisation that the road home might be fraught with peril and woe. No, it was a fleeting feeling at the back of one's mind, reminding the crannoglord of a different time.
Only once before had he felt such a premonition. It was that time when the drums of war thundered, and the banners were called from every corner of the Seven Kingdoms to fight a brutal war. Many fought out of fealty or honour; others did it for justice, vengeance, ambition, and greed. Nearly two years of bloodshed saw tens, if not hundreds of thousands dead and the Dynasty of the Dragon crumble with but a whimper.
That heavy feeling weighed upon one's shoulders and burdened one's heart, making Howland's palm sweaty and his heart skip at night.
War.
The Pentoshi envoy had implied such was happening in many places in Essos now, so none could argue with Eddard Stark's prudence of treating everyone as a potential foe.
But despite this, neither Howland nor the Northmen were daunted by such prospects. They had to follow the Stark, and everything would be fine. The North had followed the direwolf for thousands of years, and they had yet to be disappointed. Eddard Stark had more than proved his mettle in war twice, even before the two battles here, in the old lands of the Andals.
No, some Northmen were eager, burning for the fight, glory, and plunder, especially after the spoils they had gathered. "These Essosi know nought of warfare," Damon Dustin had said. "They have no respect for the martial way of life. Pah, what good are sellswords and light cavalry with more pride than sense?"
Even the Dothraki under Zolo had nothing to say. The Barrowknight had left them an open challenge, winning three bouts for each lost one. The Westerosi horses were superior in strength and discipline, and the Mad Lance loved his prized stallion, a fierce, muscled destrier as black as night, one of the best warhorses bred in the North. Of course, the Dothraki horses were slightly smaller and far more manoeuvrable, but they struggled to carry an armoured lancer.
The horselords were learning the common tongue well enough; most could understand it and even speak a few words. It seemed that Ned had a good grasp of the Dothraki and kept them in line with surprising efficiency. Trouble or misbehaviour was nipped in the bud with extreme prejudice, including flogging and beheadings, and Howland could see them becoming a well-disciplined force that could fit in the North under House Stark.
Yet the crannoglord was worried regardless. The impending feeling of danger, of bloodshed, hung upon them.
As they set camp for the evening, the premonition grew worse. The sky was overcast with clouds, and the wind battered at them viciously; another storm was brewing in the Narrow Sea.
One of the scouts, a knight from White Harbour who could speak bastard Valyrian, was sent to the nearest port town fifteen leagues south by the shore. The town was small compared to other Essosi settlements, with barely twenty thousand citizens that were absent from most maps. Yet the scout had returned, face heavy with worry.
"How are the ships in Pelnos' harbour, Ser Calon?" Ned asked as the command tent was cramped with Northmen. Anyone of sufficient standing was here, and even Winter was sitting obediently by his master's side, his shaggy form looming over many of them. Tommen was quietly watching from the side, his lidded eyes fluttering as he struggled to stay awake after a long, tiring day of marching followed by hellish exercise. Training with the childish version of a weighted greatsword had wrung the poor boy dry, for Lord Stark was hell-bent on making the boy master of the greatsword so he could wield Brightroar properly by the time he was of age. "Is there enough to ferry us back home?"
"There's not a single ship on the docks, my lord," the knight grimaced. With distinctive hair the colour of wet sand, Calon was a man with broad shoulders, thick arms, and a stout waist and very dangerous with a war axe. "Lys has laid claim to the Stepstones, and their fleet has been said to be fighting against the pirates and corsairs ruling there as petty kings. All merchant vessels trying to pass the Stepstones have been raided by either Lys or the pirates. The stormy autumn has sent away the rest to less risky ports, too."
Worse, Howland knew that in war, even merchant vessels were conscripted and filled with marines and sailors, so any trader would shy from docking at such cities lest he found himself losing his cargo and his ship.
"Myr and Tyrosh would not sit idly by while the Lyseni claim or even block the Stepstones," Lord Stark noted.
"Aye, but it's only the beginning. I asked around and listened for nearly a day. Trade in the Narrow Sea has been disrupted, and each and every merchant vessel has been pulled either for war or has gone further north to avoid it. Pentos has withdrawn their trading cogs from the nearby towns to preserve them. Lorath and Ibb's fleets have begun fighting over whaling routes. The Norvoshi priesthood declared war on Qohor and their Black Goat, and timber, gold, and steel no longer flow down the Rhoyne. They say Myr and Volantis struggle against fierce slave revolts and Tyrosh…"
The blonde knight choked, looking distressed as his face glistened with sweat.
"Out with it, Ser," Rogar Wull grunted. "C'mon, what did the buggering slavers do this time?"
"They attacked the royal fleet, burning and sinking it in Blackwater Bay."
The declaration was met with disbelief. Soon, the tent erupted into a deafening cacophony as many men tried to speak simultaneously, clamouring for more details.
"Silence." Ned did not need to raise his voice - the moment he spoke, the commotion halted. "Are you certain, Ser Calon?"
"Aye," the sandy-haired knight seemed to somewhat shrink under Lord Stark's intense gaze. "It was the talk all over the docks and half the inns."
Damon Dustin snorted.
"Pah, the balls of these Essosi," his dark eyes were filled with violence and bloodshed. "King Robert would never let such a challenge stand unanswered!"
Many clamoured in agreement at the proclamation. Even after the years had turned the Demon of the Trident fat and drunk, he was not a man who would let such an open challenge to his authority stand.
"But… they said the king has died, and the Seven Kingdoms are aflame with rebellion."
The silence was deafening.
Howland hated that his premonition came true. His mind began to race.
If what the knight said was true, returning home would definitely be a challenge, let alone fighting in a war. Worse, it was likely that each town's ships had already been pulled up or safely tucked away in a bigger harbour to avoid being dragged into another conflict. From what little Howland knew of the Essosi coast, their choices were limited–ride back and hope Pentos would agree to let them through, or continue even further north, nearly a thousand miles to Braavos, hoping they could find their way to the hidden city and willing ships there.
Or, they could continue as they did, further south, hoping to find a harbour with ships willing to sail them home. Neither of which sounded particularly likely at the moment.
Nobody dared speak while Ned remained silent. Despite their last quarrel, the King was his brother in all but blood. Those who remembered the times before the Rebellion knew. That youthful bond forged in the Eyrie by the experienced hand of Jon Arryn had transcended the bonds of kinship like nothing else had. Eddard Stark and Robert Baratheon had grown closer to each other than their siblings by blood.
Howland peered at his friend, and his heart lurched.
Eddard Stark's face was like a mask carved from ice, chilling in a cold, cutting way, seemingly bereft of feelings. But Howland Reed knew better–the Lord of Winterfell was wroth. His grey eyes, usually soft like a morning fog, had turned cold, hard, and flinty like an old rock. This wasn't the sort of anger that ran hot in the blood but the one that was as cold as a fierce blizzard amidst the coldest winters. With Winter's shaggy form by his side, he looked like a brutal statue that would easily belong in the Crypts of Winterfell.
The knight couldn't take the stifling presence and squirmed uneasily as the Lord of Winterfell loomed over him.
Eventually, Eddard Stark's voice rumbled like an avalanche in the Northern Mountains, "Tell me everything you heard in Pelnos, Ser."
11th Day of the 4th Moon, 299 AC
The Spider, King's Landing
"Word arrived just this morning. After heavy casualties, Renly's forces breached the Blackwater Rush, and Lord Tywin began to retreat to the city in good order," Kevan Lannister sighed as the small council assembled.
Karstark looked pensive, but the rest of the councillors did not seem daunted. Four of the chairs were still empty–Tywin was out in the field, even Varys had yet to find where Tyrion Lannister was, and they had yet to appoint a new Master of Ships or Lord Commander of the kingsguard.
After the losses in the Septon Riots, Joffrey appointed three new white cloaks–Jonnel Serrett, Osmund Kettleblack, and Bennard Slate. The last had not even been a knight, and the Kettleblack was a complete rogue and a braggart, son of a hedge knight who had been a sellsword in Essos for half a decade and was supposedly knighted by a dead bastard knight.
Needless to say, they were not chosen for their valiance or loyalty but for their ruthless ability to kill the rioting crowd and listen to Joffrey's command without question. It was a disgrace to the white cloaks, but none of the knights Kevan had put forth could best those three in the yard, making the affair even more humiliating.
It was one of the rare cases where the young king had been furious enough to push through his decision stubbornly, and no amount of reasoning could sway him. Usually, Joffrey did not care to meddle with how the kingdom or the court was run, content to go about his day leisurely. Even now, he looked ready to fall asleep during the council meeting.
Even the news of Renly's crossing of the Blackwater Rush had not affected him, while the rest of the councillors were pensive.
"So the damned flowers finally crossed as we suspected." The Northman rubbed his beard. "Do we have numbers on their dead?"
The small council knew Lord Tywin could not prevent Renly from crossing the Blackwater Rush forever. The Old Lion and the Rose Lord doubtlessly knew the same, too.
The question at hand was how big a cost Tywin would force Renly to pay for crossing the river. It also gave Joffrey's grandfather time to scour the city's hinterlands clean of harvest, cattle, and all other produce, leaving nothing for the Reachmen. Varys did not doubt that each well on his retreat would also be poisoned so that he could kill another hundred Reachmen.
Kevan Lannister rubbed his face tiredly.
"The Lord Hand reports that the Reachmen lost two men for each of his. Estimates are at about ten thousand killed on Renly's side and at least as many wounded."
The king sported a new look after his right eye had been gouged out. An emerald twice the size of a pigeon egg lay perfectly fitted in the empty eye socket and was usually covered by a gilded eyepatch. However, there was no eye patch today, and the red claw scars crowning the face around the missing eye looked particularly angry.
Alas, Joffrey seemed rather disinterested in the news as if it was of no concern to him. The apathy was not new or special; the young king was easily bored of many matters. Varys could read the expression on his young face easily–a loss was still a loss, even if it achieved its strategic purpose.
And after the riot of the streets, the young boy king seemed to have developed a caution, a wariness towards the city and dared not venture out without a dozen red cloaks or Northmen at his back.
It was for a good reason; the city was still uneasy, reeling after the riot and the Tyroshi's attack. Kevan Lannister, the ever-dutiful regent, had begun forcefully removing men, women, and children from the city. The city guard went from door to door, checking if each family had at least three years of food supplies in stock, and if they did not–they were promptly kicked out of the gates by force if they dared to resist.
Most were from the poorer, destitute parts of the city, as after ten years of long, prosperous summer, many traders and crafters had gorged themselves on abundance.
Thousands were removed from the city daily, and force was used if necessary. Another small riot had formed near Fleabottom a sennight prior, but Cregan Karstark and Ser Balon Swann crushed it mercilessly, putting tens of heads on pikes for display on each of the city's squares as a cruel warning that seemed to work all too well.
If things continued this way, the Crownlands would be filled with hundreds of thousands of refugees, and the city would have to feed half, maybe only a third of its previous population in the likely case of a siege. Varys could see the cunning in the tactic; all those removed from King's Landing would soon become Renly's problem and either burden his supply chains or remove his veneer of righteousness.
Joffrey had little care for minor, insignificant matters like that. He was completely apathetic to everything unrelated to a victory or sacrificing Septons to the heart tree. Three troublesome preaching Septons had disappeared from the streets of King's Landing, and Varys had found out they were being secretly brought to the Red Keep's godswood, where the boy king made a sport of sacrificing them to the heart tree with a crossbow.
Varys was unsure how to tackle this troublesome issue. He wondered if he should even attempt to tackle such a problem or close his eyes and let it blow up like a jar of wildfire in Joffrey's face later, especially as the High Septon forcefully elected by Kevan Lannister was still struggling to reel in the Faith in the city.
Even the boy king's favourite mistress, Arael, had already received quarters within the Red Keep, so he did not need to venture into the city to satisfy his carnal desires. Joffrey was spending more time in the silver-haired whore's company than his wife. Just this morning, Joffrey had brought her to the ramparts above to show off all the tarred heads lined on the spikes. They were a gift from Robb Stark–all the important lords and knights that had fallen at the Battle of the Ruby Ford had been sent with a swift escort, and Joffrey loved to look at them.
Regardless, it was rare to see the young king attending a council meeting, and even when he did, Joffrey easily got bored before and left their end. Yet he lingered still, and his presence made the councillors uneasy.
Seeing that the king was disinterested, the council meeting continued still.
"Well, if we keep going like this, there might be an army left by the end of the fighting," Karstark coughed behind his horn of ale. "Suppose the numbers of dead are hard enough to count when retreating."
"This is nothing new," Kevan sighed. Wisps of grey had begun to sneak into his golden mane. Heavy was the hand that carried the head bearing the crown, it seemed.
Yet it was not all gloom. Robb Stark's decisive victory at the Trident brought much-needed hope and lightened many spirits–victory was no longer out of sight. Even Varys could breathe easier, for it meant the Lannisters would not yet crumble, nor were they surrounded by every side. Princess Myrcella's birth to a healthy son was also celebrated, even though her royal brother couldn't care less. For some reason, Joffrey liked his good brother, Robb Stark, more than his sister, who was never mentioned by name.
Yet it seemed that the good news came in pairs.
"The queen is pregnant," Pycelle announced once the war talk was concluded.
"And how is Her Grace's health?" Karstark inquired. His wife had also quickened, and the Northerner often pestered the grandmaester to check up on the lesser lioness.
"She is holding up well," Pycelle hemmed fretfully. "There are no issues as of this moment."
Once again, Joffrey gave a curt nod, not looking particularly excited about the good news.
"A most welcomed news in these dire times," Varys tittered. Was the child from Joffrey or Gerold Waters? Either way, it was ironic enough that Robert's grandchild would be the next in line should no complications arise with the pregnancy. The Spider had caught them in the act once more, which meant the sordid affair was not a one-time tryst. Still, there were more important matters to be discussed. "Alas, we have yet to find a replacement for our late Lord Lydden. Someone needs to be in charge of the royal fleets."
"What fleets?" Karstark snorted. "It's just a bunch of sunken wreckage."
"Even more important, then." The Spider clasped his hands, smiling. He was still inwardly irked that the Tyroshi had managed to blindside him. "The man in charge will have to rebuild everything, as Lord Stannis did after the Rebellion."
"Do you have any suggestions?" Kevan asked, looking through a multitude of parchments.
After a minute of awkward silence, Joffrey finally stirred from his seat.
"Well, just appoint someone." The young king took a swallow of wine from his goblet. "How hard can it be to find a man good with ships?"
"Most of those perished along with the royal fleet, Your Grace," Kevan reminded wryly. "Having a master of ships is rather worthless with no ships to command, and our access to the Kingswood for fresh lumber is blocked by Renly for the foreseeable future."
Joffrey looked at them as if they were all lackwits. "Well, appoint my cousin, then!"
Pyceelle coughed weakly and asked hesitantly, "Which cousin are you talking about, Your Grace? You have many kinsmen, yet none of them have shown notable sailing skills."
Varys agreed with the Grandmaester; there was no Lannister alive with a skill in seafaring right now. The only one that came to mind was Gerion Lannister, the late brother of Lord Lannister, who was lost in the ruins of the Freehold a decade prior. Tywin Lannister had yet to fully rebuild his fleet after the Greyjoy Rebellion precisely because he lacked a capable man of respectable lineage to lead it.
"Your wits have grown dull, Pycelle," Joffrey chuckled coldly. "Or perhaps your memory is failing you? Has not Shireen Baratheon, my uncle's daughter, crushed the Tyroshi fleet?"
It took effort for Varys to keep the smile on his face, but the Grandmaester failed as he was struck by a coughing fit. Cregan Karstark let out a bark of laughter, while Kevan Lannister just looked tired.
"But there has never been a woman on the small council, let alone a small girl, Your Grace." The Regent's voice was laced with disbelief. "This is unprecedented. Besides, Lady Shireen is too young and has yet to come and swear fealty to you!"
Joffrey scoffed.
"It was because of Uncle Stannis' death and the proper mourning period. Did you not say so yourself earlier? Besides, you say a girl on the small council is unprecedented, yet why is she doing better than all of you combined?! Why did she expel the damned slave mongers while outnumbered more than six to one when everyone else failed?" None dared to meet his gaze, and even Varys found himself bowing his head. "Why are you all silent? Answer me, damn it!"
"It must be the smuggler who plays regent for her," Pycelle weakly pointed out. "Or perhaps one of her vassals. Lord Velaryon is a skilled sailor."
"Slander," the boy-king waved his hand dismissively. "My royal father always said Uncle Stannis was the only man he could trust to lead a fleet properly and never even mentioned the Seahorse or the Onion Knight. It's clear that my cousin Shireen takes after her father. Did you not tell me she managed to gather more ships from the Vale and the North?"
Once again, nobody dared to speak up and risk Joffrey's wrath.
The aforementioned support came from Houses Upcliff, Melcolm, Grafton, and Manderly, and a few smaller ones–the Houses along the Vale and North's coast that would be concerned with piracy and a Free City outright attacking the eastern coast. Still, Shireen's request for assistance was aptly placed, if late, as none of them had arrived until after the young Lady of Dragonstone had expelled the main Tyroshi fleet from Blackwater Bay with her efforts. Even now, she was still hunting down the remnants and staggers lingering around the coast in attempts to plunder and pillage more.
While Varys guessed that the main fleet had simply left because it was heavy with plunder and slaves, not out of fear of the young lady, the result was the same.
Pycelle began sweating, looking particularly uncomfortable. "Surely-"
"Enough, old man. I am king here; my mind is set, and my decision is final. So what if Cousin Shireen is a girl? Does it matter when she's far more competent than any of the lot you fools don't even dare propose?" All the councillors had the decency to blush, and none dared to meet Joffrey's angry eye. "I want results, not one defeat after another. Look at Robb Stark. If I had two more commanders like him, Renly's head would already be atop the Red Keep's gates."
He took a deep breath and slammed his fist on the table. "You will do well to remember that Father did not win the Rebellion by entrusting useless lickspittle! I want Shireen as my mistress of ships, and I want it done now. Pycelle, write the damned summons to Dragonstone, or I'll have your treasonous head on a spike before the next morning!"
12th Day of the 4th Moon, 299 AC
Disguised as a dungeon turnkey, Varys carefully made his way through the secret passages. His eyes were used to the darkness years ago, and caution was paramount after the failure to remove Eddard Stark. Thankfully, the gods had seen fit to do away with that particular obstacle.
Deeper, the eunuch dove into the darkness until he reached the base of Aegon's hill, where he finally met Illyrio, lugging a hefty oil lantern.
"I warned you that we should avoid meeting here," Varys muttered warily. The tunnels had been compromised, and each new entrance found had been meticulously sealed by Keven Lannister. Even though the Spider had done a clean sweep of the passageways with his birds each fortnight, it was no longer as secure as before. "Taking unnecessary risks is folly. What if remnants of the Tyroshi fleet caught your ship? The city will soon be under siege!"
"It is a risk I had to make," Mopatis snorted. "Too many things have happened lately, and I need you to delay more."
"I cannot conjure thousands of knights or loyal but skilled commanders from thin air."
"Ah. But from what I heard at the docks, the war is finally stalling. More and more battles, with no clear victor in sight." the magister's smile turned sly, "But what if you could find that skilled commander and veteran warriors? This war has you fretting too much, but I found a way to turn the tables in our favour."
On days like these, Varys felt particularly tired. There was only so much scheming one could accomplish. A nudge here, a well-placed remark or word there, but men would always act out of their own will regardless of plans. "Unless you can get Aegon to abandon that folly…"
Mopatis stroked his pronged beard with an amused smile.
"You should know that our plans are fleeting and ought to be readjusted as things progress." He talked about Khal Drogo, who rode to the Far East to pillage instead of invading Westeros and distracting the Iron Throne. "Volantis is a sand castle, my friend. A little push and it's already crumbling. The corsairs from the Basilisk Isles took a bite from the harbour, and the fires inside the city had yet to settle fully. Aegon and the Golden Company have crushed the scrambling tiger cloaks and should be besieging the defenceless city within a moon. Should Volantis fall to the Golden Company, Aegon's reputation would soar, and the power and wealth he could command would be nearly unprecedented. No, I found something else. Or, well, someone else."
On days like this, Varys felt annoyed at the dramatic mummery his friend loved after all those years. Even now, he waved his hands theatrically as if expecting a question.
Sighing, he indulged him. "So… who has caught your fancy?"
"The wolf lord."
His blood ran cold. A thousand questions ran in Varys' mind, but he only asked, "How?"
"I know not, but he's not as dead as you claimed," Illyrio laughed nasally. "I saw him and his Northmen approaching Pentos with my own two eyes. Or, well, through a Myrish far eye from one of the towers. But alas, the ruling council was too wary to let the Northmen in. Westerosi folk are considered omens of bad luck as of late, especially with that unpleasantness with Tyrosh."
"This is terrible," Varys pinched the bridge of his nose.
"You're too pessimistic, I say. A few well-placed words and the Quiet Wolf will go to Volantis to aid Aegon. His presence alone will be a greater boon to our cause than anything else."
"You don't get it," he hissed out. "The Wolf Lord is too honourable. He had already married his heir to the Lioness' daughter and took the younger cub as his page."
"So what? He was sworn to the whoremonger, not his son, and his vows are fulfilled with his death," his friend waved dismissively with a meaty hand. "I know of these men of honour and their ilk, and they buckle if you dangle the right bait before their eyes. You've told me plenty. There are no oaths to the Iron Throne binding him now."
Varys wrung his hands nervously.
"It doesn't matter. House Stark has already reaped the benefits from this alliance, and they will hold onto it to the last!"
"Even against his nephew?"
"You forget that we have no proof," the eunuch groaned. "Stark could have found out what had happened to his sister for true in the Tower of Joy." There had been no witnesses to be left alive. The Tower of Joy had been promptly demolished, and anyone who had visited the place was never seen again–including the common handmaids and a wet nurse, who were doubtlessly killed. "It wouldn't even matter in the end. Nephew or not, the Quiet Wolf is a man who would cling to his supposed honour to the bitter end and could never be Aegon's ally."
"What a pity," Illyrio sighed. "He must be removed or captured, then. Preferably before he reaches Westeros." Varys felt relieved. Once you put away his friend's greed, he had a sharp mind that would not dwell on minor matters.
Eddard Stark was one of the men with enough experience and honour to shoulder Joffrey's cause almost on his lonesome. Yes, the Young Wolf had proven dangerous enough on the battlefield, just like his father, but the lords did not know him or his honour. Yet the Lord of Winterfell? He could walk through the war-torn Vale, take his nephew's regency, and all the Vale lords would bend over backwards for this man of honour, unquestionable integrity, and renown without spilling a single drop of blood.
Just like that, with his mere presence, Eddard Stark would take command of three kingdoms with little to no objections.
That fateful alliance of the Riverlands, the North, and the Vale had broken the Dragon's Back and made a king the man who had already lost his army, and even thinking of it again made Varys wary. Even now, the North and the Riverlands seemed to be Joffrey's only hope, and they were led by two green boys.
Edmure Tully was an anointed knight in his twenties, yet he was still as green as fresh summer grass where war seemed to be concerned, yet even then. Even then, he proved competent enough to hold back the Reach's advance with his bickering lords.
The younger generation of those who supported Joffrey seemed full of budding talents and hidden dark horses even before considering Stannis' daughter had made her audacious move. At the same time, the Reach and the Stormlands held the old and cunning foxes, but the young were lacking.
"Our forces in Essos are all supporting Aegon already," the Spider reminded coldly. "With the turmoil and bloodshed from Lorath to Volantis, the companies would not lack work."
"Just some minor difficulties, my friend." Illyrio thoughtfully stroked his pronged beard. "All this fighting in the Free Cities will ultimately work in our favour, should we use it well, just like everything else. If you say the Wolf Lord must go, I'll find a way."
19th Day of the 4th Moon, 299 AC
The Iron Captain, Greyshield
They met on the island docks, midway on the docks, equal distance from the harbour and the moored ships–Balon's Great Kraken, his Iron Victory, and his niece's Black Wind. Their escort of a score of warships from the Iron Fleet remained anchored nearby.
The Reachmen's delegation was led by a brown-haired flower knight called Garlan Tyrell. He was tall and broad of shoulders and had a warrior's hard, steely gaze. By his side were the Lord of Greenshield, a plump-looking Greenlander that Victarion easily dismissed as a soft man who had not wielded a sword in decades, and a balding Septon with crystal brooches and necklaces, both of whom just observed glumly.
Balon had also brought Asha and Victarion along to even the numbers. They met under the watchful eyes of the Ironmen aboard the ships and a hefty retinue of Greenlander warriors and knights standing vigil at the docks.
A table was set in the middle with the symbolic bread and salt, at which Balon partook without hesitation, and Asha and Victarion followed.
He quickly decided that Garlan Tyrell was a formidable warrior who had seen plenty of bloodshed. And such men were worthy of respect, even if they were greenlanders.
"Interesting proposal," Balon inclined his head, but his face was unreadable. "A cunning man, your father."
"I am here to represent His Grace, King Renly, Lord Greyjoy," Garlan Tyrell protested.
The Lord of Pyke laughed.
"Who would be nothing without your father," he pointed out, and the Rose Knight sighed but did not disagree. "There's no need to deceive me or yourself, boy. I am negotiating with the Rose Lord here, and he wants an alliance of marriages, yet all the Houses you put forth hail from the Reach. I have a condition."
Victarion had a feeling Garlan Tyrell did not like what he was doing. His face was expressionless enough, but the stiffness of his words and body were a dead giveaway. Still, he remained unfailingly courteous if firm, earning Victarion's silent approval even further. Even Balon seemed to have taken a slight liking to the flower knight.
"Name it, my lord," Garlan nodded evenly.
"I can swallow your queer love for the number seven," his brother's voice thickened with mocking amusement that made the Septon bristle. "But if you must know, the Old Lion wrote to me, proposing three marriages, each more prestigious than the last. His golden daughter for my brother-" Victarion shuffled uneasily; he had never been informed of such. Not that he would decline; he would do his duty even if it rankled him to bed some other man's leavings, king or not. "Ser Daven Lannister for a bride of my choice, and he even promised to take my daughter for a wife, making my grandsons rulers of Casterly Rock and the Westerlands."
Asha looked thoughtful for a heartbeat before her face paled; it seemed that Balon had kept the contents of the lion's letter close to his heart, even from her.
"The former Queen is approaching the twilight of her child-bearing years," the plump Lord Grimm pointed out lazily. "And Ser Daven Lannister is just a knight from a lesser pride with no lands or incomes, even if he's that abomination spawn's good brother."
"So you say," Balon said. "But I would look like a fool if I declined such a prestigious deal for a lesser offering. I want Paxter's daughter for Theon."
Garlan Tyrell grimaced, but he nodded, "Granted."
"Aye, and his heir will marry my Asha. The other six marriages from each side must be the lords or at least heirs…" They haggled for details for over an hour while Victarion's niece quietly excused herself back to her ship. The Iron Captain knew she was furious but would never defy her father in the open.
Victarion had many questions as the talks proceeded but remained silent because he believed in his brother. Sooner or later, his queries would be answered; Balon Greyjoy always did things for a good reason and had grown more cunning with time.
Especially after they had sparred that one time five years ago, and Victarion had rung his head too hard, knocking him out cold for a few hours. He almost thought he had killed his brother, but thankfully, Balon recovered, and his wits were even sharper than before.
Alas, Victarion had thought that you could whack fools in the head and make them find their wits, but after using the same technique on two lackwits that had challenged him, they died instead. Thankfully, the Drowned God seemed to be watching over his eldest brother.
By the time the negotiations ended, the sun had approached the western horizon, and the Lord Reaper retreated to his ship.
Asha was already waiting there, garbed like a man in her black wool breeches and brown quilted tunic tucked into the studded belt. If it weren't for the slight swell in her chest, she would look like a slender and comely Ironman.
Balon dismissed the rest of the crew and led them into the spacious captain's cabin, away from curious ears and eyes.
"I know you have questions, Asha," he said as he sat on his cot and lit up a lantern.
"I shall not be some mewling Greenlander's wife," she objected sourly. "I am a captain, not some foolish chit to spread her legs and pop out children for some pompous lackwit. I thought we were done with following Greenlanders, yet here you plan to kneel to another."
"Foolish, foolish girl," the Lord Reaper smiled fondly. If there was a soft spot in Balon's heart, it was his daughter. "What did I tell you about kneeling after your brothers perished in the war?"
She had the decency to look halfway ashamed.
"That kneeling costs nothing, and you can always stand up again…"
"Indeed." His voice thickened with contempt. "I care little for this Flower King or his war, but I can see the opportunity."
"Opportunity?" Asha murmured.
"Aye, to get Theon back if the damned Greenlanders have not corrupted him. But that's far from it. What's the glaring weakness of the Iron Isles?"
"That we can scarcely grow any trees good for shipbuilding and have more sailors than ships," Victarion answered without hesitation. "Most of our ships are captured or built with materials from the East, which limits our fleet numbers greatly."
It was one of the lessons he remembered from his father–the dragon kings had greatly limited all timber trade with the Iron Isles about three centuries prior, which was still in strength today. It was why his father, Quellon, turned to trade and sold his sail with the East. After decades of his efforts, they built their Iron Fleet to challenge the Iron Throne, and each Iron Lord could call upon more ships than before by a whole third!
Ten years after the failed Rebellion, the stag king banned it completely, and now it was nearly impossible to buy properly seasoned timber for shipbuilding if you were an Ironborn.
"Yes," Balon smiled. But it was a cold, savage smile filled with bloodlust. "As you know, only one fleet stands in our way with the stag's ships all sunken."
"Wait," Asha's eyes widened. "That's why you want me and Theon to wed a Redwyne…"
"Give the boy a son, then kill him, and you'll take the Arbour, the richest and most prosperous isle in the Sunset Coast, for yourself without shedding a drop of blood. Of course, I'm not afraid of their fleet, but it would simply be easier if we can control it than fight it."
His niece finally looked thoughtful, rubbing the pale scar on her neck as she always did when nervous. Victarion had always thought she was too rebellious, even if she made for a capable captain and sailor. Any proper Ironborn had a sense of piousness and duty to their liege and father.
"But you still agreed to attack the Flower's enemies from the sea together with these Reachmen," Victarion noted. "Greenlanders cannot be trusted."
"I know, brother. But I want Theon back and do not need to trust them for much," Balon unfurled a map of the Seven Kingdoms on his desk and stabbed his finger at the large green blob in the North. It was the largest such thing on the map, nearly the size of a kingdom—the Wolfswood, it read, the infamous Northern forest. "There are enough trees here for hundreds of thousands of ships here. House Greyjoy will be unrivalled if we can control the Wolfswood."
"The North is not easily attacked," Asha cautioned. "The land is harsh and cold, and the folk who live there are no lesser despite being Greenlanders."
Balon Greyjoy laughed.
"The Young Wolf Lord is no longer in his den to protect it, and who says I'm attacking alone? That foolish flower king and his seven gods are the ones who want to strike at the North and want to use me as a distraction. At least this Renly has enough sense to promise each shall keep what they manage to take, as if I need to take his permission. But I learned their Greenlander games and can play them in turn."
Victarion's eyes lit up as he inspected the map of the North. The Wolfswood was sparsely populated compared to the plains and towns around the Rills, Barrowlands, and White Harbour. Most of the North's fighting force would be concentrated there, which meant the Reachmen would bear the brunt of such attacks.
And what use would Ironborn need for whatever pitiful harvest fields, gold, or silver the Northmen would have? House Greyjoy did not sow. Besides, good steel, seasoned timber, and hardy thralls are worth far more than any glittering metal.
Asha had seen much the same, for she snorted, "That fool Renly must really hate the North."
"It's a matter of pride after that crushing defeat in the field," Balon dismissed. "And some problem with their seven stone gods. Dagmer heard from that fool Baelor Blacktyde about troubles with zealots and priests congregating near Highgarden. But it doesn't matter. This allows us to take everything we wish while Renly's fools keep the North busy, and once we hold the Wolfswood, we shall deal with the Redwynes and rule the Sunset Sea from the Frozen Shore to the Arbour once more!"
Renly's Rebellion entered what is largely considered its second phase with the Battle at the Trident.
Troubles began brewing in the Dornish Marches, and rumours of the rise of a Vulture King spread as villages were looted, merchants robbed and slain, and fields set aflame. The marcher lords struggled to catch the elusive bandits, however.
The war over Robert Arryn's regency continued. The battles were bloody and far more ruthless than the Vale had seen in decades, with no clear victor in sight as the kingdom descended into anarchy and mayhem. Some lords decided to use the opportunity to clear old feuds and called their banners under the pretext of claiming Lord Arryn's regency while attacking their old foes. Even the savage mountain clansmen descended from the Mountains of the Moon, looting and pillaging as they could. Even after nearly half a year of fighting, no clear victor seemed to be in sight, and the two most powerful claimants aiming for the Regency were Lord Royce and Lady Waynwood, who had both scored a decisive victory each and had the support of one other major lord and three minor ones.
The refugee problem in the Reach intensified. With the coming of autumn, the harvest was not as abundant as before, and the many new mouths to feed that wandered like vagabonds courtesy of the last two long and prosperous summers began to be felt. That was before the infamous Rose Septon pulled the whole weight of the Faith to preach and feed as many of these unfortunate souls as possible in a bid to expand his influence and extoll his virtue.
In each war, hindsight allows one to examine the situation more closely yet dispassionately and analyse all the mistakes made and the consequences of each decision.
Renly's cause was no longer considered as righteous as before after the heavy loss at the Trident, as it was foolishly proclaimed by many Septons that the Seven had willed it. Fingers were pointed, claims that the Northmarcher lords were lacking in piousness, which had caused their defeat.
Shireen Baratheon's infamous Battle of the Blackwater Bay would forever ink The Lady Scars, or the Iron Lady, as they call her here in Braavos, in the annals of history.
The bloody crossing of the Blackrush helped even less. Over eleven thousand had perished when Mace Tyrell pushed over the river at five points, but the goal was accomplished when the Rose Lord himself led the bridgehead that pierced through the confluence of the Blackwater Rush and the Gods Eye River. The Lion Lord was forced to retreat to King's Landing lest he wanted to be flanked, yet the mounting losses led to discontent among many Reachmen and the Faith, who had expected an easy and quick war…
Excerpt from 'Lazyro Zelyne's thoughts on and the Sunset War'.
Author's Endnote:
The chapter is still overly lengthy despite my decision to abandon the next PoV for later because it was too long.
Oh, look, things are spiralling out of control. Eddard Stark gets slapped with bad news as the world suddenly has gone to shit in every direction. King's Landing looks like a complete shitshow, Varys and Co are plotting, and Joffrey is still doing as he wants, advice or not. Balon Greyjoy's wits are confirmed as sharper than canon after an unfortunate (or perhaps lucky, depending on your point of view) head-knocking that has suddenly put his smarts to order, which explains that he's no longer as madly stupid as before.
Battles are piling up, and I won't have time to explore all of them closely narrative-wise, but I will definitely cover them in short segments in such cases.
New OC this chapter:
Ser Calon - a knight from White Harbour, sandy blonde hair, thick of waist, broad of shoulders, very good with an axe.
Bennard Slate - from the Northmen's retinue in King's Landing. Very good at killing and following orders, Joffrey's new KG.
Ser Jonnel Serrett - Joffrey's new KG. Not very bright, good at following orders and killing without hesitation.
Also, the OC, the port town of Pelnos, south of Pentos, has a smaller population of the lower tens of thousands but is technically part of Pentos politically.
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.
Are they high on opium? John is Alive in the North and a green seer and warg. Or was there a twin stolen? I forsee Pentos and Mopatis burning along with the Disputen Lands. The Hungry Wolf Come Again.
Are they high on opium? John is Alive in the North and a green seer and warg. Or was there a twin stolen? I forsee Pentos and Mopatis burning along with the Disputen Lands. The Hungry Wolf Come Again.
Since the Rebellion was pulled two years earlier, Elia got Clegane-d before giving birth to a second child, so they went with the second, riskier Lyanna option. Unlike GRRM, they did the math (that if Lyanna gave birth to a child, it would have probably been far before Ned arrived at the Tower of Joy and found that if there was any child, it would have most probably come before Eddard did (math doesn't care about dramatics, GRRM!)
Rhaegar spirits Lyanna. Word reaches Brandon (1 week) Brandon charges over a thousand miles to King's Landing with company (two weeks)
Word arrives to Winterfell and Rickard marches two hundred guardsmen to KL (anywhere from two to five months)
Eventual set up for the trial by fire (time unknown)
Aerys calls for Bobby and Ned's heads (call it one week added with the above )
Jon Arryn calls the banners while Ned goes North (give Ned's adventure North by foot and boat a good month, though you can realistically stretch it for two) (Using Ned's timeline as the measuring stick since he has the most travel)
Lets assume the Northern banners were already called by Benjen, but Ned would still need to wait at least another month or so.
Then comes the march down with an actual army with cart wagons and everything all the way down to the relevant places in the Riverlands. Depending on weather and condition, that can beasily be 3-6 months... at minimum. Let's put a generous four, because it was sunny and nice and food was easy to come by despite being early spring and probably raining like shit.
Then, negotiations with Tully (give it a generous one-two weeks )
After the stoney sept, give it two-three days for word to reach Aerys. Then, another two to six weeks for Gerold Hightower to actually find Rhaegar who is supposedly hiding at a secret location in Narnia (travel time included).
At this point, we're sitting at a good minimum of nine months and a half+ (while, looking at it realistically, it probably went far slower). (p.s my math might be a bit off cuz i'm mega sleepy while typing this).
Then, Rhaegar has to travel back North and.... rally and march Connington's remaining loyalist forces (and wait for the Dornish to march all the way from Dorne which can be easily another 3-5 months).
Realistically, from the moment Lyanna was abducted, Rhaegar was fucking her for nearly a year, and she spent another half a year if not more in captivity until Eddard arrived.
Having a baby there being born just in time for Eddard Stark's arrival is so extremely unlikely that it's not even funny. I know that GRRM did it for the purposes of dramatics, but that doesn't mean I can't make subtle fun of it.
This is the sort of math Varys did and concluded that Lyanna either had no child or, if she did, it would almost never live or stay long enough for Eddard Stark to arrive.
Huh. Joffrey wants Shireen as mistress of ships based on meritocracy. Balon wants to make ties with Greenlanders for resources -with inevitable betrayal after the Ironborn get what they need. I'd never thought I would see the day where Joffrey Baratheon and Balon Greyjoy would both grab the smart ball in a fic. Color me surprised.😮
Her pregnancy was progressing more than well–the babe was entering the fourth moon, and there were no problems according to the gaggle of maesters her father had dragged along. Motherhood and the birthing bed were daunting, but her mother and grandmother assured her things would be fine. In the end, Margaery tried not to dwell on it.
She had other woes to consider; everything else was not as rosy.
The war was not going as well or quickly as they had hoped. It was odd to see the walls of King's Landing from afar. Seeing them manned to the brim with men-at-arms, pointy spears, crossbows, and shiny helmets glinting in the sun from afar was even odder.
It wasn't as bad as the aftermath of the Bloody Crossing, as they began calling the battle where Tywin retreated to King's Landing. The bards hailed it as a great victory, with the proud lion scurrying away with his tail between his legs, but Margaery knew better.
The Blackwater Rush had run red for a day with the blood of all the Reachmen slain in the attempted crossing, and bodies were fished out of the Rush for days. She was one of the few privy of the final body count–crossing the river had cost just shy of eleven thousand men.
Still less than the Young Wolf's victory. Stark's brutality at the Trident had ultimately ended many more knights and veteran men-at-arms. It had also left many unsettled, but the royal councillors had plans to stop the Young Wolf from surprising them the same way Rowan had been.
Yet while the Battle of the Bloody Crossing had not left as many Reachmen dead as the one at the Trident, the losses were considerable.
The lesser lords Leygood, Lyberr, and Woodright had perished, along with many second sons and scores of brave knights. Margaery had heard whispers that Renly had sent the most pious first to test their resolve that day. Ser Theodore Tyrell, Elinor's father, had been amongst the many fallen, much to her cousin's grief. The young maiden could not be consoled even with Margaery and half a dozen ladies-in-waiting's combined efforts.
How many daughters had lost their fathers in that battle? How many wives had lost their husbands, and mothers had lost their sons? That was without even mentioning the considerable number of wounded.
Her Lord Father and her royal husband didn't seem to be affected one bit–it was all foreseen.
"The ugly calculus of war, my daughter," her father had explained in his lordly voice.
Gods, she understood Garlan's words far better now.
"There's nothing uglier than a battlefield," he had said, and now Margaery would wholeheartedly agree. It was nothing like the songs, which most handily forgot to mention the butchery and woe left in war's wake.
Yet, for good or bad, they were before King's Landing. The Iron Throne was so close yet so far. Only the city's thick walls and over thirty thousand of Tywin's men stood between them and the Red Keep.
Penrose led ten thousand men to force all the Lords from Hayford to Rook's Rest into submission and recruit even more men-at-arms and landed knights to their cause. Margaery knew he was ordered to attempt to break Edmure Tully's siege of Harrenhal if the situation allowed it.
The siege was a far more elaborate affair than Margaery expected. Ditches and other serious defensive fortifications, traps, five-fold rows of sharpened stakes and tall wooden watchtowers with sentries sporting myrish far-eyes were being set up around their camp to prevent Robb Stark from striking them in surprise. Scouts constantly screened the rear for any trouble, and many more preparations were made that Margery did not understand.
Sieges were tricky, especially now that they could no longer afford to block the city by sea. Lannister had expelled two-thirds of the city folk into the crownlands, and Renly had to deal with them, too. It meant that King's Landing's food supplies wouldn't diminish half as quickly as they had hoped. The small wharfs facing the bay wouldn't be enough to feed the whole city, but starving them out would take longer.
The army had yet to assault the walls, and men ferried wood from the Kingswood for the engineers to build catapults, trebuchets, battering rams, siege towers, and ladders. The only fighting had been for the harbour, where her father had sacrificed over three hundred riders for a night attack to set the docks on fire and deny easy resupplying for Joffrey and Tywin.
Truthfully, none of these were matters Margaery could affect. She only prayed to the Seven for the city to fall faster so this bloody charade could end quicker and the King's Peace could finally be restored.
She should have been touring the Stormlands, recruiting new ladies-in-waiting and forging new alliances, but circumstances forced her to linger with Renly's army.
"Was it wise to ally with the reavers, Father?" Margaery asked when word of Garlan's successful negotiation had arrived. Oh, how it would have chafed her kind-hearted brother to break bread and salt with the Ironmen. The whole thing was kept secret, and only her father, the king, and select royal councillors knew of the details of the alliance. Or its motivation. "Wedding cousin Desmera to a pirate scum like Greyjoy? Now poor Elinor is being sent off to marry a Goodbrother while still grieving her father."
"Pah," her father waved a meaty hand, dismissing her concerns. "The girls ought to do their duty, as everyone else. Besides, he might be Ironborn, but Eddard Stark still raised Theon Greyjoy for nearly ten years as a ward, not a hostage. If Desmera truly dislikes her husband, he could be easily removed, and her children will have a claim to the whole of the Iron Isles. It's Paxter who agreed to that particular arrangement, mind you. Also, the Goodbrother heir is said to have a dutiful man, so Elinor should be fine. Reavers or not, the Ironborn are men like every other."
Margaery wanted to tear her hair out at the nonchalant words.
"But you're the one who said the squids cannot be trusted," she stubbornly pointed out. "And how many ladies will be sent to the Iron Isles for this alliance? How many of our lords must marry and host some reaver's daughter in their homes?"
"Seven of each," was the amused reply. "His Grace and myself are well aware that this alliance is only temporary and that the Iron Isles are untrustworthy and must be dealt with sooner or later. And you never know, the Ironmen might honour their vows. When Balon rebelled last time, he gave no vows to Robert. Should the worst come to pass, it still buys us time to deal with a far direr issue."
She deflated under his stern gaze. Of course, her father had a plan. He always did.
"Like what? Those newly cropped-up bandits in the Stormlands?" She snarked. Words of outlaws making trouble in the Dornish Marches had reached them just a few days prior, and Highgarden's Castellan had mustered a few dozen knights and hundreds of outriders to deal with the Dornish brigands. Yet the moment her words left her mouth, Margaery realised her mistake. Her father was an amiable man and loved her dearly, but he hated nothing more than disrespect or defiance.
Mace Tyrell's face reddened, looking like an overripe apple.
"Queen or not, I am your father, and you shall speak to me respectfully," he waved a meaty finger warningly. "It is I who placed this crown atop your head."
"I apologise," she hastily bowed her head. "It's just… I don't see why we must banish so many of our cousins to the dreary Iron Isles."
Her father's fury melted away, morphing into a sly smile as if the anger had been all some mummery.
"I forgive you, my darling. As for allying with the reavers? Renly, your uncle Baelor and I are on the same page here," he said, his words dwindling to a whisper.
The words made her shudder. While her father was amiable, Renly was very headstrong, and her pious Hightower uncle was just as unbending.
She dreaded the answer, yet she asked, "Why?"
"If we include trading cogs and larger fishing vessels, the Reach can boast over a thousand ships across the coastal houses," he rubbed his hands. "I want to get rid of all those vagrants and refugees plaguing my lands. Baelor, the pious lords, and the High Septon want to strike at the tree-worshipping heathens. Renly wants to get rid of the growing influence of the Faith and voices clamouring for the restoration of the Faith Militant, and your good uncle Paxter gets a chance to rule the whole of the Sunset Sea…"
"Wait, how does that-" Margaery's eyes widened as realisation sank in. "You mean just to ship all the problems to the North?"
"Aye. And with the Ironmen temporarily on our side, we can do so undisturbed. The Iron Isles also serve as the perfect resupplying point northward. Of course, no fool is mad enough to restore the Faith Militant and undermine their authority, but all those men the Faith recruited will become arrow fodder and levies. Those like Hightower, Florent, and the other fools along the coast that brought only half a muster would be honour-bound to send their reserve men after so vocally supporting the High Septon. Fifteen, maybe twenty thousand swords if they squeeze hard enough."
It all lined up together now. It also explained why Margaery couldn't see the Rose Septon, his pious entourage, or his new pet, the Hound, with the army.
"But… you always said you respect Lord Stark."
"The late Lord Stark holds my utmost admiration as a man of staunch character and unbreakable honour," her father nodded. "But so what? The poor man has perished to the waves, and House Tyrell's interests come first. Worse, the Young Wolf has proven himself needlessly cruel. I would have understood if he chopped off a few septon's heads, but killing thousands? Even attempts at surrender were refused unless the men in question were of high birth."
Margery dearly wanted to retort on Rowan's needlessly cruel treatment towards the Riverlanders but withheld her tongue. However, her father seemed to notice and gave her a bemused smile.
"Such a thing is just not done, daughter. Rowan had executed those responsible for that nasty business. Yet Robb Stark personally ordered such needless cruelty. Now, the Young Wolf will reap what he has sown. Besides, it does not matter whether the zealots lose their lives in the cold North or succeed. Our foes, House Stark, my unruly bannermen, and the Faith would weaken each other, and your royal husband and House Tyrell would reap all the benefits."
It all sounded good, yet Margaery could see a glaring hole in the plan.
"What if Greyjoy betrays you from the very start?"
"Of course, we're prepared for such a case, too, for only a fool would trust an Ironman. Paxter and our ships will be well-prepared, and we expect an Ironborn attack at any time. Should that fool Balon go back on his word, he'll choke on his foolish ambition, and all the zealots would be shipped to the Iron Isles first."
No wonder the marriage preparations were already underway after the quick negotiations. Her father and husband were eager to send away all those problems, no matter the cost. Zealots were the bane of every king, as Maegor had seen for himself. Six years of war and even a dragon failed to vanquish the stubborn Swords and Stars.
Only when the Conciliator agreed to send them to the Wall did they become House Stark and the North's problem. Now, Renly was doing the same, but in a far more direct manner, without any false pretences.
She did not doubt the dire consequences of unloading tens of thousands of zealots, pious knights, troublesome septons, and armed vagrant levies in the North. For good or bad, the reavers joined the already volatile mix.
How many would die because of this decision? Truth be told, Margaery was afraid even to begin to imagine the rivers of blood that would be spilt.
Yet all those men, all these thorns in their side, would not trouble her kin or her husband but would be the North's problems. It meant her unborn son would also be safe. They might even finally spread the Faith throughout the so-called heathen kingdom for good.
Margaery's hand reached towards the budding swell in her belly. Soon, she would start to show. Everything she did, no matter how much she misliked the scheming, lies, and bloodshed, would be for her son, the future king.
The winner took everything, and the loser perished; she understood that well enough. She had not forgotten nor forgiven the indignity or humiliation that she had been forced to endure for this child.
All she could do was pray and hope for a swift victory.
23rd Day of the 4th Moon, 299 AC
The Warg Lord, Warg Hill
The white wind seeped through furs and leathers, and the air grew frigid as tangible pale foggy wisps escaped his mouth with each breath. Yet the cold was an old friend at this point, if prickly and painful. His back ached with exertion; his fingers had grown numb days ago from gripping the hilt for hours to no end, his wrists were stiff, and his sore muscles groaned with protest after each movement, but mere aches were the lightest burden atop his shoulders.
For once, the pleasant chill on his limbs felt soothing to his strained flesh.
"Here they come again," Jon muttered more to himself than anything else before raising his voice. "You know the drill by now! Form up and stand your ground!"
The last of the sun's warmth dwindled behind the Frostfangs, casting an ominous shadow over the land that hid the horde of wights approaching until they crashed at Warg Hill's defences. His gate was open, with smartly placed barricades that helped to create a funnel for the enemy to clump. As the first shambling corpse appeared, Jon Snow stood at the front, Dark Sister's weirwood hilt clenched in his grasp.
The first foe, a half-rotten blue-eyed spearwife with a snarl on her face, was deftly beheaded, collapsing on the snowy ground like a puppet with its strings cut. Then, a second, a third, and a fourth followed. Dark Sister turned into a ghostly blur, soaring through the cold darkness and cleaving through the dark sorcery holding the grip of the dead, and they fell one after another. His heart hammered like a war drum, and the rush of the heart gave his tired flesh newfound power. Even the dragonsteel blade in his hand felt warm as if it was even more eager for death than he was.
It seemed foolish to fight before an opened gate, but the dug-out ring of trench-like moat only connected with the surroundings through crude wooden bridges. The problem was that when they remained all behind the walls, the undead would pile up like a mass of flesh, clogging the shallow moat, making a ladder of rot and bones over the fortifications, and almost overwhelming the defenders.
A sennight into the fighting, Jon had ordered the skulls counted, but they stopped after fifteen thousand. On a colder night, the water in the moat would freeze despite the weak, and they would have to break the thickening ice each morning. It was something they had learned much to their peril.
Tonight was the thirty-fourth night in a row where the Others attacked. Jon and his men repelled them thirty-three times, and he intended tonight to be the thirty-fourth time, no matter how hard it was getting.
It started light at first, testing the gates with squads of wights, prodding and looking for weakness. They had prepared this for moons, so the wildlings easily repelled the dead. Then came the second night, with a more vicious attack. And the third, and then the fourth, until they were under a full-scale assault. Those were far harder to repel, but they did it.
The days were dark as clouds stretched in every direction. Not even an ounce of blue could be seen in the sky above, and the Cold Ones strode through the nearby Haunted Forest, striking at any foraging parties. Worse, the Others had invested wights on the western bank of the Milkwater, and Jon had to leave manpower to defend Jarod's bridge.
None could deny the Cold One's queer intelligence, for Warg Hill was practically placed under siege.
It didn't make the days any less tiring than the nights; all the charred bones stacked up on hills under the walls had to be removed, lest the wights use them as a staging ground to climb over their defences the next night. During the day, they repaired the broken fortifications, and mud was constantly reapplied so the wooden walls did not burn along with the wights.
Warg Hill repelled each assault, but not without trouble. With only five thousand defenders against a countless, tireless horde, they were getting exhausted. The length of the walls was not insignificant, over two miles long from one end to the other, and Jon split the able-bodied men and spearwives into three parts. Two groups of two thousand would rotate on the wall every second night, and the final thousand with the giants left as a reserve that would plug any breaches.
Giants, the many women who had shied away from becoming spearwives, older folks, and the children too young to help all helped with repairs and clearing during the day to alleviate the burden, but it wasn't enough.
With their access to the forest and obsidian deposit nearby cut off, their supplies were slowly but surely dwindling. There was only a whimper of protest when Jon declared he would ration the dragonglass, seasoned wood, and oil for the torches. The wildlings loved their freedom but were exhausted and loved living more.
At night, the Cold Ones lurked between the corpses, like vengeful spectres searching for a weakness before pouncing. Some assaults breached the walls a handful of times in this fashion, and the Others and wights had to be expelled from the makeshift town by the reserves led by Tormund, Morna, and Ghost.
The casualties also began to pile up. A dozen died each night, into a score, or even over a hundred if things got ugly when the fortifications were breached. A handful of direwolves and scores of ordinary wolves had died, and the wounded piled up even faster.
The woes did not stop there. The relentless assaults each night took a toll on the fighters, even with the respite. Less than two days were not enough to recover from fighting from dusk till dawn with little rest, and the defenders slowly began to grow exhausted and sluggish with each night. The physical exhaustion was manageable, but some days, it felt as if an invisible cold hand had gripped the minds of men.
The seemingly endless foes kept coming, no matter how many were slain. Each night, again and again, one wave after another, and despair had slowly begun to creep into the defender's hearts. Morale dwindled by little each time the dark, cloudy dawn came, even if they had no choice but to fight.
"The Cold Ones are furious," Melisandre had explained earlier. "The Great Other knows his plan is thwarted and has fallen into slumber again, but his children are vengeful. They can feel you're the one who has foiled their efforts and hate it. They sense your bright, powerful fire that roars within your veins and desire to snuff it out."
Whether that was true or not, it didn't matter for Jon. Unlike the other warriors, he fought each night without respite and slept during the day.
He had lost count of how many wights he had felled. Men, women, children, wild boars, bears, stags, moose, shadowcats, two giants, foxes, hares, and plenty of wolves perished a second time under the black rippled edge of the dragonsteel blade.
Val tried to coax him into resting for a night, but Jon would hear none of it. He had promised the chieftains, clans, and warbands that he would be at the front in each battle, so he fought, no matter how much he wanted to rest. Each time darkness gathered, he picked up Dark Sister and fought, no matter how tired he felt.
After over thirty nights of cold, bitter struggle, it felt as if his presence was one of the few things that kept their spirits from crumbling. The situation looked dire to many, but as long as Jon kept fighting, the wildlings mustered their strength to stand by his side.
Killing wights and Others had become an art form for him. Slash with just enough force to sever a wight's spine but not too hard to waste strength, parry or feint into a stab quickly enough to slay the Cold Ones before they can defend. While his body was sore with continuous exertion each night, the battles had started to blur together.
His instincts and skills as a swordsman were slowly honed to the limit as he slew more foes. Avoid, slash, cut, stab, thrust, deflect, parry into riposte, faint into a tapering lunge. Even the slightest excess movement was slowly discarded so Jon could slay more foes with greater efficiency and less effort. Sigorn Thenn claimed Jon was becoming faster and stronger, but he did not see it. Jarod Snow had called it the berserker rage of the mountains, which ran in the clansmen's blood.
Yet Jon Snow did not feel angry. His mind never felt so clear as it was in the middle of battle, but his body felt more tired each following night as if his limbs were made out of lead.
True, the Cold Ones no longer posed a challenge, and he could duel three with laughable ease now; they all fought the same, and his body was fully used to their razor-sharp battle tempo and could see each chink in their crystalline armour with closed eyes. While the mirror-like frost was unbreakable, its creators couldn't rival the human craftsmen in skill. Unlike a master smith who would cover you in steel from head to toe, the Cold One's armours had gaps in their joints, for it seemed that the ice was not flexible, nor could it be hewn into a chainshirt, and they had yet to figure out how to layer and joint it.
Ankles, feet, knees, elbows, armpits, wrists, necks–all were bared. Jon had gathered enough of the ice armour for personal use, and even now, he was clad in the fitting parts and had to wear a thin arming doublet to protect his vulnerable joints. The cold soothed his sore body and washed away the exhaustion for some reason, but Jon tried not to think about it. Even wearing their inhumanely thin ice armour would have been impossible, but Leaf and Melisandre somehow managed to use his blood and weirwood sap to fit each piece to his frame properly.
He had lost count, but Jarod claimed thousands of wights had fallen to Dark Sister and scores of Others in the last moon alone. His wrists, back, and shoulders began to ache, and his body slowly became numb with exertion as the night progressed despite the soothing cold, but such meagre inconveniences were an old friend and couldn't halt him.
Jon welcomed the pain; it made him feel alive and honed his movements towards even more precision, and the fire in his blood only sang louder.
A light tapering slash saw the tip of his sword sever two spinal cords with precision, crumbling two wights on the ground. Jon twisted himself and spun his wrist at the same time, leveraging the momentum into a sweeping half-lunge that beheaded two more wights on the way to a pale neck hiding between the corpses. A pale blade soared, trying to intercept Dark Sister, but it was too slow.
The Other crumbled into shards with an unholy screech, but it was music to Jon's ears.
Another Cold One attempted to strike at his side; Jon had already shifted his footing and jerked backwards while Dark Sister's tip sliced at the overextended wrist where the icy bracer ended, slaying the icy foe.
Jon had learned not to overextend in the heat of the fighting when the Others had tried to surround him countless times before. There was no fear of death, wounds, or defeat in Jon; the fight called to him and his blood pulsed with joy. He was only afraid for his wife and his unborn child. The birthing bed was a battle where he couldn't aid his Val.
Yet even that worry was lessened. Uncle Benjen–the new Lord Commander–which was a pleasant surprise, had agreed to let Jon's heavily pregnant wife through the Wall should the worst come to pass. Leaf and all the Singers, Ghost and his pack, Jarod Snow and Duncan Liddle, had orders to drag the stubborn spearwife and her sister to a raft and flee through the Milkwater despite her unwillingness should Warg Hill fall.
With the knowledge Val would be safe, Jon let go of any qualms and fought to his heart's content. Despite the soreness of the limbs that began weighing like lead, his mind felt as light as a feather, as if it were soaring through the skies. The sound of battle filled his senses; war sang in his blood without doubt or hesitation. It was a fleeting feeling that felt more intoxicating than the best Northern ale or the sweetest Southron wine. It rivalled making love with Val in pleasure, and Jon could scarcely get enough. It was a heady feeling that threatened to consume him.
But the cold, the freezing chill, somehow helped him keep a calm mind and focus on the battle.
There were plenty of ways to sever a spine, and Jon would claim he mastered all of them that required a sword. Tapering cuts that had just the tip slice with the minimum amount of strength required, brutish slashes, well-aimed chops, side lunges–lifeless bodies quickly piled up around him.
But suddenly, the pressure eased, the tide of flesh dwindled, yet dawn was not yet approaching. Far from enough time had passed for the night to end, and Jon could feel the hesitation and confusion in the endless horde of Others battering his position. Someone was even shouting something above him from the wall, but he couldn't hear it over his heartbeat, drumming loudly in his ears.
Then, a petal of colour exploded in the distance: red, yellow, blue, green, purple, and even white blossomed like fiery flowers.
The sound cleared then, and more yells of surprise echoed in the grim night.
"It's the crows! The crows are comin'!"
The fighting continued until the morning; by then, a good chunk of the Haunted Forest was aflame, but nobody cared, for there was no wight or an Other in sight. If any had survived the onslaught, they had long fled.
The Cold Ones were gone, but now Jon Snow and the raiders, hunters, and spearwives behind him formed up, facing the weary Watchmen. Fighting–and probably marching– in the night had also taken a toll on them.
A familiar figure stepped forth from their ranks, his scarred face stern but familiar.
"You're a sight for sore eyes, Lord Commander," Jon couldn't help but smile, and he hugged him close to whisper in his ear, "Uncle, not that the aid is unappreciated, but what in the seven bloody hells are you doing here?"
A wandering glace and Jon could count far more Watchmen in a single place than he had ever seen, easily thousands of men, all clad in black cloaks with battered ringmail and other padded armour peeking underneath.
"Saving your arse," came the quiet reply as Benjen's strong arms patted his back forcefully, inspecting each inch to check if he was fine. "Killing some Others. I asked for some volunteers for a dangerous great ranging, and I was drowned with willing men with more pride and thirst for glory than sense."
"Some volunteers?" Jon scoffed, but his eyes were filled with wonder. "I can easily see a few thousand bloody men here."
"Aye, well, everyone wants to vanquish a cold shadow or two to prove their mettle nowadays," Benjen said, shaking his head in wonder. "The risk only makes those overproud madmen more eager."
Tension bled out of his body then, and he could feel Ghost's enormous form, over seven feet on four legs, trot over curiously, making the nearby Watchmen step away fearfully.
"Bloody hells, is that a snowbear?" Someone asked with a quivering voice.
"No, ye dolt, it's a direwolf. A giant one."
A destrier-sized pitch-black direwolf that Jon could not feel in his mind or recognise from Ghost's pack approached cautiously, and he remembered. It could only be the small, whimpering pup gifted to Benjen. Gods, how long had it been?
Ghost seemed to recognise him too, as his shaggy white tail wagged happily, and the black wolf received a playful nip on the ear, and the two of them ran off together.
"It seems Ghost has abducted Midnight," Benjen chuckled ruefully.
"Don't worry, they'll be back."
This act seemed to ease the tension between the wildlings and the watchmen, and Jon himself relaxed. Yet, with the calm, heavy exhaustion slammed into him. Another long night of fighting had taken a heavy toll on his body.
He sucked in a lungful of air that never tasted so sweet before despite the plumes of sour smoke wafting from the burning forest nearby.
"Tormund! Bring bread and salt for our guests!"
"I'll see it done," Giantsbane cried out from the wall with wonder. "I have never liked the sight o' crows as much as this morn', har!"
The wildlings held little love for the watchmen, but with a glance, Jon could see something else in their eyes. The loathing, distrust, and hatred had taken a back step, and while his men were tense, they looked more relieved than anything else.
After thirty days of being choked by the seemingly endless waves of wights and Others, the black brothers were a welcomed sight.
As his father said, true friends could be found on the battlefield, and despite his uncle's reckless ranging, the Watchmen had proven they were willing to fight together with the wildlings. It was unprecedented, something that had never happened before since the time of the Breaker. No matter how much Jon mulled, he could not devise a better way to at least partially mend the relationship between the two groups outside of total subjugation, hostages, and the like.
The battlefield was cleared, duties were split up, and most black brothers were encamped outside the walls to prevent too much trouble. Jon had no doubt problems would arise with so many armed wildlings and black brothers in close proximity, but he could minimise the risks and the fallout.
"Lord Commander," a ranger cautiously walked over, a crystalline breastplate hanging on his spear. "Another one dropped. Ryl also claimed he spotted another wristguard in the slush and is searching for it."
"Useless scrap," Benjen swore. "The damned cold fucks are too thin. I tried fitting a bracer on my arm, but to no avail, you know? Even this breastplate is too small to wear, even if I forgo the arming doublet and ringmail. Seven bloody hells; I don't even see any straps of latches, so it has to be pulled on like a robe. Still not sure why some leave ice pieces behind, while most just melt away."
"It's the beheading," Jon shrugged, tapping the icy bracer on his wrist. "It took me a while to figure it out, but slicing off their head in a single strike interrupts whatever magic binds the ice to them. They make for a great trophy–proof that you took a Cold One's head with a single strike. I myself have a dozen more of these trinkets mounted on my wall, even if I can easily fit in some parts, as you see, even though it leaves my joints open. I'm only missing the breastplate and a helmet for a full set."
"Well, this breastplate is all yours, nephew," Benjen snorted. "Try to fit it if you can, I suppose."
A tired but smiling Tormund finally appeared with a crude platter carrying bread and salt, and Benjen was quick to accept the rites of hospitality.
Benjen Stark
It was a relief when his gambit had paid off. The Others were defeated in yet another battle, and the losses between the Watchmen were minimal. Marching through the Haunted Forest had his nerves stretched thin. "The Cold Ones are not looking our way," Moqorro had assured multiple times, and it had turned out to be true, for they had suffered no night attacks.
Seeing Jon alive, if very tired and heavily scarred with big dark circles under his eyes, was a great relief. His nephew looked dead on his feet, and once the heat of the battle was worn down, Jon looked as if he could lie down and sleep for a sennight but still soldiered on.
The fighting against the Other was done, and now came the hard part–having so many black brothers and wildlings closely together without trying to gut each other. Yet Jon's wildlings–because that's what they were in the end, seemed to listen to his word without any visible complaints, and Benjen was invited inside the walls.
After some thought, he brought only ten men inside the settlement despite Ser Alliser Thorne's protests.
"What if this is some treachery?" The greying knight asked sourly. "A trap to get you alone and killed."
"Guest right has been given," Benjen coldly reminded. "Are you claiming mine own nephew will cut me down?"
That had silenced any complaints. Of course, the greying knight had gruffly volunteered to accompany him. Now, nine of the most disciplined rangers and Moqorro followed behind him while the first ranger, Jeremy Rykker, was left to deal with the aftermath outside the gates and set up camp. Benjen trusted the commanders of Rimegate and Icemark, Sers Harwin Rivers and Elbert Belmore, to keep a good semblance of order.
On Jon's side, the infamous Morna White Mask, a young balding warrior with a painted face and bronze-scaled shirt, cautiously cooperated with the clean-up efforts.
All in all, even Benjen wasn't mad enough to jam four thousand black brothers in a wildling settlement and expect it to go without trouble. He expected to behead at least one or two fools for insubordination before the day ended.
The watchmen were still distrustful of wildlings in such numbers despite having his nephew as a leader, which was understandable. Aside from the scores of giants that were quite scary on their own, there were a bunch of chieftains or clans that did not have a particularly good relationship with the Watch. While Gavin the Trader had, well, traded oft with the Watch instead of fighting, Soren Shieldbreaker, Tormund Giantsbane, who seemed to have lost an ear, and the other faces he saw amongst the warchiefs were not nearly as friendly. The heavily battered and torn black ringmail on Giantbane's thick torso could have only been picked up from a slain ranger or a wildling who had killed one.
Still, it wasn't as bad as he thought.
The faces greeting them were not… savage or filled with loathing. The distrust was there as usual, of course, but men, women, and children just looked tired above everything else. A few of the spearwives even gave him salacious looks as he passed!
Yet Benjen's eyes couldn't help but wander across the settlement as they slowly moved forth. The so-called Warg Hill was far different from the sea of crude tents, burrows, and makeshift huts he expected. Aside from a handful of tents, the muddy streets were lined with crude log houses on each side. Even the roofing was a surprise. Most had trimmed logs covered with layers of cold grass or leather, mud mixed with clay and straw, but Benjen could see a few with slate. A few rare chimneys dotted the rooftops, plumes of dark smoke twisting out of them.
All of it was done in crude order of shaky rows, with each house at least three yards apart from the rest, probably to prevent fires.
"This looks like a budding town," Ser Mallador Locke murmured next to him, looking at the handful of shaggy goats climbing atop the roof to eat the grass clean. "Reminds me of Icetown, even without any stone masonry." Icetown was one of the two towns Benjen had ultimately decided to build with the royal charter. It was nestled beside a small nameless river, between the northern tail-end of the Northern Mountains and the Bay of Ice, two leagues from Westwatch-by-the-Bridge.
"They even have bronze," the Thorne knight grunted, "I saw at least three scores of bronze scale shirts so far." And Benjen had noticed, too–one of the Thenns was wearing some sort of crude brigandine but with rectangular plates of bronze instead of steel sewn into the boiled leather.
Raising animals, working metals and tools, building houses–only a proper farm was missing, and one could mistake this place for a clansman gathering in the mountains.
His nephew had caught their wayward glances and snorted.
"The Thenns know how to work the stuff, and we found a tin deposit a few moons prior," Jon explained languidly.
Unsurprisingly, the burly Duncan Liddle stuck closely by his nephew's side as if wary of some sort of betrayal. Dozens of direwolves followed behind them, making the black brothers uneasy and Benjen amused. Still, he was not blind–he had caught glimpses of the leafcloaks quietly slinking above the roofs, bows in hand. A few wildling raiders and hunters openly looked at them with suspicion.
It seemed that the feeling of mistrust between wildlings and watchmen was mutual. However, none moved, especially after guest rights were offered and received.
"I never believed such…" Benjen struggled to find the words as he waved at the surrounding houses and well-behaved wildlings.
"Civilised behaviour could be displayed by wildlings?" Jon snorted, trying to rub the sleep off his eyes. "Aye, well, I only had to kill so many fools and kick out those who didn't listen. Regardless of being born on the wrong side of the Wall, they are men and women like any other and would do anything to survive."
"And is that what you did, boy?" Ser Allister Thorne tutted condescendingly. "Civilised this lot under pain of death?"
"Almost. Those who didn't like it simply left," his nephew replied before Benjen could get the crotchety Crownlander to stand down. "The Thenns even have lords and laws, and I made everyone abide by such notions, if slowly and with plenty of struggle. Though, I can't help but wonder if your mother forgot to teach you simple manners when entering another's home, Ser?"
The greying knight reddened but did not dare reply, especially after Benjen shot him a warning glare.
"You would do well to remember that blades forged here are just as lethal, and no matter how savage, the men and women speak or at least understand the common tongue and respect the olden rites of hospitality," Jon sighed. "I might be tired but do not mistake that for weakness. So long as you make no trouble here, I guarantee nobody in Warg Hill shall bother you, Ser Alliser Thorne."
Being recognised by name terrified the man immensely, for all the wrong reasons, and only made Benjen feel even more amused.
"Even that lad that looks at me as if I killed his mother and father?" Mallador Locke pointed towards a shaggy-looking raider clad in leather. His face was mostly hidden behind a brown tangle of beard and hair; the only distinctive feature was the three feathers tucked in his belt.
Jon pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Orell indeed lost his father to a watchman while young. He's probably looking for the man who did it," he shrugged.
"And what would this Orell do should he find him?" Moqorro asked curiously.
"Stay put or lose his head for breaking guest right." Jon raised his voice and gazed at Orell, who nodded stiffly. "Should he want to pursue any grudge or feud, he can do it outside my walls and never under my command, lest he issues an open challenge of single combat as is proper."
The words were spoken with iron surety, and Benjen couldn't help but believe. It seemed like his nephew had become quite cunning– instead of completely forbidding the man a chance of revenge, he had set the rules instead in a manner that both wildlings and Northmen could respect. Slowly but methodically, Jon had herded the wildlings from a chaotic mess into a proper group with laws, rules, and discipline.
The rest of the way uphill was spent in silence until they reached a crudely built but sizeable longhall that reminded Benjen of the buildings the poorer mountain clans boasted.
The entrance had a crude door with bronze hinges instead of a piece of cured leather covering it like the other huts and houses.
Ser Mallador gulped behind him, "That's a lot of bloody direwolves."
Besides the pair of stern-faced wildlings clad in bronze, the entrance was guarded by a small army of direwolves lazily lounging on the ground. They all curiously inspected Benjen and his rangers as if gauging if they were a threat. Then Ghost and Midnight sauntered over, and the direwolves lowered their bodies and tails in submission.
"You've nothing to fear," Jon assured, his lips twitching with amusement. "They're very friendly if you don't make any trouble."
"Aye, I saw the bloody beasts take a giant apart like he was some roast hen when Lerna attacked," one of the wildling guards with a dirty blonde mop atop his head snorted. "But other than that, they're as coy as me daughter, if just as playful."
"How's little Lara doing, Leyn?" Jon stopped, patting the guard on the shoulder. "Getting any better?"
"Aye, the concoction Dalla gave her worked wonders for her fever," the man beamed before turning bashful. "But uh, congratulations, m'lord!"
Benjen's nephew froze there, blinking in confusion.
"What?"
"Aye, your wife. Val, she gave birth to a baby girl–"
Whatever words would follow were interrupted as Jon pushed the man aside and rushed inside the hall.
After a moment of hesitation, Benjen hesitantly followed, signalling his men to remain outside.
The insides of the hall were rather dim but quite warm, aside from the refreshing chill wafting out from above, courtesy of the few pieces of frost armour hanging from the rafters. A roaring hearth, crude trestle tables and chairs could be seen, like in any longhall south of the Wall.
The hall was almost empty, aside from a greybeard, a few Children, and an Essosi-looking woman with a thin gown of crimson silk who quirked a dark red eyebrow at him.
The Lord Commander found his wayward nephew at a cot in the backroom, hovering frozen over feathered bedding where that spearwife that had caught his nephew's eye seemed to be sleeping. Yet, for some reason, her hair was a far paler shade of blonde that Benjen remembered.
Or was his memory faulty?
No, he was sure he wouldn't have forgotten if she had the Valyrian silver-gold hair.
"-Both of them are in good health but resting. It was a very long night, you know. I lost count of how many times my sister threatened to cut your balls off with a rusty knife if you ever touch her again," Dalla, the woods witch that had been with Jon last time, was there, looking tired and very pregnant with her swollen belly. "So be quiet." She shot him a warning look. "You too, lord crow."
"Congratulations," Benjen whispered, patting Jon's shoulder, "I am a granduncle twice over, now!"
Val chose that moment to wake up, and she sat up with a steel dagger in her grip out of nowhere. She blinked drowsily, which turned into a glare, first at Benjen, then at his nephew. Then, her pale blue eyes softened, and the dagger disappeared as quickly as it appeared.
"Are my eyes deceiving me, or have you found your wayward crow uncle again?"
"It is he who found me this time," Jon's voice had turned hoarse. "May I…"
"Aye, let me show you what you made," Val smiled, looking proud. "Dalla, bring me my daughter!"
A moment later, the pregnant woods witch brought a small bundle of furs from one of the corners. "I thought something was wrong at first when she refused to cry, and her eyes came out wrong. But then the little thing latched onto my hair and pulled."
Jon stiffened again, and Benjen also couldn't help but lean in with worry.
"What do you mean the eyes came out wrong?"
"Aye, well," Val grimaced, hugging the bundle, cautiously standing up, and letting them finally look at the babe. Benjen couldn't help but stare at the small, wrinkled, reddish face as beneath a silver-gold tuft of soft hair, a pair of curious purple eyes innocently blinked at him. "Never heard of anyone having purple eyes before. At least she ain't blind, for she can follow my fingers and has my snow-kissed hair."
Jon just sighed, his face torn halfway between relief and frustration, while all Benjen could do was guffaw.
25th Day of the 4th Moon
The fire that had taken hold of the Haunted Forest had fizzled within a few hours. Over a hundred trees had been burned, creating a pleasant scent of seasoned pine and oaks that mingled with the unpleasant stench of charred meat. Thankfully, no weirwoods were harmed by the grace of the gods. The veil of snow and dampness prevented the flames from spreading too much despite the wind. It seemed that even the burn-for-a-night blue flame could only last for so long, and even when they spread out, the things set aflame burned normally.
Another fifteen thousand skulls had been counted amidst the slush and muddy snow in the surrounding hills–a good third of them belonged to beasts. Benjen had thankfully lost only three hundred rangers but had twice as many wounded–the wildling woods witches had helped along with whatever supplies they had spare. The two maesters that had joined them, along with their team of acolytes, had at first bristled at the inclusion of savage healers and their remedies, but the woods witches' experience soon proved invaluable against the wounds caused by rotten teeth and claws.
Jon's losses after a lengthy siege were even greater–nearing a thousand warriors and dozens of giants. The exhaustion had taken its toll, too, for his nephew spent most of the last two days sleeping.
Alas, Benjen was regrettably right, and trouble had come knocking. Jon had been woken up to beheaded one wildling who got caught trying to attack the night's watchmen at night. Benjen had taken two heads of his own–of black brothers–one who had tried to force himself on a widowed woman going to forage for shrooms and roots while the second was caught robbing the poor woman's tent from her meagre belongings.
A young huntsman had challenged Stonesnake to single combat for his father's death. The duel had taken place this morning. Thankfully, nobody had died, for Jon had decided the weapon of choice–fists. The young wildling boy had his arse beaten black and blue and would be unable to leave his bed for at least a sennight, but he would live.
With that, passions finally settled down, and things eased. A few of the more comely rangers got 'stolen' by an eager spearwife, and Benjen had no doubt many babes were conceived the last two nights. Midnight, that trickster, had also not stopped a slip of a girl with red hair and a crooked but playful smile from sneaking into his tent. A red-faced Benjen had to toss the poor lass out while explaining that while the other crows could take women and sire children, he had sworn otherwise as the Lord Commander.
Amusingly enough, a handful of younger boys in Warg Hill–mostly without parents or siblings to take care of them, had volunteered to take the Black when they heard it was no longer for life.
"Think on it some more," Benjen had told them. "While no longer for life, taking the Black would still be two decades of harsh service."
That seemed only to give the boys hope.
"But we can join, right? You can't kick us out for at least two decades and teach us how to fight, right?"
Not at all what he meant, but Benjen tiredly nodded. "Aye, if you truly want to. But joining means you must follow orders, even if you don't like it."
"That's easy to do," their leader, a scarred, wiry lad of three and ten, snorted, "Everyone knows how to listen proper after the Warg Lord came. Or, well, the others died quickly enough or were chased out."
Later, Mallador Locke pulled him aside to ask, "Are you truly going to let wildlings join?"
"Aye, I am willing to take the risk. I know you're wary of desertion or betrayal, but those could come regardless of where a man is born, and men who are born and bred north of the Wall would make for fine rangers."
"We do not want a repeat of Mance Rayder," the Locke knight reminded glumly.
Not that there would be any. The Seven Kingdoms simply had far more to offer than the cold wilderness. Everyone knew the story of Mance Rayder, but Benjen knew the ranger had deserted after over three decades of service because he started chafing at the harsh restrictions. But neither was service for three decades anymore, nor were the rules of the Watch as harsh as before.
To Benjen's amusement, word of Jon's daughter spread around Warg Hill and even the invited black brothers, and by the second day, everyone had seen the quiet purple-eyed babe. As per the wildling tradition, his grandniece remained unnamed.
Val proudly explained that once she was two years old, the girl would take the name Calla Steelsong–named after her mother, Valla, and the purple blossoms the wildlings called clarines, the flower Benjen knew as Traveller's Joy.
His nephew was still stuck between pride and disbelief and looked rather unsure with a bundle of furs in his arms. Oddly enough, the babe didn't cry but giggled and loved pulling long locks of hair–something that Benjen had found out when trying to wrestle out his mane from not-yet-Calla's surprisingly strong fingers. Thankfully, nobody seemed to suspect anything about his nephew. All the blame was placed on Val and her Valyrian features.
"Probably the blood of some dragonseed or a seahorse," Ser Alliser Thorne had scoffed almost dismissively as if he wasn't happily smiling like a lackwit at the sight of the babe earlier, even when she was curiously tugging on his sleeve.
Of course, there was one last point of woe between the black brothers and the wildlings.
Moqorro seemed quite disgruntled with the woman clad in a scanty red gown with a cloak of weirwood leaves, who turned out to be called Melisandre of Asshai, a former red priestess who had abandoned R'hllor for the Old Gods.
"Even you dare turn your back on the Lord of Light?" The tall coal-skinned priest had accused, his black finger angrily stabbing at her chest.
"It is he who turned back on me," Melisandre had retorted. Her eyes were different–one was verdant green, while the other one was angry red, and both made Benjen's skin crawl. "Besides, while a new door has opened for me, it does not mean the old one has been shut closed. If R'hllor is jealous of my newfound devotion, he has yet to show it."
A small ball of red flame had appeared in her palm, and Moqorro and the rest of the priests from the order of the flame were content to avoid her lest they get infected by her heresy. Still, that did not stop the glares exchanged between the two groups.
Despite their quarrel, Melisandre and the red priests of the Watch claimed that most of the Others had all retreated or gone into slumber and would no longer attack, which was welcome news. And indeed, the weather had got quite warmer–at least warmer for Beyond the Wall–and it had stopped snowing.
But Benjen Stark was Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, and he could not make all of his plans based on a few questionable claims by clergymen.
Thus, Benjen, Jon, and the other commanders and warchiefs gathered in Longhall that evening to discuss further details of possible cooperation. Jon, no longer looking like death warmed over, was the only young face here, aside from Sigorn of Thenn, whose father, Styr, had died from his wounds on the last night of battle.
"So," Tormund Giantsbane patted his bulging belly and burped. "You lot leave us alone in exchange for shelter and food-"
"And trade," Gavin the Trader coughed. "We are willing to pay a good price for steel and knowledge."
And the wildlings were not lacking in wealth. Silver, even gold, ivory, weirwood, and sometimes precious gems were enough to let any merchant salivate with greed. Benjen, however, was no coin counter.
Yes, he had helped his nephew, but now it was time to secure as many benefits for the Night's Watch as possible.
"A certain amount of steel tools can be arranged each year," he decided. Ploughs, hoes, sickles, saws–nothing that could be used as an effective weapon against the Night's Watch, but things that would be useful to the wildlings, should they desire to civilise further. "Volume and variety of items and even knowledge could be increased if you want to cooperate more closely and should all of you be willing to foster a son in the Watch."
The proposition wasn't outright rejected, which was good. Yet, they didn't exactly look too happy about it either, while his nephew wore the infamous unreadable icy face of House Stark that reminded Benjen of his father, Rickard Stark.
Should Benjen succeed in this endeavour, he could see the wildlings abandoning their savage ways in his lifetime.
"I want all of this," Jon's finger slid across the map, rounding up a large chunk of land on both sides of the Milkwater, including the Valley of Thenn. "The Watch won't meddle in my affairs, but we will keep supporting you unconditionally, especially against the Others when you venture further into the Lands of Always Winter."
"It can be arranged," Benjen shrugged. Rykker looked amused while Elbert Belmore and Harwin Rivers were frowning at the map. "But I want everything you have on the other wildlings. Knowledge of numbers, clans, warchiefs, and positions. This Redbeard, Harle, and Silent Foot Isryn, and your full logistical support should the Watch come to blows against them."
His nephew smiled.
"Done."
The negotiations continued for a few hours more, and in the end, nobody was truly dissatisfied, and both sides seemed inclined to cooperate. There was no sense of unity amongst the wildlings, just raw self-interest; many of the clans, tribes, warbands, and chieftains were feuding with one another, and Benjen would use this to the fullest.
Of course, only time would tell how the fruit of this endeavour would ripen.
With the official matters of the Watch finally concluded, Benjen pulled over Jon later that night for a private talk. In the hectic two days, he scarcely had enough time to update his nephew on the happenings of the South.
He was led to a weirwood grove filled with even more direwolves, where they both sat before a bench near a young heart tree.
"So… Father is lost at sea?"
"There hasn't been any word for nearly half a year now," Benjen muttered mournfully. "The sailors say the Narrow Sea grows fierce in autumn."
Jon just sagged on the bench, looking at his palms as his hands shook. At that moment, he looked like a young man of seven and ten despite his scars–one step into manhood, yet not completely shed his childish notions. But was the want of a family childish?
"I… I was afraid to meet him, you know?" Jon's voice thickened with grief. "I was afraid to meet all of them–Robb, Sansa, Bran, Arya, Rickon, and even Lady Catelyn. I had already mourned their deaths once, and it felt as if I was facing ghosts in the flesh, so I escaped towards what I knew best like a damned fool! They were my kin but not my kin, for neither had lived or could understand the woe and loss I had to endure. Now… I'll never even get to lay my eyes on Father or hear his voice again…"
He raised his head; his grey eyes turned almost silvery with the tears glistening in his gaze. "Do you think he would be proud?"
"Always," Benjen sighed. Even after all that time, it seemed his nephew yearned for a father. Not that Benjen was any different, gods, the things would he give or do to see and hear Rickard again… "Every father would be proud to have the likes of you as a son. I would be no different. But the Starks always endure, no matter the hardship."
Jon grimaced, looking at his feet.
"Am I a Stark, uncle?"
"Perhaps not in name, but in blood," Benjen squeezed his shoulder. "You're as much a Stark as the rest of us, a son of Stark, born and bred in Winterfell. Come now. Your doubts ought to have melted away at first sight of your gaggle of direwolves."
That earned him a wet chuckle, and his nephew wiped his tears away. His face hardened with resolve, even though his eyes still held a sliver of grief.
"Winter is coming," he sighed. "And we ought to prepare."
"Aye. But King Robert enfeoffed you before the whole Southron court, and you're technically a Lord of the Realm," Benjen pointed out, fishing out a roll of parchment from his belt. "Here, I have the decree with me; Ned sent it before he departed King's Landing. You can even pick any empty castle you like for your seat."
"And what am I going to do there, Uncle?" Jon uneasily ran a hand through his dark locks, a hint of melancholy creeping into his words. "The North does not need a Stark bastard anymore, and my presence alone would only bring woe to Robb, let alone if I claim some castle by Robert's decree of all people."
"This is a chance many would kill for," Benjen pointed out, ignoring the irony of the situation. Robert would have never given Jon even an inch of land, let alone a castle, if he had known he was Rhaegar's son, no matter how many achievements and accolades he had under his belt. "Besides, you can grab some land south of the Neck if you fear making trouble for Robb."
"I don't care much about titles and such trifles," Jon chuckled. "Gods, I can hear the jests already. Lord Kneeler!"
"Is that why they call you the Warg Lord?"
"Perhaps, Commander Black Wolf. Couldn't you have chosen a less banal name?"
"I wasn't the one doing the choosing," Benjen bemoaned. "The damned moniker just stuck like flies on horseshit because of Midnight."
His nephew barked out a laugh.
"Don't I know it? Listen, uncle, I appreciate the proposal, but… my place is here now. It would be good to see my siblings, but perhaps they're better off without meeting me. You ought to know that my presence would be far more trouble than it is worth. I have a wife and a daughter, as you've seen for yourself," Jon sighed. "Their safety is my utmost concern, and if the Others are truly gone as the red priests claim, this place would be the safest for them."
A few younger direwolf pups, the size of hunting hounds, crawled out of the bushes and began to circle the two of them playfully.
"Here, I am someone," he continued with a clenched jaw, "not just Lord Stark's bastard; my name and respect have been earned with my hands. My unnatural ability to warg is accepted, even though the older wildlings are still wary of it. Besides, how long would the wildlings keep any order should I leave? How long would the hard-fought agreement you made last without me? I have made my bed and can only lay in it."
Benjen grimaced. "You are not wrong, Jon. But the war for the Iron Throne isn't going too well."
"Didn't you say Robb won a great victory on the banks of the Trident?" Jon frowned again, the same expression he held when Benjen told him Robb was fighting on Joffrey's side.
"As you know, a great victory does not mean the war is won. Besides, your brother is the only one who managed to win from Joffrey's side. All the others are suffering a string of defeats. Things are going brutal, and the rift in the Faith is growing worse by the day. Words of men, women, and children being burned alive have spread even all the way to the Wall!"
His nephew shrugged.
"Aye, but there's not much I can do about it from here. I follow the Old Gods just like you do, and I am only one man-"
"With a hundred direwolves-" Benjen coughed. "And those Children-"
"They prefer to be called Singers," Jon interrupted in turn. "Neither of those makes a proper army. Joffrey, Renly, the Faith–neither are my problems nor is this my war, Uncle. On the other side of the Wall, I'm either just a bastard or a small lord who earned a title based on hearsay. For all we know, the current king might not necessarily acknowledge the lordship. Besides, didn't you say Winterfell and the North are well-defended? Even if Robb loses, Renly would have to keep him alive to bend the knee if he ever wants to have the North."
No matter how unwilling, Benjen could see the truth of Jon's words. It sounded callous, but the practicality ought to be respected.
Of course, the wildlings remained unmentioned by both. Three-four thousand hunters, raiders, and spearwives with stone, bronze, and bone for weapons weren't particularly dangerous or important. While skilled and experienced, they lacked numbers and lancers, which meant their strength on the battlefield was greatly limited.
Nor would the wildlings necessarily agree to become kneelers, and Benjen couldn't afford to let thousands of armed wildlings pass the Wall without a proper agreement and assurances. Allying with wildlings against other wildlings and the Others was one thing, but letting them cross the Wall in numbers was an entirely different beast.
And Benjen could see it in Jon's eyes and scarred face. His nephew held himself with a sliver of pride and finesse, and his spine was upright like a spear, as he possessed the same look Benjen had seen in many wildlings.
The desire for freedom, the ability to grasp his fate with his fists and the yearning to only answer to himself and nobody else. Benjen would have thought it was folly, but Jon had the skill and was already close to getting there.
"Perhaps," Benjen acknowledged. "You're still my nephew, regardless of your choice, and that will never change. Yet keep this in mind– only Robb is left. His son Edwyn and brother Artos are swaddling babes, Rickon is barely six, and there is no other Stark to lead the North should he fall or be captured. Only the gods know what a man like Renly would do should he sit atop the Iron Throne."
"I already killed the Bolton bastard, so the Leech Lord won't be able to make trouble around Winterfell, especially if Robb prepared," Jon muttered. "Surely nobody would be foolish enough to invade a prepared North, right?"
"I don't know, Jon. Little Edwyn has a claim to the Iron Throne through his mother. With Tommen's death, should the worst come to pass and Joffrey is killed, he would be the next in line for the crown. Neither Renly nor the Tyrells would ever let such a potential threat go free."
Jon sighed, running a scarred hand through his hair. Benjen stared at the smirking face carved into the heart tree in thought. He was Lord Commander now, and the matters of the realm ought not to concern him. Yet, no matter how much he wished to ignore it, he could never close his eyes and could not help but worry for his kin, even if he couldn't act on it.
Hopefully, fortune would turn for Joffrey's cause soon. Benjen dreaded to imagine the alternative.
Benjen "Damn-this-place-looks-like-a-proper-town" Stark
Jon "I-am-a-father-now" Snow
The Others are officially done and dusted, but the woes take a different dimension.
P.S. I wanted to keep the Others' armour completely non-functional and purely show off(trophy-wise), but both of my damned editors ganged up on me to give Jon a full set. The patrons and the folks on discord only nailed it further.
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.
27th Day of the 4th Moon, 299 AC
The Young Wolf, Lannisport
When he dreamt of the Oakheart army retreating, Robb was wroth. Even more so when the scouts confirmed it when he woke up, and his irritation spiked once more when he saw the siege of Lannisport abandoned with his own eyes at noon. He did not even stop to admire the enormous Casterly Rock looming nearby, casting a dark shadow over his army.
All the enemy scouts on the way were caught by the clansmen like Liddle and Knot, who seemed to be at home in the hills–or sniffed out by Grey Wind, he was sure of it. The Westerlanders had been very helpful on the way even if the castellans, uncles, second and third sons of holdfasts and castles were content to cower behind their walls. Only Lady Lefford and three minor knightly houses, Yew, Ruttiger, and Hamell, had whomever could be spared ride out with everything they had to join him on the way. Alysanne Lefford had to actually be convinced not to ride out with them to war, and her cousin Ser Daven Lannister promised to lead the men in her stead.
The Lannister Knight had joined them from his Uncle Edmure's host, for he had accompanied the Rivermen in the war after his sister became the Lady of Riverrun. Yet, he was thirsty for vengeance–his father, Stafford, had been slain by the Reachmen near Crakehall.
Unlike the craven noblemen, the smallfolk met the Northmen like heroes along the way–especially as they swept through Oakheart's riding parties.
Alas, things did not play out as expected when Robb arrived at Lannisport's walls.
The siege was freshly abandoned–there were still dwindling embers, pots of food cooking on the campfires, and a small forest of tents abandoned before the walls of Lannisport, yet the defenders had not sallied out. Was this a stroke of luck and good use of scouts from Oakheart or something more insidious, like some traitor who had informed the Reachmen of their coming?
Robb would have all the men from the Westerlands watched regardless.
"Spineless cunts," Ser Daven Lannister scowled, looking at the city's defenders massed along the ramparts. "It must be grey Loren in charge of Lannisport, and old age has turned his courage into cowardice."
It was the sensible thing to do, for the city's defenders were greatly outnumbered, and if it were a ruse, sallying out would prove fatal. Robb said nothing, for his eyes had gotten weary of seeing all those nobles cowering behind walls.
"They're half a day ahead of us, m'lord," one of his scouts, Emyck, reported. "The baggage train and all the loot were also left behind."
And here came his undoing. Traversing through the hilly and mountainous terrain of the Westerlands had his men tired, and he had arrived slower than he thought. And misfortune came in pairs–when he tried to chase, he lost control of his men because the thrice-damned John Oakheart had left everything behind on the road.
Cattle, supply baggage, carts, loot, and what looked like a small mountain of spoils. War seemed to be quite the profitable venture–Robb had never seen so much gold and silver in his life in one place, not even in Winterfell's treasury.
If it was only one handful of men, he could have them flogged or beheaded for insubordination. But nearly half his men broke rank and their place in the marching column to take their share of the loot.
And now, with his ranks collapsed and discipline broken because of all that wealth abandoned in the open, Robb could no longer pursue.
"A cunning man, this Oakheart," Ser Wendel Manderly, his riding companion for this day, sourly noted. Yet, the merman knight made no move to stop his men from participating in the chaotic looting of the spoils.
Watching your plans collapse before your eyes was a sobering thing–the chaos had paralysed Robb's forces all the way into the night. The Reachmen could have circled and annihilated his force if they knew better. The thought caused his spine to tingle like thousands of ants were crawling over his skin. Worse, the current way of distributing spoils badly needed change if he wanted to keep a good level of discipline. A method that ensured a portion–preferably half was evenly distributed amongst the men.
It was easier said than done, however. The current tradition of looting and giving out plunder has hardly changed in the last centuries.
And now his forces were the ones burdened by all the loot. The cattle, food, gold, silver, gems, silks and rich fabrics were taken from his Westerlander allies, and returning a good part of it would make soliciting assistance easier, even if they technically had no claim to the wealth after losing it. Robb could already feel the headache of dealing with this problem - no lord liked giving away his hard-earned loot, let alone the common man-at-arms.
This would delay him even further.
"Lord Bolton, Lord Dustin, Lord Ryswell," Robb faced the three men that night. Dustin was a broad-shouldered man with bloodshed in his eyes, Roose Bolton still looked like a ghastly spectre, and Rickard Ryswell was prickly and gaunt. They weren't the most loyal or the finest tacticians, but their abilities to lead cavalry while keeping a good level of discipline were the best amongst his bannermen. "I want you three to take fifteen hundred men each and harass and delay Oakheart as much as possible without engaging in a direct battle. Sweep any of his traps and stragglers."
"I'll bleed them dry," Beron Dustin vowed solemnly.
"How far should we chase?" Bolton asked, the barest sliver of irritation betraying his emotions. He had wanted to seek a bride among the local nobility, but Robb's pace had denied him the time to enter such negotiations. And even more so with the current mission.
"Until Crakehall," Robb decided. "I have to clean up this mess first before joining you."
He had to figure out a new way of distributing spoils and plunder quickly–something that would keep his men reassured and disciplined. Then there was that pesky, mind-numbing amount of loot to deal with. Having carts and baggage trains meant that their ability to drag along plunder was very limited. Robb had even left half of the spoils he had won in the Riverlands to his uncle Edmure, while the other half was slowly trudging up the kingsroad to the North with an escort of two hundred men. But ferrying supplies from the Westerlands all the way to the North would be too risky and take too long.
Worse, the local lords also had to be rallied in some form, and Robb needed logistical support. But Tywin Lannister seemed to have taken everyone with daring and skill-at-arms to King's Landing, and those few left had perished with Stafford Lannister.
Robb massaged his temples, trying to stave off the budding headache.
28th Day of the 4th Moon, 299 AC
Arianne Martell, Sunspear
"Father," Arianne greeted, entering the prince's solar. It was a sprawling, airy room smelling of blood oranges with windows looking towards the beach below. A pair of songbirds were sleeping in the gilded cage by the wall with the enormous Nymeros Martell tapestry. There were no servants here, and Areo Hotah was guarding the entrance, which meant her father did not want anyone to eavesdrop on them. "You called for me?"
"We're waiting for your brother," Doran motioned as he peeled off a blood orange from the bowl full of fresh fruits. Was he trying to take her rightful place as the next Princess of Dorne and put her brother in her stead?
No, that couldn't be it–her father would have sent her away to pave the way for Quentyn in such a case.
She swallowed her irritation and sat down. Even her nose twitched at the fresh, sweet fragrance of citrus mingled with the soothing scent of Myrish incense wafting from the corner. After a minute, she had to fight off the drowsiness and poured herself a cup of strong red wine from the pitcher.
Her Uncle's death had forced Doran Martell to end his retreat in the Water Gardens and come to Sunspear to rule in person, especially as war had erupted in Westeros. However, he rarely showed his face in the court, spending most of his days in quiet contemplation in the library or the solar, refusing to receive visitors.
The war itself was a sour topic–on one side, you had Tywin Lannister, a man very hated in Dorne. Not only was her late aunt Elia well-loved by everyone, but most of her ladies-in-waiting had been from Dorne and had not survived the Sack of King's Landing either. House Martell's loss was Dorne's loss, and their want for vengeance was shared from the Red Mountains to the Broken Arm.
Yet on the other side, you had Renly, Lord of the Stormlands, allied with the Fat Rose of the Reach–Dorne's old enemies. Those were old feuds, not easily forgotten even after a century of peace after Dorne bent the knee. It was hard to forget grudges carved into the minds of men, women, and children with blood over millennia, and the dislike still lingered.
Of course, there were always warmongers amongst the lords–Dayne, Yronwood, Jordayne, and Uller were the most vocal, insisting on joining the war on one side or the other. Envoys from King's Landing and Highgarden had brought generous promises to sway her father to join on either side. For a second time, Arianne had been close to becoming the Lady of Highgarden, marrying the crippled Willas Tyrell.
In vain, of course–Doran Martell preferred to wait for his way through the war, and the alliance offer was gently rebuffed despite accepting Gregor Clegane's tarred head. Even that religious madness crept its way into Dorne. The Septons sent from each High Septon demanding support in denouncing the other side but found no fertile ground for their feud. Their northerly neighbours had always looked down upon the Dornish branch of the Faith.
Yet Garin had told her of the Orphans of the Greenblood meeting secretly with septons and septas. Who knew what the faithful of Dorne were up to these days?
Her waiting ended as Quentyn skittishly entered the solar, giving her an uncertain smile as he took the orange chair to her left. Her brother was a plain, awkward young man who seemed uncomfortable in his skin–a virgin still. Short-legged and barely taller than her, Quentyn was said to look like their father in his youth with his square face.
"Word has come from Norvos–your mother is fine, and the war against Qohor ought not to reach the city," Doran explained, bringing them a measure of relief. It was expected in a way–Free Cities were not so easily sacked, and Norvos had not fallen even once since the Doom. Quentyn looked happy enough to leap. "But that's not what I called you here for."
"Father, are we finally joining the war?" Arianne asked impatiently.
"No," was the curt response.
Quentyn grimaced, "What about those brigands around the Vaith and the Greenblood? Merchants and trading barges are attacked in broad daylight, and even Lord Daeron Vaith has been slain when riding out to deal with them. Lady Allyrion also reached out to request aid from Sunspear."
"Smoke and mirrors," her father clasped his swollen hands. "Did you know Lord Anders Yronwood met with Allyrion, Blackmont, Manwoody, and Wyl secretly before these troubles began? Did you know that a new vulture king has appeared in the Marches, pillaging and burning, and Renly Baratheon is blaming us?"
"But-but why?" Her brother looked shaken; he thought of Lord Yronwood as an uncle and a second father. His closest friends were the younger Yronwoods, and such a betrayal must have stung deeply.
Arianne baulked, feeling her insides twist, "Are they planning treason?"
"Neither is that daring," Doran smiled. "Yronwood is also wroth I declined his marriage offer for Quentyn. Now, they have just smelled blood and are prodding for weaknesses–nothing that could be traced against them, of course. Notice how many Dornish Houses have withdrawn from the Sunspear court?"
Her blood ran cold at the words. Now that her father had mentioned it, the court steadily dwindled by the day, and less than half remained of what was here a year prior–something she had initially attributed to autumn.
"But why now?" Quentyn asked.
Of course, Doran Martell looked at them impassively as always without explaining things, with a sliver of disappointment dancing in his dark eyes. "Why do you think this is the case?"
"The war?" Arianne guessed sourly. "But the war has been going on for some time."
Doran Martell looked at them expectantly, but neither sibling spoke. With a sigh, he sipped from his glass of thick, strong wine–just the way her father liked it.
"Not only. My brother's absence is felt sorely now. If only he had not gone to chase tales and myths, but alas. He chased glory, valour, and renown and got them, leaving the rest of us behind. Did you know nearly three hundred Dornishmen, all knights or hot-blooded young warriors, sailed North hoping to slay a mythical Cold One? Merchants and sailors from the North had sung your uncle's praises to high heavens, with the septons here now calling him the Warrior's Hand."
Arianne recalled seeing many young men in the Sunny Sept when she last visited and lighting a candle to the Warrior in her uncle's honour.
He shook his head, looking tired. "I know many of you considered Oberyn a whimsical rogue, but he was far more than that. My brother was the one to lead Dorne's banners, and now that I am old and sick, the next one would be Quentyn."
Arianne looked at her brother, who shrank in his chair as if he wanted to disappear.
"But I'm not a particularly good warrior or commander," his voice shook as he hid his face in his palms. "I've never killed a man!"
Doran tilted his head, "And Dorne knows." The words were uttered placidly, but the condemnation rang like a warhorn, shaking up her brother even more. "How many times do I have to tell you that there are eyes, ears, and daggers aimed at our House?"
"So what now?" Arianne challenged. "We must do something, Father, or we'll just look weak!"
Her father scoffed, taking down another gulp of wine. The look he levelled at her said it all: we are weak.
"Of course, your brother, you shall ride up the Greenblood with two hundred riders and learn from Areo Hotah and make a name for himself-"
"What if they ambush Quent?" She interrupted. "This could be a trap!"
"Patience, daughter mine," Doran sighed. "It is something you must learn sooner rather than later. And, if you had not interrupted so hastily, you would have heard in half a minute. Two groups of a hundred outriders will trail in Quentyn's wake, ensuring he's safe, and House Martell's finest scouts will screen the way. Areo Hotah has fought far worse skirmishes against the Qohorik and the Dothraki."
Her brother grimaced, "But… I'm not sure I'm ready, Father."
"You cannot avoid life forever, my son. Strength, skill, and wisdom are born from adversity. Stagnation leads to decay, as I have found out for myself," Doran motioned to his swollen joints and misshapen-looking blanket covering his knees. "Regardless, we have far bigger problems with Lys and their campaign to take control of the Stepstones."
"Why worry? Myr and Tyrosh would never let the Lyseni succeed," Arianne pointed out. "The three daughters get along like water and oil, and the only time they ever united was against the Rogue Prince and the Sea Snake."
Predictably, the obvious argument did not move her father.
"But the whole naval might of Tyrosh is embroiled in a war against Joffrey, a good chunk of it lost to Shireen Baratheon," his voice thickened with disdain, and she couldn't tell if it was aimed at Joffrey, Stannis' daughter, or the Tyroshi. "The Myrish slave revolt has yet to be suppressed. Probably because the Lyseni Council keep pouring gold and sellswords into the rebels who show surprisingly competent leadership. The city streets run red with blood as thousands of slaves are killed each day, and the Grand Conclave of Myr has lost control of over a third of the city's hinterland."
Arianne paled, and Quentyn's shoulders slumped.
"And with the Volantine fleet burned by the corsairs from the Basilisk Isles, only Braavos has the strength to oppose Lys in the Stepstones," he whispered.
"Which is something they won't do because everyone would turn against them," Arianne sighed.
"The Stepstones are too far for Braavos to control. There is word from Pentos that a formidable army with direwolf banners had forced the city to shut its gates down for a week, so there's a good chance that Eddard Stark has survived."
"What can one man even do?" Quentyn asked. "Tywin Lannister is under siege in King's Landing, and any armies take moons to muster and even more to move."
"Eddard Stark is not someone to be underestimated," Doran's voice turned grave. "They think him an honourable fool, but can such a fool almost completely flip the board in less than a year? The Old Falcon was an experienced lord and Hand, yet he didn't make a tenth of the waves in two decades that his foster son did in half a year."
"House Stark are no friends of ours," Arianne pointed out coldly.
"Nor is anyone else." Her father's face hardened. "House Nymeros Martell has no friends but subjects, allies, and foes. Regardless, Lys has a sizeable chance of taking control after purging the petty pirate lords out of the Stepstones. And three-quarters of House Martell's trade will be at the mercy of the Lyseni."
"But we have no fleet, Father," Quentyn despaired. "There isn't much we can do."
"Indeed." their father agreed after a short pause. "Ever since Nymeria burned her ten thousand ships, our House has yet to build a proper fleet, but we are not defenceless from the sea. Seventeen warships and thrice as many trade cogs can be mustered amidst our principal bannermen."
It was still a meagre amount compared to the naval might of Lys, the enormous island city-state, which meant something else was at play here. Doran Martell never did anything without thinking it through thrice. Arianne gasped as the realisation slowly sank.
"You mean to aid the pirates?"
"Of course. Our ships will dip the banners and discard all heraldry. Dornish spears would flood the Stepstones." With a pained cough, her father unfurled the map of the lower Narrow Sea over the mahogany desk. "It's been over a century since House Martell had an agreement with the petty pirate lords of Dustspear and the Veiled Isle. In fact, Teora the Red is a Sand from Dorne, the wife of Blackhook Syren, who took his place after he perished."
By the evening, Arianne's mood had turned even more sour.
Her father's unusual wordiness ended, and no other plots or secrets left his lips. Once again, the topic of her and Quentyn's marriages was avoided, and while she had little love for her brother, he was still her blood. Throwing him into the sands to hunt bandits seemed rather cruel.
She knew the aim: turn Quentyn into her right hand, someone she could rely on as Doran had relied on the Red Viper. Yet the reality was cruel, for her brother was neither a viper nor a warrior–Prince Frog, they called him, and Arianne couldn't help but agree. At least some of her doubts that she would be discarded as an heir were alleviated for all the good it did.
Yet Dorne seemingly continued to stay neutral about the war of the Iron Throne. Her aunt's murder remained unavenged, and it would remain so for the foreseeable future. House Martell's influence over the Iron Throne after the war concluded would dwindle even further if nothing were done.
Worse, their bannermen seemed to have smelled weakness and circled like vultures. And what did their father do? Sit idly in Sunspear and start a war with the Lyseni, of all things!
"You look quite irked," Nymeria's voice greeted her in the hallway. She was garbed in a far less revealing gown than usual, not showing even an ounce of sensuality. The loose, flowing dress of layered purple cotton was designed to hide the swell in her belly and did so rather well.
"Because I am," Arianne exhaled slowly, pushing aside her usual woes. It wasn't anything the Sand Snakes could help her with, though Nymeria had always been special with two highborn parents, one of the Old Blood of Volantis. Many called her Lady Nym, but Arianne and her sisters called her simply Nym. "How's the babe doing?"
"I can feel it kick now," she muttered with wonder. "It's a spirited one."
"I still don't get why you insist on hiding your pregnancy or refuse to tell who the father is." Her cousin refused to name her lover, and Obara and Ellaria remained conspicuously silent. "Who stole your heart, Nym? Was it some lauded honourable lord lusting after the Dornish beauty? A famed warrior of low birth, or perhaps a skilled man-at-arms or a dashing sellsword?"
It was quite a surprise when Arianne found out her cousin was pregnant shortly after Ellaria, Obara, and Nymeria returned from the North with her Uncle's bones. Even more so because Nymeria usually preferred the company of women, but her usual lovers, the Fowler twins, had been spurned since her return.
"I will not say," Nym said stubbornly.
"Why, is it some lord who would refuse to take responsibility and acknowledge a baseborn child?" Arianne tilted her head. "Or did you perhaps wed in secret without inviting me?"
"Neither. It's not as sordid as you think-"
"Well, you have no incomes of your own save what little you inherited from Uncle Oberyn." It was meagre. The Red Viper had left all his personal belongings and estate to his daughters, but they were little–as a second son, he had no lands, only owning a winery and two tanneries bought on a whim, and their incomes were split into eight.
She tugged on her hair and continued, "All baseborn children must rely on their father's generosity to prosper, and yours will be no different. Or is it perhaps a sordid affair with some poor, penniless bard? It couldn't be a Black Brother!"
"Enough," Nymeria hissed, looking like a cat whose tail had been stepped on. "I already decided not to tell. No amount of queries will change my mind."
"This is so unlike you, Nym," Arianne bemoaned, but her suspicions were confirmed–it had to be a Black Brother, but that meant little nowadays. There were thousands of men at the Wall now, from each corner of the Seven Kingdoms, from lowly tillers to Highlords. "You know better than this. Why not take Moon Tea?"
"There was no tansy in the northern snows. By the time I could procure it, I had already quickened, and it was too dangerous to get rid of the babe," her cousin said, looking slightly mollified. "Besides, I decided to keep the child and raise it. I do want to be a mother."
The talk made Arianne feel even more restless. Sunspear felt like one enormous trap hewn out of sandstone. War to the east and the north, bandits to the west, and her future was still shrouded in mystery.
Her father had some plan, but only the gods knew what it was. Doran Martell was the kind of man who would wait and wait until things aligned, no matter how long it took. Or perhaps she was wrong, and he truly planned to wed her to some old, dying man.
Her frustration only mounted further, and that same evening, Arianne Martell found herself again in the embrace of her old lover Gerold Dayne, the handsome Darkstar.
5th Day of the 5th Moon, 299AC
Cersei Lannister, King's Landing
Jaime had died, leaving her all alone. Cersei had refused to believe at first, not without seeing her brother's body. They called him the Kingslayer, but he was the greatest swordsman in the Seven Kingdoms. How could he die to some nobody Tarth woman from the Stormlands?
Yet no matter how many mornings she woke up expecting to see her brother come in with his dashing smile, he never appeared. Her Uncle Kevan, Septas Unella and Helicent, the skittish serving girls, and Ser Mandon Moore before he perished–they had all said the same. Dawn after dawn, the realisation sank in, and her disbelief was whittled away.
And so, day after day, Cersei of House Lannister, Queen Dowager, was stuck in the Maidenvault alone. Or worse, with two Septas for company–the old crones loved tormenting her with sermons and prayers. The more interesting things to do were sewing roughspun robes and coarse linen gowns for propriety's sake—crude mourning garb she was forced to wear.
Cersei hadn't clawed their eyes out only because it would probably lengthen her stay inside the damned prison. But she would not forget–and the scowling Unella and hard-face Helicent would get their due once she got out.
But Cersei couldn't get out of the damned prison, no matter how hard she tried.
"It's for your own safety," Uncle Kevan had claimed after the riot that had almost murdered her precious boy. "The Maidenvault is one of the best-defended buildings in this city."
It was all a load of horseshite, of course. They wouldn't even let Cersei see her son–and Joffrey wouldn't visit for some reason! Unella said something about the king cavorting with heathens and whores, but her boy would never.
To her fury, her stay in the Maidenvault had extended more than the supposed seven moons and seven days. Mourning for her brother, however, was something she could do without faking.
The only solace was the word of the war, which had gotten slightly less grim, even if the city was under siege. Word filtered of a child, a newborn Stark, Myrcella's son, her grandson.
It was a queer thing, and Cersei didn't know what to think. Would the child look all lion, all wolf, or some mix of both, like a little mongrel? The Stark boy looked half-decent for a husband, but the Northmen were just so… savage and backwards, clinging to pointless old traditions. The fools did not even have a headsman. Alas, her daughter had seemed enamoured with her husband and had not responded to Cersei's letters or advice.
Worse, she was going to be a grandmother a second time over–Myrielle was, in fact, also pregnant. Did her meek little cousin get a hold of the court without Cersei's guiding hand? What had happened with her household and servants?
The Septas did not know–as befitting of damned prudes who had sworn off men and held no inkling about worldly matters.
Worse, there was dull shaking, rumbling far in the distance that she could hear from beyond her shutter. It was constant, day and night, at uneven intervals. It was the sound of trebuchets hurling rocks at the city.
The mundane tedium mingling with worry was mind-numbing, and even the food was bland and tasteless–serving her plain porridge and peasant soups.
That's why Cersei was so glad when she saw her father show up. His face looked like a piece of granite, completely unreadable, and the Lord of Casterly Rock was clad in his enamelled crimson armour inlaid in gold. It was the first time Cersei had seen him since she had been exiled to the damned prison.
"Father," she gave her best curtsy and gave her most submissive smile, "I am gladdened to see you alive and well."
"You must be wondering why I forbade you from leaving," he said, his voice bereft of emotions.
"Indeed."
Tywin pulled over one of the varnished chairs and seated himself.
"We are on the back foot of the war, Cersei, if you have not figured it out yet," his words were laden with disdain. "All because of your imbecilic vanity and pride. House Lannister could hardly afford such brutal mistakes again."
"All I did was just-"
"Spare me the nonsense. House Tyrell wanted a queen, and their influence in court could be curbed one way or another. You had already held control of the city for over fifteen years when they had yet to make a foothold. Robert never allowed them to; what chance would they stand against the might of House Lannister, Stark, Tully, and Arryn?"
She had no answer, earning herself a scoff. "You've made the matter worse than it could have been in your foolish desire to avoid giving the Tyrells influence. They're here to take it at the tip of a sword."
"Surely they can't take the city?" Cersei wrung her hands nervously. "You have over thirty thousand swords here, the whole might of the Westerlands, and Tully and the Stark boy ought to be on their way."
"One might think so, but Robb Stark has decided otherwise. He has broken the siege at Lannisport, and Oakheart has retreated in good order with little losses."
She scoffed. "Since when have you suffered such insubordination? Summon the boy to come here and fight!"
"I do not command House Stark," Tywin reminded. "Your wayward son does, and he seems very happy with his good brother who keeps sending tarred heads of treacherous lords as gifts. It is of no matter, for Renly has fortified his camp, digging trenches and traps should the Young Wolf strike him in the rear. Even in the Westerlands, Robb Stark has raised the morale of my troops, and a new crop of levies can be trained and drafted, just like in the Riverlands."
"Wouldn't this only prolong the war?"
"Succession wars are a long and bloody affair, daughter mine." Her father glanced away from her as if he couldn't bear to look at her. "The chance to nip it in the bud was lost when you allowed Renly to flee King's Landing after Robert died, and you wasted Joffrey's hand. Varys says the Ironborn started negotiating with House Tyrell and that the Redwyne Fleet has begun to move, and Mace Tyrell has started arming and training all those vagrants at his gates so he won't lack for numbers. With Tyrosh in tow, our enemies only grow more numerous."
He stood up then, giving her one final glance filled with disappointment. "Your period of mourning is now over, Cersei. You can leave the Maidenvault, but try not to make a bigger mess of it. The last thing we need is your ability to make problems where there were none. Stannis' daughter ought to arrive in the following days, so get yourself presentable. If I had two daughters as bold, cunning, and competent as the eleven-year-old Shireen Baratheon, I would have nothing to worry about."
And with that, her father walked out the plain door, leaving a seething Cersei heaving with fury.
He dared to insult her to her face?! Comparing her to that stone-faced ugly little thing. Was it somehow her fault that Stannis raised his daughter like some savage barbarian?
Was it somehow her fault that Renly was a treacherous sword-swallower or that the grasping roses reached far above their station?
Was she only being released to greet that scarred little girl?
It took her half an hour to swallow her anger and leave the Maidenvault with her plain, uncomfortable, roughspun robes that chaffed her skin. Unlike before, nobody thwarted her attempt. Even the red cloaks at the entrance nodded as she walked out instead of halting her way.
The air outside was crispier and far fresher than she remembered, probably because her Uncle had kicked out all those unwashed street rats. There was even a feast and celebration for Robb Stark's meagre victory in the Westerlands.
Yet the embers of rage were quickly stoked when she found out all of her servants and handmaids had already been dismissed by Myrielle. Her little scheming cousin had taken up her royal apartments in Maegor's Holdfast!
The Red Keep was filled with unfamiliar faces, from the courtiers to the guardsmen and the scullery maids. She no longer had a white cloak to accompany her–and the demand for one was curtly rejected, "Kingsguards are in short supply nowadays. Even the Queen does not have one."
The Queen–not her. The reminder that Cersei was only a dowager and her power had melted away stabbed her in the heart.
…Until another comes, younger and more beautiful, to cast you down and take all that you hold dear.
Maggy the Frog's words echoed in her mind, making her blood run cold. Cersei had dismissed the prophecy as some mad rambling when her brothers perished, but now this part happened.
Did this mean her children would all die before her now?
But while younger, Myrielle was not half the beauty Cersei was, and confusion clouded her mind further.
"Are you Her Grace's new lady-in-waiting?" One of the damned chits had the temerity to ask to her face, and Cersei had ordered the thing flogged for the disrespect.
But nobody moved to obey her orders, as if she was a no-name guest, and the damned roughspun robes made her look like some lowborn servant or a Septa.
…Only the damned Northmen recognised and greeted her with a measure of respect–not because she was the King's mother, but because she was the grandmother of the future Lord Stark. The old Hother "Whoresebane" Umber had hunted down the serving girl to cane her in person.
The indignities did not end there. There was also an actual Valyrian whore in one of the towers–Joffrey's mistress. She strutted around as if she owned the place, but Cersei noticed the bitch sensibly avoided being in her father's vicinity.
She had to regain her influence and take control of the ladies in court for good, lest they corrupt her precious son.
But how?
Her power had been curbed–a combined effort by Myrielle, her father, and her Uncle Kevan, who had corrupted her son. Joffrey refused to see her when she suffered the indignity of hearing him with his harlot. All of the proper ways for a lady or a queen to hold any power were denied to her.
The answer came to her later in the night when she saw a gold cloak, over seven feet tall, built like a giant and muscled like a bull, with his arms the size of tree trunks. Lacking any distinctive heraldry and clad in a fitted half-plate meant he was either a captain or a vice-captain–a high position to reach for someone lowborn.
He had a young, boyish face full of rugged charm, and his blue eyes held a hint of youthful naivete and idealism. It almost reminded Cersei of a kinder, bigger version of her damned oaf of a husband, which made the whole thing even sweeter.
Surely nobody would begrudge a grieving widow some comfort? Even a king's mother like her had needs. While frowned upon, such an affair would be accepted–if they even got caught. But with no eyes on her person, sneaking around became so much easier, so chances of such a thing happening were meagre.
So Cersei pulled him into one of the empty hallways, and the foolish boy felt as malleable as clay under her deft hands.
Gerold Waters finds himself at the wrong place at the wrong time… or maybe it's the wrong place at the right time?
Whew, that was a doozy to write. Many things happen in this chapter, and we finally get a Martell PoV. Two fresh PoVs in this chapter, so it took me a while to get Arianne and Cersei's inner monologue/narrative right. Do comment if you think something might be off.
List of OCs introduced in this chapter:
Blackhook Syren - a pirate lord who had control over the Veiled Isle until he died.
Teora the Red - a Sand from Dorne who ruled after her husband perished.
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.
Tbh, it's just a tactical retreat in the end, even if it's going to last for a few millenia. Just like they did the first time when they were forced on the back foot.
He had a young, boyish face full of rugged charm, and his blue eyes held a hint of youthful naivete and idealism. It almost reminded Cersei of a kinder, bigger version of her damned oaf of a husband, which made the whole thing even sweeter.
