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Smoke & Salt: A Horse Grenadier Company in Westeros
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Introduction, Renly I and Joffrey I
- Location
- Brisbane
What is this?
The rewrite/sequel to No Greater Fury: A Horse Grenadier Company in Westeros. I'll be updating this with the rewritten/edited version of No Greater Fury and The King, The Priest and the Rich Man, then continuing on with Smoke & Salt.
What on earth's a Horse Grenadier?
A grenadier on a horse. These particular grenadiers on horses are from my original fiction story Broken Lance and the spinoff For Vengeance and for Gain. They're from a roughly 17th century equivalent fantasy world, and were ISOTed into Westeros shortly after Jon Arryn died. They've already caused a few butterflies-Lady and Nymeria are both still with the Starks because of everyone in the royal party being distracted by the Grenadiers, for example-but things only really start going off the rails when the story starts.
What's changed from the original version of No Greater Fury?
It's mostly an edit job for the first half, but there are significant differences including several added and cut chapters and characters and changed characterization for the second half of the story.
Renly I:
"My brother was always strong." Renly said, as he watched him die. "Not always wise, but strong. His entrails were sliding out of his belly, but he slew the boar." He had seen it, with own eyes, his colossus of a brother struggling with the beast, butchering it with his bone-handled hunting knife even as his life blood poured forth. Robert lay in his bed, gore-stained blanket pulled up over his ruined belly. He was still breathing, though shallowly.
"He was never a man to leave the battlefield while there was a foe still standing." Lord Eddard Stark murmured besides him.
Neither am I. Already his mind was turning, thinking of how to depose Cersei, of how to defeat her son. The Tyrells would support him in his efforts, and Stannis, he who had left his brothers and King to die as he cowered on Dragonstone, would no doubt have his own plans. Eddard would stand with him, he was sure. Cersei was his foe too. Her brother had all but crippled him in a street fight, and he had been probing after the matter of Joffrey's parentage since he had come to King's Landing.
At the door, Eddard was talking to Ser Selmy Barristan, reassuring the old knight that he had no part in Robert's death. Renly turned to Robert, smoothed a strand of sweat-soaked hair back from his fevered brow. His brother looked peaceful now, more peaceful than he'd ever seen him, the milk of the poppy pulling him down into unconscious. His death rattle was beginning.
He waited a long while more, then turned away from the bed, telling Lord Barristan that he needed to talk to his household. Lord Eddard and Stannis were not the only powers in the keep who bore Cersei ill-will. He had his own allies, soldiers armed with sorcery and exploding powders. Soldiers from far away, from another world even.
*
"This about the king?" the Horse Grenadier asked. She stood in front of the Maidenvault's doors, a musket with fixed bayonet on her shoulder.
"I need to talk to your captain, and soon." Renly answered.
The woman nodded. "It's about the king, then. Come in." She pushed the door open and let him enter. The vile scent of a hundred unwashed bodies crammed into the building washed over him, almost as bad as the stink of the streets. Most of them were sleeping, except for the sentries outside, and a few men inside, silhouetted by moonlight. One of them ran upstairs.
He scanned the room, looking for Tane Bayder. She was an odd women, like most of the soldiers in her company. They came from far away; another world, they said. They carried strange weapons that used something like wildfire to hurl lead balls with more force than a crossbow bolt, and queer looking swords with wires and bars wrapped all around the grip.
About a third of them were women. He knew fighting women himself; Brienne of Tarth, an absurd, ugly creature taller than most men, and rumour had it that Stark's girl was training to fight. But never so many, and never treated so blasely. The only comparison he could think of were wildlings, but wildlings were savages from the end of the world.
"Renly?" someone asked.
Renly turned, and faced Captain Tane Bayder. The captain of this lot, and now technically part of the Goldcloaks. As Master of Laws, he'd gotten her soldiers a position as part of the Goldcloaks, with guaranteed pay and board, after he'd found them camped in the wolfswood a little after Robert had set off north. Now he meant to call in those debts.
She was nearly as tall as he was, with brown hair tied back into what they called a club. Her face was hard, with prominent cheekbones, and she wore men's clothes: baggy breeches down to her knee, tight hose over her calves, and a doublet in an angular, foreign cut. A sword, long and thin with one of their wiry guards, and a dagger hung on her belt.
"We need to talk about King Robert." Renly said, quickly and quietly.
Tane nodded. "Hey, Morgan?"
"Yes?". Another woman, this one in a buff leather coat with black hair, stalked over.
"I'm going upstairs to talk to Renly. Need someone to check that there's no one listening in.
Morgan nodded.
Renly shuddered. That woman had an uncanny ability to see things she shouldn't be able to see. She'd once calmly said that someone was listening behind a tapestry, and when they'd pulled it back, an urchin child was huddling behind it. Tane's troops called her a witch, and Tane had once called magic her the most dangerous weapon her company had. He could see why.
Tane led them up onto the second floor, to the room that had once been Daena Targaryren's, and she offered him a seat at her desk. It was covered with diagrams, labelled in a foreign tongue. Machines. She'd asked him about funding once, for her ideas. Things she called printing presses, powder mills and more besides. Robert had hurled money at them like one of his tournaments, and now the goldcloaks were already testing their first batch of "arquebuses".
"I want your eighty swords" Renly began.
"For what?" she asked.
"To offer to Ned Stark, so he can strike, while the castle sleeps. Take the Queen in hand, get her away from her son. Her pampering is the whole reason the boy is so cruel; he knows not what consequences are.". He got right to the point. He could trust Tane; the only reason her company weren't sellswords or bandits was because of his patronage. She misliked Joffrey as well. There'd been an ugly confrontation when her troops had gone north with him to meet the royal party coming south on the Kingsroad and another at the tournament of the Hand, and he'd heard Joffrey boast in his cups that he'd drive them across the narrow sea with their own weapons when he was king.
"You want a king dead or deposed or taken in hand, you came to the right people." She shrugged. "Coups might as well be the Commonwealth's favorite sport. And I sure as hell don't want Joffrey on the Iron Throne without someone to restrain him."
Renly sighed. "Cersei will likely already be gathering. I want Joffrey alive and unharmed." He didn't tell her about what he suspected about Joffrey's birth. That would probably make him come off as grasping, a conspiracist rather than a pragmatist.
Tane nodded. "Oh, I do too. I've gotten plenty of blood on my hands over the years. Don't want to add murdering children to the list. We move fast enough, we can overrun the whole holdfast before they can organize resistance. Secure the portcullis and drawbridge levers and we have them. Get one of your men to rouse Janos Slynt. Tell him the gold cloaks need to secure the Red Keep to ensure a smooth succession."
Renly nodded. "When will your men be ready? As we speak, Loras is gathering my men, to run or fight as need be"
"We can be armed and organized in half an hour, if we don't need to get horses saddled up. All our weapons and ammo are in here."
"Do it then, raise your sword. I'll tell you when to let it fall."
"As you wish." Renly turned and left. The Stark girls direwolves, Lady and Nymeria, were howling in the godswood. They can smell the fear. Tonight, one way or another, men were going to die.
*
"I can offer you my own household guard of thirty men, and all eighty of Captain Bayder's Horse Grenadiers. And another seventy or so loyal men." Renly said plainly.
Ned visibly grimaced in the light of a lantern held by one of his guards. Renly had caught him near the base of the tower of the hand, as he was returning from Robert's deathbed, and laid out his plan. Secure the Holdfast with the Grenadiers. Appoint him Lord Protector. And then announce the truth of Joffrey's birth to all the world, and become the heir to the throne.
"I won't sully Robert's last hours on earth by shedding blood in his halls and dragging frightened children from their beds…". He sounded uncertain, hesitant.
He wanted to grab his doublet and scream I could make you lord protector, the next best thing to a King! In his face. He resisted the urge.
Instead, he simply said "It could be your blood being shed in Robert's halls, and your children dragged from their beds, if we don't move against the Lannisters first."
He hummed the beginning of the Rains of Castamere.
Think with your heart and your head, not with your honour, damn you.
Ned paused in thought, then finally said "I'll lend my swords. But I want no unnecessary killing. Do this cleanly. I don't want queens raped and babes butchered."
Both of them knew exactly what Ned was talking about.
"Thank you. I've told them no needless killing as well. The Grenadiers are getting ready as we speak. If the gods are good, you'll be lord protector on the morrow."
Joffrey I:
He jerked awake to thunder and screaming and direwolves howling in the godswood. He could hear it echoing through the Red Keep, hear someone, muffled, yelling for help, hear boots outside his door.
The door was thrown open, and men rushed in, one in a white cloak, the other three in red.
"Your Grace!" Sandor said, a drawn sword in one hand and a torch in the other.
"What is it, dog?" Joffrey asked. He tried not to let fear into his voice. Fear was for women and children and peasants, not for kings.
"Treachery." said the white cloak. Selmy Barristan. An old, decrepit man, Joffrey thought with disdain.
"Who? Who is the traitor? The Starks? The foreign bitch?"
He grinned viciously. Traitors meant executions, and since he was going to be king in a few hours, that meant he decided how they died.
"We don't know, but the foreigners, the Genians, are involved."
As if to prove his point, Joffrey heard another volley of what he now recognized as gunfire.
Since they were traitors, he realized, when they were defeated, he could take their guns. No need to wait for the A crossbow looked like a toy next to those things. He'd use them to shoot prisoners, do it himself, and force them to tell him how to make more, so he could have a whole royal army to crush the rebels in the riverlands with.
This just kept getting better and better.
"Why don't you kill them?" Joffrey asked.
As if in answer, a redcloak stuck his head in through the doorway. "They've crossed the drawbridge and are into the holdfast. Mandon Moore is holding them, but he's hurt real bad."
"Get more men to the fucking staircase, then!" Sandor roared.
"We don't have the men! Only thirty in the holdfast, and some of those are dead!"
"Then the rest of that sorry lot should hurry the fuck up out of their barracks and hit the attackers in the arse" Sandor growled.
Joffrey rolled out of bed, fumbling for his breeches. He pulled them up hurriedly, then grabbed Lion's tooth and buckled it to his belt.
He ran outside the room, only for Selmy to grab him.
"It isn't safe." he said sternly.
"It isn't safe for an old man. Unhand your king!" Joffrey yelled.
"Your father still lives, and may yet recover. Meryn Trant watches over him." Selmy said.
"No matter. Unhand me, or I'll have your hand" he repeated, his hand going to his sword.
Selmy let go of him, but pushed ahead of him out into the corridor. Joffrey followed. It was chaos; servants running this way and that, a pair of archers shooting down one staircase, Blount and half a dozen redcloaks forming up, and the backs of men fighting visible on another staircase.
He saw Cersei at the other end of the hall, Arys Oakheart standing guard over her and the other children. Joffrey laughed when he saw that Tommen was crying and Myrcella was holding his hand.
"Joffrey, my sweet Joffrey!" Cersei called as he walked down the corridor.
"No need to fear. The Goldcloaks will disperse this rabble." Joffrey said.
"The Goldcloaks have turned traitor" Sandor said.
He glanced behind him. Sandor was still following him, and Selmy was yelling orders, telling men to go to this doorway and that staircase, commanding for ravens to be sent to all the lords in the seven kingdoms, begging for help.
She hugged and kissed him, telling him everything would be alright. His skin squirmed with disgust.
He couldn't abide the wailing of women.
A Lannister guardsman screamed behind him, and he turned just in time to see a flash like thunder and the two archers going down screaming. Blount's men rushed the staircase, but the foreigners were storming up in, grim faced men and women in breastplates and buff coats with bayonets fixed, or a sword in one hand and a pistol or dagger in the other. They crashed into Blount's men, some of them firing at point blank, and then Joffrey could see nothing but struggling backs in the torchlight. Selmy turned back to them, ushering them around a bend in the hallway, out of sight, and then into a plain room. The King's Study, unused for years. He locked the door behind him, and threw a table across the doorway.
"The Holdfast cannot stand. Come. I know a way out."
"Where?" said Sandor.
"A passageway, built by Maegor himself. As Lord Commander, it is my duty to know all the ways an assassin might enter, or a prince might escape." He pressed down on a stone, and something clicked. A part of the wall swung inwards, and Joffrey realized it was a door covered in stone to disguise it.
"The Red Keep shall not fall. The gold cloaks will rally and…" Joffrey said.
"Look at this. It is falling." Selmy said. Joffrey peered out the window, and saw more men, fighting in the courtyard, gold and buff and grey and yellow against red, lit up by torches and the muzzle flashes of muskets.
The Traitors won, he realized, his stomach sinking.
But grandfather still has an army. We still have Casterly rock. With all the gold there, I can hire all the sellswords in the world, and kill all the traitors in the world.
"Show me the way out, the way to Tywin" Joffrey said. "He'll punish the traitors, even if you can't!"
Selmy began to move.
"I command you to stay!" Cersei screamed. "The goldcloaks will take our side, Littlefinger promised me-"
The children cowered behind her skirts.
"I am the king, not you!" Joffrey screamed back.
"Joffrey is right, your Grace. We cannot stay here." Selmy said.
"And I will not flee like a rat when help is close at hand!" Cersei yelled back.
A gunshot rang out, deafeningly loud and close, followed by muffled sobbing and yells of "Gallery clear!" and "Get fucking moving, we haven't found the prince!"
Joffrey felt something warm and wet run down his legs.
The traitors will never take me alive!
"Dog, with me!" Joffrey called, and he ran for the passageway.
He heard more yells, Cersei arguing with Barristan, then a final "If you want to run, run, coward!"
Selmy yelled for Arys to protect the queen, and to follow them into the passage if she could be convinced to. Then he turned and ran, following Joffrey down into the shadows, slamming the door of the hidden passage behind him.
I'll kill them. I'll kill them all. For Vengeance and for GainBroken Lance
The rewrite/sequel to No Greater Fury: A Horse Grenadier Company in Westeros. I'll be updating this with the rewritten/edited version of No Greater Fury and The King, The Priest and the Rich Man, then continuing on with Smoke & Salt.
What on earth's a Horse Grenadier?
A grenadier on a horse. These particular grenadiers on horses are from my original fiction story Broken Lance and the spinoff For Vengeance and for Gain. They're from a roughly 17th century equivalent fantasy world, and were ISOTed into Westeros shortly after Jon Arryn died. They've already caused a few butterflies-Lady and Nymeria are both still with the Starks because of everyone in the royal party being distracted by the Grenadiers, for example-but things only really start going off the rails when the story starts.
What's changed from the original version of No Greater Fury?
It's mostly an edit job for the first half, but there are significant differences including several added and cut chapters and characters and changed characterization for the second half of the story.
Renly I:
"My brother was always strong." Renly said, as he watched him die. "Not always wise, but strong. His entrails were sliding out of his belly, but he slew the boar." He had seen it, with own eyes, his colossus of a brother struggling with the beast, butchering it with his bone-handled hunting knife even as his life blood poured forth. Robert lay in his bed, gore-stained blanket pulled up over his ruined belly. He was still breathing, though shallowly.
"He was never a man to leave the battlefield while there was a foe still standing." Lord Eddard Stark murmured besides him.
Neither am I. Already his mind was turning, thinking of how to depose Cersei, of how to defeat her son. The Tyrells would support him in his efforts, and Stannis, he who had left his brothers and King to die as he cowered on Dragonstone, would no doubt have his own plans. Eddard would stand with him, he was sure. Cersei was his foe too. Her brother had all but crippled him in a street fight, and he had been probing after the matter of Joffrey's parentage since he had come to King's Landing.
At the door, Eddard was talking to Ser Selmy Barristan, reassuring the old knight that he had no part in Robert's death. Renly turned to Robert, smoothed a strand of sweat-soaked hair back from his fevered brow. His brother looked peaceful now, more peaceful than he'd ever seen him, the milk of the poppy pulling him down into unconscious. His death rattle was beginning.
He waited a long while more, then turned away from the bed, telling Lord Barristan that he needed to talk to his household. Lord Eddard and Stannis were not the only powers in the keep who bore Cersei ill-will. He had his own allies, soldiers armed with sorcery and exploding powders. Soldiers from far away, from another world even.
*
"This about the king?" the Horse Grenadier asked. She stood in front of the Maidenvault's doors, a musket with fixed bayonet on her shoulder.
"I need to talk to your captain, and soon." Renly answered.
The woman nodded. "It's about the king, then. Come in." She pushed the door open and let him enter. The vile scent of a hundred unwashed bodies crammed into the building washed over him, almost as bad as the stink of the streets. Most of them were sleeping, except for the sentries outside, and a few men inside, silhouetted by moonlight. One of them ran upstairs.
He scanned the room, looking for Tane Bayder. She was an odd women, like most of the soldiers in her company. They came from far away; another world, they said. They carried strange weapons that used something like wildfire to hurl lead balls with more force than a crossbow bolt, and queer looking swords with wires and bars wrapped all around the grip.
About a third of them were women. He knew fighting women himself; Brienne of Tarth, an absurd, ugly creature taller than most men, and rumour had it that Stark's girl was training to fight. But never so many, and never treated so blasely. The only comparison he could think of were wildlings, but wildlings were savages from the end of the world.
"Renly?" someone asked.
Renly turned, and faced Captain Tane Bayder. The captain of this lot, and now technically part of the Goldcloaks. As Master of Laws, he'd gotten her soldiers a position as part of the Goldcloaks, with guaranteed pay and board, after he'd found them camped in the wolfswood a little after Robert had set off north. Now he meant to call in those debts.
She was nearly as tall as he was, with brown hair tied back into what they called a club. Her face was hard, with prominent cheekbones, and she wore men's clothes: baggy breeches down to her knee, tight hose over her calves, and a doublet in an angular, foreign cut. A sword, long and thin with one of their wiry guards, and a dagger hung on her belt.
"We need to talk about King Robert." Renly said, quickly and quietly.
Tane nodded. "Hey, Morgan?"
"Yes?". Another woman, this one in a buff leather coat with black hair, stalked over.
"I'm going upstairs to talk to Renly. Need someone to check that there's no one listening in.
Morgan nodded.
Renly shuddered. That woman had an uncanny ability to see things she shouldn't be able to see. She'd once calmly said that someone was listening behind a tapestry, and when they'd pulled it back, an urchin child was huddling behind it. Tane's troops called her a witch, and Tane had once called magic her the most dangerous weapon her company had. He could see why.
Tane led them up onto the second floor, to the room that had once been Daena Targaryren's, and she offered him a seat at her desk. It was covered with diagrams, labelled in a foreign tongue. Machines. She'd asked him about funding once, for her ideas. Things she called printing presses, powder mills and more besides. Robert had hurled money at them like one of his tournaments, and now the goldcloaks were already testing their first batch of "arquebuses".
"I want your eighty swords" Renly began.
"For what?" she asked.
"To offer to Ned Stark, so he can strike, while the castle sleeps. Take the Queen in hand, get her away from her son. Her pampering is the whole reason the boy is so cruel; he knows not what consequences are.". He got right to the point. He could trust Tane; the only reason her company weren't sellswords or bandits was because of his patronage. She misliked Joffrey as well. There'd been an ugly confrontation when her troops had gone north with him to meet the royal party coming south on the Kingsroad and another at the tournament of the Hand, and he'd heard Joffrey boast in his cups that he'd drive them across the narrow sea with their own weapons when he was king.
"You want a king dead or deposed or taken in hand, you came to the right people." She shrugged. "Coups might as well be the Commonwealth's favorite sport. And I sure as hell don't want Joffrey on the Iron Throne without someone to restrain him."
Renly sighed. "Cersei will likely already be gathering. I want Joffrey alive and unharmed." He didn't tell her about what he suspected about Joffrey's birth. That would probably make him come off as grasping, a conspiracist rather than a pragmatist.
Tane nodded. "Oh, I do too. I've gotten plenty of blood on my hands over the years. Don't want to add murdering children to the list. We move fast enough, we can overrun the whole holdfast before they can organize resistance. Secure the portcullis and drawbridge levers and we have them. Get one of your men to rouse Janos Slynt. Tell him the gold cloaks need to secure the Red Keep to ensure a smooth succession."
Renly nodded. "When will your men be ready? As we speak, Loras is gathering my men, to run or fight as need be"
"We can be armed and organized in half an hour, if we don't need to get horses saddled up. All our weapons and ammo are in here."
"Do it then, raise your sword. I'll tell you when to let it fall."
"As you wish." Renly turned and left. The Stark girls direwolves, Lady and Nymeria, were howling in the godswood. They can smell the fear. Tonight, one way or another, men were going to die.
*
"I can offer you my own household guard of thirty men, and all eighty of Captain Bayder's Horse Grenadiers. And another seventy or so loyal men." Renly said plainly.
Ned visibly grimaced in the light of a lantern held by one of his guards. Renly had caught him near the base of the tower of the hand, as he was returning from Robert's deathbed, and laid out his plan. Secure the Holdfast with the Grenadiers. Appoint him Lord Protector. And then announce the truth of Joffrey's birth to all the world, and become the heir to the throne.
"I won't sully Robert's last hours on earth by shedding blood in his halls and dragging frightened children from their beds…". He sounded uncertain, hesitant.
He wanted to grab his doublet and scream I could make you lord protector, the next best thing to a King! In his face. He resisted the urge.
Instead, he simply said "It could be your blood being shed in Robert's halls, and your children dragged from their beds, if we don't move against the Lannisters first."
He hummed the beginning of the Rains of Castamere.
Think with your heart and your head, not with your honour, damn you.
Ned paused in thought, then finally said "I'll lend my swords. But I want no unnecessary killing. Do this cleanly. I don't want queens raped and babes butchered."
Both of them knew exactly what Ned was talking about.
"Thank you. I've told them no needless killing as well. The Grenadiers are getting ready as we speak. If the gods are good, you'll be lord protector on the morrow."
Joffrey I:
He jerked awake to thunder and screaming and direwolves howling in the godswood. He could hear it echoing through the Red Keep, hear someone, muffled, yelling for help, hear boots outside his door.
The door was thrown open, and men rushed in, one in a white cloak, the other three in red.
"Your Grace!" Sandor said, a drawn sword in one hand and a torch in the other.
"What is it, dog?" Joffrey asked. He tried not to let fear into his voice. Fear was for women and children and peasants, not for kings.
"Treachery." said the white cloak. Selmy Barristan. An old, decrepit man, Joffrey thought with disdain.
"Who? Who is the traitor? The Starks? The foreign bitch?"
He grinned viciously. Traitors meant executions, and since he was going to be king in a few hours, that meant he decided how they died.
"We don't know, but the foreigners, the Genians, are involved."
As if to prove his point, Joffrey heard another volley of what he now recognized as gunfire.
Since they were traitors, he realized, when they were defeated, he could take their guns. No need to wait for the A crossbow looked like a toy next to those things. He'd use them to shoot prisoners, do it himself, and force them to tell him how to make more, so he could have a whole royal army to crush the rebels in the riverlands with.
This just kept getting better and better.
"Why don't you kill them?" Joffrey asked.
As if in answer, a redcloak stuck his head in through the doorway. "They've crossed the drawbridge and are into the holdfast. Mandon Moore is holding them, but he's hurt real bad."
"Get more men to the fucking staircase, then!" Sandor roared.
"We don't have the men! Only thirty in the holdfast, and some of those are dead!"
"Then the rest of that sorry lot should hurry the fuck up out of their barracks and hit the attackers in the arse" Sandor growled.
Joffrey rolled out of bed, fumbling for his breeches. He pulled them up hurriedly, then grabbed Lion's tooth and buckled it to his belt.
He ran outside the room, only for Selmy to grab him.
"It isn't safe." he said sternly.
"It isn't safe for an old man. Unhand your king!" Joffrey yelled.
"Your father still lives, and may yet recover. Meryn Trant watches over him." Selmy said.
"No matter. Unhand me, or I'll have your hand" he repeated, his hand going to his sword.
Selmy let go of him, but pushed ahead of him out into the corridor. Joffrey followed. It was chaos; servants running this way and that, a pair of archers shooting down one staircase, Blount and half a dozen redcloaks forming up, and the backs of men fighting visible on another staircase.
He saw Cersei at the other end of the hall, Arys Oakheart standing guard over her and the other children. Joffrey laughed when he saw that Tommen was crying and Myrcella was holding his hand.
"Joffrey, my sweet Joffrey!" Cersei called as he walked down the corridor.
"No need to fear. The Goldcloaks will disperse this rabble." Joffrey said.
"The Goldcloaks have turned traitor" Sandor said.
He glanced behind him. Sandor was still following him, and Selmy was yelling orders, telling men to go to this doorway and that staircase, commanding for ravens to be sent to all the lords in the seven kingdoms, begging for help.
She hugged and kissed him, telling him everything would be alright. His skin squirmed with disgust.
He couldn't abide the wailing of women.
A Lannister guardsman screamed behind him, and he turned just in time to see a flash like thunder and the two archers going down screaming. Blount's men rushed the staircase, but the foreigners were storming up in, grim faced men and women in breastplates and buff coats with bayonets fixed, or a sword in one hand and a pistol or dagger in the other. They crashed into Blount's men, some of them firing at point blank, and then Joffrey could see nothing but struggling backs in the torchlight. Selmy turned back to them, ushering them around a bend in the hallway, out of sight, and then into a plain room. The King's Study, unused for years. He locked the door behind him, and threw a table across the doorway.
"The Holdfast cannot stand. Come. I know a way out."
"Where?" said Sandor.
"A passageway, built by Maegor himself. As Lord Commander, it is my duty to know all the ways an assassin might enter, or a prince might escape." He pressed down on a stone, and something clicked. A part of the wall swung inwards, and Joffrey realized it was a door covered in stone to disguise it.
"The Red Keep shall not fall. The gold cloaks will rally and…" Joffrey said.
"Look at this. It is falling." Selmy said. Joffrey peered out the window, and saw more men, fighting in the courtyard, gold and buff and grey and yellow against red, lit up by torches and the muzzle flashes of muskets.
The Traitors won, he realized, his stomach sinking.
But grandfather still has an army. We still have Casterly rock. With all the gold there, I can hire all the sellswords in the world, and kill all the traitors in the world.
"Show me the way out, the way to Tywin" Joffrey said. "He'll punish the traitors, even if you can't!"
Selmy began to move.
"I command you to stay!" Cersei screamed. "The goldcloaks will take our side, Littlefinger promised me-"
The children cowered behind her skirts.
"I am the king, not you!" Joffrey screamed back.
"Joffrey is right, your Grace. We cannot stay here." Selmy said.
"And I will not flee like a rat when help is close at hand!" Cersei yelled back.
A gunshot rang out, deafeningly loud and close, followed by muffled sobbing and yells of "Gallery clear!" and "Get fucking moving, we haven't found the prince!"
Joffrey felt something warm and wet run down his legs.
The traitors will never take me alive!
"Dog, with me!" Joffrey called, and he ran for the passageway.
He heard more yells, Cersei arguing with Barristan, then a final "If you want to run, run, coward!"
Selmy yelled for Arys to protect the queen, and to follow them into the passage if she could be convinced to. Then he turned and ran, following Joffrey down into the shadows, slamming the door of the hidden passage behind him.
I'll kill them. I'll kill them all. For Vengeance and for GainBroken Lance
No Greater Fury: Tane I
- Location
- Brisbane
"Lady Bayder?" Ned Stark asked as she entered the solar. He was seated there along with the others; Renly and Loras and Littlefinger and Slynt all those responsible for the coup. Varys had vanished; a Lannister agent most likely.
Morgan trailed after her. Her third eye was the only solution Tane could see to the Red Keep's infestation with spies, and besides, Morgan was getting a reputation.
"Captain Bayder" Tane corrected. "I'm a bastard, and besides that, I earned my captaincy. I didn't earn having noble parents."
Littlefinger nodded in approval. Tane had known his sort before the miracle happened. People who used bureaucratic chaos to mask all sorts of theft. They were endemic in the military; often it was the only way to turn a profit or even survive financially during peacetime, when they were on half-pay and with no chance for prize money or loot. She didn't blame them, and she didn't blame a man who'd started out farming sheep on some spit in the middle of nowhere for resorting to it either.
She sat down, wincing as her shirt and doublet chafed against the cut on her arm. She'd gotten hit there by a Lannister spear thrust when they'd stormed up the first staircase. A glancing blow, and her buff coat had taken the worst of it, but it still stung.
"The first order of business." Renly said, "is who is currently King. Joffrey escaped, meaning that, in the eyes of the realm, King's Landing is currently in the hands of a rebel conspiracy and Joffrey is running to his brave grandfather to reclaim the throne."
Tane winced. This was going to be fun. They'd lost Joffrey during the attack; he'd gotten out of the one secret passage in Maegor's Holdfast. They'd caught Tommen and Myrcella attempting to flee down the tunnel with Arys Oakheart, and Cersei had surrendered, but Joffrey had started running earlier and was still loose. The only evidence they had of his location was a trio of goldcloaks found hacked to ribbons in the city, and reports of a huge man with a scarred face sighted in the city along with a blonde haired boy.
Ned looked distinctly uncomfortable. "Joffrey Waters is not the trueborn heir. He is a bastard born of incest."
Tane raised an eyebrow, and then the room exploded with questions. "What? Jaime?" and "How do you know?" and "Joffrey is cruel, but he is no false king!"
The corner of Renly's mouth lifted into something resembling a smile.
Finally, Stark spoke again. "Do you know what Jon Arryn's final words were?"
"The seed is strong." Littlefinger said, immediately.
Ned sighed. "I believe he was talking about the seed of Baratheon. In every mating of Stag and Lion, the black hair has always prevailed over the gold. But here, we have three blonde children. And there is more. Jon Arryn I believe was murdered, to hide this secret."
Tane turned it over in her head. The incest claim was good, certainly, for justifying the coup. Even if the coup was conceived from court politics, they could claim it was about incest all along. The claim, though, was a bit too sordid to be believable. It reeked of an effort to delegitimize Joffrey's cause, only to make him look like the victim of absurd slanders. Which it was.
"And not only Arryn. I told Cersei I knew her secret, to give her a chance to flee with the children. She confessed. I feared what Robert would do to them. I should have feared what Cersei would do to him." He sounded pained.
"Incest between twins? Really? Who came up with this shit? Just say it was some Lannister cousin she fucked once, and resulted in Joffrey. There, done, we have a believable lie that will discredit Joffrey, will be a right pain to conclusively disprove, and means we can hang onto Tommen, since we already have control over him." Tane said, her voice disdainful.
Even by the standards of someone who'd woken up one morning in another world nine months ago with her entire company knowing a new language as if by miracle, this was bloody ridiculous.
Ned flinched. "This is no lie. It is the truth that Jon died for."
His voice, Tane realized, was completely sincere.
Mother Above, he actually believes it.
"Then Cersei will need to die for her crimes, and perhaps the children too, if we don't want another Blackfyre plague." Renly said.
"I'll not kill children for the crimes of their parents." Ned said.
"It is better than the realm being drowned in fire and blood. For now, all of this is irrelevant. We need Stannis here, we need to put Cersei on trial to destroy her sons claim in the eyes of the realm, and we need a regent and a Hand until then. We should bring in as many lords, Mace and Doran and Hoster, or their heirs, as possible, to stand judgment." Renly said.
"I do believe Lord Stark was declared Regent and Protector of the Realm, and is currently Hand?" Baelish asked.
"I believe I can manage the realm as both Regent and Hand until Stannis arrives."
"But you are acting as a substitute for the King." Renly said. "And a King needs a Hand."
Loras stepped forwards. He'd been lurking back behind Renly, in the shadows. He was ostensibly there as a representative of House Tyrell, but it was hard to miss the way he and Renly looked at each other.
"I believe that Lord Renly is right. Until the trial is completed and it is known who is the rightful king, you will have to both manage the realm and crush Tywin's rebellion. And a King cannot do everything. You need a Hand, and I believe that Renly is the man for the task."
"I can't ride against Tywin with my leg broken." Ned said.
"Then rule here, and send me as your hand to Highgarden to raise men and oppose the Lannisters. They'll support us; they wish to marry Margaery to a Baratheon."
Ned's eyes narrowed. "I thought they wanted to marry her to Robert."
"A stag is a stag. They want a union with the royal household, and, well, I'm unmarried and second on the line of succession."
"I'll consider it. Stannis should arrive within the week."
"As you wish, Lord Regent." Renly said.
"Is there any news from the Riverlanders?"
"Grave, I'm afraid. Two armies, both from the westerlands, are on the march. One has shattered a Tully Host at the Golden Tooth. The other follows after them, and I fear they make for King's Landing." Eddard said.
"Then we had best send ravens to Storm's End and Winterfell and Sunspear and Highgarden as well, calling the banners. If it is a war Tywin wants, it is a war he will get." Renly said.
"Looking at the distances, Tywin will be upon us before they can arrive. He has already raised his troops, and a shorter march." Tane said.
"Aye." Agreed Ned. "Which is why we need Stannis's men all the more."
*
"You want how much Niter?" Petyr asked incredulously, standing in the middle of the Red Keep's courtyard.
"As much as is possible. Send it to the alchemist's guildhall. They'll know what to do."
As little as she trusted that pack of maniacs not to burn themselves alive, they seemed the only ones with the expertise to manufacture black powder-and the only ones who could be trusted to keep the secrets of its manufacture. She'd already given them the formula, and some of the high quality corned powder in their cartridges to study, but now, with the ear of the Regent and the Hand of the King, and a war inevitable, Renly had suggested they step up to mass production-and Petyr, with his merchant's connections and penchant for pulling money out of nowhere, seemed like just the man for it.
They already had every lockmaker and blacksmith in King's Landing competing to manufacture barrels and matchlocks. She didn't care if the methods of manufacturing firearms got out. Without black powder they were useless, and only a few soldiers in her own unit and the pyromancers knew how to make that.
Only the best seemed able to make flintlocks, so they were experimenting with matchlocks now. Ammunition was the first priority, but getting replacement barrels and locks would be vital. Getting infantry musketeers under their command could be a decisive edge.
"As you wish. What's the payment?"
"You're the master of coin. You can pay yourself."
She flashed a smile and walked away. Sace Cale and Boudace Haynes, her ensign and page, were waiting behind her, in the middle of the courtyard. She didn't want any lurking spies revealing that saltpetre was involved in the new wonder weapon.
"Find anything about Artorius in the archives?" Tane asked.
Sace, a short, black haired young woman more comfortable in a sitting room than on horseback, shook her head.
"You know, for all the great northern walls and Andals or Angles or whatever you want to call them, and the geography, this probably isn't the Old World. After all, the Northern Wall wasn't made of ice, and the names don't sound like anything I've ever heard, and Eire was only one island, whereas the Iron islands are many, and of course there are no Romans anywhere in the records." Sace explained.
"Not even Valyria?"
"I don't think the Romans had dragons, and they left before the sea-wolves came, not thousands of years afterwards."
Tane laughed. "It was an interesting idea, while it lasted."
Only holy books and legends first put to paper a hundred years later had survived of the dangerous times after Artorius's forces had invaded Annwn, her native world, through some sort of gate in space to the Old World and brought down the Fey, and even less of those described the Old World that all humans, if you traced their history far enough, came from. Westeros with it's invading tribes and great walls had seemed strangely like the Britain Artorius had hailed from, but apparently it wasn't, just a warped copy.
They walked out of the great hall, a pair of grenadiers falling in as escorts. One of them, Aurene Slache, had a noticeable limp. He'd gotten hit in the thigh with a longsword during the fight, and although his buff coat had stopped him having his leg crippled or removed, and was healing well, it had still been a nasty cut. She'd only lost two killed, both by Mandon Moore before Blodwen had pistolled him in the throat, but they had a dozen or so injured, including three who would likely never be fit to return to service.
She knew quite well it could have been much, much worse, if their enemy had firearms and polearms and artillery and witches, rather than just swords and crossbows and a few spears. That was the advantage of surprise and firepower.
"What's going on with the monarchy?" Sace asked.
"They've decided that the queen was sleeping with her brother as their excuse to get rid of Joffrey. Eddard will be Lord Regent and Renly acting hand until Stannis arrives. Then, I imagine, there'll be a trial. Eddard says she confessed to him in person"
"Oh, lovely."
"My thoughts exactly. Hopefully Eddard's lie doesn't make us look too inept."
Morgan trailed after her. Her third eye was the only solution Tane could see to the Red Keep's infestation with spies, and besides, Morgan was getting a reputation.
"Captain Bayder" Tane corrected. "I'm a bastard, and besides that, I earned my captaincy. I didn't earn having noble parents."
Littlefinger nodded in approval. Tane had known his sort before the miracle happened. People who used bureaucratic chaos to mask all sorts of theft. They were endemic in the military; often it was the only way to turn a profit or even survive financially during peacetime, when they were on half-pay and with no chance for prize money or loot. She didn't blame them, and she didn't blame a man who'd started out farming sheep on some spit in the middle of nowhere for resorting to it either.
She sat down, wincing as her shirt and doublet chafed against the cut on her arm. She'd gotten hit there by a Lannister spear thrust when they'd stormed up the first staircase. A glancing blow, and her buff coat had taken the worst of it, but it still stung.
"The first order of business." Renly said, "is who is currently King. Joffrey escaped, meaning that, in the eyes of the realm, King's Landing is currently in the hands of a rebel conspiracy and Joffrey is running to his brave grandfather to reclaim the throne."
Tane winced. This was going to be fun. They'd lost Joffrey during the attack; he'd gotten out of the one secret passage in Maegor's Holdfast. They'd caught Tommen and Myrcella attempting to flee down the tunnel with Arys Oakheart, and Cersei had surrendered, but Joffrey had started running earlier and was still loose. The only evidence they had of his location was a trio of goldcloaks found hacked to ribbons in the city, and reports of a huge man with a scarred face sighted in the city along with a blonde haired boy.
Ned looked distinctly uncomfortable. "Joffrey Waters is not the trueborn heir. He is a bastard born of incest."
Tane raised an eyebrow, and then the room exploded with questions. "What? Jaime?" and "How do you know?" and "Joffrey is cruel, but he is no false king!"
The corner of Renly's mouth lifted into something resembling a smile.
Finally, Stark spoke again. "Do you know what Jon Arryn's final words were?"
"The seed is strong." Littlefinger said, immediately.
Ned sighed. "I believe he was talking about the seed of Baratheon. In every mating of Stag and Lion, the black hair has always prevailed over the gold. But here, we have three blonde children. And there is more. Jon Arryn I believe was murdered, to hide this secret."
Tane turned it over in her head. The incest claim was good, certainly, for justifying the coup. Even if the coup was conceived from court politics, they could claim it was about incest all along. The claim, though, was a bit too sordid to be believable. It reeked of an effort to delegitimize Joffrey's cause, only to make him look like the victim of absurd slanders. Which it was.
"And not only Arryn. I told Cersei I knew her secret, to give her a chance to flee with the children. She confessed. I feared what Robert would do to them. I should have feared what Cersei would do to him." He sounded pained.
"Incest between twins? Really? Who came up with this shit? Just say it was some Lannister cousin she fucked once, and resulted in Joffrey. There, done, we have a believable lie that will discredit Joffrey, will be a right pain to conclusively disprove, and means we can hang onto Tommen, since we already have control over him." Tane said, her voice disdainful.
Even by the standards of someone who'd woken up one morning in another world nine months ago with her entire company knowing a new language as if by miracle, this was bloody ridiculous.
Ned flinched. "This is no lie. It is the truth that Jon died for."
His voice, Tane realized, was completely sincere.
Mother Above, he actually believes it.
"Then Cersei will need to die for her crimes, and perhaps the children too, if we don't want another Blackfyre plague." Renly said.
"I'll not kill children for the crimes of their parents." Ned said.
"It is better than the realm being drowned in fire and blood. For now, all of this is irrelevant. We need Stannis here, we need to put Cersei on trial to destroy her sons claim in the eyes of the realm, and we need a regent and a Hand until then. We should bring in as many lords, Mace and Doran and Hoster, or their heirs, as possible, to stand judgment." Renly said.
"I do believe Lord Stark was declared Regent and Protector of the Realm, and is currently Hand?" Baelish asked.
"I believe I can manage the realm as both Regent and Hand until Stannis arrives."
"But you are acting as a substitute for the King." Renly said. "And a King needs a Hand."
Loras stepped forwards. He'd been lurking back behind Renly, in the shadows. He was ostensibly there as a representative of House Tyrell, but it was hard to miss the way he and Renly looked at each other.
"I believe that Lord Renly is right. Until the trial is completed and it is known who is the rightful king, you will have to both manage the realm and crush Tywin's rebellion. And a King cannot do everything. You need a Hand, and I believe that Renly is the man for the task."
"I can't ride against Tywin with my leg broken." Ned said.
"Then rule here, and send me as your hand to Highgarden to raise men and oppose the Lannisters. They'll support us; they wish to marry Margaery to a Baratheon."
Ned's eyes narrowed. "I thought they wanted to marry her to Robert."
"A stag is a stag. They want a union with the royal household, and, well, I'm unmarried and second on the line of succession."
"I'll consider it. Stannis should arrive within the week."
"As you wish, Lord Regent." Renly said.
"Is there any news from the Riverlanders?"
"Grave, I'm afraid. Two armies, both from the westerlands, are on the march. One has shattered a Tully Host at the Golden Tooth. The other follows after them, and I fear they make for King's Landing." Eddard said.
"Then we had best send ravens to Storm's End and Winterfell and Sunspear and Highgarden as well, calling the banners. If it is a war Tywin wants, it is a war he will get." Renly said.
"Looking at the distances, Tywin will be upon us before they can arrive. He has already raised his troops, and a shorter march." Tane said.
"Aye." Agreed Ned. "Which is why we need Stannis's men all the more."
*
"You want how much Niter?" Petyr asked incredulously, standing in the middle of the Red Keep's courtyard.
"As much as is possible. Send it to the alchemist's guildhall. They'll know what to do."
As little as she trusted that pack of maniacs not to burn themselves alive, they seemed the only ones with the expertise to manufacture black powder-and the only ones who could be trusted to keep the secrets of its manufacture. She'd already given them the formula, and some of the high quality corned powder in their cartridges to study, but now, with the ear of the Regent and the Hand of the King, and a war inevitable, Renly had suggested they step up to mass production-and Petyr, with his merchant's connections and penchant for pulling money out of nowhere, seemed like just the man for it.
They already had every lockmaker and blacksmith in King's Landing competing to manufacture barrels and matchlocks. She didn't care if the methods of manufacturing firearms got out. Without black powder they were useless, and only a few soldiers in her own unit and the pyromancers knew how to make that.
Only the best seemed able to make flintlocks, so they were experimenting with matchlocks now. Ammunition was the first priority, but getting replacement barrels and locks would be vital. Getting infantry musketeers under their command could be a decisive edge.
"As you wish. What's the payment?"
"You're the master of coin. You can pay yourself."
She flashed a smile and walked away. Sace Cale and Boudace Haynes, her ensign and page, were waiting behind her, in the middle of the courtyard. She didn't want any lurking spies revealing that saltpetre was involved in the new wonder weapon.
"Find anything about Artorius in the archives?" Tane asked.
Sace, a short, black haired young woman more comfortable in a sitting room than on horseback, shook her head.
"You know, for all the great northern walls and Andals or Angles or whatever you want to call them, and the geography, this probably isn't the Old World. After all, the Northern Wall wasn't made of ice, and the names don't sound like anything I've ever heard, and Eire was only one island, whereas the Iron islands are many, and of course there are no Romans anywhere in the records." Sace explained.
"Not even Valyria?"
"I don't think the Romans had dragons, and they left before the sea-wolves came, not thousands of years afterwards."
Tane laughed. "It was an interesting idea, while it lasted."
Only holy books and legends first put to paper a hundred years later had survived of the dangerous times after Artorius's forces had invaded Annwn, her native world, through some sort of gate in space to the Old World and brought down the Fey, and even less of those described the Old World that all humans, if you traced their history far enough, came from. Westeros with it's invading tribes and great walls had seemed strangely like the Britain Artorius had hailed from, but apparently it wasn't, just a warped copy.
They walked out of the great hall, a pair of grenadiers falling in as escorts. One of them, Aurene Slache, had a noticeable limp. He'd gotten hit in the thigh with a longsword during the fight, and although his buff coat had stopped him having his leg crippled or removed, and was healing well, it had still been a nasty cut. She'd only lost two killed, both by Mandon Moore before Blodwen had pistolled him in the throat, but they had a dozen or so injured, including three who would likely never be fit to return to service.
She knew quite well it could have been much, much worse, if their enemy had firearms and polearms and artillery and witches, rather than just swords and crossbows and a few spears. That was the advantage of surprise and firepower.
"What's going on with the monarchy?" Sace asked.
"They've decided that the queen was sleeping with her brother as their excuse to get rid of Joffrey. Eddard will be Lord Regent and Renly acting hand until Stannis arrives. Then, I imagine, there'll be a trial. Eddard says she confessed to him in person"
"Oh, lovely."
"My thoughts exactly. Hopefully Eddard's lie doesn't make us look too inept."
No Greater Fury: Renly II, Tane II, Margaery I
- Location
- Brisbane
Renly II
The Fury moved ponderously, sailors and stevedores and marines scrambling about on the deck and warf, moving to secure the beast. Stannis stood at the prow of the ship, a hard, grim man, balding. Renly squinted against the bright sunlight as he looked up at him.
He had to confess, he hadn't missed his brother. The man was joyless and bitter and uptight. He could make men fear and respect him, but not love him. Renly knew he could do the latter, winning the love of the smallfolk at tourneys and nobles at feasts, but it was Robert who had the true talent for doing both.
"Brother" Stannis called, nodding to Renly as he walked down the gangplank.
Renly buzzed with questions. Was Stannis going to claim the throne or let Ned keep the regency for the time being? Could he keep his handship?
"Lord Regent" Stannis said, nodding to Eddard. He stepped straight past him, and Renly's pride stung. The three of them greeted the members of the other Narrow Sea houses as they gathered on the dockside, Celtigar and Velaryon and Sunglass, Bar Emmon and Seaworth.
"We should ride for the Red Keep" Stannis finally said. "I want to be crowned and secure upon the throne as soon as possible."
"Cersei may have confessed to me, but in the eyes of the realm, Joffrey is still King and we are but usurpers. We must prove Cersei's guilt in public before you take the throne." Ned said.
Stannis snorted. "Cersei has confessed her guilt, Joffrey is a false king and I am true. We should have her head off and the children exiled as swiftly as possible."
"Eddard is right, brother-"
He knew the value of spectacle well enough.
"Your Grace" Stannis said sourly.
"Did Robert ever make you call him that?" Renly asked.
"No. But he forgot his duty, as in many things. He gave himself to drink and women, and needless frivolity, rather than running the affairs of the realm. He left me, the eldest, to rot on Dragonstone while you inherited all the lands that should have been mine. Robert made many mistakes, mistakes I do not intend to make myself."
Going to make friends like that, Renly thought. He wouldn't surprised if by the end of the month Stannis had managed to unite the pack and the pride to rip apart the stag with sheer force of charisma alone.
Ned and Stannis, riding ahead of him, gave each other terse pleasantries. The Narrow Sea lords rode behind, talking among themselves. Renly knew their sort, proud of their heritages because they had nothing else to be proud about. At least he'd ordered the stewards to prepare a welcome banquet, with food for the smallfolk as well. That should help take the sting out of Stannis's insults.
No kingsguard protected the red keep, of course. Arys Oakheart and Meryn Trant had been relieved of duties until the guilt or innocence of Cersei had been determined, on the logic that they would not know which King to protect and serve. Instead, Horse Grenadiers in cuirasses and buff coats and carrying muskets stood guard at the gates of the Red Keep.
"Letting foreigners guard our halls?" Stannis asked.
Renly shrugged. "You brought plenty of Myrishmen and Lyseni with you. The Genians are good fighters, loyal, and their only stake in the affairs of the realm is keeping you on the throne. You should see their weapons, they're quite impressive. Like a crossbow powered by wildfire."
"I have more important matters than mercenaries and their weapons to deal with."
"We need to deal with the matters of the regency, kingship, and the small council. Then, we have a welcome feast to attend" Renly said.
Stannis nodded with a look like he'd just been ordered to storm a breach at all costs.
They rode through the gates and dismounted, letting the servants deal with the horses. Ned led the way, to the throne room. He still had a bad limp, though he no longer required a cane.
"Your grace, the matter of the regency." Ned began.
"Robert gave you the regency until his heir came of age. I do not believe myself to be less than sixteen." Stannis said.
"You haven't been proven, in the eyes of the realm, to be the heir. I know you're the heir, you know you're the heir, the realm doesn't know you are the heir. You need to prove it to them." Renly said.
"The proof is in the hair on Joffrey's head, and in Cersei's confession. Nothing else matters." Stannis answered.
"And how will they know it is any truer than the slanders Tywin is no doubt writing about you?" Ned asked.
Silence reigned for what seemed like hours.
He has you there, brother.
"I will take the Regency from you, as Robert's oldest living relative. You and all the small council will treat me as king, because I am. But I will not fully assume the throne, until Cersei's guilt has been proven in court of law before all the realm. Eddard Stark, you are relieved of your duties as Regent. You will, however, stand judge in the trial, as a man known to be trustworthy and honourable. Summons will be sent for all the Lords Paramount, to bear witness to the justness of my cause, though if they cannot arrive before the trial begins, so be it. Renly, you will remain my Hand"
Renly manfully resisted the urge to grin like a boy.
*
Renly was in an excellent mood at the feast that night. Having Loras, the very picture of youth and beauty and chivalry, sitting opposite him could only enhanced it, while not even Lord Celtigar could ruin it. The old man sat at his side, staring daggers at Tane. He didn't altogether approve of foreigners, or women, or bastards, or sellswords, or foreign bastard sellsword women, and he let Renly know with exasperating regularity.
"A woman's battlefield is the birthing bed." Celtigar said firmly, for what seemed like the half-hundredth time that night.
Sour Bastard. Your house is near dead because your wives were never fond of their battlefield, and your sons too fond of theirs Renly thought.
Tane was blissfully unaware of him, instead cheerfully discussing the finer points of dealing with armoured opponents with Balon Swann, further down the table. Loras had sparred against him, and said he was an excellent fighter, especially with his morning star, and was a sure pick for when Stannis reconstituted the Kingsguard from it's current ruin. Barristan Selmy was vanished, Jaime in rebellion, Moore and Greenfield and Blount killed in the storming of Maegor's Holdfast, leaving only Meryn Trant and Arys Oakheart still in service. Both of them had been temporarily relieved of duties "until it was clear which king they should truly serve", and Stannis had already said he wanted the Kingsguard reconstituted for failing to notice or stop the incest.
Stannis sat at the head of the table, looking alternatively bored and annoyed. Selyse Florent sat besides him, looking equally unimpressed, while Monterys Velaryon did his best to get the attention of Shireen, virtually the only other child present. Gryff, Tane's lieutenant, and Davos Seaworth were standing away from the table. Renly would have assumed from Gryff's build that the man was fond of food, but he seemed to have taken more of a shine to Davos Seaworth.
Of course, Davos most likely won't take a shine to him until fingers start getting lopped off.
The feast dragged on. He ordered the tables cleared for dancing, to more glares from Stannis. Once the music, played by minstrels who'd stayed on after the tourney, had started, he found Stannis, standing to the side, looking distinctly out of place.
"Your Grace." Renly said, flatly and formally. It pained him to call his brother that. Not that Stannis had ever been much of a brother to him. Robert had that honour.
"Yes? What is it?" Stannis asked. Annoyance tinged into his voice.
Renly dropped his voice to a whisper. "Your people are down there, your Grace. They make you a king, truly, they and force of arms, not birthright. You should be among them, laughing and dancing, winning their love and respect."
He waved at the dance floor; couples swirling, Sace explaining a foreign dance to a small group of noblewoman, Tane, flushed with wine, laughing with a young woman he recognized as Lysanna Wendwater, Balon flirting with a serving girl.
Stannis glowered at him, and he could hear teeth grinding.
"The crown is mine by law. Nothing else matters."
Renly longed to explain that it was love and respect and above all fear, not law, that won and lost thrones, but it wasn't the time or place.
Instead, he just said "Of course, Your Grace." and turned back to the dance floor.
Tywin couldn't attack soon enough.
Tane II:
"Cersei Lannister, you stand accused of incest, conspiring to attempt to kill Bran Stark and my Lady Wife, conspiring to kill Jon Arryn, Ser Hugh of the Vale, and King Robert Baratheon, First of his name, and of high treason in the eyes of gods and men. Will you confess or plead your innocence?" Ned Stark's voice rang out from where he stood beside the empty Iron throne.
Cersei faced him, her clothes plain but not filthy. There were noticeable marks from chains on her wrists and ankles, but her hair had been combed back in a small nod to respectability. Poor bastard. She'd been married off to a drunken brute of a king as little more than a broodmare, with a vicious idiot for a son, then faced with Stark's mad web of conspiracy-hair colour this, unfortunate falls that-that had most of the lords in King's Landing bobbing their heads in agreement.
Unfortunately, Joffrey had made the mistake of threatening her one time too many, and Cersei had backed him. A few quick decisions made in the dead of night later, and here they were.
The evidence had been bafflingly circumstantial. Character witnesses who said that Cersei seemed awfully close to Jaime-of fucking course she is, he's her twin!-and Aron Santagnar giving his opinion that Ser Hugh's gorget had been sabotaged. They'd trotted out an old maester to talk about hair colours, and some table he'd made tracing the interaction between hair colours that said that black always triumphed over blonde. One of Ned's Winterfell guardsmen had insisted Jaime and Cersei had stayed back when the rest of the royal party had gone hunting, and that Bran had never fallen before, so he had to have been pushed. No one, though, had caught them fucking, and that was all that counted.
Cersei had spent the whole thing silent, shouted down whenever she tried to say something in her own defence.
"I plead my innocence." She stared at the crowd of lords and ladies and knights. "Of course I have always been close to my brother, and I do love him. We shared a womb. We were raised together. When I was queen, he protected my life with his. That does not mean that I love him as I loved Robert, cruelly taken from me by these same men and their foreign witches who now seek to take my son's throne. I love him as a brother. I know not who killed Jon Arryn, but it does not bode well that Lord Stannis-"
"Your Grace!" Stannis snapped.
"That Lord Stannis fled straight afterwards. So, faced with a man who would take my children's birthright for himself, and a judge who sees grumpkins and snarks, I demand Trial by Combat, with Jaime to champion me, to dispel these attacks on both our honour."
"Jaime is hundreds of leagues away and in open rebellion against the crown, even before we moved against your bastard." Ned said.
They're deciding the fate of the realm based on a duel, Tane realized with a start.
"Then invite him here. Or let me pick another champion. Meryn Trant!"
"Yes, your grace?" Trant asked. He stood beside the empty iron throne alongside Arys Oakheart, the only members of the Kingsguard still alive and in King's Landing.
"Will you honour all your vows, as a knight and a Kingsguard, to protect the royal family?"
"Gladly, your grace."
"And who is your champion, Lord Stark?" Cersei asked.
"I will offer my axe or sword or lance, whichever is needed!" Loras called out.
Ned paused in thought, then said "As you wish."
"You denied me my first choice of champion" Cersei said, her voice pitiful but her eyes triumphant.
Ned looked confused for a moment, then realization crossed his face.
"Our champion is right here. You knew Jaime was absent when you named him."
Tane stepped forwards. "I'll face Meryn Trant. I've fought plenty of duels, and never lost one besides my first. And I've already beaten two Kingsguard."
Ser Preston Greenfield with a pistol ball to the head on the drawbridge when he wouldn't stand aside, and Ser Boros Blount with a thrust up into his armpit as they stormed up the staircases. They were kingsguard, but they hadn't died any harder than other men.
Ned looked uncomfortable. "You're a woman…"
"And I've killed plenty of men." Tane said flatly.
Women too. Never children.
More murmurs of shock.
What the hell do they think I was doing the night of the coup? Waving a banner and looking pretty?
"I have only one condition. If I fight, it will be to champion Stannis's right to the throne over Joffrey. I won't fight to see children killed. On your honour, Ned, if I win, you'll be merciful to Cersei and the children."
Stannis ground his teeth, but Ned nodded grimly.
"So be it. The Trial by Combat will take place on the morrow."
"Lord Stark." Renly said. "The Tyrells will be arriving in two days. I suggest that we delay the trial by combat by a day or two, so that Lord Tyrell can bear witness to Cersei's guilt or innocence."
"As you wish." Ned said.
Thank fuck for that. She knew the basics of armoured fighting, but she was no expert, and Meryn's advantage in muscle would count for more than it would in an unarmoured swordfight.
She did have one advantage, though. There was no regulation on what weapons could be used in a trial by combat, within reason, but most knights preferred to bring a sword and shield. That was a less than ideal weapon for fully armoured fighters. Worse, the Westerosi preferred to slash at harness to batter their opponent down and only thrust for the joints when they already had their opponent down.
Tane full well intended to bring a pole-axe to a sword fight.
Margaery I:
She stood besides Renly and Stannis in the box, overlooking the tourney grounds. Half of King's Landing, it seemed, had come to watch the fate of the kingdom be decided at the point of a sword.
She was still bleary eyed; she'd only gotten to sleep late last night, with a welcome feast-from Stannis's grumbling, this was the third one that month-that lasted well into the night then waking early for the duel. That was after spending several weeks on the road, riding fast for King's Landing. She and most of her entourage of ladies in waiting where good riders, and the rest had ridden in carriages, while the knights and squires and men-at-arms and archers ahorse had impatiently tromped ahead, all the men Mace could gather on short notice. He wanted to get to King's Landing as soon as possible, to show his dedication to the new King, before Tywin's outriders made the roads too dangerous, and to achieve a certain other goal that she had a vital role in.
Mace Tyrell was still playing his game of being the father to a queen, and she was his pawn in it. First he'd wanted to send her to king's landing, seduce Robert, convince him to set aside Cersei, and marry him. She hadn't much liked that plan. Robert had gone to fat since his younger days, had sired many bastards, and there were whispers he sometimes struck Cersei.
She'd agreed to go with it anyway. Her own desires only mattered insofar as they didn't contradict her duties. What mattered was the good of House Tyrell, and besides, she'd surely outlive Robert and be able to enjoy her status as Queen-Mother.
But when Robert has died and the Lannisters had been imprisoned or exiled the plan had switched to marrying Stannis or Renly. Mace would have preferred that she somehow seduce Stannis and make him put aside Selyse-She, Willas, and Ollenna had all thought it an absurd plan, but Mace was adamant.
They'd prevailed on him to go for Renly anyway, after Ollenna had put more barbs through him than a longbow volley. Stannis was already married, rather less fond of women than Robert, and hated the Tyrells.
Renly, on the other hand, was not a king, but he was heir apparent, and Hand of the King. He was unmarried, and would more likely than not prefer a wife already familiar with his situation than one who was not.
She liked that idea much better. She'd met Renly plenty of times. He trusted the Tyrells, was not displeasing to look at, had no existing wife to get rid of, and considering his tastes, was unlikely to force himself upon her.
Below, trumpets blew, and the High Septon read out his prayers, urging each of the seven to lend their attributes to the combatants. The crowd cheered, nobles and commons alike. They were drawn to the chance to see history made, the promise of what was essentially a tourney with real blood, and to see one of the foreigners, sometimes said to have been sent by a miracle of the seven to throw down the spawn of incest, fight.
The fighters strode across the central, cleared area. Meryn was clad from head to toe in armour of plate and scale, pure white, a sword in one hand and a knight's shield, shaped like a child's kite, in the other.
The captain of the foreigners, Tane Bayder, come on opposite, a woman and a bastard representing a king's cause. Her armour was dull grey steel, all plate, with lobstered tassets.
She was armed with a six foot poleaxe, an axe blade on one side and a hammer on the other, and a spike on either end of the haft. A sword and dagger, both with queer cagelike hilts, hung from her belt.
"She has the right idea. Axes and Morning Stars are for killing knights, not swords. Those are for hewing down peasants and for the tourney." Renly said.
Loras always said that Margaery thought, and she guessed that was where Renly had gotten the idea. She didn't say that, though, instead just "Very wise."
Meryn stopped and shifted into guard, side on, sword held back. Tane cocked her axe back, pointing the butt spike straight towards his face, and began to circle, working Meryn's left.
Margaery had been stunned when she'd found out Stannis had a woman championing him. For a moment, she'd assumed that the maid of Tarth had ended up in King's Landing somehow, before she'd remembered that the foreigners had a woman leading them, according to Loras's letters. She'd assumed the captain was just a figurehead, a commander, and then a fool, but looking at her now…
Tane struck first. She lunged forwards, flicking out with the butt, first as his head, then as he jerked his shield up thrust down into his groin. It scraped off his tassets, and she darted back out of distance as he slashed at her with his sword, catching the cut on her haft.
They resumed circling, then Tane came in for a hammer blow and Meryn barely parried it. It went on and on like that, for what seemed a dozen exchanges. They kept moving about each other, striking and parrying, Tane using both ends of her axe to thrust and the hammerhead to strike, Meryn fighting like every hedge knight she'd ever seen, raining down cuts while blocking with his shield.
It wasn't hard to tell who was winning. Neither of them managed to get at the joints or pierce each other's armour, but Tane was landing more hits that Ser Meryn was, and each of them seemed to tell more.
Finally, Meryn committed to a charge, aimed to rush in and knock her down. Tane circle-stepped out of the way of his charge, slamming her butt spike into his visor at the same time. He staggered, stunned, and then she got the blade of the axe hooked around his knee and pulled. Meryn was wrenched down to his knees. Tane disengaged the axe and threw a whirling cut at Trant's head. Trant threw his shield up, just in time, and axe and shield crashed together with an unholy sound.
Margaery had seen dozens of tournaments, seen her brothers, all of them famous knights, train hundreds of times, even had them show her some moves. She knew how fighting for sport worked. This wasn't that. Tane was trying to kill him, with everything at her disposal.
For a moment, it seemed like Meryn might have reversed his fortunes. Tane's axe was stuck in his shield and he took the opportunity to strike what seemed like half a hundred blows against Tane's armour, sending sparks flying. She stumbled back, letting go of the poleaxe, arms raised to protect her face.
She's going to get butchered-
Better that she had volunteered than Loras. She had no desire to see her brother killed.
Then Tane was out of distance, and drawing her own sword, while Meryn dragged himself to his feet. His shield arm trailed behind him, the axe-blade still stuck into it.
He dropped it and resumed his advance, the weapon falling to the ground with a dull clunk. The crowd had been silent for most of the fight, besides the occasional heckler calling out "Coward!" or "Kill the foreign whore!", making the sound of steel on steel even louder.
Tane circled around him, trying to get the morning sun into his eyes. She had her hilt down near her hip, with the point upwards; her off-hand held close by her side.
He has to get in close, try and knock her over. He's less skilled, but he's taller and stronger, and needs to make that count.
"You know, Stannis is becoming more royal with every blow." Renly said.
Margaery giggled, half out of flattery, half because it wasn't a bad jape.
Meryn charged with a roar of "Cunt!", the first thing either of them had said all fight, and then it was all over. His cut slammed into her vambrace and they crashed together, stumbling like drunken lovers, Tane's free hand grabbing him by the visor and her sword stabbing up over and over until Meryn grabbed her sword arm with one hand and started beating at her with his pommel with the other. It looked for a moment like he'd overpower Tane, then he stumbled sideways and fell with a sound like pots being hurled down a stairway.
What killed him?
And then she saw it, the blood dripping from Tane's sword and pooling around Trant's head. She'd pulled his visor open and stabbed him through the face.
Seven above.
She was going to be married to the Hand of the King. She was going to be married to the heir to the throne, of a kingdom at war where kings could die at any moment.
The Fury moved ponderously, sailors and stevedores and marines scrambling about on the deck and warf, moving to secure the beast. Stannis stood at the prow of the ship, a hard, grim man, balding. Renly squinted against the bright sunlight as he looked up at him.
He had to confess, he hadn't missed his brother. The man was joyless and bitter and uptight. He could make men fear and respect him, but not love him. Renly knew he could do the latter, winning the love of the smallfolk at tourneys and nobles at feasts, but it was Robert who had the true talent for doing both.
"Brother" Stannis called, nodding to Renly as he walked down the gangplank.
Renly buzzed with questions. Was Stannis going to claim the throne or let Ned keep the regency for the time being? Could he keep his handship?
"Lord Regent" Stannis said, nodding to Eddard. He stepped straight past him, and Renly's pride stung. The three of them greeted the members of the other Narrow Sea houses as they gathered on the dockside, Celtigar and Velaryon and Sunglass, Bar Emmon and Seaworth.
"We should ride for the Red Keep" Stannis finally said. "I want to be crowned and secure upon the throne as soon as possible."
"Cersei may have confessed to me, but in the eyes of the realm, Joffrey is still King and we are but usurpers. We must prove Cersei's guilt in public before you take the throne." Ned said.
Stannis snorted. "Cersei has confessed her guilt, Joffrey is a false king and I am true. We should have her head off and the children exiled as swiftly as possible."
"Eddard is right, brother-"
He knew the value of spectacle well enough.
"Your Grace" Stannis said sourly.
"Did Robert ever make you call him that?" Renly asked.
"No. But he forgot his duty, as in many things. He gave himself to drink and women, and needless frivolity, rather than running the affairs of the realm. He left me, the eldest, to rot on Dragonstone while you inherited all the lands that should have been mine. Robert made many mistakes, mistakes I do not intend to make myself."
Going to make friends like that, Renly thought. He wouldn't surprised if by the end of the month Stannis had managed to unite the pack and the pride to rip apart the stag with sheer force of charisma alone.
Ned and Stannis, riding ahead of him, gave each other terse pleasantries. The Narrow Sea lords rode behind, talking among themselves. Renly knew their sort, proud of their heritages because they had nothing else to be proud about. At least he'd ordered the stewards to prepare a welcome banquet, with food for the smallfolk as well. That should help take the sting out of Stannis's insults.
No kingsguard protected the red keep, of course. Arys Oakheart and Meryn Trant had been relieved of duties until the guilt or innocence of Cersei had been determined, on the logic that they would not know which King to protect and serve. Instead, Horse Grenadiers in cuirasses and buff coats and carrying muskets stood guard at the gates of the Red Keep.
"Letting foreigners guard our halls?" Stannis asked.
Renly shrugged. "You brought plenty of Myrishmen and Lyseni with you. The Genians are good fighters, loyal, and their only stake in the affairs of the realm is keeping you on the throne. You should see their weapons, they're quite impressive. Like a crossbow powered by wildfire."
"I have more important matters than mercenaries and their weapons to deal with."
"We need to deal with the matters of the regency, kingship, and the small council. Then, we have a welcome feast to attend" Renly said.
Stannis nodded with a look like he'd just been ordered to storm a breach at all costs.
They rode through the gates and dismounted, letting the servants deal with the horses. Ned led the way, to the throne room. He still had a bad limp, though he no longer required a cane.
"Your grace, the matter of the regency." Ned began.
"Robert gave you the regency until his heir came of age. I do not believe myself to be less than sixteen." Stannis said.
"You haven't been proven, in the eyes of the realm, to be the heir. I know you're the heir, you know you're the heir, the realm doesn't know you are the heir. You need to prove it to them." Renly said.
"The proof is in the hair on Joffrey's head, and in Cersei's confession. Nothing else matters." Stannis answered.
"And how will they know it is any truer than the slanders Tywin is no doubt writing about you?" Ned asked.
Silence reigned for what seemed like hours.
He has you there, brother.
"I will take the Regency from you, as Robert's oldest living relative. You and all the small council will treat me as king, because I am. But I will not fully assume the throne, until Cersei's guilt has been proven in court of law before all the realm. Eddard Stark, you are relieved of your duties as Regent. You will, however, stand judge in the trial, as a man known to be trustworthy and honourable. Summons will be sent for all the Lords Paramount, to bear witness to the justness of my cause, though if they cannot arrive before the trial begins, so be it. Renly, you will remain my Hand"
Renly manfully resisted the urge to grin like a boy.
*
Renly was in an excellent mood at the feast that night. Having Loras, the very picture of youth and beauty and chivalry, sitting opposite him could only enhanced it, while not even Lord Celtigar could ruin it. The old man sat at his side, staring daggers at Tane. He didn't altogether approve of foreigners, or women, or bastards, or sellswords, or foreign bastard sellsword women, and he let Renly know with exasperating regularity.
"A woman's battlefield is the birthing bed." Celtigar said firmly, for what seemed like the half-hundredth time that night.
Sour Bastard. Your house is near dead because your wives were never fond of their battlefield, and your sons too fond of theirs Renly thought.
Tane was blissfully unaware of him, instead cheerfully discussing the finer points of dealing with armoured opponents with Balon Swann, further down the table. Loras had sparred against him, and said he was an excellent fighter, especially with his morning star, and was a sure pick for when Stannis reconstituted the Kingsguard from it's current ruin. Barristan Selmy was vanished, Jaime in rebellion, Moore and Greenfield and Blount killed in the storming of Maegor's Holdfast, leaving only Meryn Trant and Arys Oakheart still in service. Both of them had been temporarily relieved of duties "until it was clear which king they should truly serve", and Stannis had already said he wanted the Kingsguard reconstituted for failing to notice or stop the incest.
Stannis sat at the head of the table, looking alternatively bored and annoyed. Selyse Florent sat besides him, looking equally unimpressed, while Monterys Velaryon did his best to get the attention of Shireen, virtually the only other child present. Gryff, Tane's lieutenant, and Davos Seaworth were standing away from the table. Renly would have assumed from Gryff's build that the man was fond of food, but he seemed to have taken more of a shine to Davos Seaworth.
Of course, Davos most likely won't take a shine to him until fingers start getting lopped off.
The feast dragged on. He ordered the tables cleared for dancing, to more glares from Stannis. Once the music, played by minstrels who'd stayed on after the tourney, had started, he found Stannis, standing to the side, looking distinctly out of place.
"Your Grace." Renly said, flatly and formally. It pained him to call his brother that. Not that Stannis had ever been much of a brother to him. Robert had that honour.
"Yes? What is it?" Stannis asked. Annoyance tinged into his voice.
Renly dropped his voice to a whisper. "Your people are down there, your Grace. They make you a king, truly, they and force of arms, not birthright. You should be among them, laughing and dancing, winning their love and respect."
He waved at the dance floor; couples swirling, Sace explaining a foreign dance to a small group of noblewoman, Tane, flushed with wine, laughing with a young woman he recognized as Lysanna Wendwater, Balon flirting with a serving girl.
Stannis glowered at him, and he could hear teeth grinding.
"The crown is mine by law. Nothing else matters."
Renly longed to explain that it was love and respect and above all fear, not law, that won and lost thrones, but it wasn't the time or place.
Instead, he just said "Of course, Your Grace." and turned back to the dance floor.
Tywin couldn't attack soon enough.
Tane II:
"Cersei Lannister, you stand accused of incest, conspiring to attempt to kill Bran Stark and my Lady Wife, conspiring to kill Jon Arryn, Ser Hugh of the Vale, and King Robert Baratheon, First of his name, and of high treason in the eyes of gods and men. Will you confess or plead your innocence?" Ned Stark's voice rang out from where he stood beside the empty Iron throne.
Cersei faced him, her clothes plain but not filthy. There were noticeable marks from chains on her wrists and ankles, but her hair had been combed back in a small nod to respectability. Poor bastard. She'd been married off to a drunken brute of a king as little more than a broodmare, with a vicious idiot for a son, then faced with Stark's mad web of conspiracy-hair colour this, unfortunate falls that-that had most of the lords in King's Landing bobbing their heads in agreement.
Unfortunately, Joffrey had made the mistake of threatening her one time too many, and Cersei had backed him. A few quick decisions made in the dead of night later, and here they were.
The evidence had been bafflingly circumstantial. Character witnesses who said that Cersei seemed awfully close to Jaime-of fucking course she is, he's her twin!-and Aron Santagnar giving his opinion that Ser Hugh's gorget had been sabotaged. They'd trotted out an old maester to talk about hair colours, and some table he'd made tracing the interaction between hair colours that said that black always triumphed over blonde. One of Ned's Winterfell guardsmen had insisted Jaime and Cersei had stayed back when the rest of the royal party had gone hunting, and that Bran had never fallen before, so he had to have been pushed. No one, though, had caught them fucking, and that was all that counted.
Cersei had spent the whole thing silent, shouted down whenever she tried to say something in her own defence.
"I plead my innocence." She stared at the crowd of lords and ladies and knights. "Of course I have always been close to my brother, and I do love him. We shared a womb. We were raised together. When I was queen, he protected my life with his. That does not mean that I love him as I loved Robert, cruelly taken from me by these same men and their foreign witches who now seek to take my son's throne. I love him as a brother. I know not who killed Jon Arryn, but it does not bode well that Lord Stannis-"
"Your Grace!" Stannis snapped.
"That Lord Stannis fled straight afterwards. So, faced with a man who would take my children's birthright for himself, and a judge who sees grumpkins and snarks, I demand Trial by Combat, with Jaime to champion me, to dispel these attacks on both our honour."
"Jaime is hundreds of leagues away and in open rebellion against the crown, even before we moved against your bastard." Ned said.
They're deciding the fate of the realm based on a duel, Tane realized with a start.
"Then invite him here. Or let me pick another champion. Meryn Trant!"
"Yes, your grace?" Trant asked. He stood beside the empty iron throne alongside Arys Oakheart, the only members of the Kingsguard still alive and in King's Landing.
"Will you honour all your vows, as a knight and a Kingsguard, to protect the royal family?"
"Gladly, your grace."
"And who is your champion, Lord Stark?" Cersei asked.
"I will offer my axe or sword or lance, whichever is needed!" Loras called out.
Ned paused in thought, then said "As you wish."
"You denied me my first choice of champion" Cersei said, her voice pitiful but her eyes triumphant.
Ned looked confused for a moment, then realization crossed his face.
"Our champion is right here. You knew Jaime was absent when you named him."
Tane stepped forwards. "I'll face Meryn Trant. I've fought plenty of duels, and never lost one besides my first. And I've already beaten two Kingsguard."
Ser Preston Greenfield with a pistol ball to the head on the drawbridge when he wouldn't stand aside, and Ser Boros Blount with a thrust up into his armpit as they stormed up the staircases. They were kingsguard, but they hadn't died any harder than other men.
Ned looked uncomfortable. "You're a woman…"
"And I've killed plenty of men." Tane said flatly.
Women too. Never children.
More murmurs of shock.
What the hell do they think I was doing the night of the coup? Waving a banner and looking pretty?
"I have only one condition. If I fight, it will be to champion Stannis's right to the throne over Joffrey. I won't fight to see children killed. On your honour, Ned, if I win, you'll be merciful to Cersei and the children."
Stannis ground his teeth, but Ned nodded grimly.
"So be it. The Trial by Combat will take place on the morrow."
"Lord Stark." Renly said. "The Tyrells will be arriving in two days. I suggest that we delay the trial by combat by a day or two, so that Lord Tyrell can bear witness to Cersei's guilt or innocence."
"As you wish." Ned said.
Thank fuck for that. She knew the basics of armoured fighting, but she was no expert, and Meryn's advantage in muscle would count for more than it would in an unarmoured swordfight.
She did have one advantage, though. There was no regulation on what weapons could be used in a trial by combat, within reason, but most knights preferred to bring a sword and shield. That was a less than ideal weapon for fully armoured fighters. Worse, the Westerosi preferred to slash at harness to batter their opponent down and only thrust for the joints when they already had their opponent down.
Tane full well intended to bring a pole-axe to a sword fight.
Margaery I:
She stood besides Renly and Stannis in the box, overlooking the tourney grounds. Half of King's Landing, it seemed, had come to watch the fate of the kingdom be decided at the point of a sword.
She was still bleary eyed; she'd only gotten to sleep late last night, with a welcome feast-from Stannis's grumbling, this was the third one that month-that lasted well into the night then waking early for the duel. That was after spending several weeks on the road, riding fast for King's Landing. She and most of her entourage of ladies in waiting where good riders, and the rest had ridden in carriages, while the knights and squires and men-at-arms and archers ahorse had impatiently tromped ahead, all the men Mace could gather on short notice. He wanted to get to King's Landing as soon as possible, to show his dedication to the new King, before Tywin's outriders made the roads too dangerous, and to achieve a certain other goal that she had a vital role in.
Mace Tyrell was still playing his game of being the father to a queen, and she was his pawn in it. First he'd wanted to send her to king's landing, seduce Robert, convince him to set aside Cersei, and marry him. She hadn't much liked that plan. Robert had gone to fat since his younger days, had sired many bastards, and there were whispers he sometimes struck Cersei.
She'd agreed to go with it anyway. Her own desires only mattered insofar as they didn't contradict her duties. What mattered was the good of House Tyrell, and besides, she'd surely outlive Robert and be able to enjoy her status as Queen-Mother.
But when Robert has died and the Lannisters had been imprisoned or exiled the plan had switched to marrying Stannis or Renly. Mace would have preferred that she somehow seduce Stannis and make him put aside Selyse-She, Willas, and Ollenna had all thought it an absurd plan, but Mace was adamant.
They'd prevailed on him to go for Renly anyway, after Ollenna had put more barbs through him than a longbow volley. Stannis was already married, rather less fond of women than Robert, and hated the Tyrells.
Renly, on the other hand, was not a king, but he was heir apparent, and Hand of the King. He was unmarried, and would more likely than not prefer a wife already familiar with his situation than one who was not.
She liked that idea much better. She'd met Renly plenty of times. He trusted the Tyrells, was not displeasing to look at, had no existing wife to get rid of, and considering his tastes, was unlikely to force himself upon her.
Below, trumpets blew, and the High Septon read out his prayers, urging each of the seven to lend their attributes to the combatants. The crowd cheered, nobles and commons alike. They were drawn to the chance to see history made, the promise of what was essentially a tourney with real blood, and to see one of the foreigners, sometimes said to have been sent by a miracle of the seven to throw down the spawn of incest, fight.
The fighters strode across the central, cleared area. Meryn was clad from head to toe in armour of plate and scale, pure white, a sword in one hand and a knight's shield, shaped like a child's kite, in the other.
The captain of the foreigners, Tane Bayder, come on opposite, a woman and a bastard representing a king's cause. Her armour was dull grey steel, all plate, with lobstered tassets.
She was armed with a six foot poleaxe, an axe blade on one side and a hammer on the other, and a spike on either end of the haft. A sword and dagger, both with queer cagelike hilts, hung from her belt.
"She has the right idea. Axes and Morning Stars are for killing knights, not swords. Those are for hewing down peasants and for the tourney." Renly said.
Loras always said that Margaery thought, and she guessed that was where Renly had gotten the idea. She didn't say that, though, instead just "Very wise."
Meryn stopped and shifted into guard, side on, sword held back. Tane cocked her axe back, pointing the butt spike straight towards his face, and began to circle, working Meryn's left.
Margaery had been stunned when she'd found out Stannis had a woman championing him. For a moment, she'd assumed that the maid of Tarth had ended up in King's Landing somehow, before she'd remembered that the foreigners had a woman leading them, according to Loras's letters. She'd assumed the captain was just a figurehead, a commander, and then a fool, but looking at her now…
Tane struck first. She lunged forwards, flicking out with the butt, first as his head, then as he jerked his shield up thrust down into his groin. It scraped off his tassets, and she darted back out of distance as he slashed at her with his sword, catching the cut on her haft.
They resumed circling, then Tane came in for a hammer blow and Meryn barely parried it. It went on and on like that, for what seemed a dozen exchanges. They kept moving about each other, striking and parrying, Tane using both ends of her axe to thrust and the hammerhead to strike, Meryn fighting like every hedge knight she'd ever seen, raining down cuts while blocking with his shield.
It wasn't hard to tell who was winning. Neither of them managed to get at the joints or pierce each other's armour, but Tane was landing more hits that Ser Meryn was, and each of them seemed to tell more.
Finally, Meryn committed to a charge, aimed to rush in and knock her down. Tane circle-stepped out of the way of his charge, slamming her butt spike into his visor at the same time. He staggered, stunned, and then she got the blade of the axe hooked around his knee and pulled. Meryn was wrenched down to his knees. Tane disengaged the axe and threw a whirling cut at Trant's head. Trant threw his shield up, just in time, and axe and shield crashed together with an unholy sound.
Margaery had seen dozens of tournaments, seen her brothers, all of them famous knights, train hundreds of times, even had them show her some moves. She knew how fighting for sport worked. This wasn't that. Tane was trying to kill him, with everything at her disposal.
For a moment, it seemed like Meryn might have reversed his fortunes. Tane's axe was stuck in his shield and he took the opportunity to strike what seemed like half a hundred blows against Tane's armour, sending sparks flying. She stumbled back, letting go of the poleaxe, arms raised to protect her face.
She's going to get butchered-
Better that she had volunteered than Loras. She had no desire to see her brother killed.
Then Tane was out of distance, and drawing her own sword, while Meryn dragged himself to his feet. His shield arm trailed behind him, the axe-blade still stuck into it.
He dropped it and resumed his advance, the weapon falling to the ground with a dull clunk. The crowd had been silent for most of the fight, besides the occasional heckler calling out "Coward!" or "Kill the foreign whore!", making the sound of steel on steel even louder.
Tane circled around him, trying to get the morning sun into his eyes. She had her hilt down near her hip, with the point upwards; her off-hand held close by her side.
He has to get in close, try and knock her over. He's less skilled, but he's taller and stronger, and needs to make that count.
"You know, Stannis is becoming more royal with every blow." Renly said.
Margaery giggled, half out of flattery, half because it wasn't a bad jape.
Meryn charged with a roar of "Cunt!", the first thing either of them had said all fight, and then it was all over. His cut slammed into her vambrace and they crashed together, stumbling like drunken lovers, Tane's free hand grabbing him by the visor and her sword stabbing up over and over until Meryn grabbed her sword arm with one hand and started beating at her with his pommel with the other. It looked for a moment like he'd overpower Tane, then he stumbled sideways and fell with a sound like pots being hurled down a stairway.
What killed him?
And then she saw it, the blood dripping from Tane's sword and pooling around Trant's head. She'd pulled his visor open and stabbed him through the face.
Seven above.
She was going to be married to the Hand of the King. She was going to be married to the heir to the throne, of a kingdom at war where kings could die at any moment.
No Greater Fury: Tane III, Joffrey II, Tane IV
- Location
- Brisbane
"Let me through." Tane told the gaolers.
The head gaoler shook his head. "No chance of that, missy, unless you've got permission."
Tane held out a piece of paper. "Written permission to see the royal prisoner. Signed by Renly."
It hadn't been hard to get. Just told him she wanted to ask Cersei, face to face, if the incest was true. Promised to go in alone. No chance of her trying to affect a rescue. Payment for killing Ser Meryn.
The gaoler turned and stalked down into the black cells, keys jangling.
"If the Hand wills it…"
"He does." Tane said.
He unlocked the doors, and led her down into the gloom. Cersei had been held, at first, in her apartments under armed guard. When she'd killed Ser Meryn in single combat, though, Cersei had been hurled into the black cells, and kept in isolation, away from the royal children, still held under armed guard in the highest tower of Maegor's Holdfast.
Because of me.
She shuddered. She'd done things she wasn't proud of before, but she'd never condemned a most likely innocent women to most likely death to stop her idiot son taking the throne.
She remembered what Stannis had said, in the last meeting of the Small council.
"The Lannister woman should pay for her crimes, as soon as possible, and the children too."
When Eddard had pointed out they were not to blame for their mother's crime, Stannis had simply said the whole family was tainted, and he wanted them gone.
When she'd pointed out that she'd agreed with Ned to be merciful, Stannis had simply said that he was not Eddard.
The gaoler stepped away from the doorway. "Cersei is inside."
She offered him her folding knife before she stepped in. She wouldn't need her weapons to overpower a chained, untrained civilian woman, if Cersei somehow tried to fight.
He locked the door behind her.
"Cersei?" Tane asked, opening the shutter of her lantern. The cell stunk to high heavens, and she winced when she saw that the chamber pot was near to overflowing. Apparently, this was still more than most prisoners got.
The former queen sat in the corner of the cell, covering her eyes against the lantern light. Her dress was threadbare and filthy, and her face seemed hollower, bonier.
Tane crouched down in front of her, reducing the light from the lantern and putting it down.
"Have you come here to strangle me?" Cersei asked, her voice resigned. "If you have, make it quick."
Tane shook her head. "I've not. I want to know the truth."
"The truth about what?"
"The truth about the incest."
Cersei laughed, bitterly. "What truth? Why does it matter? Renly and Stannis and Ned have the swords, and you have the guns. You decide what is true and what is false."
"Did you or did you not fuck your brother?" Tane asked. "It doesn't matter now. Stannis wants your head. I just want to know. If you tell me, I'll you what's going in, in the outside world. How close Jaime and Tywin are."
Cersei looked her dead in the eyes, squinting against the light.
"I did not lie when I said I did not love Robert as I loved Jaime. Robert was some fool I had to fuck to protect my children. Jaime made me complete. I came into the world with him. He fathered my sons. He tried to kill Bran to protect me. He should have championed me against my enemies. He should have killed you."
Tane shuddered. How could she do it? How could she fuck her own family?
Even the thought of kissing any of her siblings in that way made her skin crawl.
"You deserve death. You're a pervert, and a monster" Tane said, flatly.
"They say you're a pervert as well. Do you deserve death for fucking my maid?" Cersei questioned.
That hadn't been one of her better ideas. One of the knights at the feast during the tourney of the maid had called the maid in question, Senelle, a whore, and shoved his hand up her dress.
Tane had damn near drawn on the man, there and then. The Westerosi never treated herself like that, to her face. She was armed and trained, and had eighty odd killers at her back. The cowards reserved that sort of treatment for common women, and noblewomen who had no knights to protect them.
Afterwards, Senelle had thanked her, and had seemed so grateful, and blushed prettily, and Tane couldn't resist. It probably helped that she hadn't had a good fuck in months, and was slightly drunk.
She'd met with her, in quiet places, a few times after that. She'd stopped, when the tensions had heated up. Too much risk of being a Lannister spy.
I was right, then.
"I wanted her. I'm pretty sure she wanted me. What of it?" Tane asked.
"You could say the same of me and Jaime."
"What I did had no consequences. When a family breeds together, the lineage grows stagnant, like a swamp. All the bad traits are magnified. Look at Joffrey. All of Tywin's cruelty, none of his cunning. You nearly condemned millions to being ruled by a madman. Look what happened with Aerys."
"How can you judge me?" Cersei asked. "When I was a girl, I dressed in Jaime's clothes, and he dressed in mine. No one could tell the difference, not even Tywin. I even got a few lessons from the master at arms. Then I flowered, and all men wanted was my cunt. Now Jaime is a warhorse, and I'm just a broodmare. But you, you have power. Men listen to you. You know how to kill. You fuck who you want, you don't get raped by some drunken oaf. You get treated like a knight, not like an expensive whore pimped out by her father. How can you judge me?"
Tane felt some tiny amount of the sympathy she had once felt for Cersei return.
"You could still have slept with any other knight, if you wanted to defy Robert and gain protection."
Cersei dodged the question.
"I answered your question, and I want you to answer mine. Is Jaime coming for me?"
"His armies are out there. Last I heard, they're advancing on King's Landing, sending out ravens demanding your release or another sack."
Tane saw a glimmer of hope cross her face.
"A Lannister always pays his debts."
Tane shrugged. "Doesn't matter what Jaime does. You've got, what, 40,000 men in the Riverlands and the gold road. Trained, already mustered. They've got a clear run to attack King's Landing. But, as soon as the North and the Reach bestir, they'll be trapped a long way from home. Your people will be either weakened from the storming or bogged down in a siege. Either way, the Tyrells will wreck them, and we can evacuate everything important by ship, so losing King's Landing would only be an inconvenience. The Tyrells alone can put twice as many troops as you can in the field, and that's without the North or Stormlands, or the arquebuses I'm having built taken into the equation."
She paused for a moment.
"What Tywin's doing, I reckon, is trying to intimidate us into backing down. He can't take King's Landing, let alone win the war, but he reckons if he can convince us he can, by marching up the goldroad, we'll back down. We won't, though. Stannis is a hard man, and he knows how long walls held by brave soldiers can stand for. The way things look, Tywin's fucked like a cheap whore when the fleet's in."
Cersei slumped back. The hope in her eyes died. It hadn't lived long.
Tane kneeled down in front of her, and took her pale, bony hand.
Cersei is a monster. Joffrey is a monster. Robert was a fool, and Stannis too. But Tommen and Myrcella don't deserve to suffer for their follies.
"You brought this upon yourself. But on my honour as an officer of the Commonwealth, I promise I will do everything in my power to protect your children. They didn't deserve this. They shouldn't suffer for your crimes. I'll see them exiled, or sent to the wall, or given as wards to loyal houses as royal bastards, but never killed."
She picked up the lantern and left without another word.
Joffrey II
He dreamt of revenge. He dreamt of his armies, dressed in royal yellow and Lannister red and carrying flintlocks, killing all the traitors who had tried to steal his crown. He dreamt of that foreign woman and all her officers screaming in terror as they were tortured in the black cells while he watched. He dreamt of Sansa being brought before him in chains, and him sparing her life, and marrying her and making her his forever.
He jolted awake, to the hound shoving into his cabin and sailors shouting outside, and for a moment it was the red keep all over again.
How did the traitors catch us on the open sea?
His heart leapt into his throat.
Never! I'll never let them take me alive!
"It's morning, and we've sighted Casterly Rock. So if you're going to ask me "are we there yet?" again, yes we fucking are." Sandor growled. His dog had gotten rather less obedient in the time he'd been on ship. He'd have to fix that, once they were safe from traitors.
"Begone, dog" Joffrey said. He couldn't be bothered to get up, and the seasickness had made him lose sleep.
The hound left.
He spent the next few hours fitfully trying to get to sleep, but all he could think about where the traitors. They'd forced him to flee his home in the middle of the night. Barristan had a few captains he'd paid off ahead of time to smuggle him out in just such a situation, and one of them was in port. There'd been goldcloaks hunting for them, but Sandor had butchered some of them, and the people had obeyed their rightful king and not turned him over.
Rely on the man to have a plan to run away, but not to fight.
Finally, Barristan entered. "Your Grace, we are entering the sea caves that lead into Casterly Rock's harbour. It would be wise to be dressed by the time we moor."
Joffrey snorted.
"Of course people must see their king."
He dragged himself out of bed and dressed hurriedly and clumsily. He always had servants to do that for him, and it took him three tries to get the buttons on his doublet right. He stumbled out into the gloom of the underharbour, lit only by torches. The ship was already moored, and a detachment of Lannister halberdiers stood guard.
He walked down the gangplank with as much gravitas as he could muster.
"I demand to see Tywin!" he yelled.
The guards glanced at each other. "I think you should head upstairs" the leader of them said.
*
"I demand to see Tywin!" Joffrey yelled again, his voice echoing through the great hall of Casterly Rock.
Genna shook her head. "I'm afraid he's not here. He's marching up the goldroad, to save your mother and brother and sister from Lord Stannis. Seems to be marching very slowly, though."
Finally a straight answer! People should answer kings honestly.
"Why? He should march faster! The traitors have taken over the capital!"
Tywin isn't a traitor or a coward, he can't be.
"We can't take and hold the capital." Genna said. "Tywin's got 35,000 men…"
Joffrey ignored her babbling. Robert had always said that it was courage and leadership and tactics that counted on the battlefield, not numbers.
"I don't care how many men they've got. Invade King's Landing and kill the leaders of the rebellion, then all the realm will bow to me."
Stafford Lannister spoke up.
"And what's to stop them fleeing? We don't have a proper fleet to blockade the cities on both sides. Renly will run to Storm's End, Stannis to Dragonstone, and Ned to the north, and then we'll be stuck in a ruined city with armies closing in all around us."
She shook her head. "No, Tywin's plan is the right one. He's keeping King's Landing under threat, making them scared, but he's staying close enough to the Westerlands to retreat. The Tyrell's numbers count for nothing in those passes."
"But how can we take my throne back if we hide in the passes? We should challenge them to single combat. Me, Tywin, Jaime and my dog against Renly, Stannis, Ned and the foreign bitch." Joffrey said.
"And Stannis will answer that why?" Genna asked. "Jaime's the best sword in the realm. He'd risk losing everything over a few sword strokes."
"Coward!" Joffrey spat.
He thought on it for a moment. He'd a lot of time to think about how he'd organize his armies, on the trip to Casterly Rock. It was better than listening to his dog and the old bastard arguing over knighthood yet again.
"I'll make Tywin's and Jaime's armies come here, to swear oaths to me, and in return they'll get paid with Casterly Rock gold. Like sellswords, but they'll only serve me. They'll be the first part of a royal army. And I'll have a great stock of crossbows and spear and swords in Casterly Rock, and we can arm all the farmers, and put them in the field as well, and have more men than the Tyrells. And then I'll take my throne back."
He'd show the cowards and traitors what a true stag was capable of.
Tane IV
"Did Cersei confess?" Stannis asked, almost as soon as she walked through the door into the small council chamber. Since Stannis took over, she'd been forced out of the royal inner circle, but she'd been invited in today.
Tane sat down at the small council table. All the small council where there, though rather depleted, with Arys Oakheart, the sole remaining alive and loyal Kingsguard, as Lord-Commander and no Master of Ships.
"I thought you already had your heart set on the answer when you arrived here, or that me landing a well placed thrust changed the past to make Cersei guilty."
Of course, Cersei was in fact guilty as sin, but that didn't make the methods used to arrive at that conclusion any less absurd.
Stannis ground his teeth.
"Did or did not Cersei confess? Your King commands you."
My King is a long way from here, and only a consort.
Tane sighed. "She confessed. Jaime's the father."
Stannis nodded, grimly. "The final judgement will take place in a week. If she confesses publicly, I will be merciful."
"What about the children?" Eddard asked.
Although Renly had replaced him as Hand of the King-Stannis had some kind of absurd belief that a handship was the birthright of a younger brother-Eddard had been kept on as Master of Laws. The swapping of positions had been fodder for the more gossip prone parts of the court, especially the Tyrell's hanger-ons, but it did make sense. Stannis wanted to keep Ned on; he simply didn't want to make him Hand of the King.
"I want them gone. I don't care whether they're dead or exiled, they're abominations and I do not want them in my capital."
"Your Grace, Tommen should be sent to the wall, and Myrcella to the silent sisters. Cersei too. If you kill them, it would be an ill start to your reign." Eddard said.
"Cersei is guilty of treason and incest. It would be an ill start to my reign to spare her. The children are spawned of incest and treason."
"They had no part in their parent's crime. Tommen and Myrcella are both sweet children." Eddard said.
"They are still living defiance's of the laws of gods and men, and threats to my lawful throne. I won't have another Blackfyre menace. Besides, the taint of incest will show eventually."
He's planning on murdering children to secure his throne. Joffrey may have mellowed with time, but this is a grown man…
"I killed Meryn Trant for you on the condition you'd show mercy." Tane said. "On my honour as an officer of the Commonwealth, I have to insist that you show her mercy-"
"It was a fine display of prowess, but any good knight could have done that." Stannis said. "And you asked for mercy, not that she would be spared. and to Ned besides. Me having Cersei beheaded would be a mercy. Queen Selyse wants her burned, you know."
"Then send Tommen to the wall and Myrcella to the silent sisters, where they can do no harm." Eddard said. He looked pained.
"If Cersei confesses, and destroys their claim in public, they pose no threat. If she refuses, however, they must be dealt with decisively. Melisandre says they have King's Blood, and King's Blood has power." Stannis repeated.
"Being known as a child murderer will do more damage to your cause than a few children locked up in a tower ever will." Tane said.
As long as they stay locked up in the tower. Get them loose and all bets are off. Like Joffrey.
"It needn't be a public execution. That would only inflame the mob against us further. There's already been talks of riots, after you tried to put that brothel tax in place." Petyr said.
Renly had told her about that. It had taken everything in the small council's power to stop him from banning them outright.
Renly glanced about, gauging the room. "I suggest we give Cersei an ultimatum. If she publicly confesses, she and her children live. If not, they die. It would be an excellent incentive to confess and damage Joffrey's claim."
It was hard logic, but it worked. Of course, there was nothing to say they couldn't kill Cersei but spare the children anyway if she refused to confess…
She wouldn't let that happen. Or let the children die even if Cersei wouldn't.
"On the note of Joffrey's claim, we have received a raven from Casterly rock. Joffrey has arrived there, alive and well, and is demanding Stannis and Renly come to Casterly Rock immediately to plead for mercy or face the consequences." Renly said.
Tane raised an eyebrow.
"Someone's going to be travelling to Casterly Rock, and someone's going to be pleading for mercy, but it's not going to be us." Tane said.
"A fool boy's hubris." Stannis said.
"Obviously." Renly said. "Called his sword Lion's Tooth, if I recall."
"There's another letter, this one more reasonable, from the Lord Tywin Lannister. It proclaims that the royal children and Cersei be released, and you admit to making an error of judgement with regards to the incest and abdicate to Dragonstone, letting Joffrey take the throne. Otherwise, you will suffer the fate of the Reynes, Castameres and Targaryen's."
"A prideful old man's hubris. No matter" Stannis said. "Send him a letter back. Tell him and Jaime to go into exile and let, say, Kevan Lannister take his seat, or else we will come to Casterly Rock with all our forces. Bayder, how are the firearms coming along?"
"We've got about sixty in working order. Copies of the first half dozen or so working models made."
It was a crude version of the pattern system the Commonwealth army used for weapons procurement.
"What about the powder mill and the cannon?" asked Pycelle. The old man had taken a certain interest in her weapons, as of late.
"The alchemists have a powder mill set up, are beginning production. Unfortunately, we're a little short on the necessary ingredients. I'm sure Baelish will have the details."
"Everything we need is located on the isle of Dragonstone, though more intensive mining will be necessary. Might I suggest putting prisoners to work there?"
Stannis nodded. "As you wish."
"As to the cannon, I'm looking at getting bellfounders or barrel makers to construct us one, see how well it works. I'm a cavalry officer, not a gunner, so I'm not exactly expert in the things."
"Before we adjourn, there is one more matter that needs attention. The Master of Ships." Renly said.
"We currently don't have one, unless you'd like to be King and Master of Ships both." he added.
Stannis shrugged. "Imry Florent wanted the position, I recall. He seems a good enough man. Davos has long years on the sea, but no experience with high office."
"Imry Florent is indeed a good man. Though I may suggest that Alester Florent is the wiser?" Renly said.
Alester Florent was very much part of the faction that was forming around the Tyrells, and by extension Renly, at court.
Stannis considered for a moment. "Aye, he's the wiser man, and he knows how to run his keep. I'll make him Master of Ships. I'll refer him to Davos though, make sure he keeps Ser Seaworth on hand for more practical matters."
Stannis waved his hand. "You're all dismissed. Except you, Renly, and Lord Baelish. I want a word with you two about the state of the treasury."
Tane stood up and filed out alongside the others.
After that charming discussion of child murder, she needed to go hit something. She set off towards the Maidenvault. Gryff or Sace would likely be up for a bit of bouting.
"Captain Bayder?" someone asked.
Finally someone calling me by my rank and not by a bloody title I don't have!
Tane turned around and saw Davos Seaworth. He was the plainest looking man she'd ever seen; thinning brown hair, slight build, otherwise unremarkable except for his maimed hand. A smuggler before Stannis had raised him to knighthood for saving his life and cut off his fingers for smuggling.
"Yes?"
"What is to be done with the royal children?"
He seemed apprehensive, even slightly fearful.
"I don't know, Stannis doesn't know, no one knows. He doesn't want them in the city. He's thinking about… fuck, I shouldn't be telling you this."
"I have to know. Stannis is a good man, but his idea of justice can be… harsh, sometimes."
Davos rubbed the knuckles of his maimed hand.
"He wants to kill them. I'll try and force him not to. But I won't countenance treason." Tane said.
Davos was Master of Whispers. This could be a trap, to get her to admit to something she'd regret.
"Then I shall have to convince him otherwise." Davos said, turning away from her.
Good luck with that.
The head gaoler shook his head. "No chance of that, missy, unless you've got permission."
Tane held out a piece of paper. "Written permission to see the royal prisoner. Signed by Renly."
It hadn't been hard to get. Just told him she wanted to ask Cersei, face to face, if the incest was true. Promised to go in alone. No chance of her trying to affect a rescue. Payment for killing Ser Meryn.
The gaoler turned and stalked down into the black cells, keys jangling.
"If the Hand wills it…"
"He does." Tane said.
He unlocked the doors, and led her down into the gloom. Cersei had been held, at first, in her apartments under armed guard. When she'd killed Ser Meryn in single combat, though, Cersei had been hurled into the black cells, and kept in isolation, away from the royal children, still held under armed guard in the highest tower of Maegor's Holdfast.
Because of me.
She shuddered. She'd done things she wasn't proud of before, but she'd never condemned a most likely innocent women to most likely death to stop her idiot son taking the throne.
She remembered what Stannis had said, in the last meeting of the Small council.
"The Lannister woman should pay for her crimes, as soon as possible, and the children too."
When Eddard had pointed out they were not to blame for their mother's crime, Stannis had simply said the whole family was tainted, and he wanted them gone.
When she'd pointed out that she'd agreed with Ned to be merciful, Stannis had simply said that he was not Eddard.
The gaoler stepped away from the doorway. "Cersei is inside."
She offered him her folding knife before she stepped in. She wouldn't need her weapons to overpower a chained, untrained civilian woman, if Cersei somehow tried to fight.
He locked the door behind her.
"Cersei?" Tane asked, opening the shutter of her lantern. The cell stunk to high heavens, and she winced when she saw that the chamber pot was near to overflowing. Apparently, this was still more than most prisoners got.
The former queen sat in the corner of the cell, covering her eyes against the lantern light. Her dress was threadbare and filthy, and her face seemed hollower, bonier.
Tane crouched down in front of her, reducing the light from the lantern and putting it down.
"Have you come here to strangle me?" Cersei asked, her voice resigned. "If you have, make it quick."
Tane shook her head. "I've not. I want to know the truth."
"The truth about what?"
"The truth about the incest."
Cersei laughed, bitterly. "What truth? Why does it matter? Renly and Stannis and Ned have the swords, and you have the guns. You decide what is true and what is false."
"Did you or did you not fuck your brother?" Tane asked. "It doesn't matter now. Stannis wants your head. I just want to know. If you tell me, I'll you what's going in, in the outside world. How close Jaime and Tywin are."
Cersei looked her dead in the eyes, squinting against the light.
"I did not lie when I said I did not love Robert as I loved Jaime. Robert was some fool I had to fuck to protect my children. Jaime made me complete. I came into the world with him. He fathered my sons. He tried to kill Bran to protect me. He should have championed me against my enemies. He should have killed you."
Tane shuddered. How could she do it? How could she fuck her own family?
Even the thought of kissing any of her siblings in that way made her skin crawl.
"You deserve death. You're a pervert, and a monster" Tane said, flatly.
"They say you're a pervert as well. Do you deserve death for fucking my maid?" Cersei questioned.
That hadn't been one of her better ideas. One of the knights at the feast during the tourney of the maid had called the maid in question, Senelle, a whore, and shoved his hand up her dress.
Tane had damn near drawn on the man, there and then. The Westerosi never treated herself like that, to her face. She was armed and trained, and had eighty odd killers at her back. The cowards reserved that sort of treatment for common women, and noblewomen who had no knights to protect them.
Afterwards, Senelle had thanked her, and had seemed so grateful, and blushed prettily, and Tane couldn't resist. It probably helped that she hadn't had a good fuck in months, and was slightly drunk.
She'd met with her, in quiet places, a few times after that. She'd stopped, when the tensions had heated up. Too much risk of being a Lannister spy.
I was right, then.
"I wanted her. I'm pretty sure she wanted me. What of it?" Tane asked.
"You could say the same of me and Jaime."
"What I did had no consequences. When a family breeds together, the lineage grows stagnant, like a swamp. All the bad traits are magnified. Look at Joffrey. All of Tywin's cruelty, none of his cunning. You nearly condemned millions to being ruled by a madman. Look what happened with Aerys."
"How can you judge me?" Cersei asked. "When I was a girl, I dressed in Jaime's clothes, and he dressed in mine. No one could tell the difference, not even Tywin. I even got a few lessons from the master at arms. Then I flowered, and all men wanted was my cunt. Now Jaime is a warhorse, and I'm just a broodmare. But you, you have power. Men listen to you. You know how to kill. You fuck who you want, you don't get raped by some drunken oaf. You get treated like a knight, not like an expensive whore pimped out by her father. How can you judge me?"
Tane felt some tiny amount of the sympathy she had once felt for Cersei return.
"You could still have slept with any other knight, if you wanted to defy Robert and gain protection."
Cersei dodged the question.
"I answered your question, and I want you to answer mine. Is Jaime coming for me?"
"His armies are out there. Last I heard, they're advancing on King's Landing, sending out ravens demanding your release or another sack."
Tane saw a glimmer of hope cross her face.
"A Lannister always pays his debts."
Tane shrugged. "Doesn't matter what Jaime does. You've got, what, 40,000 men in the Riverlands and the gold road. Trained, already mustered. They've got a clear run to attack King's Landing. But, as soon as the North and the Reach bestir, they'll be trapped a long way from home. Your people will be either weakened from the storming or bogged down in a siege. Either way, the Tyrells will wreck them, and we can evacuate everything important by ship, so losing King's Landing would only be an inconvenience. The Tyrells alone can put twice as many troops as you can in the field, and that's without the North or Stormlands, or the arquebuses I'm having built taken into the equation."
She paused for a moment.
"What Tywin's doing, I reckon, is trying to intimidate us into backing down. He can't take King's Landing, let alone win the war, but he reckons if he can convince us he can, by marching up the goldroad, we'll back down. We won't, though. Stannis is a hard man, and he knows how long walls held by brave soldiers can stand for. The way things look, Tywin's fucked like a cheap whore when the fleet's in."
Cersei slumped back. The hope in her eyes died. It hadn't lived long.
Tane kneeled down in front of her, and took her pale, bony hand.
Cersei is a monster. Joffrey is a monster. Robert was a fool, and Stannis too. But Tommen and Myrcella don't deserve to suffer for their follies.
"You brought this upon yourself. But on my honour as an officer of the Commonwealth, I promise I will do everything in my power to protect your children. They didn't deserve this. They shouldn't suffer for your crimes. I'll see them exiled, or sent to the wall, or given as wards to loyal houses as royal bastards, but never killed."
She picked up the lantern and left without another word.
Joffrey II
He dreamt of revenge. He dreamt of his armies, dressed in royal yellow and Lannister red and carrying flintlocks, killing all the traitors who had tried to steal his crown. He dreamt of that foreign woman and all her officers screaming in terror as they were tortured in the black cells while he watched. He dreamt of Sansa being brought before him in chains, and him sparing her life, and marrying her and making her his forever.
He jolted awake, to the hound shoving into his cabin and sailors shouting outside, and for a moment it was the red keep all over again.
How did the traitors catch us on the open sea?
His heart leapt into his throat.
Never! I'll never let them take me alive!
"It's morning, and we've sighted Casterly Rock. So if you're going to ask me "are we there yet?" again, yes we fucking are." Sandor growled. His dog had gotten rather less obedient in the time he'd been on ship. He'd have to fix that, once they were safe from traitors.
"Begone, dog" Joffrey said. He couldn't be bothered to get up, and the seasickness had made him lose sleep.
The hound left.
He spent the next few hours fitfully trying to get to sleep, but all he could think about where the traitors. They'd forced him to flee his home in the middle of the night. Barristan had a few captains he'd paid off ahead of time to smuggle him out in just such a situation, and one of them was in port. There'd been goldcloaks hunting for them, but Sandor had butchered some of them, and the people had obeyed their rightful king and not turned him over.
Rely on the man to have a plan to run away, but not to fight.
Finally, Barristan entered. "Your Grace, we are entering the sea caves that lead into Casterly Rock's harbour. It would be wise to be dressed by the time we moor."
Joffrey snorted.
"Of course people must see their king."
He dragged himself out of bed and dressed hurriedly and clumsily. He always had servants to do that for him, and it took him three tries to get the buttons on his doublet right. He stumbled out into the gloom of the underharbour, lit only by torches. The ship was already moored, and a detachment of Lannister halberdiers stood guard.
He walked down the gangplank with as much gravitas as he could muster.
"I demand to see Tywin!" he yelled.
The guards glanced at each other. "I think you should head upstairs" the leader of them said.
*
"I demand to see Tywin!" Joffrey yelled again, his voice echoing through the great hall of Casterly Rock.
Genna shook her head. "I'm afraid he's not here. He's marching up the goldroad, to save your mother and brother and sister from Lord Stannis. Seems to be marching very slowly, though."
Finally a straight answer! People should answer kings honestly.
"Why? He should march faster! The traitors have taken over the capital!"
Tywin isn't a traitor or a coward, he can't be.
"We can't take and hold the capital." Genna said. "Tywin's got 35,000 men…"
Joffrey ignored her babbling. Robert had always said that it was courage and leadership and tactics that counted on the battlefield, not numbers.
"I don't care how many men they've got. Invade King's Landing and kill the leaders of the rebellion, then all the realm will bow to me."
Stafford Lannister spoke up.
"And what's to stop them fleeing? We don't have a proper fleet to blockade the cities on both sides. Renly will run to Storm's End, Stannis to Dragonstone, and Ned to the north, and then we'll be stuck in a ruined city with armies closing in all around us."
She shook her head. "No, Tywin's plan is the right one. He's keeping King's Landing under threat, making them scared, but he's staying close enough to the Westerlands to retreat. The Tyrell's numbers count for nothing in those passes."
"But how can we take my throne back if we hide in the passes? We should challenge them to single combat. Me, Tywin, Jaime and my dog against Renly, Stannis, Ned and the foreign bitch." Joffrey said.
"And Stannis will answer that why?" Genna asked. "Jaime's the best sword in the realm. He'd risk losing everything over a few sword strokes."
"Coward!" Joffrey spat.
He thought on it for a moment. He'd a lot of time to think about how he'd organize his armies, on the trip to Casterly Rock. It was better than listening to his dog and the old bastard arguing over knighthood yet again.
"I'll make Tywin's and Jaime's armies come here, to swear oaths to me, and in return they'll get paid with Casterly Rock gold. Like sellswords, but they'll only serve me. They'll be the first part of a royal army. And I'll have a great stock of crossbows and spear and swords in Casterly Rock, and we can arm all the farmers, and put them in the field as well, and have more men than the Tyrells. And then I'll take my throne back."
He'd show the cowards and traitors what a true stag was capable of.
Tane IV
"Did Cersei confess?" Stannis asked, almost as soon as she walked through the door into the small council chamber. Since Stannis took over, she'd been forced out of the royal inner circle, but she'd been invited in today.
Tane sat down at the small council table. All the small council where there, though rather depleted, with Arys Oakheart, the sole remaining alive and loyal Kingsguard, as Lord-Commander and no Master of Ships.
"I thought you already had your heart set on the answer when you arrived here, or that me landing a well placed thrust changed the past to make Cersei guilty."
Of course, Cersei was in fact guilty as sin, but that didn't make the methods used to arrive at that conclusion any less absurd.
Stannis ground his teeth.
"Did or did not Cersei confess? Your King commands you."
My King is a long way from here, and only a consort.
Tane sighed. "She confessed. Jaime's the father."
Stannis nodded, grimly. "The final judgement will take place in a week. If she confesses publicly, I will be merciful."
"What about the children?" Eddard asked.
Although Renly had replaced him as Hand of the King-Stannis had some kind of absurd belief that a handship was the birthright of a younger brother-Eddard had been kept on as Master of Laws. The swapping of positions had been fodder for the more gossip prone parts of the court, especially the Tyrell's hanger-ons, but it did make sense. Stannis wanted to keep Ned on; he simply didn't want to make him Hand of the King.
"I want them gone. I don't care whether they're dead or exiled, they're abominations and I do not want them in my capital."
"Your Grace, Tommen should be sent to the wall, and Myrcella to the silent sisters. Cersei too. If you kill them, it would be an ill start to your reign." Eddard said.
"Cersei is guilty of treason and incest. It would be an ill start to my reign to spare her. The children are spawned of incest and treason."
"They had no part in their parent's crime. Tommen and Myrcella are both sweet children." Eddard said.
"They are still living defiance's of the laws of gods and men, and threats to my lawful throne. I won't have another Blackfyre menace. Besides, the taint of incest will show eventually."
He's planning on murdering children to secure his throne. Joffrey may have mellowed with time, but this is a grown man…
"I killed Meryn Trant for you on the condition you'd show mercy." Tane said. "On my honour as an officer of the Commonwealth, I have to insist that you show her mercy-"
"It was a fine display of prowess, but any good knight could have done that." Stannis said. "And you asked for mercy, not that she would be spared. and to Ned besides. Me having Cersei beheaded would be a mercy. Queen Selyse wants her burned, you know."
"Then send Tommen to the wall and Myrcella to the silent sisters, where they can do no harm." Eddard said. He looked pained.
"If Cersei confesses, and destroys their claim in public, they pose no threat. If she refuses, however, they must be dealt with decisively. Melisandre says they have King's Blood, and King's Blood has power." Stannis repeated.
"Being known as a child murderer will do more damage to your cause than a few children locked up in a tower ever will." Tane said.
As long as they stay locked up in the tower. Get them loose and all bets are off. Like Joffrey.
"It needn't be a public execution. That would only inflame the mob against us further. There's already been talks of riots, after you tried to put that brothel tax in place." Petyr said.
Renly had told her about that. It had taken everything in the small council's power to stop him from banning them outright.
Renly glanced about, gauging the room. "I suggest we give Cersei an ultimatum. If she publicly confesses, she and her children live. If not, they die. It would be an excellent incentive to confess and damage Joffrey's claim."
It was hard logic, but it worked. Of course, there was nothing to say they couldn't kill Cersei but spare the children anyway if she refused to confess…
She wouldn't let that happen. Or let the children die even if Cersei wouldn't.
"On the note of Joffrey's claim, we have received a raven from Casterly rock. Joffrey has arrived there, alive and well, and is demanding Stannis and Renly come to Casterly Rock immediately to plead for mercy or face the consequences." Renly said.
Tane raised an eyebrow.
"Someone's going to be travelling to Casterly Rock, and someone's going to be pleading for mercy, but it's not going to be us." Tane said.
"A fool boy's hubris." Stannis said.
"Obviously." Renly said. "Called his sword Lion's Tooth, if I recall."
"There's another letter, this one more reasonable, from the Lord Tywin Lannister. It proclaims that the royal children and Cersei be released, and you admit to making an error of judgement with regards to the incest and abdicate to Dragonstone, letting Joffrey take the throne. Otherwise, you will suffer the fate of the Reynes, Castameres and Targaryen's."
"A prideful old man's hubris. No matter" Stannis said. "Send him a letter back. Tell him and Jaime to go into exile and let, say, Kevan Lannister take his seat, or else we will come to Casterly Rock with all our forces. Bayder, how are the firearms coming along?"
"We've got about sixty in working order. Copies of the first half dozen or so working models made."
It was a crude version of the pattern system the Commonwealth army used for weapons procurement.
"What about the powder mill and the cannon?" asked Pycelle. The old man had taken a certain interest in her weapons, as of late.
"The alchemists have a powder mill set up, are beginning production. Unfortunately, we're a little short on the necessary ingredients. I'm sure Baelish will have the details."
"Everything we need is located on the isle of Dragonstone, though more intensive mining will be necessary. Might I suggest putting prisoners to work there?"
Stannis nodded. "As you wish."
"As to the cannon, I'm looking at getting bellfounders or barrel makers to construct us one, see how well it works. I'm a cavalry officer, not a gunner, so I'm not exactly expert in the things."
"Before we adjourn, there is one more matter that needs attention. The Master of Ships." Renly said.
"We currently don't have one, unless you'd like to be King and Master of Ships both." he added.
Stannis shrugged. "Imry Florent wanted the position, I recall. He seems a good enough man. Davos has long years on the sea, but no experience with high office."
"Imry Florent is indeed a good man. Though I may suggest that Alester Florent is the wiser?" Renly said.
Alester Florent was very much part of the faction that was forming around the Tyrells, and by extension Renly, at court.
Stannis considered for a moment. "Aye, he's the wiser man, and he knows how to run his keep. I'll make him Master of Ships. I'll refer him to Davos though, make sure he keeps Ser Seaworth on hand for more practical matters."
Stannis waved his hand. "You're all dismissed. Except you, Renly, and Lord Baelish. I want a word with you two about the state of the treasury."
Tane stood up and filed out alongside the others.
After that charming discussion of child murder, she needed to go hit something. She set off towards the Maidenvault. Gryff or Sace would likely be up for a bit of bouting.
"Captain Bayder?" someone asked.
Finally someone calling me by my rank and not by a bloody title I don't have!
Tane turned around and saw Davos Seaworth. He was the plainest looking man she'd ever seen; thinning brown hair, slight build, otherwise unremarkable except for his maimed hand. A smuggler before Stannis had raised him to knighthood for saving his life and cut off his fingers for smuggling.
"Yes?"
"What is to be done with the royal children?"
He seemed apprehensive, even slightly fearful.
"I don't know, Stannis doesn't know, no one knows. He doesn't want them in the city. He's thinking about… fuck, I shouldn't be telling you this."
"I have to know. Stannis is a good man, but his idea of justice can be… harsh, sometimes."
Davos rubbed the knuckles of his maimed hand.
"He wants to kill them. I'll try and force him not to. But I won't countenance treason." Tane said.
Davos was Master of Whispers. This could be a trap, to get her to admit to something she'd regret.
"Then I shall have to convince him otherwise." Davos said, turning away from her.
Good luck with that.
No Greater Fury: Renly III
- Location
- Brisbane
No sooner had the door shut than Stannis stood up, looming over Littlefinger.
"How do you explain the crown debt? We are seven million dragons in debt. Do not tell me it was Robert. He was a fool, but even a fool cannot beggar an entire realm." Stannis growled.
"Being in debt is no great thing, if you pay it off as swiftly as you accrue it. Besides, with the Lannisters likely to be attainted we are three million dragons less in debt" Littlefinger began to explain.
"And then leave us with no coin in the treasury, for when we need it? We are at war, and winter is coming." Stannis said.
"Robert wasted money, I made money. Certainly more than the last master of coin" Littlefinger said, matter of factly.
Renly sighed. Littlefinger was digging himself deeper than a Lannister in Casterly Rock, and was dragging Renly down with him.
"The treasury is empty. When I was but master of ships, I could blame it on Robert's follies, but now..."
"Your Grace, without Robert's extravagances, the debts will be paid off and the treasury refilled, I assure you."
"You were making the crown money. But does all the incomes in the realm fail to make more than the spendings of one man? The only way it makes sense if is Robert was a fool and you a thief."
"The expenditures on a tourney, prizes, pavilions, serving girls…"
For the first time in his life, Renly could see a hint of fear in Littlefingers eyes.
He has him. He has us both.
He'd cared little about what Petyr had done with the Treasury. He'd put them in debt, sure, and skimmed off the top, but that was better than Robert simply emptying the treasury.
"That should be paid off by the increase in taxes attendant to such an event. Ser Arys!"
The door opened, and the Kingsguard stepped inside, resplendent in his armour.
"Yes, your grace?"
Renly noticed his hand was on his hilt.
"Take Lord Baelish to his chambers. Once there, assign men to guard him. Send men to find his full records, and order a count of the treasury and an audit of the debt."
Littlefinger was silent.
"If there is no sign of wrongdoing, you will be not only released but rewarded. Humble men can rise high under me. Ask Ser Seaworth. But I do not suffer fools, or thieves lightly. If you have stolen even a single copper from the crown, there will be no mercy."
He waved to Ser Arys. "Remove him from my sight."
The knight did as he was told.
Renly shuffled nervously where he sat.
Fool. Littlefinger might have stolen from the kingdom, but he gave more back.
"Did you know?" Stannis asked.
"Did you?" Renly asked.
Stannis ground his teeth.
"I had my suspicions, but never the authority to have him arrested, and I didn't want to voice it without evidence, in case he destroyed the evidence."
Renly shrugged. "I never quite thought Littlefinger trustworthy, but he did serve his purpose very well."
Stannis shook his head. "Robert's kingdom was a ship steered by a drunkard and crewed by simperers, bandits and cowards. That will have to change. In any case, Lord Tyrell's proposal for the wedding feast is unacceptable with the treasury in it's current state. We don't need seven courses, we don't need half a hundred mummers and singers, we don't every lord in the reach and stormlands come to visit. Two courses at most, though we know well how much the Tyrells enjoy their feasts. There's no need to have a lesser feast for the commons, either."
Renly bristled. "If you remove that feast, the smallfolk will be wroth…"
Robert did many things wrong, but tournaments kept the nobles busy fighting and feasting rather than scheming, and the smallfolk happier. A wedding would only do the same, especially since Margaery had been busying herself visiting orphanages and giving out food and coin to the poor.
"That food might save their lives, if Tywin falls upon King's Landing or if winter is harsh. It is unlikely, true, but it is good to be prepared for the worst."
*
The sun beat down on the steps of the Great Sept as Cersei was brought forth to face Stannis's final judgement. Her choices had been made clear to her. Confess her crimes and receive mercy, or refuse and face Illyn's greatsword. She'd given them her answer. She would tell the truth, and nothing but the truth.
A line of Baratheon men and goldcloaks stood along the steps, ready to push back the crowd, while Tane and her officers were arrayed on horseback behind them, alongside the full company of Horse Grenadiers. Stannis stood beside him, alongside Arys and Swann, newly given his cloak for this day. Knights and lords swarmed around them.
"Bring forth the queen!" Stannis yelled, and she was escorted out, pushed forwards by a pair of spearmen in Baratheon colours. Stannis trusted only his own men with such an important prisoner, not the Myrishmen, Reachers, Goldcloaks or Genians.
The jeered and screamed, and he could hear threats and taunts amongst the wall of noise: "Usurper" and "Brotherfucker" and "Treasonous bitch".
Stones started flying, rattling down amongst them, skipping off armour. One hit Renly in the shoulder, and he stumbled back, swearing. Men-At-Arms formed shieldwall to their front, one of Stannis's sergeants bellowing orders. Behind him, he could hear a sharp female voice yelling "prepare batons".
A rotten apple struck Cersei straight across the face, spattering her with fruitflesh.
The men unhanded her, leaving her standing before the crowd, struggling to maintain what she could of her dignity.
The mob's baying slowly died down.
Fools. They'll serve anyone who gives them food and tourneys. Right now that's us.
"I have a confession to make!" Cersei yelled over the noise of the crowd.
"Then make it." Stannis growled.
"A traitor stands here, amongst us, but it is not me. It is Stannis, the usurper, who would steal my son's crown! It is Renly, who got my Lord Husband and his own brother drunk so he died on the hunt, then bribed the Maester's to poison him so his wounds would not heal! Who-"
Stannis made a cutting motion with his hands, and his men grabbed Cersei and shoved her towards the block. She kept speaking, yelling that he relied on foreign whores and northern savages and Tyrell catamites to carry out his schemes because no honest knight would serve him.
Facing death with dignity, I see.
"Ser Illyn Payne, bring me her head." Stannis said.
"The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword." Eddard said simply.
Stannis shook his head. "I'm no headsman. It would be cruel for me to swing. You wanted me to be merciful."
"You took Davos's fingers." Eddard said.
"He asked me to, and besides, I was a lord then, not a King. Ser Illyn, you know what to do."
The King of Westeros is arguing with a lord in front of half of King's Landing. Nicely done, brother.
The man stalked over, silent as death, and one of the guards forced Cersei to her knees. He drew his greatsword, grey iron with a rounded tip, and hefted the weapon.
The blade crashed down onto her neck. She was still jerking after the first blow, so it took a second stroke to make her stop moving and a third to take her head. Blood sprayed across the guards and Ser Illyn, and he felt something get in his eye. He wiped it away, and then saw it was droplet of blood, smeared across his hand, flicked off the point of Illyn's sword.
The crowd exploded, screaming "traitor!" over and over, and he could see fights starting in the crowd, between Stannis and Joffrey supporters. A few men hurled themselves against the shieldwall, but it held, and then someone barked out "present spears!" and it was impossible to get close enough to shove at them.
Stannis turned away from the cooling body. "Our work here is done, until the next lot of traitors reveals themselves."
"How do you explain the crown debt? We are seven million dragons in debt. Do not tell me it was Robert. He was a fool, but even a fool cannot beggar an entire realm." Stannis growled.
"Being in debt is no great thing, if you pay it off as swiftly as you accrue it. Besides, with the Lannisters likely to be attainted we are three million dragons less in debt" Littlefinger began to explain.
"And then leave us with no coin in the treasury, for when we need it? We are at war, and winter is coming." Stannis said.
"Robert wasted money, I made money. Certainly more than the last master of coin" Littlefinger said, matter of factly.
Renly sighed. Littlefinger was digging himself deeper than a Lannister in Casterly Rock, and was dragging Renly down with him.
"The treasury is empty. When I was but master of ships, I could blame it on Robert's follies, but now..."
"Your Grace, without Robert's extravagances, the debts will be paid off and the treasury refilled, I assure you."
"You were making the crown money. But does all the incomes in the realm fail to make more than the spendings of one man? The only way it makes sense if is Robert was a fool and you a thief."
"The expenditures on a tourney, prizes, pavilions, serving girls…"
For the first time in his life, Renly could see a hint of fear in Littlefingers eyes.
He has him. He has us both.
He'd cared little about what Petyr had done with the Treasury. He'd put them in debt, sure, and skimmed off the top, but that was better than Robert simply emptying the treasury.
"That should be paid off by the increase in taxes attendant to such an event. Ser Arys!"
The door opened, and the Kingsguard stepped inside, resplendent in his armour.
"Yes, your grace?"
Renly noticed his hand was on his hilt.
"Take Lord Baelish to his chambers. Once there, assign men to guard him. Send men to find his full records, and order a count of the treasury and an audit of the debt."
Littlefinger was silent.
"If there is no sign of wrongdoing, you will be not only released but rewarded. Humble men can rise high under me. Ask Ser Seaworth. But I do not suffer fools, or thieves lightly. If you have stolen even a single copper from the crown, there will be no mercy."
He waved to Ser Arys. "Remove him from my sight."
The knight did as he was told.
Renly shuffled nervously where he sat.
Fool. Littlefinger might have stolen from the kingdom, but he gave more back.
"Did you know?" Stannis asked.
"Did you?" Renly asked.
Stannis ground his teeth.
"I had my suspicions, but never the authority to have him arrested, and I didn't want to voice it without evidence, in case he destroyed the evidence."
Renly shrugged. "I never quite thought Littlefinger trustworthy, but he did serve his purpose very well."
Stannis shook his head. "Robert's kingdom was a ship steered by a drunkard and crewed by simperers, bandits and cowards. That will have to change. In any case, Lord Tyrell's proposal for the wedding feast is unacceptable with the treasury in it's current state. We don't need seven courses, we don't need half a hundred mummers and singers, we don't every lord in the reach and stormlands come to visit. Two courses at most, though we know well how much the Tyrells enjoy their feasts. There's no need to have a lesser feast for the commons, either."
Renly bristled. "If you remove that feast, the smallfolk will be wroth…"
Robert did many things wrong, but tournaments kept the nobles busy fighting and feasting rather than scheming, and the smallfolk happier. A wedding would only do the same, especially since Margaery had been busying herself visiting orphanages and giving out food and coin to the poor.
"That food might save their lives, if Tywin falls upon King's Landing or if winter is harsh. It is unlikely, true, but it is good to be prepared for the worst."
*
The sun beat down on the steps of the Great Sept as Cersei was brought forth to face Stannis's final judgement. Her choices had been made clear to her. Confess her crimes and receive mercy, or refuse and face Illyn's greatsword. She'd given them her answer. She would tell the truth, and nothing but the truth.
A line of Baratheon men and goldcloaks stood along the steps, ready to push back the crowd, while Tane and her officers were arrayed on horseback behind them, alongside the full company of Horse Grenadiers. Stannis stood beside him, alongside Arys and Swann, newly given his cloak for this day. Knights and lords swarmed around them.
"Bring forth the queen!" Stannis yelled, and she was escorted out, pushed forwards by a pair of spearmen in Baratheon colours. Stannis trusted only his own men with such an important prisoner, not the Myrishmen, Reachers, Goldcloaks or Genians.
The jeered and screamed, and he could hear threats and taunts amongst the wall of noise: "Usurper" and "Brotherfucker" and "Treasonous bitch".
Stones started flying, rattling down amongst them, skipping off armour. One hit Renly in the shoulder, and he stumbled back, swearing. Men-At-Arms formed shieldwall to their front, one of Stannis's sergeants bellowing orders. Behind him, he could hear a sharp female voice yelling "prepare batons".
A rotten apple struck Cersei straight across the face, spattering her with fruitflesh.
The men unhanded her, leaving her standing before the crowd, struggling to maintain what she could of her dignity.
The mob's baying slowly died down.
Fools. They'll serve anyone who gives them food and tourneys. Right now that's us.
"I have a confession to make!" Cersei yelled over the noise of the crowd.
"Then make it." Stannis growled.
"A traitor stands here, amongst us, but it is not me. It is Stannis, the usurper, who would steal my son's crown! It is Renly, who got my Lord Husband and his own brother drunk so he died on the hunt, then bribed the Maester's to poison him so his wounds would not heal! Who-"
Stannis made a cutting motion with his hands, and his men grabbed Cersei and shoved her towards the block. She kept speaking, yelling that he relied on foreign whores and northern savages and Tyrell catamites to carry out his schemes because no honest knight would serve him.
Facing death with dignity, I see.
"Ser Illyn Payne, bring me her head." Stannis said.
"The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword." Eddard said simply.
Stannis shook his head. "I'm no headsman. It would be cruel for me to swing. You wanted me to be merciful."
"You took Davos's fingers." Eddard said.
"He asked me to, and besides, I was a lord then, not a King. Ser Illyn, you know what to do."
The King of Westeros is arguing with a lord in front of half of King's Landing. Nicely done, brother.
The man stalked over, silent as death, and one of the guards forced Cersei to her knees. He drew his greatsword, grey iron with a rounded tip, and hefted the weapon.
The blade crashed down onto her neck. She was still jerking after the first blow, so it took a second stroke to make her stop moving and a third to take her head. Blood sprayed across the guards and Ser Illyn, and he felt something get in his eye. He wiped it away, and then saw it was droplet of blood, smeared across his hand, flicked off the point of Illyn's sword.
The crowd exploded, screaming "traitor!" over and over, and he could see fights starting in the crowd, between Stannis and Joffrey supporters. A few men hurled themselves against the shieldwall, but it held, and then someone barked out "present spears!" and it was impossible to get close enough to shove at them.
Stannis turned away from the cooling body. "Our work here is done, until the next lot of traitors reveals themselves."
No Greater Fury-Margaery II
- Location
- Brisbane
"Here in the sights of gods and men, I do solemnly proclaim Renly of House Baratheon and Margaery of House Tyrell to be man and wife, one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever, and cursed be the one that comes between then."
The High Septon finished his vows, and Margaery smiled openly.
Nearly a year now of planning, arguments, ravens and travelling was over. She was wife to Renly Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End, Heir to the Seven kingdoms, Hand of the King, and possibly the most powerful man in the seven kingdoms. An alliance that had formerly only held by the "friendship" of Loras and Renly was now open. Mace Tyrell's daughter might bear a king's children, if the tides of war or poison in a wineglass felled Stannis. He was already dangerously unpopular with the mob.
He'd already levied a brothel tax to help fund the war, it had conspicuously been his brother's betrothed, rather than his own wife, who had been visiting the smallfolk and praying with the High Septon. Not that that would be likely anyway, since she'd taken up a dark foreign god. Whispers were already spreading amongst the faithful of the Seven that Stannis himself was godless as well. The beheading of Cersei only made things worse. His plan to force her to discredit Joffrey had failed, and the brutal and public execution had set half the mob baying for more traitor's blood, and the other half doing the same-while calling Stannis a traitor, in league with foreign witches. None of that mattered now, though.
"Now, my love, let the feasts begin!" Renly said, smiling broadly.
They set out at once for the Red Keep, two hundred nobles jostling for the horses and litters being watched over outside by squires and servants. Margaery rode siddesaddle, handling her horse with practised ease. Renly rode besides her, and Loras and Mace, with a great column of knights and lords and ladies behind.
The commons cheered for them as they passed. Even though Stannis had ordered the lesser feast to be done away with, she'd still ordered the leftovers to be distributed to the city's poorest anyway. The fact that she had the power to order that done with a few words… it was enough to make her head spin.
Stannis had to make people fear him; she had to make people love her.
When they reached the Tower of The Hand, they dismounted in a half circle, and every last one of them offered the new couple their congratulations. The Tyrells, of course; the Merryweathers, Rowans, what seemed like half a hundred Florents, the Bulwers. Lord Caron was there too, and the narrow sea lords Stannis had brought with him. She smiled and complimented them back and congratulated them on whatever their own successes had been. She'd done it a thousand times before. Her brothers were trained for the tourney and battlefield. She was trained for the feast and the ball.
Renly had, with great difficulty, convinced Stannis to attend the feast as well as the wedding. The man was visibly glowering, while Selyse Florent walked with her arm looped with Melisandre. Margaery was gladder than ever she hadn't been given the task of seducing him away from his wife.
*
The feast lasted for the better part of four hours. She ate in moderation; overeating would make things uncomfortable when the dancing began. Renly, of course, headed the high table; she sat on his left, with Stannis to his right and Loras on her left. She played the coquette with Renly as often as possible, nervously asking how long until the bedding while smiling shyly, complimenting other lords on their looks, but noting that they weren't quite as handsome as Renly. It was a mummer's farce.
Renly's heart belonged to Loras. Even if Loras hadn't told her, it was obvious from the way they looked at each other. Loras, at least, was more in love with Renly than your typical maiden was with her True Knight, and the feeling seemed to be mutual.
She wasn't likely to ever be in love like that, she realized. Renly was only interested in Loras; and trying to take any other lover would be too dangerous. She was surrounded by servants and bodyguards at all times; getting caught and the rumours getting out would ruin the credibility of her children's succession. House Tyrell had an enormous stroke of luck getting her a marriage to the heir to the Iron Throne. She wouldn't allow lust or boredom to ruin that. She was almost a woman grown, not some silly girl with a head full of stories.
The music started up, and Renly led her to the floor to dance. They spun and whirled, his arms around her, dancing closer than an unmarried couple would have, joined by a half dozen other couples. She ended up dancing with Alester Florent, and Mathos Rowan, and Lord Celtigar, as the music changed again and again. Finally, she spun off the dance floor.
Stannis was standing off to the side, staring with generic disapproval. Margaery approached him.
"Would Your Grace care to dance?"
Stannis snorted. "I smelt enough of roses at Storm's End."
Charming man.
"I was only a babe then."
"No matter. I have no desire to dance anyway."
"Very well, your grace."
She turned and left, walking over to Meredyth Crane. The short, plump woman had been watching the entire exchange.
"Just can't get through to some people." Meredyth Crane said.
"Even kings. Especially kings." Margaery said.
Meredyth laughed, then muttered something under her breath as she brushed her straw blonde hair back from her eyes.
"Sace has been asking after you." Meredyth said. "The other other foreign woman. The short one. Over there."
"Oh?" Margaery didn't know what to make of Sace. She was a fighting woman like Tane, though Margaery wouldn't have known it by looking at her except for the hilt of her sword, so dainty it looked like a child's, poking out from under her dress. Her hair was black and done up in curls.
She was showing Elinor and Megga the steps to some sort of dance. Margaery walked over in a rustle of skirts.
"Lady Margaery?" Sace asked, slightly startled.
"I was told you were asking after me, so I asked after you." Margaery said.
"Well then" Sace said. "Congratulations on your marriage." She said it in a tone that suggested it was more of a formality than anything else. "I suppose that makes you hand of the queen?" Margaery laughed at that one.
She knew what Olenna had told her the duty of any good wife. Handle all of the boring business that actually kept a household running.
"The hand of the hand of the king, I would say." Margaery said.
"I should get you one of those badges made." Elinor said, behind Sace.
"Not a second tower, though. Would be too expensive." Margaery said.
"Tywin could pay for it, once we're through with him." Sace answered.
"If we could beat him." Elinor said. "There are great armies gathering in the north and south, but King's Landing has little in the way of defences."
"He takes the city, then he's trapped himself away from the Westerlands. He's pinned down here, away from his supply lines and stockpiles, away from reinforcements. He'll have to forage, but the land around the city can't feed us, let alone an army. He'll have to move out and abandon the city, if he doesn't get bottled up inside it first by a counter-siege. Tywin would be trapped and destroyed if he moved on the city. No, I reckon he's feinting. Just staying up there, keeping us under threat, then when the armies march and the war starts in earnest, he'll make his stand in the mountains."
Sace sounded like a whole different person, then. Not a highborn girl who just so happened to wear a sword, but a soldier, a lord educated in the ways of war. She reminded Margaery, more than anything else, of Garlan telling of how Tarly's men had pushed in Robert's vanguard at Ashford, or Loras explaining how fighting with an axe differed from a sword.
"Have you fought in battle? Before coming here?" Margaery asked, curious despite herself.
"Against border reivers, in the western marches and caterans in the south. Plenty of skirmishes, but never a pitched battle. The company was being sent even further south, down to the Carfani peninsular when the, uh, miracle happened. There'd been unrest in Trackford, one of the cities there. Republican separatists."
Margaery hardly understood what half those words meant, but it was enough. She's seen battle. "And did you actually fight? I've heard people say that Tane's just a figurehead, that Gryff's the real leader."
She didn't know how anyone could think that after seeing Tane kill Meryn in front of half the city, but there it was.
"Oh, that Celtigar fellow who thinks Tane's job is to "wave a banner and look pretty?" That's my job. I'm a cornet. Tane runs the company, mostly, but she listens to Gryff. He's been in the army longer than I've been alive, and he used to be a sergeant. Anyone with a brain listens to sergeants. Of course, we're cavalry, so we don't actually have sergeants, but anyway, Gryff used to be a sergeant. One of his old companies lost their horses and got turned into infantry, so he was a sergeant for a bit, then they got turned back into cavalry."
"I don't believe I've been introduced to Tane, actually?" Margaery said.
She glanced over at her. Tane was still talking to the Merryweathers. She remembered what Olenna had told her, during one of her lectures on politics. If you think someone is dangerous, you want to keep them close or a long way away. No middle ground.
Tane was certainly dangerous. She'd all but killed Cersei and made Stannis king, and commanded a force that was probably the best armed in King's landing. She even had a witch in her employ with actual powers, if some of the more lurid rumours were true.
"Of course." Sace said. She hurried over to Tane, talking to Orton Merryweather while Taena stood off to one side, looking distinctly unimpressed with her husband. Lady Taena Merryweather was one of the more distant of her handmaidens, not part of her inner circle. She was olive skinned and black haired, the daughter of a Myrish merchant prince according to some and a runaway slave who'd seduced a Westerosi nobleman according to others. Margaery had never been able to get the truth of it out of her.
There were a few more words exchanged, and Taena led Tane over by the arm.
"Captain Tane Bayder". She nodded to Tane. "And the Lady Margaery, well, Baratheon now." Taena said.
Margaery curtsied. She'd seen Tane a few times and even spoken to her, but she'd never had a formal introduction.
"That was a most impressive display of fighting." She said. The best compliments were true ones.
"It was a close run thing." Tane said. "Meryn nearly had me several times. If he'd closed in, grappled and put his sword through my joints, I would've died."
"Though I do think I fought better than Meryn did, all things considered." She added, with a slight smile.
Up close and out of armour, Tane still looked rather fearsome with her sharp features and her outlandish clothes and the long thin sword on her belt, but she wasn't the living statue that anyone in full plate harness seemed.
"Where did you learn to fight like that? I have heard many rumours. Lady Crane reckons you have to be a water dancer who tried her hand at fighting like a knight."
"Close enough. I've trained in half a dozen different schools of fencing, at different points. I prefer the Hassarchene style." She laughed. "Started out hitting other children with sticks and one of my father's captains insisted I learn to do it properly, and from there on… well, I have something of a talent for it, and had good teachers."
"What is Hassarchene?"
"Oh, the Kingdom of Hassarch? That's a long way from here. Another world, even."
What?
"Another world? Are you from the moon?" It was an absurd question, but then again, that was an absurd statement, even if it agreed with the rumours she'd heard that she was sent by a miracle.
"No." Tane laughed again. "My people's ancestors came from what we call the Old World to the New. That was my homeland. The Commonwealth of Genia. Then we woke up here, Renly found us while he was out hunting while the king was going north… and everyone in my company somehow knew how to speak Westerosi."
"So a miracle?"
Tane shrugged. "I've no clue, although-"
She was interrupted by her lieutenant, Gryff, a burly man with a moustache, tapping her on the shoulder.
He leaned in to whisper something in Tane's ear.
Even through the hubbub of the ball, Gryff's "whisper" was still loud enough that Margaery could make out the words.
"Tommen and Myrcella have vanished from the tower."
Tane swore, loudly and viciously.
The High Septon finished his vows, and Margaery smiled openly.
Nearly a year now of planning, arguments, ravens and travelling was over. She was wife to Renly Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End, Heir to the Seven kingdoms, Hand of the King, and possibly the most powerful man in the seven kingdoms. An alliance that had formerly only held by the "friendship" of Loras and Renly was now open. Mace Tyrell's daughter might bear a king's children, if the tides of war or poison in a wineglass felled Stannis. He was already dangerously unpopular with the mob.
He'd already levied a brothel tax to help fund the war, it had conspicuously been his brother's betrothed, rather than his own wife, who had been visiting the smallfolk and praying with the High Septon. Not that that would be likely anyway, since she'd taken up a dark foreign god. Whispers were already spreading amongst the faithful of the Seven that Stannis himself was godless as well. The beheading of Cersei only made things worse. His plan to force her to discredit Joffrey had failed, and the brutal and public execution had set half the mob baying for more traitor's blood, and the other half doing the same-while calling Stannis a traitor, in league with foreign witches. None of that mattered now, though.
"Now, my love, let the feasts begin!" Renly said, smiling broadly.
They set out at once for the Red Keep, two hundred nobles jostling for the horses and litters being watched over outside by squires and servants. Margaery rode siddesaddle, handling her horse with practised ease. Renly rode besides her, and Loras and Mace, with a great column of knights and lords and ladies behind.
The commons cheered for them as they passed. Even though Stannis had ordered the lesser feast to be done away with, she'd still ordered the leftovers to be distributed to the city's poorest anyway. The fact that she had the power to order that done with a few words… it was enough to make her head spin.
Stannis had to make people fear him; she had to make people love her.
When they reached the Tower of The Hand, they dismounted in a half circle, and every last one of them offered the new couple their congratulations. The Tyrells, of course; the Merryweathers, Rowans, what seemed like half a hundred Florents, the Bulwers. Lord Caron was there too, and the narrow sea lords Stannis had brought with him. She smiled and complimented them back and congratulated them on whatever their own successes had been. She'd done it a thousand times before. Her brothers were trained for the tourney and battlefield. She was trained for the feast and the ball.
Renly had, with great difficulty, convinced Stannis to attend the feast as well as the wedding. The man was visibly glowering, while Selyse Florent walked with her arm looped with Melisandre. Margaery was gladder than ever she hadn't been given the task of seducing him away from his wife.
*
The feast lasted for the better part of four hours. She ate in moderation; overeating would make things uncomfortable when the dancing began. Renly, of course, headed the high table; she sat on his left, with Stannis to his right and Loras on her left. She played the coquette with Renly as often as possible, nervously asking how long until the bedding while smiling shyly, complimenting other lords on their looks, but noting that they weren't quite as handsome as Renly. It was a mummer's farce.
Renly's heart belonged to Loras. Even if Loras hadn't told her, it was obvious from the way they looked at each other. Loras, at least, was more in love with Renly than your typical maiden was with her True Knight, and the feeling seemed to be mutual.
She wasn't likely to ever be in love like that, she realized. Renly was only interested in Loras; and trying to take any other lover would be too dangerous. She was surrounded by servants and bodyguards at all times; getting caught and the rumours getting out would ruin the credibility of her children's succession. House Tyrell had an enormous stroke of luck getting her a marriage to the heir to the Iron Throne. She wouldn't allow lust or boredom to ruin that. She was almost a woman grown, not some silly girl with a head full of stories.
The music started up, and Renly led her to the floor to dance. They spun and whirled, his arms around her, dancing closer than an unmarried couple would have, joined by a half dozen other couples. She ended up dancing with Alester Florent, and Mathos Rowan, and Lord Celtigar, as the music changed again and again. Finally, she spun off the dance floor.
Stannis was standing off to the side, staring with generic disapproval. Margaery approached him.
"Would Your Grace care to dance?"
Stannis snorted. "I smelt enough of roses at Storm's End."
Charming man.
"I was only a babe then."
"No matter. I have no desire to dance anyway."
"Very well, your grace."
She turned and left, walking over to Meredyth Crane. The short, plump woman had been watching the entire exchange.
"Just can't get through to some people." Meredyth Crane said.
"Even kings. Especially kings." Margaery said.
Meredyth laughed, then muttered something under her breath as she brushed her straw blonde hair back from her eyes.
"Sace has been asking after you." Meredyth said. "The other other foreign woman. The short one. Over there."
"Oh?" Margaery didn't know what to make of Sace. She was a fighting woman like Tane, though Margaery wouldn't have known it by looking at her except for the hilt of her sword, so dainty it looked like a child's, poking out from under her dress. Her hair was black and done up in curls.
She was showing Elinor and Megga the steps to some sort of dance. Margaery walked over in a rustle of skirts.
"Lady Margaery?" Sace asked, slightly startled.
"I was told you were asking after me, so I asked after you." Margaery said.
"Well then" Sace said. "Congratulations on your marriage." She said it in a tone that suggested it was more of a formality than anything else. "I suppose that makes you hand of the queen?" Margaery laughed at that one.
She knew what Olenna had told her the duty of any good wife. Handle all of the boring business that actually kept a household running.
"The hand of the hand of the king, I would say." Margaery said.
"I should get you one of those badges made." Elinor said, behind Sace.
"Not a second tower, though. Would be too expensive." Margaery said.
"Tywin could pay for it, once we're through with him." Sace answered.
"If we could beat him." Elinor said. "There are great armies gathering in the north and south, but King's Landing has little in the way of defences."
"He takes the city, then he's trapped himself away from the Westerlands. He's pinned down here, away from his supply lines and stockpiles, away from reinforcements. He'll have to forage, but the land around the city can't feed us, let alone an army. He'll have to move out and abandon the city, if he doesn't get bottled up inside it first by a counter-siege. Tywin would be trapped and destroyed if he moved on the city. No, I reckon he's feinting. Just staying up there, keeping us under threat, then when the armies march and the war starts in earnest, he'll make his stand in the mountains."
Sace sounded like a whole different person, then. Not a highborn girl who just so happened to wear a sword, but a soldier, a lord educated in the ways of war. She reminded Margaery, more than anything else, of Garlan telling of how Tarly's men had pushed in Robert's vanguard at Ashford, or Loras explaining how fighting with an axe differed from a sword.
"Have you fought in battle? Before coming here?" Margaery asked, curious despite herself.
"Against border reivers, in the western marches and caterans in the south. Plenty of skirmishes, but never a pitched battle. The company was being sent even further south, down to the Carfani peninsular when the, uh, miracle happened. There'd been unrest in Trackford, one of the cities there. Republican separatists."
Margaery hardly understood what half those words meant, but it was enough. She's seen battle. "And did you actually fight? I've heard people say that Tane's just a figurehead, that Gryff's the real leader."
She didn't know how anyone could think that after seeing Tane kill Meryn in front of half the city, but there it was.
"Oh, that Celtigar fellow who thinks Tane's job is to "wave a banner and look pretty?" That's my job. I'm a cornet. Tane runs the company, mostly, but she listens to Gryff. He's been in the army longer than I've been alive, and he used to be a sergeant. Anyone with a brain listens to sergeants. Of course, we're cavalry, so we don't actually have sergeants, but anyway, Gryff used to be a sergeant. One of his old companies lost their horses and got turned into infantry, so he was a sergeant for a bit, then they got turned back into cavalry."
"I don't believe I've been introduced to Tane, actually?" Margaery said.
She glanced over at her. Tane was still talking to the Merryweathers. She remembered what Olenna had told her, during one of her lectures on politics. If you think someone is dangerous, you want to keep them close or a long way away. No middle ground.
Tane was certainly dangerous. She'd all but killed Cersei and made Stannis king, and commanded a force that was probably the best armed in King's landing. She even had a witch in her employ with actual powers, if some of the more lurid rumours were true.
"Of course." Sace said. She hurried over to Tane, talking to Orton Merryweather while Taena stood off to one side, looking distinctly unimpressed with her husband. Lady Taena Merryweather was one of the more distant of her handmaidens, not part of her inner circle. She was olive skinned and black haired, the daughter of a Myrish merchant prince according to some and a runaway slave who'd seduced a Westerosi nobleman according to others. Margaery had never been able to get the truth of it out of her.
There were a few more words exchanged, and Taena led Tane over by the arm.
"Captain Tane Bayder". She nodded to Tane. "And the Lady Margaery, well, Baratheon now." Taena said.
Margaery curtsied. She'd seen Tane a few times and even spoken to her, but she'd never had a formal introduction.
"That was a most impressive display of fighting." She said. The best compliments were true ones.
"It was a close run thing." Tane said. "Meryn nearly had me several times. If he'd closed in, grappled and put his sword through my joints, I would've died."
"Though I do think I fought better than Meryn did, all things considered." She added, with a slight smile.
Up close and out of armour, Tane still looked rather fearsome with her sharp features and her outlandish clothes and the long thin sword on her belt, but she wasn't the living statue that anyone in full plate harness seemed.
"Where did you learn to fight like that? I have heard many rumours. Lady Crane reckons you have to be a water dancer who tried her hand at fighting like a knight."
"Close enough. I've trained in half a dozen different schools of fencing, at different points. I prefer the Hassarchene style." She laughed. "Started out hitting other children with sticks and one of my father's captains insisted I learn to do it properly, and from there on… well, I have something of a talent for it, and had good teachers."
"What is Hassarchene?"
"Oh, the Kingdom of Hassarch? That's a long way from here. Another world, even."
What?
"Another world? Are you from the moon?" It was an absurd question, but then again, that was an absurd statement, even if it agreed with the rumours she'd heard that she was sent by a miracle.
"No." Tane laughed again. "My people's ancestors came from what we call the Old World to the New. That was my homeland. The Commonwealth of Genia. Then we woke up here, Renly found us while he was out hunting while the king was going north… and everyone in my company somehow knew how to speak Westerosi."
"So a miracle?"
Tane shrugged. "I've no clue, although-"
She was interrupted by her lieutenant, Gryff, a burly man with a moustache, tapping her on the shoulder.
He leaned in to whisper something in Tane's ear.
Even through the hubbub of the ball, Gryff's "whisper" was still loud enough that Margaery could make out the words.
"Tommen and Myrcella have vanished from the tower."
Tane swore, loudly and viciously.
No Greater Fury: Tywin I, Renly IV, Tane V
- Location
- Brisbane
Tywin I
"M'lord, the King is here."
Tywin gritted his teeth. It was not enough that he had a dwarf son who shamed his house with every breath he took, a fool daughter who had lost her head along with her dignity, or that his true heir had been stolen from him. His own grandson had demanded that he appear before him in his own castle, to swear fealty, while he had a war to fight. He'd told him as much, and offered to have him ride out to meet him if he had such notions. He'd actually taken up the offer.
Fool of a boy.
"Yes, of course."
His squires already had his charger saddled, and it took him only moments to buckle his cloak in place. He already had his sword and dagger on. He clambered into the saddle as easily as he had when he was twenty, and Kevan joined him, alongside an escort of Lannister guardsmen with crossbows and halberds. They found Joffrey at the edge of the camp, his own escort, all mounted and led by Ser Barristan Selmy, swarming around him. He had a sword belted at his waist, and a crossbow and quiver hung from his saddle.
If he must play at being a warrior, the least he could do is be a knight and not a freerider Tywin thought with distaste. Crossbows were deadly tools of war, but they were tools best suited for common labourers, not architects.
"Your Grace" he said, bowing his head.
"Tywin." Joffrey said.
"Come. We have much to discuss." Tywin said.
He waved to one of his sergeants. "Have a pavilion set up for His Grace, and inform the lords that he is arrived."
The sergeant nodded. "Yes, m'lord."
Joffrey was pouting through the whole ride to the pavilion.
"Why didn't you ride out to meet me?" Joffrey asked.
"I have more important matters to attend to than a king's vanity. Like making sure you remain a king."
And certain schemes. He'd sent a letter to the Bravosi, offering to pay off all of the Seven Kingdom's debt to them if they bankrolled his war plans. He had plans that would require vast amounts of gold to succeed, more gold than even his mines could provide on short notice.
They dismounted and entered the pavilion, the guards parting. Kevan followed. He waved his hand at the guards, and he heard the rattle of armour outside as they fanned out, keeping any eavesdroppers away from his war council.
He and Kevan sat opposite to Joffrey.
For a moment, the silence was deafening.
Finally, he unrolled the map of southern Westeros and weighed it down with four lion headed weights. An absurd bit of mummery, but he'd received them as a gift alongside the map, and it seemed the sort of thing that would impress a boy king.
"We are here, with 20,000 men." Time to explain the situation, in terms even a boy could understand.
He placed a playing piece on their location, 50 miles west from the Deep Den.
"Roose Bolton is moving south with around 15,000 men, north of the trident. Jaime has crushed the forces blocking the passes, crushed Edmure Tully and is sieging Riverrun. Stannis is in King's Landing with 6,000 men. The latest news is that he has taken your mothers head."
Joffrey blinked in shock and was silent for a moment.
Then he exploded like wildfire.
"I demand you march upon King's Landing and kill them all! Now! Then have them all roasted in wildfire!"
Aerys come again, I see.
"Rashness will not avenge my niece, Your-" Kevan began to say.
"You cowards! Robert said you hid in Casterly Rock until the war was near won! You'll not do that again! My father would have already stormed the city!"
He stood up, throwing his stool to the ground, and drew his sword.
Tywin got to his feet, ignoring the naked steel, though his instincts screamed to go for his own weapons.
"You have 35,000 swords at your command. You have no need for the use of your own."
"If you don't march forth and crush the Tyrells, I'll have your head as a traitor!"
"Put down your sword. Then we can talk about war."
"You're, You're..."
"The man who would avenge your mother and my daughter. That would not be a wise course of action. Aerys dismissed me as his hand. Look where that ended for him. The Reyne's and Castermeres thought to oppose me. Look where that ended for them. I am no traitor, Your Grace. But facing Stannis in the open field is madness. He can muster over a hundred thousand men in all. I've seen war. You haven't. You would be wise to consider that."
He left out the very simple fact that he could have himself declared Regent, send Joffrey back to Casterly Rock, and win this war on his own.
Joffrey screamed, bringing down his longsword in a savage arcing blow into the wood. Tywin didn't flinch, resisting every trained instinct telling him to get back out of reach or close in and go for a disarm.
He let go of the sword, leaving it stuck in the wood, and stood panting, the beginnings of tears in his eyes.
"There are more ways than swords to win wars. The coin and the raven are potent weapons." Tywin said calmly.
He didn't dare tell Joffrey what he had written to the Iron Islands, to every wavering house, to the Free Cities, to the Iron Bank and the Golden Company and the Faceless Men. Offers of rich rewards, of debts forgiven or repaid immediately and with interest, of future support in their ceaseless wars.
"Kevan, Joffrey is clearly tired and emotional after his long ride and the tragic fate of the Queen. Kindly escort the King to his pavilion."
His legacy would not be one of having his designs destroyed by a foolish boy-king.
Renly IV
"The guardsmen?" Renly asked.
"What, uh, m'lord?" The Baratheon man-at-arms asked, his voice slurred. He'd been the watch captain for that shift.
"The men who were guarding the children. Where are they?"
"Uh, they're asleep."
"And why did the guards of the two most valuable prisoners in the seven kingdoms fall asleep on duty?".
Stannis had given him the unenviable job of trying to trace the kidnapper's steps, while Davos and Tane led the wild goose chase against the kidnappers. A trio of galleys were already preparing to head out and search any merchant ships that left the next morning, and every gate out of the city was being locked.
"I don't know. I think it was the wine."
"What?"
"The, uh, wine. A couple of nice Myrish chaps, the crossbowmen from one of the free companies, they turned up with a couple of barrels of wine, great big things. Good fucking wine, too, though we only had a few sips each. Had to stay sharp. I don't quite remember what happened after that."
Renly could guess. Knock them out with spiked wine, knock out the guards on the cell as well, smuggle the children out. Hide them in the barrels, mayhaps.
He glanced back at his own men at arms, standing behind him. "Brown Bill, arrest these men for falling asleep on watch."
The Storm's End guardsman grinned, showing his yellowed teeth. Something of a rivalry had evolved between the Storm's End and Dragonstone men, as of late. Renly turned away, waving to a pair of his crossbowmen to follow him.
Other soldiers were questioning the servants about what they'd seen. Everyone was jumping at shadows. He heard mentions of a couple of servants carrying a rolled up carpet, someone catching a glimpse of a blond child, a group of shifty looking Myrishmen carrying wine barrels in and out.
The latter would be the people who'd gotten the guards drunk.
Stannis's forces have made a right botch of this.
He had to laugh at that. Stannis had always acted like he was the hard, serious man, stuck ruling a backwater island while his foolish little brother inherited his birthright. Well, now he'd been handed the Iron Throne on a silver platter by said foolish little brother, and wasn't exactly making the best use of his gift.
He found Stannis with Ned, both of them heatedly discussing something.
His ears strained to hear what they saying.
"Mayhaps whoever did this did you a favour, Your Grace, if they took that particular burden off your hands-" Ned began.
"And did what with them? Spirited them off to the free cities to become another Viserys or Blackfyre? Took them to the Lannisters, so we have no more hostages?"
He saw Renly coming and stopped.
"Any news?"
"It was some of the Myrishmen, most likely. They put your guards to sleep with poisoned wine, then must have smuggled the children out somehow." Renly said.
Ned rubbed his eyes. "How long ago was it?"
"I don't know how long they were gone by the time the alarm was raised."
Stannis gritted his teeth. "It doesn't matter. They must be recaptured. Dead or alive."
By the time he returned to his chambers, the faint glow of the rising sun was visible in the east. He'd been talking to witnesses all through the keep, trying to trace the movements of the Myrishmen with their barrels. It had been no good. There had been too many servants, and too many sellswords, all of them serving or enjoying the feast, not looking about for suspicious behaviour. The soldiers themselves had been too drunk-and drugged, he suspected-to remember anything useful, even with Stannis's captain of the guard bellowing in their faces. Some of them still hadn't woken.
He could feel the beginnings of a hangover. He'd been getting himself good and drunk in anticipation of the bedding. Loyalty to Loras was all well and good, but he would likely need an heir, and put a stop to rumours. Rumours that an unmarried lord had a male lover where one thing. Rumours that the heir to the throne refused to produce an heir were quite another.
He pushed the door open, to see Margaery waiting on the bed, dressed only in her shift.
Robert would have loved her.
He wasn't Robert, though, and he ignored her as he stripped down into his shirt and rolled into bed, brushing her reaching hand away. He barely noticed her lying besides him.
He'd consummate the marriage another time. Right now, he needed rest.
No sooner had he gotten to sleep than he was woken by a servant furiously knocking on his door.
He rolled out of his bed. "Yes? Is it urgent?"
"Stannis wants to see you now. He says Lord Baelish also vanished from his apartments while the guards were distracted."
Renly had no words. This place leaks prisoners like a sieve leaks water.
He dragged himself out of bed, ready to deal with yet another snark hunt.
*
They gathered in sullen silence in the small council chambers, a dozen men and two women, no one wanting to begin explaining what had just happened.
"I'd wager Petyr's behind this. Never should have trusted him with the black powder formula" Tane began.
It did make sense. Littlefinger bribes a goldcloak amongst his guards, they somehow organized with the Myrishmen for the rescue attempt or kidnapping or whatever it was, and then they all slipped out in the confusion. It had taken them a good while to figure out that Littlefinger was missing. Having him held in his lodgings in the city proper hadn't helped, nor had the small contingent of guards. He was to be prevented from fleeing or tampering with the records, not thrown in a cell, after all.
Who else? A Lannister rescue mission? The guards got so drunk that the children rescued themselves? Someone murdered the children, to frame Stannis or force his hand? Stannis would never have them killed under a false flag. The man was too… direct for that.
"He never should have escaped." Stannis said. "Stark, as Master of Laws, the Goldcloaks are your responsibility."
"I warned you to put men of your household to guard him, not Goldcloaks…" Ned began.
Not that that stopped them drugging your men…
"And I warned you to pick good, trustworthy men."
Renly glanced at Janos Slynt. That man was only trustworthy in that you could trust him to do what you wanted once the dragons had changed hands.
"The smallfolk are whispering that you had the children murdered, and tried to blame it on the Lannisters." Davos began. His men had been turning the city upside down.
"The smallfolk will whisper many things, and having those abominations killed would be doing the realm a favour. What of it?" Stannis said.
Davos blanched.
"I made you swear that if I killed Trant, the children would be shown mercy." Tane said. "I don't see Trant walking about."
"Eddard swore that, not me." Stannis said. "And I am not Eddard."
"They are valuable hostages, if nothing else. And I cast the judgement in the belief that the children at least would be spared." Ned began.
"King's blood has power. Even the blood of false kings." Melisandre said.
"You want to murder children to work sorcery?" Eddard said, aghast.
"Killing them is justice. Besides, Cersei didn't confess. Their lives were forfeit, by her own choice." Stannis said.
Ned stood up. "The children are still missing, and we're wasting time trying to justify murdering them?"
"Yes. If they are recaptured, Melisandre, you may burn them as a sacrifice to your Red God, to ensure the deaths of Joffrey Waters and Daenerys Targaryen. Drug them first, so that they don't suffer."
The room exploded. Mace Tyrell looked shocked, Tane said something about sending them to the wall getting rid of the problem without getting blood on their hands, Slynt began loudly proclaiming how necessary hard men were to making hard decisions, Arys announced that he believed it went against a knight's oaths, but that a Kingsguard's oaths superseded them, and he could see Melisandre's eyes light up with delight.
"You'll have to find another Master of Laws." Eddard said, barely audible above the noise.
"What?" Stannis asked. "You have your duty, and you will do it."
"I said, you'll have to find another Master of Laws. I came south to be Robert's Hand, to protect him from his enemies, not to aid in the murder of children. I haven't seen my Lady and my sons for the better part of a year. My goodfather's lands are burning. My duty is to my family and bannermen and smallfolk, not to you."
He turned and walked out.
The room exploded again.
Tane V
"That was a most impressive display, my lady." said Lord Rowan.
Tane resisted the urge to tell him she was a bloody captain. She'd actually earned that title, and besides that, being a nobleman's bastard didn't get you any courtesy titles.
She glanced back at the splintered line of shields and the old plate harness shot full of holes behind them. They'd spent the day having a "friendly competition" with a company of longbow archers in Stannis's service. She'd insisted on shooting at realistic targets. The ability to rip through any but the toughest unwarded plate armour was the real strength of the musket, and the Westerosi had no witches to throw up bullet-slowing wards to counter that. Get enough musketeers or even arquebusiers, and have them protected by stakes or pikes, and she'd wager she could, if not break, then at least take the force out of a charge by their knights, and give a pike block such a mauling that it wouldn't be able to resist their own cavalry.
"Took me only a month of training to get them to do that." she said.
It hadn't been her own Horse Grenadiers shooting. She was already confident in their skills. What needed testing was the force of goldcloak volunteers-"silvercloaks", they were increasingly called-being raised for service outside King's Landing. They already had a battalion of 800 raised, half with pike, halberd and bill, the other half with crossbows and lightweight calivers. Plans were underway to recruit a second battalion, and a squadron of demi-lancers.
Come to think of it, that makes me a Colonel.
More nobles came by, congratulating her, some of them clearly nervous. They'd hitched themselves to a stubborn horse with a bad habit of kicking, and they knew it.
What mattered, though, was that they had seen her troops could do. What Stannis's troops could do. It had been Renly's idea, after the utter disaster that the wedding night had turned into. First two valuable prisoners escaping, then Lord Baelish with the bloody gunpowder recipe, then Stannis openly saying he planned to kill children and almost arresting Eddard as he left to "lead his armies south"-a bit of pageantry and a show of force would be just the thing to distract them while the preparations for the campaign were completed.
Why am I even serving this prick? From what I hear, I could make a killing in Essos as a sellsword without ending up an accessory to child murder.
The again, mercenaries always end up doing the work that no respectable militia or regular wants to get caught up in…
"Captain." Renly said besides her, snapping her back to the present.
"Yes?"
"Stannis wants you present with the war council. Tonight."
And I'm a staff officer now. Wonderful.
*
"This" Stannis said, pointing at the tapestry-map of Westeros he had rolled out on the floor of the Queen's ballroom, "Is where the Lannister forces are located, roughly. Tywin is said to be around the Deep Den, with Joffrey Waters present. He has 20,000 men. Jaime lays siege to Riverrun with another force. I have heard counts of anything from 10,000 to 30,000 for that force. A northern host is marching south. I received a raven from Roose Bolton that he is nearing the Trident and intends to confront Jaime and break the siege of Riverrun. All the forces of the Reach and Stormlands are gathering at Storm's End and Highgarden. We have 15,000 men able to march here in all, considering our levies, sellswords, and the goldcloak volunteers."
Tane took it in. They could hit Tywin from three directions at once, and he had only two armies in the field.
Tywin's only advantage would be interior lines; he could quickly move troops, supplies and messengers from one front to another, while it would take a good deal longer to shift troops from the Riverlands to the Reach and vice versa. That, and controlling the passes into the Westerlands.
"We should attack at once, with the strength of the Stormlands and the Reach at our back. Crush Tywin in battle and the rest of his armies will crumble!" Loras said.
Lord Rowan shook his head. "The Deep Den is narrow. We could outnumber him twenty to one and it wouldn't matter if we can't break through."
She heard yells of "hear, hear!" from the other lords. Almost every lord in King's Landing had been packed into the room, and most of the senior knights and sellsword captains too.
"Advance up from the south, there's no mountains there. We'll make him pick between leaving Casterly Rock open or facing us in the field without mountains to guard his flanks" yelled Lord Velaryon.
"Loras is right!" Renly called. "We have the numbers, we should use it to win this quickly."
"We could advance on both directions. Come up through the south and the east. If he stays in the hills, he risks getting trapped in the mountains. If he leaves, the eastern force can enter unmolested." Tane said.
"Two armies against two is a fair fight. Three armies against two isn't. And in war, you never fight fair" said Salladhor Saan, the pirate leaning back against the wall nonchalantly while the nobles stood stiffly around him. He was one of Stannis's mercenaries, hired before she'd given him the throne on a silver platter, and Stannis had decided to make use of his forces in the coming campaign to isolate the Westerlands from the sea.
"Joffrey is with Tywin's army. Our king should face theirs and decide the matter!" called one of the lesser knights, at the rear.
Stannis gritted his teeth. "We will send two forces. I will command the Stormlanders and my own men, to attack the Deep Den. Renly, Mace Tyrell, you will head to Highgarden and attack the Westerlands from the south. Imry Florent, you will take the Royal Fleet around the south of the continent and blockade the Westerlands, to prevent Joffrey from escaping."
"And who will rule in King's Landing?" someone called.
"Selyse will have the rule in King's Landing, with Alester as acting Hand of the King." Stannis answered.
"That'd work." Tane said. "Though you might wish to send someone to link up with Roose's forces and smooth things over with Ned."
"I wasn't asking if it was a good idea. I was saying that is what we'll do." Stannis snapped.
"And Eddard?" Tane asked. He'd left yesterday in a rush with his remaining guardsmen after Stannis's charming outburst in the small council.
His only words were that he would support Stannis's right to the throne, but not his actions. He'd mentioned his goodfather's lands burning, so perhaps he was planning to liberate the riverlands, but leave the southern wars to the Baratheons.
"I will send an envoy to find Roose Bolton's army and order him to attack Jaime's forces." Stannis said.
Please don't. The last thing they needed was to further anger the Northerners.
"When do your forces set out, Your Grace?" someone asked. Lord Merryweather.
That reminded her, she'd have to arrange another meeting with his wife before they left on campaign.
"In a week's time."
Tane realized that Stannis must have already planned the campaign, in private. This was just a show for the lord's benefit.
"Any further questions?" Renly asked, standing by his brothers side.
Little was asked, beyond grumbling about who had which place in each army. Every lord present, it seemed, wanted a spot in the Vanguard. The rearguard will be the ones who put the boot into a flagging enemy, and save everyone's lives in a retreat. Then again, she could talk. Horse Grenadier companies were raised as assault infantry with the mobility of cavalry. They were as vanguard as it got.
Stannis ground his teeth. "All the Stormlords will march with me except for Renly, and the Myrish sellswords too. Velaryon will have my van. All the Reachlords with Mace and Renly. Randyll Tarly will have their van. The Goldcloak Volunteers and Lady Tane's troops will march with Renly's army."
For once, she was actually annoyed that she would get to avoid Stannis. From what she'd heard, he was a talented commander, while Renly was unproven in battle.
Then again, someone as bloody minded and vindictive as him also seemed the type to keep feeding reserves into a failed attack, or pick disliked generals to lead the most bloody missions, while someone who was inexperienced and knew it might be inclined to listen to competent subordinates.
Like, say, a certain Captain Bayder.
"M'lord, the King is here."
Tywin gritted his teeth. It was not enough that he had a dwarf son who shamed his house with every breath he took, a fool daughter who had lost her head along with her dignity, or that his true heir had been stolen from him. His own grandson had demanded that he appear before him in his own castle, to swear fealty, while he had a war to fight. He'd told him as much, and offered to have him ride out to meet him if he had such notions. He'd actually taken up the offer.
Fool of a boy.
"Yes, of course."
His squires already had his charger saddled, and it took him only moments to buckle his cloak in place. He already had his sword and dagger on. He clambered into the saddle as easily as he had when he was twenty, and Kevan joined him, alongside an escort of Lannister guardsmen with crossbows and halberds. They found Joffrey at the edge of the camp, his own escort, all mounted and led by Ser Barristan Selmy, swarming around him. He had a sword belted at his waist, and a crossbow and quiver hung from his saddle.
If he must play at being a warrior, the least he could do is be a knight and not a freerider Tywin thought with distaste. Crossbows were deadly tools of war, but they were tools best suited for common labourers, not architects.
"Your Grace" he said, bowing his head.
"Tywin." Joffrey said.
"Come. We have much to discuss." Tywin said.
He waved to one of his sergeants. "Have a pavilion set up for His Grace, and inform the lords that he is arrived."
The sergeant nodded. "Yes, m'lord."
Joffrey was pouting through the whole ride to the pavilion.
"Why didn't you ride out to meet me?" Joffrey asked.
"I have more important matters to attend to than a king's vanity. Like making sure you remain a king."
And certain schemes. He'd sent a letter to the Bravosi, offering to pay off all of the Seven Kingdom's debt to them if they bankrolled his war plans. He had plans that would require vast amounts of gold to succeed, more gold than even his mines could provide on short notice.
They dismounted and entered the pavilion, the guards parting. Kevan followed. He waved his hand at the guards, and he heard the rattle of armour outside as they fanned out, keeping any eavesdroppers away from his war council.
He and Kevan sat opposite to Joffrey.
For a moment, the silence was deafening.
Finally, he unrolled the map of southern Westeros and weighed it down with four lion headed weights. An absurd bit of mummery, but he'd received them as a gift alongside the map, and it seemed the sort of thing that would impress a boy king.
"We are here, with 20,000 men." Time to explain the situation, in terms even a boy could understand.
He placed a playing piece on their location, 50 miles west from the Deep Den.
"Roose Bolton is moving south with around 15,000 men, north of the trident. Jaime has crushed the forces blocking the passes, crushed Edmure Tully and is sieging Riverrun. Stannis is in King's Landing with 6,000 men. The latest news is that he has taken your mothers head."
Joffrey blinked in shock and was silent for a moment.
Then he exploded like wildfire.
"I demand you march upon King's Landing and kill them all! Now! Then have them all roasted in wildfire!"
Aerys come again, I see.
"Rashness will not avenge my niece, Your-" Kevan began to say.
"You cowards! Robert said you hid in Casterly Rock until the war was near won! You'll not do that again! My father would have already stormed the city!"
He stood up, throwing his stool to the ground, and drew his sword.
Tywin got to his feet, ignoring the naked steel, though his instincts screamed to go for his own weapons.
"You have 35,000 swords at your command. You have no need for the use of your own."
"If you don't march forth and crush the Tyrells, I'll have your head as a traitor!"
"Put down your sword. Then we can talk about war."
"You're, You're..."
"The man who would avenge your mother and my daughter. That would not be a wise course of action. Aerys dismissed me as his hand. Look where that ended for him. The Reyne's and Castermeres thought to oppose me. Look where that ended for them. I am no traitor, Your Grace. But facing Stannis in the open field is madness. He can muster over a hundred thousand men in all. I've seen war. You haven't. You would be wise to consider that."
He left out the very simple fact that he could have himself declared Regent, send Joffrey back to Casterly Rock, and win this war on his own.
Joffrey screamed, bringing down his longsword in a savage arcing blow into the wood. Tywin didn't flinch, resisting every trained instinct telling him to get back out of reach or close in and go for a disarm.
He let go of the sword, leaving it stuck in the wood, and stood panting, the beginnings of tears in his eyes.
"There are more ways than swords to win wars. The coin and the raven are potent weapons." Tywin said calmly.
He didn't dare tell Joffrey what he had written to the Iron Islands, to every wavering house, to the Free Cities, to the Iron Bank and the Golden Company and the Faceless Men. Offers of rich rewards, of debts forgiven or repaid immediately and with interest, of future support in their ceaseless wars.
"Kevan, Joffrey is clearly tired and emotional after his long ride and the tragic fate of the Queen. Kindly escort the King to his pavilion."
His legacy would not be one of having his designs destroyed by a foolish boy-king.
Renly IV
"The guardsmen?" Renly asked.
"What, uh, m'lord?" The Baratheon man-at-arms asked, his voice slurred. He'd been the watch captain for that shift.
"The men who were guarding the children. Where are they?"
"Uh, they're asleep."
"And why did the guards of the two most valuable prisoners in the seven kingdoms fall asleep on duty?".
Stannis had given him the unenviable job of trying to trace the kidnapper's steps, while Davos and Tane led the wild goose chase against the kidnappers. A trio of galleys were already preparing to head out and search any merchant ships that left the next morning, and every gate out of the city was being locked.
"I don't know. I think it was the wine."
"What?"
"The, uh, wine. A couple of nice Myrish chaps, the crossbowmen from one of the free companies, they turned up with a couple of barrels of wine, great big things. Good fucking wine, too, though we only had a few sips each. Had to stay sharp. I don't quite remember what happened after that."
Renly could guess. Knock them out with spiked wine, knock out the guards on the cell as well, smuggle the children out. Hide them in the barrels, mayhaps.
He glanced back at his own men at arms, standing behind him. "Brown Bill, arrest these men for falling asleep on watch."
The Storm's End guardsman grinned, showing his yellowed teeth. Something of a rivalry had evolved between the Storm's End and Dragonstone men, as of late. Renly turned away, waving to a pair of his crossbowmen to follow him.
Other soldiers were questioning the servants about what they'd seen. Everyone was jumping at shadows. He heard mentions of a couple of servants carrying a rolled up carpet, someone catching a glimpse of a blond child, a group of shifty looking Myrishmen carrying wine barrels in and out.
The latter would be the people who'd gotten the guards drunk.
Stannis's forces have made a right botch of this.
He had to laugh at that. Stannis had always acted like he was the hard, serious man, stuck ruling a backwater island while his foolish little brother inherited his birthright. Well, now he'd been handed the Iron Throne on a silver platter by said foolish little brother, and wasn't exactly making the best use of his gift.
He found Stannis with Ned, both of them heatedly discussing something.
His ears strained to hear what they saying.
"Mayhaps whoever did this did you a favour, Your Grace, if they took that particular burden off your hands-" Ned began.
"And did what with them? Spirited them off to the free cities to become another Viserys or Blackfyre? Took them to the Lannisters, so we have no more hostages?"
He saw Renly coming and stopped.
"Any news?"
"It was some of the Myrishmen, most likely. They put your guards to sleep with poisoned wine, then must have smuggled the children out somehow." Renly said.
Ned rubbed his eyes. "How long ago was it?"
"I don't know how long they were gone by the time the alarm was raised."
Stannis gritted his teeth. "It doesn't matter. They must be recaptured. Dead or alive."
By the time he returned to his chambers, the faint glow of the rising sun was visible in the east. He'd been talking to witnesses all through the keep, trying to trace the movements of the Myrishmen with their barrels. It had been no good. There had been too many servants, and too many sellswords, all of them serving or enjoying the feast, not looking about for suspicious behaviour. The soldiers themselves had been too drunk-and drugged, he suspected-to remember anything useful, even with Stannis's captain of the guard bellowing in their faces. Some of them still hadn't woken.
He could feel the beginnings of a hangover. He'd been getting himself good and drunk in anticipation of the bedding. Loyalty to Loras was all well and good, but he would likely need an heir, and put a stop to rumours. Rumours that an unmarried lord had a male lover where one thing. Rumours that the heir to the throne refused to produce an heir were quite another.
He pushed the door open, to see Margaery waiting on the bed, dressed only in her shift.
Robert would have loved her.
He wasn't Robert, though, and he ignored her as he stripped down into his shirt and rolled into bed, brushing her reaching hand away. He barely noticed her lying besides him.
He'd consummate the marriage another time. Right now, he needed rest.
No sooner had he gotten to sleep than he was woken by a servant furiously knocking on his door.
He rolled out of his bed. "Yes? Is it urgent?"
"Stannis wants to see you now. He says Lord Baelish also vanished from his apartments while the guards were distracted."
Renly had no words. This place leaks prisoners like a sieve leaks water.
He dragged himself out of bed, ready to deal with yet another snark hunt.
*
They gathered in sullen silence in the small council chambers, a dozen men and two women, no one wanting to begin explaining what had just happened.
"I'd wager Petyr's behind this. Never should have trusted him with the black powder formula" Tane began.
It did make sense. Littlefinger bribes a goldcloak amongst his guards, they somehow organized with the Myrishmen for the rescue attempt or kidnapping or whatever it was, and then they all slipped out in the confusion. It had taken them a good while to figure out that Littlefinger was missing. Having him held in his lodgings in the city proper hadn't helped, nor had the small contingent of guards. He was to be prevented from fleeing or tampering with the records, not thrown in a cell, after all.
Who else? A Lannister rescue mission? The guards got so drunk that the children rescued themselves? Someone murdered the children, to frame Stannis or force his hand? Stannis would never have them killed under a false flag. The man was too… direct for that.
"He never should have escaped." Stannis said. "Stark, as Master of Laws, the Goldcloaks are your responsibility."
"I warned you to put men of your household to guard him, not Goldcloaks…" Ned began.
Not that that stopped them drugging your men…
"And I warned you to pick good, trustworthy men."
Renly glanced at Janos Slynt. That man was only trustworthy in that you could trust him to do what you wanted once the dragons had changed hands.
"The smallfolk are whispering that you had the children murdered, and tried to blame it on the Lannisters." Davos began. His men had been turning the city upside down.
"The smallfolk will whisper many things, and having those abominations killed would be doing the realm a favour. What of it?" Stannis said.
Davos blanched.
"I made you swear that if I killed Trant, the children would be shown mercy." Tane said. "I don't see Trant walking about."
"Eddard swore that, not me." Stannis said. "And I am not Eddard."
"They are valuable hostages, if nothing else. And I cast the judgement in the belief that the children at least would be spared." Ned began.
"King's blood has power. Even the blood of false kings." Melisandre said.
"You want to murder children to work sorcery?" Eddard said, aghast.
"Killing them is justice. Besides, Cersei didn't confess. Their lives were forfeit, by her own choice." Stannis said.
Ned stood up. "The children are still missing, and we're wasting time trying to justify murdering them?"
"Yes. If they are recaptured, Melisandre, you may burn them as a sacrifice to your Red God, to ensure the deaths of Joffrey Waters and Daenerys Targaryen. Drug them first, so that they don't suffer."
The room exploded. Mace Tyrell looked shocked, Tane said something about sending them to the wall getting rid of the problem without getting blood on their hands, Slynt began loudly proclaiming how necessary hard men were to making hard decisions, Arys announced that he believed it went against a knight's oaths, but that a Kingsguard's oaths superseded them, and he could see Melisandre's eyes light up with delight.
"You'll have to find another Master of Laws." Eddard said, barely audible above the noise.
"What?" Stannis asked. "You have your duty, and you will do it."
"I said, you'll have to find another Master of Laws. I came south to be Robert's Hand, to protect him from his enemies, not to aid in the murder of children. I haven't seen my Lady and my sons for the better part of a year. My goodfather's lands are burning. My duty is to my family and bannermen and smallfolk, not to you."
He turned and walked out.
The room exploded again.
Tane V
"That was a most impressive display, my lady." said Lord Rowan.
Tane resisted the urge to tell him she was a bloody captain. She'd actually earned that title, and besides that, being a nobleman's bastard didn't get you any courtesy titles.
She glanced back at the splintered line of shields and the old plate harness shot full of holes behind them. They'd spent the day having a "friendly competition" with a company of longbow archers in Stannis's service. She'd insisted on shooting at realistic targets. The ability to rip through any but the toughest unwarded plate armour was the real strength of the musket, and the Westerosi had no witches to throw up bullet-slowing wards to counter that. Get enough musketeers or even arquebusiers, and have them protected by stakes or pikes, and she'd wager she could, if not break, then at least take the force out of a charge by their knights, and give a pike block such a mauling that it wouldn't be able to resist their own cavalry.
"Took me only a month of training to get them to do that." she said.
It hadn't been her own Horse Grenadiers shooting. She was already confident in their skills. What needed testing was the force of goldcloak volunteers-"silvercloaks", they were increasingly called-being raised for service outside King's Landing. They already had a battalion of 800 raised, half with pike, halberd and bill, the other half with crossbows and lightweight calivers. Plans were underway to recruit a second battalion, and a squadron of demi-lancers.
Come to think of it, that makes me a Colonel.
More nobles came by, congratulating her, some of them clearly nervous. They'd hitched themselves to a stubborn horse with a bad habit of kicking, and they knew it.
What mattered, though, was that they had seen her troops could do. What Stannis's troops could do. It had been Renly's idea, after the utter disaster that the wedding night had turned into. First two valuable prisoners escaping, then Lord Baelish with the bloody gunpowder recipe, then Stannis openly saying he planned to kill children and almost arresting Eddard as he left to "lead his armies south"-a bit of pageantry and a show of force would be just the thing to distract them while the preparations for the campaign were completed.
Why am I even serving this prick? From what I hear, I could make a killing in Essos as a sellsword without ending up an accessory to child murder.
The again, mercenaries always end up doing the work that no respectable militia or regular wants to get caught up in…
"Captain." Renly said besides her, snapping her back to the present.
"Yes?"
"Stannis wants you present with the war council. Tonight."
And I'm a staff officer now. Wonderful.
*
"This" Stannis said, pointing at the tapestry-map of Westeros he had rolled out on the floor of the Queen's ballroom, "Is where the Lannister forces are located, roughly. Tywin is said to be around the Deep Den, with Joffrey Waters present. He has 20,000 men. Jaime lays siege to Riverrun with another force. I have heard counts of anything from 10,000 to 30,000 for that force. A northern host is marching south. I received a raven from Roose Bolton that he is nearing the Trident and intends to confront Jaime and break the siege of Riverrun. All the forces of the Reach and Stormlands are gathering at Storm's End and Highgarden. We have 15,000 men able to march here in all, considering our levies, sellswords, and the goldcloak volunteers."
Tane took it in. They could hit Tywin from three directions at once, and he had only two armies in the field.
Tywin's only advantage would be interior lines; he could quickly move troops, supplies and messengers from one front to another, while it would take a good deal longer to shift troops from the Riverlands to the Reach and vice versa. That, and controlling the passes into the Westerlands.
"We should attack at once, with the strength of the Stormlands and the Reach at our back. Crush Tywin in battle and the rest of his armies will crumble!" Loras said.
Lord Rowan shook his head. "The Deep Den is narrow. We could outnumber him twenty to one and it wouldn't matter if we can't break through."
She heard yells of "hear, hear!" from the other lords. Almost every lord in King's Landing had been packed into the room, and most of the senior knights and sellsword captains too.
"Advance up from the south, there's no mountains there. We'll make him pick between leaving Casterly Rock open or facing us in the field without mountains to guard his flanks" yelled Lord Velaryon.
"Loras is right!" Renly called. "We have the numbers, we should use it to win this quickly."
"We could advance on both directions. Come up through the south and the east. If he stays in the hills, he risks getting trapped in the mountains. If he leaves, the eastern force can enter unmolested." Tane said.
"Two armies against two is a fair fight. Three armies against two isn't. And in war, you never fight fair" said Salladhor Saan, the pirate leaning back against the wall nonchalantly while the nobles stood stiffly around him. He was one of Stannis's mercenaries, hired before she'd given him the throne on a silver platter, and Stannis had decided to make use of his forces in the coming campaign to isolate the Westerlands from the sea.
"Joffrey is with Tywin's army. Our king should face theirs and decide the matter!" called one of the lesser knights, at the rear.
Stannis gritted his teeth. "We will send two forces. I will command the Stormlanders and my own men, to attack the Deep Den. Renly, Mace Tyrell, you will head to Highgarden and attack the Westerlands from the south. Imry Florent, you will take the Royal Fleet around the south of the continent and blockade the Westerlands, to prevent Joffrey from escaping."
"And who will rule in King's Landing?" someone called.
"Selyse will have the rule in King's Landing, with Alester as acting Hand of the King." Stannis answered.
"That'd work." Tane said. "Though you might wish to send someone to link up with Roose's forces and smooth things over with Ned."
"I wasn't asking if it was a good idea. I was saying that is what we'll do." Stannis snapped.
"And Eddard?" Tane asked. He'd left yesterday in a rush with his remaining guardsmen after Stannis's charming outburst in the small council.
His only words were that he would support Stannis's right to the throne, but not his actions. He'd mentioned his goodfather's lands burning, so perhaps he was planning to liberate the riverlands, but leave the southern wars to the Baratheons.
"I will send an envoy to find Roose Bolton's army and order him to attack Jaime's forces." Stannis said.
Please don't. The last thing they needed was to further anger the Northerners.
"When do your forces set out, Your Grace?" someone asked. Lord Merryweather.
That reminded her, she'd have to arrange another meeting with his wife before they left on campaign.
"In a week's time."
Tane realized that Stannis must have already planned the campaign, in private. This was just a show for the lord's benefit.
"Any further questions?" Renly asked, standing by his brothers side.
Little was asked, beyond grumbling about who had which place in each army. Every lord present, it seemed, wanted a spot in the Vanguard. The rearguard will be the ones who put the boot into a flagging enemy, and save everyone's lives in a retreat. Then again, she could talk. Horse Grenadier companies were raised as assault infantry with the mobility of cavalry. They were as vanguard as it got.
Stannis ground his teeth. "All the Stormlords will march with me except for Renly, and the Myrish sellswords too. Velaryon will have my van. All the Reachlords with Mace and Renly. Randyll Tarly will have their van. The Goldcloak Volunteers and Lady Tane's troops will march with Renly's army."
For once, she was actually annoyed that she would get to avoid Stannis. From what she'd heard, he was a talented commander, while Renly was unproven in battle.
Then again, someone as bloody minded and vindictive as him also seemed the type to keep feeding reserves into a failed attack, or pick disliked generals to lead the most bloody missions, while someone who was inexperienced and knew it might be inclined to listen to competent subordinates.
Like, say, a certain Captain Bayder.
No Greater Fury: Brynden I, Margaery III, Renly V
- Location
- Brisbane
Brynden I
The column of wildlings made for a both familiar and absurd sight. Led by a dwarf, armed with their usual cruel array of rusting swords, spears, axes and stone mauls, some of them riding two to one horse-those poor animals-they moved up the river road in surprisingly good order, with all manner of loot stuffed anywhere they could find. He'd heard men call the mountain clans savages, and that was true, but to think of savages as beasts in human skin rather than skilled warriors who just so happened to like burning off their own digits was to invite death.
I get sick of fighting wildlings, go back home to fight some lions, and what happens? The bloody wildlings follow me here.
"Send a rider. Tell them they'll be on them in an hour."
His messenger nodded and took off on his light pony, moving to keep a hill between himself and the march column.
400 good men. More men than the twenty every sellsword full of piss and vinegar said he'd need to accomplish this or that goal, but it was what he'd need to track down the Clansmen, after the reports of them ravaging through the riverlands had arrived. They'd been passing Seaguard when they'd received the raven, written in a rushed hand and begging for help, for Darry had been sacked. After that, another raven had come in from some landed knight, claiming he had sighted savages on his lands and asking for reinforcement. He'd also mentioned a dwarf with them, and Brynden realized that he must have somehow allied with-or been kidnapped by-the Mountain Clans while they tried to ravage the riverlands.
That had been an opportunity, and he'd begged leave of Roose to race ahead to cut off Tyrion's westward journey. A bit of scout work and here they were, him and a half dozen other scouts shadowing them while they marched right into the force of Barrow Knights and Riverlands mounted archers, both longbows and crossbows, waiting in ambush.
Oh, sure, the wildlings would be getting nervous. Pickets vanishing or turning up with arrows through the back of the head had a bad habit of causing that. But they were moving through hostile territory-the number of crudely bandaged wounds attested to that-and peasants had a habit of taking whatever vengeance they could on armies looting, raping and slaughtering their way through the local territory. The wildlings suspected little.
He continued shadowing them, moving slowly and carefully after them on foot until they pulled out of sight then mounting up and rapidly pursuing whenever they lost sight of them before dismounting and repeating the whole cycle. It wasn't hard work, with the clear road and dense vegetation on either side giving them a good view of the wildlings while shielding the scouts. His chosen ambush point was a pair of small but steep hills, close on either side of the riverroad. The archers on either side would pour arrows into the wildlings, while the main force of the Barrow Knights would sweep up the valley. A smaller detachment would then move in on the other end and start cutting them down as they fell back out of the valley in disorder. He could order them trapped in the gorge, but that would just mean they would fight to the death. A fleeing man was easier to kill than a trapped one.
*
The first sign they had moved straight into the ambush was the roar of warhorns. The column was a fair into the ambush site, but they weren't all the way in, the last third still on open ground.
"Too early." Brynden muttered. "They should have waited until they were all in the valley."
Then the archers stepped over the ridge and the arrows came in, thick and fast, tearing into vulnerable flesh. Many of the wildlings hadn't bothered with shields, and it cost them dearly, as it always did. Even at near two hundred yards away, he could hear the screaming, and someone roaring orders, and then more warhorns blowing and the Barrow Knights under the Dustin banner, riding on the red horses of the Barrowlands, came around the hill and wheeled to charge down the riverroad.
The neat march column almost burst outwards, some fleeing, some charging up the slopes at his archers, some rushing at the knights, many milling about in confusion. He hefted his freerider's spear, more versatile than a knightly lance, and spurred his horse up towards the fight. Light armoured and on the fastest horses they had, he and his small band of outriders were well placed to hook any fish who slipped out of the net.
The heavy horse crashed in amongst them, skewering with lances and hurling men prone with the sheer impact of their northern coursers, then throwing lances down to lay on with sword and axe and mace. The riverroad turned into a terrible savage tumult, the wildlings thrown into disorder by the knights scything through them. The clansmen charging the archers on the left had all been shot down, but those on the right had gotten in amongst them, the archers defending themselves hand to hand with falchions and mauls. Some of the archers vanished from the ridgeline, and for a moment he feared they were routing, but then they came back into view on horseback, charging down the men on the ridge.
"You see the dwarf?" Grey Gam asked, the bearded huntsman sitting beside him on horseback.
"No. Heard he proved his innocence with a battleaxe in hand." another of his outriders answered, still watching the fight.
"Fucking bollocks. That sellsword did for the Vale knight, and besides, he's still guilty of Darry and god knows what else." Gam said.
Gam was right, the sellsword Bronn was responsible for that. Brynden didn't answer, though. He was too focused on the fight.
The rear of the formation, not fully into the canyon, was pushing straight up into the valley, aiming to get through to the knights at the front. The second squadron, eighty lances in all captained by Ser Ronnel Stout, moved in, aiming to take the rear in flank while the leftwards archers continued to shoot, shifting their fire down towards the confused, unengaged rear.
He saw some of them fleeing on horseback, and then it was over. The whole force just collapsed, changing from surging up the riverroad to fleeing, scattering, the Barrow Knights crashing into their rear alongside archers who had leapt onto their horses. The wildlings were routing, as they always did when faced with encirclement, and the rout was when the real killing began. He saw skulls crushed, arms hacked off, men trapped under dying horses. A horse with arrows sticking out of it's side galloped past him, and then another with a man with a piece of broken lance stuck through his rusted mail, still somehow in the saddle. And then he saw Tyrion, a dwarf on horseback galloping away, a man trading blows with a knight at his side and Brynden called "that's him! With me!" like it was a shadowcat hunt and spurred straight at him, angling to cut them off as they fled. The man riding with Tyrion got the better of the Barrow Knight, cutting his reins then slashing his horse's throat.
They rode in on Tyrion, the dwarf changing course to avoid running straight into the Blackfish even as he struggled to outrun the knights behind him, shifting so that they were chasing rather than charging him. Brynden bloodied his spurs on his courser, forcing every ounce of speed out of the beast. He hefted and reversed his spear, making ready to throw it to bring down Tyrion's horse, as he came within range-twenty yards, fifteen, ten. The other man with Tyrion, a lean man in ringmail, galloped up on his left, aiming to cut his reins like he'd done to that Barrow Knight. Bryden twisted across, parrying and striking back with his spear, aiming at horse rather than man. A bigger target and less protected.
They continued trading blows until a tree came up and they separated. Brynden took the opportunity, wrenching his horse rightwards to give himself space as he hurled his spear into the Half-Mans horse and drew his sword as swiftly as possible. It wasn't necessary. An arrow took the lean man in the back, knocking him forwards in the saddle, Grey Gam shooting from horseback like he was a bloody Dothraki.
The sellsword's horse kept galloping, the man clinging to its back like his life depended on it. Mostly because it did. Brynden barked out "after him!" to Gam and brought his horse down to a trot, turning back to where Tyrion's horse lay dying.
The Lannister disentangled himself from under the horse, glancing at the mercenary galloping off into the distance.
"Yield!" Brynden barked, glaring down at the man.
"You could have saved me the time and taken me when I returned to the crossroads the second time, you know. It would have been very droll" he said, unbuckling and throwing away the dagger on his belt.
"You could have saved me the time and not killed Ser Vardis, you know."
"Bronn did that. Never got to pay him, actually."
"Pity." Brynden said, as the Barrow Knights rode up with fetters ready.
Margaery III
The columns rode out of King's Landings, 10,000 men in all. The knights came first, then the mounted men-at-arms and archers and the Horse Grenadiers, their drab yellow buff coats and grey steel cuirasses a stark contrast to the pageantry that surrounded them. She stood on the walls with Selyse, a woman as tedious as her husband, and Shireen and Melisandre and all the other court women, cheering and waving at the soldiers passing underneath. The infantry came next, pikes and spears, longbows and crossbows, and the queer new musketeers or arquebusiers or whatever they were called marching out of the city to join with the even greater numbers of foot camped outside the walls-Stannis's mercenaries and the Crownland levies.
Ser Arys Oakheart stood beside Selyse. He was the only Kingsguard member that remained. Balon and Loras had received their white cloaks, and were to accompany Stannis on campaign, much to Renly's displeasure. Margaery had watched the whole argument, when Stannis had told Renly where his lover was to serve. It hadn't an argument fought with screamed threats, but with them flinging volleys of barbs back and forth, mocking each other for every slight-and there were many-they'd ever inflicted on each other. Everything from Stannis refusing her offer to dance, to Renly's tastes to the lordship of Storm's End was brought up, argued to death and then given the cold kiss of the Others to rise again and be argued over some more.
Her attempts to intervene-she no more wanted Loras under Stannis's command than Renly did-were brushed aside, so she instead listened meekly, memorizing every word in case she ever needed any barbs to launch right back at either of them. By the end she had been half asleep, truth be told. Renly could be just as tedious as Stannis, when he put his mind to it.
Seven Above, Olenna would have loved seeing those two fight.
The crack of gunfire jerked her back to the present, as a small group of goldcloak musketeers fired off a volley in salute of Stannis's forces. More cheering went up, and she joined in, waving her handscarf, caught up in the moment as the last of the foot left, the knights and lords already nearing the horizon. Many of them would die. Most of them would survive, and live unremarkable lives, marrying and raising children in quiet keeps. But some of them would live forever in song, and it was that group, the true knights, warriors like her brothers, that had captured her imagination when she was a girl. They were brave and true, protecting the weak with their own strength.
That was not what she was. Her weakness was her strength, her grandmother had taught her. All she had to do was pretend to be a silly woman just so and the oafs in their chain dresses would be falling over each other to get themselves killed for her. Sensible enough, though she liked to think she had a little more respect for knights than Ollenna did.
*
Margaery fidgeted amongst the watching courtiers as Selyse sat the Iron Throne, Alester Florent, Melisandre and Shireen at her side.
"Your grace, with all the levies and ships away, we were worried that we would be raided by pirates and slavers from the stepstones." said one of the petitioners. He was a short, goateed man, a merchant by the look of him.
Alester Florent stroked his short, carefully groomed beard.
"We have no troops to spare, besides the Goldcloaks. All our men were taken, to deal with the traitors in the west." Alester said, sadly.
The merchant looked just slightly concerned.
"Is there any other way we could be protected?"
Selyse stepped forwards. "I could have the Melisandre stare into the flames, tell you of what threats she sees.
The man now looked very uncomfortable. "M'lord, we ask for men and ships, not for sorcery."
"And we have none of the former to spare, but plenty of the latter." Alester said.
Margaery shuddered. She had no like of sorcery. Melisandre was bad enough, taller than many men, talking of fire this and shadow that. So was Morgan, the grey witch that the foreigners had. She seemed to sense people when she shouldn't, and there were rumours she had power beyond that of even the old heroes. The power to break minds, bind demons, make things fall sideways, knock arrows and bullets out of the air…
Thank the seven she was gone to fight and on their side, because if half of that was true, she was more dangerous than all the other grenadiers put together. She only wished Stannis had taken Melisandre with him as standard bearer like he'd originally planned. Consorting with the red priestess was something Renly had barely talked him out of, but the fewer sorcerers in King's Landing, the better.
The merchant shook his head. "As you wish, m'lord."
He turned away and left.
The rest of the petitioners came after him, the usual nonsense about taxes this and boundaries that that she'd watched Mace adjudicate many times. She forced herself to pay attention, tedious as it was. She was here both because she needed to know the affairs of the realm, and because it helped with the picture she was trying to paint as a noblewoman who cared, who was pious and virtuous and used her families resources to help the poor. That was what Olenna had suggested she do with once in King's Landing, and she wholeheartedly agreed. If she benefit both herself and the people of King's Landing, there was little reason not to/
Finally, mercifully, Lord Florent announced an end to proceedings. Her legs felt like they were about to give out. The attendant courtiers began to file out.
As she began to leave, she saw out of the corner of her eye Selyse padding up to her.
"Yes, your grace?" Margaery asked.
"Would you care to witness the night fires tonight?"
"I would, your Grace, but I am afraid I am to meet with the High Septon to pray for the success of our King."
Selyse glanced at the people around her.
"R'hllor will grant Stannis his victory, not your Seven. Worship with me. The Lord of Light can keep your husband safe from the grip of the Great Other."
"Only the mercy of the Mother and his own might, granted by the Warrior, can keep him from the Stranger" Margaery said. Watching the night fires was one thing, but worshipping them quite another.
She might make a show of her piety for the benefit of the smallfolk, especially in these troubled times, but it was still real. The seven were out there, watching her every movement. They would tolerate sin, in moderation and if payed back with good deeds. They would not tolerate apostasy.
Selyse sniffed. "Melisandre has power. True power. She saw Stark fighting Lannister in the Red Keep. She saw Ser Illyn's blade take a traitors head. She saw Stannis sailing up the blackwater triumphant, and Renly marching forth to war. She saw Tywin's death, pierced by bolts from his own son. She will grant Stannis his victory."
Margaery was silent. The thing about prophecy, her Septa had always said, was that it tended to be so vague that anything could be taken to fulfil the prophecy. Seeing Illyn take a traitors head or the master of ships sailing meant nothing. But insulting the queen was a dangerous path.
The Queen walked off, Lord Florent and the rest of her entourage following her.
Margaery decided she was going to do more than pray with the High Septon. She was going to have a very earnest and very fearful discussion about the threat that the Red God posed to the kingdom's faithful, and what could be done about it.
Renly V
Highgarden was exactly what its name promised. It was high, with three layers of concentric walls surrounding the central keep, each further up than the last, and it was a garden, masses of vines and climbers overrunning the walls like an invading army, while he could see topiary mazes and fruit trees on the slopes. It could virtually feed itself in the event of a siege, while outside the walls there was a sea of sunflowers.
Food, and the vast armies that food fed, was the reaches greatest weapon, and the Tyrells knew exactly how to use it.
He'd ridden out with the army's vanguard, all the greatest knights, to meet with Randyll Tarly, and Willas and Garlan Tyrell. The Horse Grenadiers had come too, and the mounted archers and some of the men-at-arms. That had been Tane's idea, to ensure the heavy cavalry had infantry support available whenever they needed it. He'd laughed it off, saying they were in friendly territory, but Tane had insisted that being ready for surprises was always a good idea, and that it was good practice for a march in hostile territory. He'd reluctantly indulged her. It had taken a moon and a half to march for Highgarden, more tedious than anything else. He'd kept the force moving, not wanting to stop for feasting and hunting like every lord they'd passed insisted on. The red comet had come and gone, the bleeding star flickering through the sky. Some of his men said it was a portent of victory. Others had said they were marching to their doom.
In the distance, tiny, like a toy castle, he saw the gates of Highgarden open and riders emerge. Tyrell banners, some of them double-flowered, alongside the Tarly huntsman, the Florent fox, Hightower's high tower, the Blackbar's black bar. The Reach Lords had very imaginative heraldry.
They met each other halfway, all the lords under their command gathered to them.
Willas smiled as he saw them coming. "Ah, Renly! Hand of the King, now, isn't it?"
Renly laughed. "First Hand to the Regent, now I'm a good and proper Hand to the King."
"Say, where's Loras and Margaery?" Willas asked, looking through the assembled lords.
"He wears a white cloak now." Renly said. "Off with Stannis in the mountains. Margaery is in King's Landing."
Though he was loath to say it out loud, he missed Loras. It had been weeks since he'd seen him last.
I wonder if Stannis did that just to spite me. Or if it was some attempt at reconciling with Tyrell.
The latter was unlikely. Stannis was not a man who reconciled himself.
"Well, a white cloak would suit him well" Garlan said, trotting up besides his older brother. He looked uncannily like Loras, only taller, burlier, and with a short beard.
He was, essentially, to Loras what Robert was to Renly.
Randyll Tarly joined the Tyrells with Renly.
"We have all the forces you need in place, Lord Baratheon. 40,000 foot and 10,000 horse, in three camps."
Renly nodded. "Excellent. Now, I wonder how well you arrange feasts compared to Mace, Willas?"
*
He'd attended feasts a hundred times before. Possibly literally, come to think of it. Robert had loved his feasts, and he'd arranged them in Storm's End whenever possible.
But the Tyrell's went beyond anything even Robert had indulged himself in.
They had virtual mountains of food. Boars and venison, mutton and auroch, and very pointedly a whole lion, stuffed and cooked. Wine flowed like water, and the peaches tasted as sweet as always.
He sat on the dais next to Mace, above even Willas and Garlan and Alerie, laughing along with their japes, making his own in return. Mace joked about being a guest in his own hall, and the Grenadiers drew the usual attention. Even Brienne seemed to gain the attention of a few of the younger knights. Considering her looks, he suspected that they had a similar taste in women to him; that is to say, none at all.
There was no need to clear the tables for dancing; they had such a vast hall, almost bigger than those in the Red Keep, that they could feast and dance at the same time.
It passed in a blur. He danced with a dozen noblewomen, any of whom Robert could have bedded. He wasn't Robert, and he barely noticed them. He'd never had much interest in women for bedding(though they seemed to like him well enough), and most of them were much too foolish to be good company. Then again, most men found insulting their wives and daughters to be very poor form, so he graciously accepted their invitations to dance. He preferred the noblemen. At least they tended to have some amusing story or another.
He was quite happily talking to a pair of marcher knights when Garlan came for him.
"Lord Baratheon." Garlan said. "My brother wants to speak with you. Now."
Renly made his excuses and left, following after Garlan.
"What does Willas want with me?" he asked.
Garlan shrugged. "I've no inkling. All I know is he's none too pleased."
He said it like he had quite a few inklings, but didn't want to spoil the surprise just yet.
They found Willas waiting amongst a crop of sunflowers in the gardens, leaning on his cane. Half his face was bathed in lantern light, the other hidden. Renly chuckled.
"What is it?" Garlan asked, annoyed.
"Your brother looks rather like the Hound, just now."
Garlan didn't respond, instead simply standing to the side while Willas limped forwards out of the shadows.
"What in the seven hells were you thinking?"
"What?" Renly asked, confused.
"Leaving my little sister in that bloody snake pit of a city unprotected, and letting my little brother go charging off with Stannis."
"I did everything I could to stop Stannis from sending him off. He wouldn't listen."
"And Marge?" Willas asked, stepping even closer. "Did you ever think to take her with you to Highgarden, or at least send her to Storm's End?"
"While I and Stannis were fighting the war, she would gather me support by aiding the smallfo-"
"She's only seen one winter, never been to court before and has barely any soldiers with her. That court ate Robert and Cersei alive. It could do the same to her. Stannis bears us and you no love, all over that accursed castle. Selyse is a fanatic if half of what Olenna's told me is true. You bloody fool. And that's not even starting on Loras."
"He's a good sword." Renly began.
"Oh, he's a great jouster." Garlan said. "How will that help him crack open a shieldwall? How will that help him when the arrows fall like rain? How will that help him in the chaos of a melee? He'll ask for the van or some such, Stannis will give it, and he'll get himself killed or maimed on some brave fool charge. He'll live forever in song, I don't doubt, but he'll still be dead."
"Stannis is Stannis. There was nothing I could do, I argued until I was red in the face, but he would not yield."
"How did Loras get his white cloak?" Willas asked.
"He told me he wanted it, and I recommended him to Stannis. The man was reluctant."
"So there was something you could do. You could have not helped my little brother swear himself to a man who has little love for our house."
"Loras was quite insistent…"
"Was he? I would've thought you smarter than that." Willas said. "Now you've put your wife and your lover, and my little brother and sister, in mortal danger. I hope you're pleased with yourself."
He shook his head. "All this because Loras wanted a bloody white cloak. Well, he'll get a bloody white cloak, the way Stannis is going. Fighting his way through passes held by Tywin Lannister, what was Stannis thinking."
"Not if our army can advance fast enough." Renly said. "While they're busy fighting in the mountains, we can sweep up from the south and take Lannisport and the Rock."
"Wouldn't work. They're probably already fighting as we speak, or at least in a stalemate. Tywin's good as dead, but a mortally wounded lion is as dangerous as ever, and we can't move in time to help Loras."
"I can't help Loras, no, and Margaery too, and my lack of foresight is to blame. It runs in the family" Renly said. Admitting guilt, even if he had no choice, would at least placate the Tyrells.
Willas didn't laugh at the jape.
"But we can still try and win this quickly, if we strike hard and fast."
Stannis might have tried to take his lover, but Renly would take his prize.
The column of wildlings made for a both familiar and absurd sight. Led by a dwarf, armed with their usual cruel array of rusting swords, spears, axes and stone mauls, some of them riding two to one horse-those poor animals-they moved up the river road in surprisingly good order, with all manner of loot stuffed anywhere they could find. He'd heard men call the mountain clans savages, and that was true, but to think of savages as beasts in human skin rather than skilled warriors who just so happened to like burning off their own digits was to invite death.
I get sick of fighting wildlings, go back home to fight some lions, and what happens? The bloody wildlings follow me here.
"Send a rider. Tell them they'll be on them in an hour."
His messenger nodded and took off on his light pony, moving to keep a hill between himself and the march column.
400 good men. More men than the twenty every sellsword full of piss and vinegar said he'd need to accomplish this or that goal, but it was what he'd need to track down the Clansmen, after the reports of them ravaging through the riverlands had arrived. They'd been passing Seaguard when they'd received the raven, written in a rushed hand and begging for help, for Darry had been sacked. After that, another raven had come in from some landed knight, claiming he had sighted savages on his lands and asking for reinforcement. He'd also mentioned a dwarf with them, and Brynden realized that he must have somehow allied with-or been kidnapped by-the Mountain Clans while they tried to ravage the riverlands.
That had been an opportunity, and he'd begged leave of Roose to race ahead to cut off Tyrion's westward journey. A bit of scout work and here they were, him and a half dozen other scouts shadowing them while they marched right into the force of Barrow Knights and Riverlands mounted archers, both longbows and crossbows, waiting in ambush.
Oh, sure, the wildlings would be getting nervous. Pickets vanishing or turning up with arrows through the back of the head had a bad habit of causing that. But they were moving through hostile territory-the number of crudely bandaged wounds attested to that-and peasants had a habit of taking whatever vengeance they could on armies looting, raping and slaughtering their way through the local territory. The wildlings suspected little.
He continued shadowing them, moving slowly and carefully after them on foot until they pulled out of sight then mounting up and rapidly pursuing whenever they lost sight of them before dismounting and repeating the whole cycle. It wasn't hard work, with the clear road and dense vegetation on either side giving them a good view of the wildlings while shielding the scouts. His chosen ambush point was a pair of small but steep hills, close on either side of the riverroad. The archers on either side would pour arrows into the wildlings, while the main force of the Barrow Knights would sweep up the valley. A smaller detachment would then move in on the other end and start cutting them down as they fell back out of the valley in disorder. He could order them trapped in the gorge, but that would just mean they would fight to the death. A fleeing man was easier to kill than a trapped one.
*
The first sign they had moved straight into the ambush was the roar of warhorns. The column was a fair into the ambush site, but they weren't all the way in, the last third still on open ground.
"Too early." Brynden muttered. "They should have waited until they were all in the valley."
Then the archers stepped over the ridge and the arrows came in, thick and fast, tearing into vulnerable flesh. Many of the wildlings hadn't bothered with shields, and it cost them dearly, as it always did. Even at near two hundred yards away, he could hear the screaming, and someone roaring orders, and then more warhorns blowing and the Barrow Knights under the Dustin banner, riding on the red horses of the Barrowlands, came around the hill and wheeled to charge down the riverroad.
The neat march column almost burst outwards, some fleeing, some charging up the slopes at his archers, some rushing at the knights, many milling about in confusion. He hefted his freerider's spear, more versatile than a knightly lance, and spurred his horse up towards the fight. Light armoured and on the fastest horses they had, he and his small band of outriders were well placed to hook any fish who slipped out of the net.
The heavy horse crashed in amongst them, skewering with lances and hurling men prone with the sheer impact of their northern coursers, then throwing lances down to lay on with sword and axe and mace. The riverroad turned into a terrible savage tumult, the wildlings thrown into disorder by the knights scything through them. The clansmen charging the archers on the left had all been shot down, but those on the right had gotten in amongst them, the archers defending themselves hand to hand with falchions and mauls. Some of the archers vanished from the ridgeline, and for a moment he feared they were routing, but then they came back into view on horseback, charging down the men on the ridge.
"You see the dwarf?" Grey Gam asked, the bearded huntsman sitting beside him on horseback.
"No. Heard he proved his innocence with a battleaxe in hand." another of his outriders answered, still watching the fight.
"Fucking bollocks. That sellsword did for the Vale knight, and besides, he's still guilty of Darry and god knows what else." Gam said.
Gam was right, the sellsword Bronn was responsible for that. Brynden didn't answer, though. He was too focused on the fight.
The rear of the formation, not fully into the canyon, was pushing straight up into the valley, aiming to get through to the knights at the front. The second squadron, eighty lances in all captained by Ser Ronnel Stout, moved in, aiming to take the rear in flank while the leftwards archers continued to shoot, shifting their fire down towards the confused, unengaged rear.
He saw some of them fleeing on horseback, and then it was over. The whole force just collapsed, changing from surging up the riverroad to fleeing, scattering, the Barrow Knights crashing into their rear alongside archers who had leapt onto their horses. The wildlings were routing, as they always did when faced with encirclement, and the rout was when the real killing began. He saw skulls crushed, arms hacked off, men trapped under dying horses. A horse with arrows sticking out of it's side galloped past him, and then another with a man with a piece of broken lance stuck through his rusted mail, still somehow in the saddle. And then he saw Tyrion, a dwarf on horseback galloping away, a man trading blows with a knight at his side and Brynden called "that's him! With me!" like it was a shadowcat hunt and spurred straight at him, angling to cut them off as they fled. The man riding with Tyrion got the better of the Barrow Knight, cutting his reins then slashing his horse's throat.
They rode in on Tyrion, the dwarf changing course to avoid running straight into the Blackfish even as he struggled to outrun the knights behind him, shifting so that they were chasing rather than charging him. Brynden bloodied his spurs on his courser, forcing every ounce of speed out of the beast. He hefted and reversed his spear, making ready to throw it to bring down Tyrion's horse, as he came within range-twenty yards, fifteen, ten. The other man with Tyrion, a lean man in ringmail, galloped up on his left, aiming to cut his reins like he'd done to that Barrow Knight. Bryden twisted across, parrying and striking back with his spear, aiming at horse rather than man. A bigger target and less protected.
They continued trading blows until a tree came up and they separated. Brynden took the opportunity, wrenching his horse rightwards to give himself space as he hurled his spear into the Half-Mans horse and drew his sword as swiftly as possible. It wasn't necessary. An arrow took the lean man in the back, knocking him forwards in the saddle, Grey Gam shooting from horseback like he was a bloody Dothraki.
The sellsword's horse kept galloping, the man clinging to its back like his life depended on it. Mostly because it did. Brynden barked out "after him!" to Gam and brought his horse down to a trot, turning back to where Tyrion's horse lay dying.
The Lannister disentangled himself from under the horse, glancing at the mercenary galloping off into the distance.
"Yield!" Brynden barked, glaring down at the man.
"You could have saved me the time and taken me when I returned to the crossroads the second time, you know. It would have been very droll" he said, unbuckling and throwing away the dagger on his belt.
"You could have saved me the time and not killed Ser Vardis, you know."
"Bronn did that. Never got to pay him, actually."
"Pity." Brynden said, as the Barrow Knights rode up with fetters ready.
Margaery III
The columns rode out of King's Landings, 10,000 men in all. The knights came first, then the mounted men-at-arms and archers and the Horse Grenadiers, their drab yellow buff coats and grey steel cuirasses a stark contrast to the pageantry that surrounded them. She stood on the walls with Selyse, a woman as tedious as her husband, and Shireen and Melisandre and all the other court women, cheering and waving at the soldiers passing underneath. The infantry came next, pikes and spears, longbows and crossbows, and the queer new musketeers or arquebusiers or whatever they were called marching out of the city to join with the even greater numbers of foot camped outside the walls-Stannis's mercenaries and the Crownland levies.
Ser Arys Oakheart stood beside Selyse. He was the only Kingsguard member that remained. Balon and Loras had received their white cloaks, and were to accompany Stannis on campaign, much to Renly's displeasure. Margaery had watched the whole argument, when Stannis had told Renly where his lover was to serve. It hadn't an argument fought with screamed threats, but with them flinging volleys of barbs back and forth, mocking each other for every slight-and there were many-they'd ever inflicted on each other. Everything from Stannis refusing her offer to dance, to Renly's tastes to the lordship of Storm's End was brought up, argued to death and then given the cold kiss of the Others to rise again and be argued over some more.
Her attempts to intervene-she no more wanted Loras under Stannis's command than Renly did-were brushed aside, so she instead listened meekly, memorizing every word in case she ever needed any barbs to launch right back at either of them. By the end she had been half asleep, truth be told. Renly could be just as tedious as Stannis, when he put his mind to it.
Seven Above, Olenna would have loved seeing those two fight.
The crack of gunfire jerked her back to the present, as a small group of goldcloak musketeers fired off a volley in salute of Stannis's forces. More cheering went up, and she joined in, waving her handscarf, caught up in the moment as the last of the foot left, the knights and lords already nearing the horizon. Many of them would die. Most of them would survive, and live unremarkable lives, marrying and raising children in quiet keeps. But some of them would live forever in song, and it was that group, the true knights, warriors like her brothers, that had captured her imagination when she was a girl. They were brave and true, protecting the weak with their own strength.
That was not what she was. Her weakness was her strength, her grandmother had taught her. All she had to do was pretend to be a silly woman just so and the oafs in their chain dresses would be falling over each other to get themselves killed for her. Sensible enough, though she liked to think she had a little more respect for knights than Ollenna did.
*
Margaery fidgeted amongst the watching courtiers as Selyse sat the Iron Throne, Alester Florent, Melisandre and Shireen at her side.
"Your grace, with all the levies and ships away, we were worried that we would be raided by pirates and slavers from the stepstones." said one of the petitioners. He was a short, goateed man, a merchant by the look of him.
Alester Florent stroked his short, carefully groomed beard.
"We have no troops to spare, besides the Goldcloaks. All our men were taken, to deal with the traitors in the west." Alester said, sadly.
The merchant looked just slightly concerned.
"Is there any other way we could be protected?"
Selyse stepped forwards. "I could have the Melisandre stare into the flames, tell you of what threats she sees.
The man now looked very uncomfortable. "M'lord, we ask for men and ships, not for sorcery."
"And we have none of the former to spare, but plenty of the latter." Alester said.
Margaery shuddered. She had no like of sorcery. Melisandre was bad enough, taller than many men, talking of fire this and shadow that. So was Morgan, the grey witch that the foreigners had. She seemed to sense people when she shouldn't, and there were rumours she had power beyond that of even the old heroes. The power to break minds, bind demons, make things fall sideways, knock arrows and bullets out of the air…
Thank the seven she was gone to fight and on their side, because if half of that was true, she was more dangerous than all the other grenadiers put together. She only wished Stannis had taken Melisandre with him as standard bearer like he'd originally planned. Consorting with the red priestess was something Renly had barely talked him out of, but the fewer sorcerers in King's Landing, the better.
The merchant shook his head. "As you wish, m'lord."
He turned away and left.
The rest of the petitioners came after him, the usual nonsense about taxes this and boundaries that that she'd watched Mace adjudicate many times. She forced herself to pay attention, tedious as it was. She was here both because she needed to know the affairs of the realm, and because it helped with the picture she was trying to paint as a noblewoman who cared, who was pious and virtuous and used her families resources to help the poor. That was what Olenna had suggested she do with once in King's Landing, and she wholeheartedly agreed. If she benefit both herself and the people of King's Landing, there was little reason not to/
Finally, mercifully, Lord Florent announced an end to proceedings. Her legs felt like they were about to give out. The attendant courtiers began to file out.
As she began to leave, she saw out of the corner of her eye Selyse padding up to her.
"Yes, your grace?" Margaery asked.
"Would you care to witness the night fires tonight?"
"I would, your Grace, but I am afraid I am to meet with the High Septon to pray for the success of our King."
Selyse glanced at the people around her.
"R'hllor will grant Stannis his victory, not your Seven. Worship with me. The Lord of Light can keep your husband safe from the grip of the Great Other."
"Only the mercy of the Mother and his own might, granted by the Warrior, can keep him from the Stranger" Margaery said. Watching the night fires was one thing, but worshipping them quite another.
She might make a show of her piety for the benefit of the smallfolk, especially in these troubled times, but it was still real. The seven were out there, watching her every movement. They would tolerate sin, in moderation and if payed back with good deeds. They would not tolerate apostasy.
Selyse sniffed. "Melisandre has power. True power. She saw Stark fighting Lannister in the Red Keep. She saw Ser Illyn's blade take a traitors head. She saw Stannis sailing up the blackwater triumphant, and Renly marching forth to war. She saw Tywin's death, pierced by bolts from his own son. She will grant Stannis his victory."
Margaery was silent. The thing about prophecy, her Septa had always said, was that it tended to be so vague that anything could be taken to fulfil the prophecy. Seeing Illyn take a traitors head or the master of ships sailing meant nothing. But insulting the queen was a dangerous path.
The Queen walked off, Lord Florent and the rest of her entourage following her.
Margaery decided she was going to do more than pray with the High Septon. She was going to have a very earnest and very fearful discussion about the threat that the Red God posed to the kingdom's faithful, and what could be done about it.
Renly V
Highgarden was exactly what its name promised. It was high, with three layers of concentric walls surrounding the central keep, each further up than the last, and it was a garden, masses of vines and climbers overrunning the walls like an invading army, while he could see topiary mazes and fruit trees on the slopes. It could virtually feed itself in the event of a siege, while outside the walls there was a sea of sunflowers.
Food, and the vast armies that food fed, was the reaches greatest weapon, and the Tyrells knew exactly how to use it.
He'd ridden out with the army's vanguard, all the greatest knights, to meet with Randyll Tarly, and Willas and Garlan Tyrell. The Horse Grenadiers had come too, and the mounted archers and some of the men-at-arms. That had been Tane's idea, to ensure the heavy cavalry had infantry support available whenever they needed it. He'd laughed it off, saying they were in friendly territory, but Tane had insisted that being ready for surprises was always a good idea, and that it was good practice for a march in hostile territory. He'd reluctantly indulged her. It had taken a moon and a half to march for Highgarden, more tedious than anything else. He'd kept the force moving, not wanting to stop for feasting and hunting like every lord they'd passed insisted on. The red comet had come and gone, the bleeding star flickering through the sky. Some of his men said it was a portent of victory. Others had said they were marching to their doom.
In the distance, tiny, like a toy castle, he saw the gates of Highgarden open and riders emerge. Tyrell banners, some of them double-flowered, alongside the Tarly huntsman, the Florent fox, Hightower's high tower, the Blackbar's black bar. The Reach Lords had very imaginative heraldry.
They met each other halfway, all the lords under their command gathered to them.
Willas smiled as he saw them coming. "Ah, Renly! Hand of the King, now, isn't it?"
Renly laughed. "First Hand to the Regent, now I'm a good and proper Hand to the King."
"Say, where's Loras and Margaery?" Willas asked, looking through the assembled lords.
"He wears a white cloak now." Renly said. "Off with Stannis in the mountains. Margaery is in King's Landing."
Though he was loath to say it out loud, he missed Loras. It had been weeks since he'd seen him last.
I wonder if Stannis did that just to spite me. Or if it was some attempt at reconciling with Tyrell.
The latter was unlikely. Stannis was not a man who reconciled himself.
"Well, a white cloak would suit him well" Garlan said, trotting up besides his older brother. He looked uncannily like Loras, only taller, burlier, and with a short beard.
He was, essentially, to Loras what Robert was to Renly.
Randyll Tarly joined the Tyrells with Renly.
"We have all the forces you need in place, Lord Baratheon. 40,000 foot and 10,000 horse, in three camps."
Renly nodded. "Excellent. Now, I wonder how well you arrange feasts compared to Mace, Willas?"
*
He'd attended feasts a hundred times before. Possibly literally, come to think of it. Robert had loved his feasts, and he'd arranged them in Storm's End whenever possible.
But the Tyrell's went beyond anything even Robert had indulged himself in.
They had virtual mountains of food. Boars and venison, mutton and auroch, and very pointedly a whole lion, stuffed and cooked. Wine flowed like water, and the peaches tasted as sweet as always.
He sat on the dais next to Mace, above even Willas and Garlan and Alerie, laughing along with their japes, making his own in return. Mace joked about being a guest in his own hall, and the Grenadiers drew the usual attention. Even Brienne seemed to gain the attention of a few of the younger knights. Considering her looks, he suspected that they had a similar taste in women to him; that is to say, none at all.
There was no need to clear the tables for dancing; they had such a vast hall, almost bigger than those in the Red Keep, that they could feast and dance at the same time.
It passed in a blur. He danced with a dozen noblewomen, any of whom Robert could have bedded. He wasn't Robert, and he barely noticed them. He'd never had much interest in women for bedding(though they seemed to like him well enough), and most of them were much too foolish to be good company. Then again, most men found insulting their wives and daughters to be very poor form, so he graciously accepted their invitations to dance. He preferred the noblemen. At least they tended to have some amusing story or another.
He was quite happily talking to a pair of marcher knights when Garlan came for him.
"Lord Baratheon." Garlan said. "My brother wants to speak with you. Now."
Renly made his excuses and left, following after Garlan.
"What does Willas want with me?" he asked.
Garlan shrugged. "I've no inkling. All I know is he's none too pleased."
He said it like he had quite a few inklings, but didn't want to spoil the surprise just yet.
They found Willas waiting amongst a crop of sunflowers in the gardens, leaning on his cane. Half his face was bathed in lantern light, the other hidden. Renly chuckled.
"What is it?" Garlan asked, annoyed.
"Your brother looks rather like the Hound, just now."
Garlan didn't respond, instead simply standing to the side while Willas limped forwards out of the shadows.
"What in the seven hells were you thinking?"
"What?" Renly asked, confused.
"Leaving my little sister in that bloody snake pit of a city unprotected, and letting my little brother go charging off with Stannis."
"I did everything I could to stop Stannis from sending him off. He wouldn't listen."
"And Marge?" Willas asked, stepping even closer. "Did you ever think to take her with you to Highgarden, or at least send her to Storm's End?"
"While I and Stannis were fighting the war, she would gather me support by aiding the smallfo-"
"She's only seen one winter, never been to court before and has barely any soldiers with her. That court ate Robert and Cersei alive. It could do the same to her. Stannis bears us and you no love, all over that accursed castle. Selyse is a fanatic if half of what Olenna's told me is true. You bloody fool. And that's not even starting on Loras."
"He's a good sword." Renly began.
"Oh, he's a great jouster." Garlan said. "How will that help him crack open a shieldwall? How will that help him when the arrows fall like rain? How will that help him in the chaos of a melee? He'll ask for the van or some such, Stannis will give it, and he'll get himself killed or maimed on some brave fool charge. He'll live forever in song, I don't doubt, but he'll still be dead."
"Stannis is Stannis. There was nothing I could do, I argued until I was red in the face, but he would not yield."
"How did Loras get his white cloak?" Willas asked.
"He told me he wanted it, and I recommended him to Stannis. The man was reluctant."
"So there was something you could do. You could have not helped my little brother swear himself to a man who has little love for our house."
"Loras was quite insistent…"
"Was he? I would've thought you smarter than that." Willas said. "Now you've put your wife and your lover, and my little brother and sister, in mortal danger. I hope you're pleased with yourself."
He shook his head. "All this because Loras wanted a bloody white cloak. Well, he'll get a bloody white cloak, the way Stannis is going. Fighting his way through passes held by Tywin Lannister, what was Stannis thinking."
"Not if our army can advance fast enough." Renly said. "While they're busy fighting in the mountains, we can sweep up from the south and take Lannisport and the Rock."
"Wouldn't work. They're probably already fighting as we speak, or at least in a stalemate. Tywin's good as dead, but a mortally wounded lion is as dangerous as ever, and we can't move in time to help Loras."
"I can't help Loras, no, and Margaery too, and my lack of foresight is to blame. It runs in the family" Renly said. Admitting guilt, even if he had no choice, would at least placate the Tyrells.
Willas didn't laugh at the jape.
"But we can still try and win this quickly, if we strike hard and fast."
Stannis might have tried to take his lover, but Renly would take his prize.
No Greater Fury: Brynden II, Joffrey III, Tane VI
- Location
- Brisbane
Brynden II
"I need to see Roose. Now." Brynden snapped at the guards defending the perimeter camp. The men glanced at each other. "He's not in command anymore." the taller of the two said.
Brynden raised an eyebrow. He'd been riding out ahead for weeks, watching Jaime's army break the siege and advance with a few of his outriders after sending the rest back to the main army with Tyrion.
"Then who is?" Brynden asked, dreading the answer. If Roose had fallen ill or being wounded or killed in some skirmish, then the last thing they needed was the lords getting into a pissing match over who had the command.
"Lord Stark" the guard said. "He's back from the south."
"Then I need to see Stark. Now." Brynden repeated.
The guard chuckled. "Aye, if you insist, he's in the grand pavilion."
Brynden nodded in acknowledgement and took off at a trot, his escort following behind him.
Eddard was indeed in the pavilion, talking hurriedly to Bolton. Both of them were cold, hard men, but Ned at least had warmth for his wife and children and friends. Roose, from what he'd seen of him, was pure ice, not like to thaw. Brynden knew his sort well enough. He was a calmer, more cultured version of the sort of sellsword who'd slit your throat for a penny and not even have the decency to feel bad about it.
"Ah. Ser Brynden." Eddard said as he saw him coming.
"Eddard." Brynden answered and shook his hand. "Cat is well, last I saw her."
"It's been far too long since I saw her myself." Eddard said quietly.
"He's been a great help to me" Roose softly added.
Brynden snorted. "Tracking down a few hundred rampaging wildlings wasn't hard. Especially since they had a dwarf lion at their head."
He made a note to himself to see Tyrion in his cage again. The man was thoroughly amusing.
"Anyhow, tracking down a few thousand rampaging westermen wasn't hard either. Jaime's broken the siege and is marching straight at us. When I sighted him four days ago, I'd say he was eighty miles away and advancing. He'll be closer by now. Much closer."
"My outriders encountered his a day ago. He's close." Roose said, quiet as a whisper.
Ned nodded grimly. "We break camp and advance to meet him on the morrow. Brynden, I want your scouts out finding his route, and a good place to offer battle along it.
"Is that wise?" Roose asked.
"I want Jaime broken as swiftly as possible, before he ravages the Riverlands further or moves south to reinforce the Westerlands."
"I thought you no longer wanted to serve Stannis" Roose said.
Ned shook his head. "I no longer want to serve on his councils, stuck in King's Landing as he argues about killing children. I still won't let people who violate all the laws of gods and men ravage my goodfather's lands, and I want Tywin and Jaime captured and made to face justice. They killed Jon and Robert to hide their sin. I won't let their deaths be in vain. We offer battle tomorrow."
*
They offered battle. Jaime accepted.
It didn't end well for him.
The northern foot had fought like demons, packed in so tight into their hedges of shields and spears the dead hadn't room to fall, as Jaime hurled wave after wave of soldiers at them. He'd fought at the head of the Lannister horse himself, charging the shieldwall over and over, butchering dozens of common foot who couldn't hope to match him.
Brynden had led the archers, anchoring the left and right of the main shieldwall from behind rows of stakes. They'd expended all their arrows in the first hour, and had to rely on camp followers bringing up fresh bundles of arrows, or picking up and shooting back Lannister arrows. Soon enough, the Lannisters started shooting their own arrows back at them as well, and some Tully arrows saw themselves loosed for the third time that battle.
It was the third charge by Jaime that could have lost either side the battle. From what he could tell, the Lannisters had seemed near to breaking through the shieldwall when a terrible cry had gone up that Jaime had been killed. They'd broken, the knights and half the foot falling back down the hill in disorder to join the other half of the foot, resting between assaults.
Part of the northern foot had given chase, all semblance of order gone, thinking the battle won. They'd nearly paid for it with their lives when the lions turned and counterattacked. The pursuers had formed into a circle to avoid being swamped when they realized their mistake. It wouldn't have been enough, and they'd left a gaping hole in the battle line that Roose was left scrambling to fill.
But Eddard had seen the opportunity and thrown in the cavalry, knights of White Harbour and Seagard, the Barrows and the Twins, alongside swarms of mounted men-at-arms and unknighted Northern lancers. They'd been held back in reserve behind the shieldwall, waiting for just such an opportunity. 3,000 fresh horsemen plunging into exhausted and disordered foot had never ended well for the infantry, and the battle had turned into a rout, and for the Lannisters, this time there was no rallying. Jaime fell amongst the carnage, throwing off his helmet to show his men he was alive, his face cut so terribly it had damn near fallen off.
He was still alive, his face buried under plaster, under armed guard. The rest of his army had scattered, surrendered or been ridden down in the long rout that had followed, except for a contingent under Forley Prester who had marched off the field in good order, resisting every attempt to charge them down. Bryden had mounted up all his archers who had horses ridden with the pursuit till the sun had gone down and his sword was dulled, then returned to the camp to find the butcher's bill.
*
"What now?" Wylis Manderly asked. "On to riverrun to liberate it, or course, but what after that?". The man was near as fat as his father, but he'd acquitted himself well in the battle, killing two Western knights and fighting on with arrows sticking out of his thigh and shoulder.
"We have Tywin's heir hostage. I say, force Tywin to give us all the gold in Casterly Rock to get them back, send them to Casterly rock, then let Stannis recapture them when it falls." One of the Freys said.
It was a day since the battle, and Ned had gathered all of his commanders for a council of war.
"That's if Jaime lives and Tywin wants Tyrion back." Glover said.
"He went to war to get Tyrion back. He'll want him." One of the Karstarks said.
Roose and Ned both listened silently.
Bryden raised his voice. "Here's an idea. We march right into the Westerlands. Anyone tries to resist us, we threaten to kill one of the Lannister hostages. We have two of them, so they can't call our bluff, and they'll take it as an hounourable opportunity to surrender. We should be able to get past the Golden Tooth that way, or try and find another route through the mountains. We take Lannisport or perhaps even Casterly rock. Sack the place or protect it from getting sacked by Stannis, depending on whether we're feeling chivalrous."
That got Roose's attention. "A most wise plan, Ser."
"Indeed. We lost nearly a thousand men in that battle. It would be wise to force the surrender of the West rather than having to crush them one by one." Eddard said.
"Sieges are always bloody business. The more of them we can avoid, the better. If nothing else, it'll make sure Stannis knows you're no traitor" Brynden added.
Roose Bolton stood up. "A toast to our victory?"
"Aye!" called the lords in unison.
Joffrey III
"How many more attacks can we hold against?" Ser Addam Marbrand asked.
Kevan shrugged. "Dozens. Even if he breaks the men holding the goldroad pass, he'll have to do it again and again, against each successive layer of men. Even if he does that, any survivors can hide in the Deep Den and force him to starve them out."
Joffrey smiled to himself. Stannis's first attack up the goldroad had seen the Myrish crossbowmen in the vanguard shot down by archers and ridden down by Stannis's own knights, his men milling about in chaos as half of them tried to retreat and the other half tried to advance. He wore a Myrish crossbow on his saddle now. What he really wanted was a musket and a couple of pistols like the Grenadiers, but that would have to do for now.
"The true threat is Renly." Tywin said. "He is heading up from the south as we speak. If he catches us in this pass, we will be caught between hammer and anvil and will have to fight as hard to break out as Stannis currently has to break through."
"Then we should attack and crush Stannis!" Joffrey said. "He has as many men as we do, but we already bloodied him so they'll be scared of us. I'll ask him to fight me in single combat, then shoot him when he accepts. Then we can fight Renly and kill him."
Tywin glared at him.
"That will not work." His grandfather said.
Joffrey bristled. "Why not? If Stannis doesn't accept, he's a coward and his men won't follow him."
He'd talked to Ser Barristan and his dog beforehand about killing Stannis. Barristan thought it a terrible idea, but he was a coward and a fool, so what did he know?
"If you're fool enough to risk your life in single combat, your men won't follow you. If you get yourself killed, our cause is lost. If you kill him with a peasant's weapon, you'll be a coward and a jape."
He felt something burning inside him. The same thing he'd felt when he'd drawn his sword on his coward grandfather. Hate. He hated Tywin, the weak fool. He hated his mother for letting herself be captured, the dumb bitch. He hated Renly and Stannis for stealing what he had been born to have. He hated that foreign sellsword whore for being their catspaw. Most of all, though, he hated his own powerlessness when he was the king. He should be the most powerful of all, but the weaklings and cowards and traitors had taken it all from him.
"I am the king! If I want to face Stannis, you will let me face Stannis. He stole my throne! He sent that Stark bitch to seduce me! He killed my mother! I won't kill him, I'll cripple him, and have him broken on the wheel as a traitor deserves!"
"If you kill him, then Renly becomes king and nothing changes. His men will keep fighting. His lords are loyal. His mercenaries want pay. Killing Stannis with a crossbow does nothing but stain your name. There is a time and a place for staining your name for greater benefit, but this is not it."
"Then what will you do to kill Stannis?"
"Exactly what I said I would do. Leave troops in the passes to hold his forces, move south to attack Renly with the rest of my force, and if we break him, shift back north to finish Stannis. He'll probably have found a way through, but he will be weakened and delayed."
"And if we can't break Renly?" Joffrey asked.
I bet you didn't think of that, you old fool.
Tywin barely blinked.
"Then we retreat north to defend Casterly Rock and Lannisport."
"Certainly better than being trapped in the mountains. And there is more. We have a report from a holdfast south of Crakehall. Renly is riding with all his horse ahead of the foot, hoping to surprise his enemies with speed. Thanks to a certain brave Maester's actions, he no longer has that surprise." Kevan added.
"If we can hit his vanguard while it's isolated, we can cut off the head of the snake and not even have to touch the body." Ser Addam said. The copper haired man had been silent for most of the war council.
A wiser man than his grandfather. He knows not to invoke a kings wrath.
"I told you killing the traitor leaders was a good idea!" Joffrey said.
Tywin did not respond.
He doesn't say anything because he knows I'm right.
"Who shall command the defence of the goldroad and the Deep Den? If we leave the mountains, we cannot leave the pass undefended." Ser Addam asked.
"You would be a good choice, Ser." Kevan said.
"Or Gregor Clegane. He would certainly put the fear of the seven into those Myrishmen" Marbrand said. He grinned, in the most annoying way Joffrey had ever seen. "Or better yet, put me in command of Gregor. That would be something to see."
Joffrey altogether approved of that. He'd seen Gregor sparring. If Uncle Jaime didn't come back from the war, he wanted that man to command his Kingsguard.
"Ser Selmy will lead the defence." Tywin said. "He is loyal, brave and a skilled commander."
"Unless you would have him remain with you, your grace." Kevan quickly added.
"Barristan is an old man and a coward. I wouldn't trust him to watch my back. My dog is all I need" Joffrey said.
"Selmy saved your life, and Aerys before him. He has a lifetime of experience in the arts of war. If we can hold the pass, Stannis's numbers mean nothing while we deal with Renly. If he cannot, he will still cost Stannis dearly in blood and time." Tywin coldly said. "Ser Addam, invite him into the tent, and give him his charge."
The knight nodded.
Ser Selmy entered a moment later. He had been standing watch outside, fully armoured.
"Your Grace" he said to Joffrey, bowing.
"I have a new duty for you." Tywin said as soon as he entered, and then the old bastards were off, babbling of the forces they had, how many in each lord's consignment, how many lances and pikes and bows, the positions of slopes and ditches, of where to make a stand. He ignored it. Such matters were for common captains, not for kings. Finally, Tywin asked Ser Selmy for a final summation.
"Three hundred knights, the best we have, to hold the narrow defiles. Three hundred squires to serve the knights so they can focus their strength on the fighting. They should be fully armed, to fight alongside the knights if things become desperate. And three hundred archers to stop them being shot down by Myrishmen. Another few hundred archers and spears to guard the lesser passes. And Lydden's men should continue to hold the Deep Den, so that come what may, they can still slow Stannis." Ser Selmy said.
Tywin nodded thoughtfully. "Then I can strike at Renly with my back protected."
Barristan will just get himself killed.
He was about to say that, when he realized that if he let Barristan fight he'd finally be rid of the bastard.
That, of course, would be well worth the cost.
Tane VI
"Yield! It's over" Tane called to the men at arms surrounding the Crakehall lord.
The man shook his head from behind the men, who surrounded him. "I'll not yield my home!"
"It'll do nothing but get your men killed!" Tane shouted back.
Her ears were still ringing from the indoors gunfire, and her heart was hammering from the battle-rush, even though they'd faced barely any resistance. She tightened her grip on her pistol and backsword, squinting at the dozen or so men through the torchlight. They were huddling around their lord, unarmoured and only lightly armed. No time to get properly equipped as they'd hastily gathered on the roof of his keep. They were panicked and confused, but they were still trapped between losing their lives by fighting or losing their honour by surrender, and trapped men were the most dangerous of all.
"Just yield!" Tane called again. Her own grenadiers had their armour on, and loaded muskets, and just the ones with her on the roof had them outnumbered slightly. Her troops had achieved utter surprise against the walls and the first floor of the keep. Crakehall had been lucky to get this many men organized by the time she was onto them.
She could hear the thump of grenade blasts down below, as Lieutenant Gryff led men to storm the guardhouses, and the ring of steel on steel from Emon Cuy's men securing the other gatehouses.
"Face me. Me and you, in single combat." he said. She could tell he was desperate. "You're a craven, attacking in the night with sorcery."
Tane sighed.
"One word and I can have all your men gunned down where they stand. I'm dictating the terms, not you. Yield!"
He shoved his way out in front of his line of retainers, sword and shield in hand. "What will it be, craven! I will not have it known that Tybolt Crakehall surrendered to some sellsword bitch!" he yelled again.
Oh for fuck's sake-
Can't be known as a coward, Tane finally decided. "I'll fight, though it won't save you. I won't have it known that Captain Tane Bayder fled some fat bastard in his nightshirt." She yelled at him, then glanced back at Morgan, the grey witch inconspicuous in her buff, back and breast. "If I get wounded and it looks like he's going to kill me, throw the fight." she ordered, in Brythwic as she pulled her pistols out of her belt and handed them to Aurene Slach, the Grenadier now carrying no less than five guns.
The witch nodded.
She stepped forwards into the no-man's land between the lines, hefting her backsword and rondache as Crakehall advanced, hunkering behind his teardrop shield.
She edged in, adopting a low nails-down guard that covered her outside, her round steel shield held back to cover her inside line Hassarchene style, watching him carefully. He towered over her, a good six foot three by the looks of him, but he was all fat. He'd slept only in his breeches, and apparently planned to fight in them too.
Work his outside line, go for the sword hand or a clean hit to the head.
The corners of her lobster-pot helmet restricted her peripheral vision, but she barely noticed the weight of her armour beyond the constant rattling.
She stamped her foot. "You wanted a duel, then fucking duel!" she snapped.
The big man took the bait.
Crakehall stepped forwards and hurled a brutal overhand cut, swinging his shield back as a counterweight. Novice mistake. She parried, rolling her wrist back into a hanging guard as he tried to bull through her defence, let his blade slide down onto her shield, took a step to his outside line, and whipped her sword into his face with a vicious circle cut. He staggered back, screaming. Tane was on him a moment later, knocking his blade off line in the same movement that chambered her cut then whipping it down to chop into his arm. She blocked his flailing afterblow with her shield, then slashed at his face again only for it to be caught on his shield, before scrambling back and off his line of advance as he tried to rush her down. He staggered to a halt, turning to face her, already off-balance.
She realized her back was to his men and began to circle back towards her own, returning to guard.
"Cunt! Fucking cunt!" Crakehall roared as he staggered towards her, his whole right side shining red in the torchlight.
"The last knight I killed called me that, too. Didn't help him." Tane said, cursing herself a moment later for breaking her concentration.
He hurled his shield aside, letting his off-hand help his wounded arm with his sword. Tane twitched at him, as if to attack. He parried thin air, and Tane knew then that she good as had him.
He roared and hacked at her again, going for her outside line, forcing her to defend with her sword rather than her rondache. Tane parried, trying to deflect his blade rather than stop it, and gave ground even as he came back in with a second blow, straight overhead. She stepped forwards into the attack, catching it on her shield even as she stabbed him through the throat and retreated back out at an angle, parrying another clumsy blow.
He kept coming, and for a moment Tane feared that she'd failed to penetrate anything important. Then, just as he looked to be about to swing again, his eyes rolled back and he collapsed. Tane kicked his sword away and stabbed him again, in the back of the skull, to make sure he stayed down.
"I'd fucking yield, or that'll be you!" she yelled at his men.
They took her advice.
*
"Randyll's coming. Pickets made contact with him." Lieutenant Gryff said as he walked up onto the gatehouse crenellations beside her, a short pole-axe over his shoulder. He was a short, burly man with a massive moustache, promoted up from the ranks.
During the assault he'd led men to climb the walls with grappling hooks, cut the gatehouse defender's throats, and let the rest of her company in, alongside others of Renly's vanguard. By the time they'd realized what was going on, it was too late. They'd stormed into the lower levels of the keep with barely any warning, massacring everyone in their path, taking them prisoners or simply having Morgan put them on the ground, twitching and drooling. She'd knocked the portcullis operators out with a brutal bit of tilting, then simply mindbroken half the soldiers who'd tried to defend the gateway. Westerosi troops had no idea how to defend themselves against military witchcraft. One of the guardhouses had been looking to be getting organized, so Gryff had led men across to toss in grenades, while she continued with the assault on the keep. Tybalt Crakehall was the closest thing to an actual fight they'd faced.
"Bloody Tarly" Tane muttered. She had no liking for the man. He was a skilled commander by reputation, but he held her grenadiers and her in particular in disdain. She clambered down the stairs, Gryff following her. Half a dozen grenadiers were in the gatehouse; Corporal Adaire Hralt's lance. They had grenades stacked next to the murder holes, and a pair of soldiers watching through the arrow slits while the rest leaned against the walls.
"Cavalry's arrived, Cap" Adaire said, grinning.
"Thought we were the cavalry" one of his soldiers said.
"We're mounted infantry. That means we're cavalry when the infantry are bitching about us being too high and mighty, and infantry when the cavalry are looking down their nose at us." A third trooper said.
The other soldiers laughed.
"Get ready for muster" Tane said. "Gryff, get Caradoc, Morgan and Sace up. Boots and saddles, the whole lot. Rotate Ser Cuy's men onto lookout and picket duty." She left for the courtyard.
Ser Emmon Cuy greeted her in the courtyard, his armour yellow to match his beard. "M'lady, do you want me to gather my troops?"
He'd led the Westerosi troops in the raid, a hundred each of longbows and spearmen, all of them mounted.
"Captain, not lady." Tane said. She repeated the order she'd given Gryff and whistled for Boudace. The page girl came running up to her, one hand going to her backsword, awkwardly long on her short frame. "Get my horse saddled and get an escort lance together. Get Sace too, tell her to get the company banner."
Boudace nodded and ran off.
*
"Lord Renly." Tane said as she saw him coming, saluting.
"Captain Bayder. Your victory was most impressive" Renly said, trotting up to her. He had the whole vanguard of his army riding with him: knights, squires, lancers and mounted archers and spearmen. His bodyguards rode with him as well; a couple of reacher knights she didn't recognize and Brienne of Tarth.
She was the biggest woman Tane had ever seen, and fast and skilled as well, but even then the Westerosi treated her as a joke. It was absurd. They insisted that women lacked the strength needed to fight, then when a woman who was more than strong enough came along, they mocked her anyway.
Tane wheeled her horse to match Renly's pace.
"Lord Tarly" Tane said as Randyll rode up next to them. The hard faced, balding man was in dull grey plate harness, his Valyrian steel greatsword slung across his back and an arming sword on his hip.
"Tane" Randyll answered, contempt barely restrained. Well, at least he didn't call me a bloody lady.
"Crakehall has fallen. Only light casualties for us, no deaths. About a hundred prisoners. Tybolt Crakehall's dead. Killed him in single combat." Tane said. They'd probably already gotten the message, but it couldn't hurt to repeat it.
"Good. Now, we need you and your grenadiers stiffening up the silvercloaks, not out in the vanguard. There's questions about their reliability. We've had problems with desertions, and the officers aren't sure how to make best use of the firearms." Randyll said.
"Just like crossbows, only more. Powerful, slow to reload." Tane said. "Hopefully the silvercloaks know how to use those, and if you don't Bydevere will know."
Bydevere was a gentleman volunteer and formerly her companies quartermaster. He'd always wanted a position as a commissioned officer, bristling at being outranked by Gryff, so she'd granted him a position as a captain of one of the silvercloak's caliver companies. The man was rigid, short tempered and had an immense chip on his shoulder, but he knew what he was doing.
Randyll grunted. "Renly's orders, not mine. Though they aren't unwise."
Tane glanced at Renly questioningly.
"Well, everything Randyll said is true, and besides, at the rate you're going there won't be any glory for the rest of us!"
The knights with him laughed.
"So what you're saying" Tane began, "Is that you have a unit of elite cavalry, capable of serving as both horse and foot, who have just taken a castle with no casualties in one night, and armed to the teeth with the deadliest weapons around, and you want to use us as line infantry because we're doing our job properly?"
"I'm not saying that, I'm saying that I want someone who knows how to lead soldiers leading the Silvercloaks, and experienced soldiers stiffening them up. Jacelyn Bywater is a goldcloak, not a warrior." Randyll answered.
Oh, so I'm a warrior now? Funny how that changes when It gives him an excuse to get me out of the vanguard.
"The soldiers I had for Crakehall were the biggest command I've ever held. I've never led an infantry battalion. If you insist, I'll lead the silvercloaks. But you're losing an opportunity here."
"And you're gaining one. Consider this a promotion." Renly said, smiling as always.
Tane sighed. "That I will." The Westerosi capacity for shooting themselves in the foot never ceased to amaze her.
"I need to see Roose. Now." Brynden snapped at the guards defending the perimeter camp. The men glanced at each other. "He's not in command anymore." the taller of the two said.
Brynden raised an eyebrow. He'd been riding out ahead for weeks, watching Jaime's army break the siege and advance with a few of his outriders after sending the rest back to the main army with Tyrion.
"Then who is?" Brynden asked, dreading the answer. If Roose had fallen ill or being wounded or killed in some skirmish, then the last thing they needed was the lords getting into a pissing match over who had the command.
"Lord Stark" the guard said. "He's back from the south."
"Then I need to see Stark. Now." Brynden repeated.
The guard chuckled. "Aye, if you insist, he's in the grand pavilion."
Brynden nodded in acknowledgement and took off at a trot, his escort following behind him.
Eddard was indeed in the pavilion, talking hurriedly to Bolton. Both of them were cold, hard men, but Ned at least had warmth for his wife and children and friends. Roose, from what he'd seen of him, was pure ice, not like to thaw. Brynden knew his sort well enough. He was a calmer, more cultured version of the sort of sellsword who'd slit your throat for a penny and not even have the decency to feel bad about it.
"Ah. Ser Brynden." Eddard said as he saw him coming.
"Eddard." Brynden answered and shook his hand. "Cat is well, last I saw her."
"It's been far too long since I saw her myself." Eddard said quietly.
"He's been a great help to me" Roose softly added.
Brynden snorted. "Tracking down a few hundred rampaging wildlings wasn't hard. Especially since they had a dwarf lion at their head."
He made a note to himself to see Tyrion in his cage again. The man was thoroughly amusing.
"Anyhow, tracking down a few thousand rampaging westermen wasn't hard either. Jaime's broken the siege and is marching straight at us. When I sighted him four days ago, I'd say he was eighty miles away and advancing. He'll be closer by now. Much closer."
"My outriders encountered his a day ago. He's close." Roose said, quiet as a whisper.
Ned nodded grimly. "We break camp and advance to meet him on the morrow. Brynden, I want your scouts out finding his route, and a good place to offer battle along it.
"Is that wise?" Roose asked.
"I want Jaime broken as swiftly as possible, before he ravages the Riverlands further or moves south to reinforce the Westerlands."
"I thought you no longer wanted to serve Stannis" Roose said.
Ned shook his head. "I no longer want to serve on his councils, stuck in King's Landing as he argues about killing children. I still won't let people who violate all the laws of gods and men ravage my goodfather's lands, and I want Tywin and Jaime captured and made to face justice. They killed Jon and Robert to hide their sin. I won't let their deaths be in vain. We offer battle tomorrow."
*
They offered battle. Jaime accepted.
It didn't end well for him.
The northern foot had fought like demons, packed in so tight into their hedges of shields and spears the dead hadn't room to fall, as Jaime hurled wave after wave of soldiers at them. He'd fought at the head of the Lannister horse himself, charging the shieldwall over and over, butchering dozens of common foot who couldn't hope to match him.
Brynden had led the archers, anchoring the left and right of the main shieldwall from behind rows of stakes. They'd expended all their arrows in the first hour, and had to rely on camp followers bringing up fresh bundles of arrows, or picking up and shooting back Lannister arrows. Soon enough, the Lannisters started shooting their own arrows back at them as well, and some Tully arrows saw themselves loosed for the third time that battle.
It was the third charge by Jaime that could have lost either side the battle. From what he could tell, the Lannisters had seemed near to breaking through the shieldwall when a terrible cry had gone up that Jaime had been killed. They'd broken, the knights and half the foot falling back down the hill in disorder to join the other half of the foot, resting between assaults.
Part of the northern foot had given chase, all semblance of order gone, thinking the battle won. They'd nearly paid for it with their lives when the lions turned and counterattacked. The pursuers had formed into a circle to avoid being swamped when they realized their mistake. It wouldn't have been enough, and they'd left a gaping hole in the battle line that Roose was left scrambling to fill.
But Eddard had seen the opportunity and thrown in the cavalry, knights of White Harbour and Seagard, the Barrows and the Twins, alongside swarms of mounted men-at-arms and unknighted Northern lancers. They'd been held back in reserve behind the shieldwall, waiting for just such an opportunity. 3,000 fresh horsemen plunging into exhausted and disordered foot had never ended well for the infantry, and the battle had turned into a rout, and for the Lannisters, this time there was no rallying. Jaime fell amongst the carnage, throwing off his helmet to show his men he was alive, his face cut so terribly it had damn near fallen off.
He was still alive, his face buried under plaster, under armed guard. The rest of his army had scattered, surrendered or been ridden down in the long rout that had followed, except for a contingent under Forley Prester who had marched off the field in good order, resisting every attempt to charge them down. Bryden had mounted up all his archers who had horses ridden with the pursuit till the sun had gone down and his sword was dulled, then returned to the camp to find the butcher's bill.
*
"What now?" Wylis Manderly asked. "On to riverrun to liberate it, or course, but what after that?". The man was near as fat as his father, but he'd acquitted himself well in the battle, killing two Western knights and fighting on with arrows sticking out of his thigh and shoulder.
"We have Tywin's heir hostage. I say, force Tywin to give us all the gold in Casterly Rock to get them back, send them to Casterly rock, then let Stannis recapture them when it falls." One of the Freys said.
It was a day since the battle, and Ned had gathered all of his commanders for a council of war.
"That's if Jaime lives and Tywin wants Tyrion back." Glover said.
"He went to war to get Tyrion back. He'll want him." One of the Karstarks said.
Roose and Ned both listened silently.
Bryden raised his voice. "Here's an idea. We march right into the Westerlands. Anyone tries to resist us, we threaten to kill one of the Lannister hostages. We have two of them, so they can't call our bluff, and they'll take it as an hounourable opportunity to surrender. We should be able to get past the Golden Tooth that way, or try and find another route through the mountains. We take Lannisport or perhaps even Casterly rock. Sack the place or protect it from getting sacked by Stannis, depending on whether we're feeling chivalrous."
That got Roose's attention. "A most wise plan, Ser."
"Indeed. We lost nearly a thousand men in that battle. It would be wise to force the surrender of the West rather than having to crush them one by one." Eddard said.
"Sieges are always bloody business. The more of them we can avoid, the better. If nothing else, it'll make sure Stannis knows you're no traitor" Brynden added.
Roose Bolton stood up. "A toast to our victory?"
"Aye!" called the lords in unison.
Joffrey III
"How many more attacks can we hold against?" Ser Addam Marbrand asked.
Kevan shrugged. "Dozens. Even if he breaks the men holding the goldroad pass, he'll have to do it again and again, against each successive layer of men. Even if he does that, any survivors can hide in the Deep Den and force him to starve them out."
Joffrey smiled to himself. Stannis's first attack up the goldroad had seen the Myrish crossbowmen in the vanguard shot down by archers and ridden down by Stannis's own knights, his men milling about in chaos as half of them tried to retreat and the other half tried to advance. He wore a Myrish crossbow on his saddle now. What he really wanted was a musket and a couple of pistols like the Grenadiers, but that would have to do for now.
"The true threat is Renly." Tywin said. "He is heading up from the south as we speak. If he catches us in this pass, we will be caught between hammer and anvil and will have to fight as hard to break out as Stannis currently has to break through."
"Then we should attack and crush Stannis!" Joffrey said. "He has as many men as we do, but we already bloodied him so they'll be scared of us. I'll ask him to fight me in single combat, then shoot him when he accepts. Then we can fight Renly and kill him."
Tywin glared at him.
"That will not work." His grandfather said.
Joffrey bristled. "Why not? If Stannis doesn't accept, he's a coward and his men won't follow him."
He'd talked to Ser Barristan and his dog beforehand about killing Stannis. Barristan thought it a terrible idea, but he was a coward and a fool, so what did he know?
"If you're fool enough to risk your life in single combat, your men won't follow you. If you get yourself killed, our cause is lost. If you kill him with a peasant's weapon, you'll be a coward and a jape."
He felt something burning inside him. The same thing he'd felt when he'd drawn his sword on his coward grandfather. Hate. He hated Tywin, the weak fool. He hated his mother for letting herself be captured, the dumb bitch. He hated Renly and Stannis for stealing what he had been born to have. He hated that foreign sellsword whore for being their catspaw. Most of all, though, he hated his own powerlessness when he was the king. He should be the most powerful of all, but the weaklings and cowards and traitors had taken it all from him.
"I am the king! If I want to face Stannis, you will let me face Stannis. He stole my throne! He sent that Stark bitch to seduce me! He killed my mother! I won't kill him, I'll cripple him, and have him broken on the wheel as a traitor deserves!"
"If you kill him, then Renly becomes king and nothing changes. His men will keep fighting. His lords are loyal. His mercenaries want pay. Killing Stannis with a crossbow does nothing but stain your name. There is a time and a place for staining your name for greater benefit, but this is not it."
"Then what will you do to kill Stannis?"
"Exactly what I said I would do. Leave troops in the passes to hold his forces, move south to attack Renly with the rest of my force, and if we break him, shift back north to finish Stannis. He'll probably have found a way through, but he will be weakened and delayed."
"And if we can't break Renly?" Joffrey asked.
I bet you didn't think of that, you old fool.
Tywin barely blinked.
"Then we retreat north to defend Casterly Rock and Lannisport."
"Certainly better than being trapped in the mountains. And there is more. We have a report from a holdfast south of Crakehall. Renly is riding with all his horse ahead of the foot, hoping to surprise his enemies with speed. Thanks to a certain brave Maester's actions, he no longer has that surprise." Kevan added.
"If we can hit his vanguard while it's isolated, we can cut off the head of the snake and not even have to touch the body." Ser Addam said. The copper haired man had been silent for most of the war council.
A wiser man than his grandfather. He knows not to invoke a kings wrath.
"I told you killing the traitor leaders was a good idea!" Joffrey said.
Tywin did not respond.
He doesn't say anything because he knows I'm right.
"Who shall command the defence of the goldroad and the Deep Den? If we leave the mountains, we cannot leave the pass undefended." Ser Addam asked.
"You would be a good choice, Ser." Kevan said.
"Or Gregor Clegane. He would certainly put the fear of the seven into those Myrishmen" Marbrand said. He grinned, in the most annoying way Joffrey had ever seen. "Or better yet, put me in command of Gregor. That would be something to see."
Joffrey altogether approved of that. He'd seen Gregor sparring. If Uncle Jaime didn't come back from the war, he wanted that man to command his Kingsguard.
"Ser Selmy will lead the defence." Tywin said. "He is loyal, brave and a skilled commander."
"Unless you would have him remain with you, your grace." Kevan quickly added.
"Barristan is an old man and a coward. I wouldn't trust him to watch my back. My dog is all I need" Joffrey said.
"Selmy saved your life, and Aerys before him. He has a lifetime of experience in the arts of war. If we can hold the pass, Stannis's numbers mean nothing while we deal with Renly. If he cannot, he will still cost Stannis dearly in blood and time." Tywin coldly said. "Ser Addam, invite him into the tent, and give him his charge."
The knight nodded.
Ser Selmy entered a moment later. He had been standing watch outside, fully armoured.
"Your Grace" he said to Joffrey, bowing.
"I have a new duty for you." Tywin said as soon as he entered, and then the old bastards were off, babbling of the forces they had, how many in each lord's consignment, how many lances and pikes and bows, the positions of slopes and ditches, of where to make a stand. He ignored it. Such matters were for common captains, not for kings. Finally, Tywin asked Ser Selmy for a final summation.
"Three hundred knights, the best we have, to hold the narrow defiles. Three hundred squires to serve the knights so they can focus their strength on the fighting. They should be fully armed, to fight alongside the knights if things become desperate. And three hundred archers to stop them being shot down by Myrishmen. Another few hundred archers and spears to guard the lesser passes. And Lydden's men should continue to hold the Deep Den, so that come what may, they can still slow Stannis." Ser Selmy said.
Tywin nodded thoughtfully. "Then I can strike at Renly with my back protected."
Barristan will just get himself killed.
He was about to say that, when he realized that if he let Barristan fight he'd finally be rid of the bastard.
That, of course, would be well worth the cost.
Tane VI
"Yield! It's over" Tane called to the men at arms surrounding the Crakehall lord.
The man shook his head from behind the men, who surrounded him. "I'll not yield my home!"
"It'll do nothing but get your men killed!" Tane shouted back.
Her ears were still ringing from the indoors gunfire, and her heart was hammering from the battle-rush, even though they'd faced barely any resistance. She tightened her grip on her pistol and backsword, squinting at the dozen or so men through the torchlight. They were huddling around their lord, unarmoured and only lightly armed. No time to get properly equipped as they'd hastily gathered on the roof of his keep. They were panicked and confused, but they were still trapped between losing their lives by fighting or losing their honour by surrender, and trapped men were the most dangerous of all.
"Just yield!" Tane called again. Her own grenadiers had their armour on, and loaded muskets, and just the ones with her on the roof had them outnumbered slightly. Her troops had achieved utter surprise against the walls and the first floor of the keep. Crakehall had been lucky to get this many men organized by the time she was onto them.
She could hear the thump of grenade blasts down below, as Lieutenant Gryff led men to storm the guardhouses, and the ring of steel on steel from Emon Cuy's men securing the other gatehouses.
"Face me. Me and you, in single combat." he said. She could tell he was desperate. "You're a craven, attacking in the night with sorcery."
Tane sighed.
"One word and I can have all your men gunned down where they stand. I'm dictating the terms, not you. Yield!"
He shoved his way out in front of his line of retainers, sword and shield in hand. "What will it be, craven! I will not have it known that Tybolt Crakehall surrendered to some sellsword bitch!" he yelled again.
Oh for fuck's sake-
Can't be known as a coward, Tane finally decided. "I'll fight, though it won't save you. I won't have it known that Captain Tane Bayder fled some fat bastard in his nightshirt." She yelled at him, then glanced back at Morgan, the grey witch inconspicuous in her buff, back and breast. "If I get wounded and it looks like he's going to kill me, throw the fight." she ordered, in Brythwic as she pulled her pistols out of her belt and handed them to Aurene Slach, the Grenadier now carrying no less than five guns.
The witch nodded.
She stepped forwards into the no-man's land between the lines, hefting her backsword and rondache as Crakehall advanced, hunkering behind his teardrop shield.
She edged in, adopting a low nails-down guard that covered her outside, her round steel shield held back to cover her inside line Hassarchene style, watching him carefully. He towered over her, a good six foot three by the looks of him, but he was all fat. He'd slept only in his breeches, and apparently planned to fight in them too.
Work his outside line, go for the sword hand or a clean hit to the head.
The corners of her lobster-pot helmet restricted her peripheral vision, but she barely noticed the weight of her armour beyond the constant rattling.
She stamped her foot. "You wanted a duel, then fucking duel!" she snapped.
The big man took the bait.
Crakehall stepped forwards and hurled a brutal overhand cut, swinging his shield back as a counterweight. Novice mistake. She parried, rolling her wrist back into a hanging guard as he tried to bull through her defence, let his blade slide down onto her shield, took a step to his outside line, and whipped her sword into his face with a vicious circle cut. He staggered back, screaming. Tane was on him a moment later, knocking his blade off line in the same movement that chambered her cut then whipping it down to chop into his arm. She blocked his flailing afterblow with her shield, then slashed at his face again only for it to be caught on his shield, before scrambling back and off his line of advance as he tried to rush her down. He staggered to a halt, turning to face her, already off-balance.
She realized her back was to his men and began to circle back towards her own, returning to guard.
"Cunt! Fucking cunt!" Crakehall roared as he staggered towards her, his whole right side shining red in the torchlight.
"The last knight I killed called me that, too. Didn't help him." Tane said, cursing herself a moment later for breaking her concentration.
He hurled his shield aside, letting his off-hand help his wounded arm with his sword. Tane twitched at him, as if to attack. He parried thin air, and Tane knew then that she good as had him.
He roared and hacked at her again, going for her outside line, forcing her to defend with her sword rather than her rondache. Tane parried, trying to deflect his blade rather than stop it, and gave ground even as he came back in with a second blow, straight overhead. She stepped forwards into the attack, catching it on her shield even as she stabbed him through the throat and retreated back out at an angle, parrying another clumsy blow.
He kept coming, and for a moment Tane feared that she'd failed to penetrate anything important. Then, just as he looked to be about to swing again, his eyes rolled back and he collapsed. Tane kicked his sword away and stabbed him again, in the back of the skull, to make sure he stayed down.
"I'd fucking yield, or that'll be you!" she yelled at his men.
They took her advice.
*
"Randyll's coming. Pickets made contact with him." Lieutenant Gryff said as he walked up onto the gatehouse crenellations beside her, a short pole-axe over his shoulder. He was a short, burly man with a massive moustache, promoted up from the ranks.
During the assault he'd led men to climb the walls with grappling hooks, cut the gatehouse defender's throats, and let the rest of her company in, alongside others of Renly's vanguard. By the time they'd realized what was going on, it was too late. They'd stormed into the lower levels of the keep with barely any warning, massacring everyone in their path, taking them prisoners or simply having Morgan put them on the ground, twitching and drooling. She'd knocked the portcullis operators out with a brutal bit of tilting, then simply mindbroken half the soldiers who'd tried to defend the gateway. Westerosi troops had no idea how to defend themselves against military witchcraft. One of the guardhouses had been looking to be getting organized, so Gryff had led men across to toss in grenades, while she continued with the assault on the keep. Tybalt Crakehall was the closest thing to an actual fight they'd faced.
"Bloody Tarly" Tane muttered. She had no liking for the man. He was a skilled commander by reputation, but he held her grenadiers and her in particular in disdain. She clambered down the stairs, Gryff following her. Half a dozen grenadiers were in the gatehouse; Corporal Adaire Hralt's lance. They had grenades stacked next to the murder holes, and a pair of soldiers watching through the arrow slits while the rest leaned against the walls.
"Cavalry's arrived, Cap" Adaire said, grinning.
"Thought we were the cavalry" one of his soldiers said.
"We're mounted infantry. That means we're cavalry when the infantry are bitching about us being too high and mighty, and infantry when the cavalry are looking down their nose at us." A third trooper said.
The other soldiers laughed.
"Get ready for muster" Tane said. "Gryff, get Caradoc, Morgan and Sace up. Boots and saddles, the whole lot. Rotate Ser Cuy's men onto lookout and picket duty." She left for the courtyard.
Ser Emmon Cuy greeted her in the courtyard, his armour yellow to match his beard. "M'lady, do you want me to gather my troops?"
He'd led the Westerosi troops in the raid, a hundred each of longbows and spearmen, all of them mounted.
"Captain, not lady." Tane said. She repeated the order she'd given Gryff and whistled for Boudace. The page girl came running up to her, one hand going to her backsword, awkwardly long on her short frame. "Get my horse saddled and get an escort lance together. Get Sace too, tell her to get the company banner."
Boudace nodded and ran off.
*
"Lord Renly." Tane said as she saw him coming, saluting.
"Captain Bayder. Your victory was most impressive" Renly said, trotting up to her. He had the whole vanguard of his army riding with him: knights, squires, lancers and mounted archers and spearmen. His bodyguards rode with him as well; a couple of reacher knights she didn't recognize and Brienne of Tarth.
She was the biggest woman Tane had ever seen, and fast and skilled as well, but even then the Westerosi treated her as a joke. It was absurd. They insisted that women lacked the strength needed to fight, then when a woman who was more than strong enough came along, they mocked her anyway.
Tane wheeled her horse to match Renly's pace.
"Lord Tarly" Tane said as Randyll rode up next to them. The hard faced, balding man was in dull grey plate harness, his Valyrian steel greatsword slung across his back and an arming sword on his hip.
"Tane" Randyll answered, contempt barely restrained. Well, at least he didn't call me a bloody lady.
"Crakehall has fallen. Only light casualties for us, no deaths. About a hundred prisoners. Tybolt Crakehall's dead. Killed him in single combat." Tane said. They'd probably already gotten the message, but it couldn't hurt to repeat it.
"Good. Now, we need you and your grenadiers stiffening up the silvercloaks, not out in the vanguard. There's questions about their reliability. We've had problems with desertions, and the officers aren't sure how to make best use of the firearms." Randyll said.
"Just like crossbows, only more. Powerful, slow to reload." Tane said. "Hopefully the silvercloaks know how to use those, and if you don't Bydevere will know."
Bydevere was a gentleman volunteer and formerly her companies quartermaster. He'd always wanted a position as a commissioned officer, bristling at being outranked by Gryff, so she'd granted him a position as a captain of one of the silvercloak's caliver companies. The man was rigid, short tempered and had an immense chip on his shoulder, but he knew what he was doing.
Randyll grunted. "Renly's orders, not mine. Though they aren't unwise."
Tane glanced at Renly questioningly.
"Well, everything Randyll said is true, and besides, at the rate you're going there won't be any glory for the rest of us!"
The knights with him laughed.
"So what you're saying" Tane began, "Is that you have a unit of elite cavalry, capable of serving as both horse and foot, who have just taken a castle with no casualties in one night, and armed to the teeth with the deadliest weapons around, and you want to use us as line infantry because we're doing our job properly?"
"I'm not saying that, I'm saying that I want someone who knows how to lead soldiers leading the Silvercloaks, and experienced soldiers stiffening them up. Jacelyn Bywater is a goldcloak, not a warrior." Randyll answered.
Oh, so I'm a warrior now? Funny how that changes when It gives him an excuse to get me out of the vanguard.
"The soldiers I had for Crakehall were the biggest command I've ever held. I've never led an infantry battalion. If you insist, I'll lead the silvercloaks. But you're losing an opportunity here."
"And you're gaining one. Consider this a promotion." Renly said, smiling as always.
Tane sighed. "That I will." The Westerosi capacity for shooting themselves in the foot never ceased to amaze her.
No Greater Fury: Margaery IV, Renly VI, Tane VII
- Location
- Brisbane
Margaery IV
The smell of flea bottom hit her like a lance strike. It was overwhelming, the all-encompassing stink of manure human and animals, rotting corpses of horses and dogs and rats, and the blood and sweat and tears of a sea of humanity crammed into far too small a space.
She was glad she was born noble. It was her lot to live amongst luxury, not amongst filth; and in return she had only to do a highborn's duty to look after their smallfolk, and as the wife of the absent Hand of the King, the people of King's Landing, who had no other lord, were hers to look after. Today she was bringing a cartful of food to an orphanage in Flea Bottom, run by a Septon on donations from the faithful.
She could hear yelling outside as people came to watch, and a horse whickering nervously. A highborn coming anywhere near flea bottom was a rare sight.
"Are you sure this is safe?" Elinor Tyrell asked.
"They don't hate us." Margaery said, followed by a whispered "They hate the queen."
"Even so… this is still dangerous."
"No, you're right. If a mob is hateful enough, they can kill even dragons. That's why we have to make them love us. And going out into the city rather than hiding in the red keep will do that." Margaery added.
Margaery glanced at the shapes moving outside their litter. She would have preferred to be on horseback. She'd be safer if she could move freely and see clearly, and it would tell the smallfolk that she wasn't afraid of them.
The litter lurched to a halt, and she heard raised voices ahead. Voices, at least half a dozen, yelling for the whore to show her face. She felt her heart beat faster, and wished she was in the habit, as some ladies were, of carrying a dagger.
She ignored the fear, pushed the litter open and leaned out.
"What is it?" she asked the nearest guard. Cleg the Peg, an old, weather beaten man who'd first fought in the war of the ninepenny kings. She'd managed to get the reason for his name out of a couple of comrades. He'd had his leg maimed so badly by a crossbow bolt at Storm's End the Maesters had thought they'd had to amputate it, but he'd recovered near flawlessly. His comrade's hadn't let him forget the incident, though.
"There's a man blocking the path. Says Selyse is a faithless highborn whore and wants her to come out and face him."
Margaery paused in thought. Trying to argue with fanatics would be more trouble than it was worth, but simply ignoring a problem seldom solved it.
What was it Garlan said? Facing danger, it is often safer to charge than to hesitate.
She leaned further out of the litter.
"Margaery, no!" Elinor squeaked from behind her.
"I'll have you know I'm not Selyse, faithful to the seven and no whore. Though I am, in fact, Highborn." Margaery shouted.
She heard a few boos in the crowd, but more cheers.
She retreated back into the litter, laughing to herself, half in relief and half in exhilaration. Elinor laughed with her.
The litter began to move and sway as the servants carrying her set off again. She made a note to herself to pay them extra, for having to carry her through Flea Bottom.
Septon Samwise greeted her when she arrived at the orphanage, alongside the High Septon. The two couldn't look more different. Samwise was tall and lean with a kindly smile, in plain roughspun robes. He dedicated every bit of wealth he could get his hands on to looking after his orphans, keeping them fed and clothed, or getting them apprenticeships or positions as lord's servants.
The High Septon, on the other hand, was fat, aging, and dressed head to toe in fine robes. One of them, she knew, was the perfect image of what a man of the Faith should be, and it wasn't the High Septon.
She clambered out of the litter, letting a maid on foot take her hand as she did so, and ordered the guards to bring out the food, and the old tapestries she was donating to the faith.
*
When she returned to the Red Keep, it was nearly midday. She clambered down out of the litter as soon as they were within the walls, greeting the Tyrell guards as she was carried through. She wanted to stretch her legs.
"Want to go find something to eat?" Margaery asked. "It's almost lunch." She glanced at the sun's positions.
"Preferably something nice smelling." Elinor said.
Margaery laughed.
"I'll tell the tell the cook that."
Since Alester had been appointed acting Hand of the King and the Horse Grenadiers had left, the Tyrell contingent had been thrown into the Maidenvault, and they'd gotten their food from the keep's main kitchens rather the Tower of the Hand's.
They ducked through hallways and waved to servants, acting like she would have in Highgarden while trying to pretend that she didn't have half a dozen armed guards following after her, spears over their shoulders and mail slithering.
She heard angry voices up ahead, and as she drew closer they turned into words.
"The Lord of Li-"
"Bugger the lord of light and bugger your prattling."
"The Lord of Light is the one true god of our one true King."
"The false god of our queen, you mean. Stannis don't give a fuck."
"You dare insult my queen?"
She heard the noise of a sword being drawn, and then another and caught a glimpse through the doorway of a man in Renly's colours backing away, hands raised.
"Look, mate, there's no need…"
She stopped, her breath catching in her chest. They're going to kill each other in the Red Keep.
"Stop them. Now." Margaery yelled, surprised at the fear and anger creeping into her voice.
"Yes, M'lady" Cleg grunted. "On me!"
It had to be said, Mace had picked good men to protect her. They pushed forwards in a sort of wedge, the men who'd brought shields unslinging them, and rushed through the doorway. She heard bellowing to the effect of "Stand down!", only with the downright rainbow vocabulary of soldiers. It lasted for several minutes.
When the yelling had died down, she ducked through the doorway. The Handsmen and Queensmen-that was what they were calling themselves now, both claiming to be the ones truly loyal to Stannis-had been forced apart by the Tyrell footmen. One of them was on the ground, pinned by a Tyrell spear-shaft pressed across his back with his sword lying out of reach.
"We are at war!" Margaery said plaintively. "Why should the followers of the true King fight when an abomination threatens his true rule?"
Because that war is likely as good as won, and already men seek new enemies. Florent against Tyrell, Seven against Rhllor, me against Selyse…
But that had to wait, until the present enemy was defeated.
*
She ambushed Selyse after dinner in the great hall, glancing about to make sure they were alone.
"Your Grace" Margaery said, curtseying neatly.
"Yes?" Selyse asked, looking down her nose at her.
"I'd like to pray with you at the Nightfires."
"Is that so?"
"Yes, on one condition. In the name of peace and unity, you'll pray with the High Septon."
"I will not worship false gods."
"You just have to put on the mask of doing that. Say that you are having a crisis of faith and are thinking of reconciling."
"And why should I do this?"
"Because our men are moments away from slaughtering each other in the red keep. Because the commons are moments away from rioting because they see you as faithless. Because it would give me an excuse to worship at the night fires, and I am becoming rather curious about this red god."
Selyse looked skeptical-she was not a hard woman to read-but she nodded anyway. "The red comet foretold the rise of Rhllor in this realm, and he will need many converts. You may worship."
Renly VI
Tywin's army was supposed to be one of the finest in Westeros, but all Renly saw of his vanguard were a few thousand levied men with spears, shaking out of march columns into a ragged shieldwall. Archers were steadily appearing on the slopes of the hill behind them.
10,000 horse, against unsupported foot we outnumber. It'll be a rout. Then we can roll up the rest of his army as they try to deploy for battle, or retreat and lure them back into the infantry.
That was what they'd agreed, in the hasty council of war they'd held in the early hours of the morning after his scouts had ran into and skirmished with Tywin's. Garlan had urged caution and bringing the infantry into play, Ser Cuy a spoiling attack, and Randyll an attack aimed at overwhelming the vanguard and forcing the rest of Tywin's forces to retreat, inflicting a defeat in detail like he'd inflicted on Robert at Ashford. In the end, they'd agreed to a compromise, bringing the whole vanguard up then smashing Tywin's vanguard in with overwhelming force. Renly was happy enough with that. If they relied on the infantry, men would say it was numbers and sorcery that defeated Tywin Lannister. If it was with an attack by the vanguard… well, that would be Randyll's plan, with a little more caution, but listening to his generals was a credit to a commander.
He glanced back behind himself, checking the stream of knights and other armoured lancers still streaming down the hill and fanning out into line on either side of him. Knights of the Reach, mostly; the few Stormlands men were all with his personal guard.
How long? How long?
If the vanguard took too long to deploy, they would lose the advantage of numbers as the rest of Tywin's force came up, and besides, he was getting a horrible itch sitting still in his saddle.
The archers on the hill were working, as if digging.
"What do you reckon they're doing?" he asked, glancing at Brienne. She'd sworn to protect his life with hers a day before the battle, and Renly had accepted. As a woman, she was absurd, but as a knight she was ideal. And he didn't much care for women.
She squinted at them. "Driving in stakes. Tywin wants to make his stand here, I believe."
"Then we'd best attack." he said.
He spurred forwards from his position on the vanguard's right, the place of honour, and watched the line forming. The right under his own command and the centre under Randyll were fully deployed. The left under Garlan was nearly finished, and the reserves under Rowan were still coming over the hill. He could attack without the reserves-by the time they were needed, they would have finished deploying-but leaving an open flank was less than ideal.
He waited until Garlan's men were done forming. It seemed like an eternity.
He returned to the lines and called for a trumpeter.
"Signal the attack."
The boy nodded and blew out the notes, and the rest of his army echoed it. Renly's squire handed his lance, and he shook out the pennon of Baratheon on its end as he spurred his horse forwards at the walk. It was about 500 yards to the first Lannister line, and his horse, a tourney-trained destrier, was stamping at the bit. He forced himself to keep pace with the knights on either side. If they got strung out, they'd have to pause to dress the lines, and that would be even more time wasted.
They worked in closer and closer, slowly and steadily. When they were two hundred yards out, he sped up to a trot, the men on either side matching his pace, and then the whole formation was moving, faster and faster.
The spearmen formed shieldwall, the front rank crouching and bracing their spears butt-first against the ground, the second rank layering their shield over those in front, presenting a wall of wood and steel. At a distance, they seemed almost a joke compared to the raw power of the chivalry Renly had at his command. This close, though… he didn't like the idea of hurling his horse against those points.
They'll break before contact, peasants always do. And besides, I'm armoured, my horse will die, not me if they don't break.
He sped up to the gallop, his powerful horse letting him move out ahead of the rest of the line. Robert had always said the best way to deal with fear was to channel it, into a desire to kill the other bastard before he killed you. They moved in, a hundred yards, fifty, twenty… he couched his lance as the men facing him began to cringe away, and he caught a glimpse of a spearmen's shocked face before his lance tore through it.
They didn't have a chance. His horse slammed into them, spears glancing off it's armour, knocking men down, coming down to a halt as the mass of men arrested it's momentum with their packed bodies. Renly was first rocked back in the saddle by a spear thrust, then knocked forwards by the impact with the shieldwall. His horse paced up to a walk as it regained momentum, kicking and biting at anyone in it's way, ploughing through the foot who were already beginning to run. That was the worst thing they could have done.
Renly hurled his broken lance aside and grabbed his warhammer, small and light, unlike the monster Robert had wielded, and began to lay on, crushing helmets and faces, pursuing the men up the slope. He glanced back and saw the first lines of the cavalry intermingled with the foot. A few clumps of infantry had kept their nerve, or the knights had lost theirs, and were holding their opponents off with spears. They would soon be flanked and rolled up, he knew, by the vast sea of horseflesh. The casualties they'd taken almost paltry compared to that. So he ignored them and kept pressing on, other riders falling in with him on either side.
He screamed for the knights to stay on him, but found he couldn't hear his own voice. Arrows began to fall, first in dribs and drabs, then in swarms that he swore made the sunlight flicker. Horses staggered and fell, and the Lannister spearmen too, but the knights were mostly unharmed except for those who had opened their visors.
He began to see why, as the air in his helmet became increasingly stale, but ignored it and kept moving, his horse heaving under him. He pricked it with his spurs, forcing it back to the gallop, rushing at the archers uphill.
As he drew in closer, though, he saw Brienne was right, and there were stakes, thick as a forest, screening their front. He kept pushing forwards, aiming to rush them down, to jump the stakes. Something slammed into him, hard, and his horse staggered, and for a moment he feared he would fall but his horse righted itself. A knight, Emmon Cuy, who had ridden up ahead of him fell, man and horse, and Renly leapt the dying beast. He felt a rush of exhilaration, and then he knew why Robert had loved war so.
Then they hit the stakes. He tried to get his horse to jump, but something must have hit its legs, because it staggered forwards onto the stakes instead. He was thrown forwards, visor knocked askew. He tried to get to his feet. Someone knocked him face-first into the dirt. He felt a weight straddle him, and someone grabbing at his helmet, and he tried to yell out "I yield!" but he couldn't make the words come out, and then the weight was lifted. He rolled onto his back, and threw his helmet off. Brienne of Tarth in her blue armour had managed to jump the stakes and was standing over him, laying on with her morningstar, facing half a dozen men on foot with swords. Others had done the same, or had dismounted and were pulling up stakes.
No need to yield, no need to yield, we're winning, we're winning….
He staggered to his feet as if drunk, and went for his sword. As he looked down, he saw his surcoat and shield had half a hundred arrows shot through them. He cut down one of the men facing Brienne with half a dozen butcher's blows, was knocked staggering by a spear thrust to his back, turned to face his attacker, then hacked first his spear then his shield then his skull to splinters.
"FOLLOW ME! OURS IS THE FURY!" he screamed, the terror of mere moments before forgotten.
The archers were routing too, now, as cavalry began to spill in through breaches in the stake line. He kept running forwards, amongst knights on foot and horse, and fleeing archers. One of them turned to fight, cutting at his face; he parried and gutted the man on reflex. He'd never been an especially good swordsman, but it was enough for facing terrified, disordered peasants.
Then he saw the tips of lances coming over the hill crest, and the banners of Lannister and Crakehall and Marbrand and a thousand others, and then the riders, and then horses, and blocks of pikemen mixed in amongst them, and his own knights, many of them horseless, milling about, trying to regroup after breaching the stake line.
He said a silent prayer to the warrior, for he was going to need his help.
Tane VII
The first of the vanguard to return where outriders, warning that they'd contacted Tywin's forces and were preparing to advance, and ordering the foot to move up to support the vanguard.
Mace happily accepted, pushing his troops at double-quick time to attack the Lannisters, joking about how he wasn't going to have his goodson steal all the glory.
Then the cavalry came over the horizon. Some of their squadrons were in good order, though most were badly organized mobs, clouds of stragglers trailing behind them. They were nearly a mile out when she got her first good look at them, silhouetted against the gently rolling hills.
Tane stood up in her saddle, reaching for her spyglass when she saw them coming.
Hostiles?
She panned past the knights, stag and rose flying over their heads, some of them slumped over their horses, others riding pillion, and watched the horizon for pursuers. A victorious army didn't return looking like that.
"Boudace, find Mace and tell him we've got a problem. Bywater, get the men into approach columns and halt now."
The knight obeyed, bellowing orders to the company captains and NCOs. There was no time for arguing about precedence or complaining about being ordered about by a woman.
Tane trotted her horse over to Gryff, now the Lieutenant-Captain of the 3rd Horse Guards Grenadier Company after Tane had been promoted to Colonel of the silvercloaks. The horse grenadiers were riding alongside the silvercloaks, ready to act as light cavalry support or dismount and supplement their firepower as needed.
"Get the Grenadiers out to that hill, screen for pursuit. If you see them, fall back, warn me, and get back into reserve. You know how close cavalry support works. Morgan, stay with the grenadiers."
"Yes Ma'am" Gryff and Morgan barked simultaneously, then turned to the Grenadiers, shaking them out into a six rank deep combat formation.
Tane turned back to the silvercloaks, watching them fan out into their combat formation. 10 deep, pikes at the center, crossbows and calivers on the flanks, short weapons back in reserve. They were at the head of the main force's march columns. Even so, it took an agonizingly long time for each company to come up out of the march column and begin to deploy. She could see some of the contingents behind were moving off the road and into the wheatfields on either side, in anticipation of forming on the silvercloaks flanks.
Thank fuck for officers who can take the bloody initiative.
She glanced back at the column, looking for Mace's banner, seeing how close he was.
Only about, say, five minutes away. A little less time until the first units of the vanguard arrived, since most of them seemed to be going at a slow trot. With a force of Westermen ready to come charging over the horizon any moment in pursuit, that might as well be an eternity.
Come on Gryff, get those pickets out there.
Gryff was more experienced than she was and had been her lieutenant since she was commissioned into the Grenadiers, but even so, not commanding the horse grenadiers herself felt wrong somehow.
She checked the lines of the silvercloaks as she waited, checking that they had matches lit, had enough room between files to countermarch and fight effectively, that the officers and NCOs were in their correct positions. She'd been lucky that the miracle had brought their books back with them, including a drill manual for line infantry that included instructions on matchlocks. Matchlock musketeers were a dying breed back home, but they were all the silvercloaks had.
The first knights began to ride past them. Tane saw the arrows and even snapped off lances and pikes sticking into them, impaled into their shields and surcoats and caprissions. Many of the horses seemed to be barely on their feet, whether from exhaustion or wounds.
She searched for Renly's banner amongst the masses of men and couldn't find it. Plenty of crowned stags, but not the massive embroidered one with no crown Renly used as his personal standard.
One of the first units that had actually kept it's cohesion rode in, the half-formed shieldwall on her left opening a gap for them to ride through. They were in the colours of Brightwater Keep and it's bannermen, less shot up than the others.
Tane trotted over to them.
"What happened? They got cavalry in pursuit?" Tane asked.
A tall knight with a fox shield lifted his visor. His eyes seemed almost glazed over.
"We, we pushed in Tywin's vanguard but then he counterattacked…. He smashed the right and center and routed them… there was nothing we could do…"
"Do they have horse coming after us?"
"They caught and butchered the knights of Oldtown, they were coming for us but we outran them…"
Mace rode up to her in his bulky armour, surrounded by heavily armed bodyguards.
"What is happening? Has Renly returned? Are we under attack?". He seemed almost puffed after riding up a mild slope.
The knight turned to face him, babbling about stakes and clouds of arrows and outflanking while Mace asked questions, his face increasingly panicked.
As far as Tane could tell, Renly had just been given an object lesson in why combined arms existed, and his forces had routed, but Tywin had enough good sense not to pursue straight into the infantry. That would have been disastrous for both of them.
"Is Renly with them? Is Garlan?" Mace asked.
"I don't know."
"Well, we need to find out!" Mace snapped.
Oh, bugger.
"Renly attacked. Renly got thrown back. Now, what do we do?" Tane said, as calmly as possible.
Like a sergeant telling an Ensign to get his act together, only with a man in charge of 60,000 men.
"We, uh, should wait until we see what Tywin's doing. And find out what happened to Garlan and Renly." Mace began.
"We need to get a credible line of battle together in case Tywin attacks, figure out where he is and what he's doing, and get the cavalry regrouped before-"
Mace galloped over to another group of horsemen without even letting her finish.
"Where is Lord Renly! Where is Garlan!"
"I saw Garlan's horse killed by a lance, I don't know what happened to him afterwards…" one of them said.
Mace seemed somewhere between outraged and about to break down in tears.
"We, we advance on Tywin! We have him two to one or more!" Mace said, his fear suddenly forgotten.
"Is that wise? We may fall into the same trap as Renly did." a lord in Mace's retinue said.
"We have the numbers! Renly was outmatched, but we are not."
*
It took them two hours to reach the battlefield, only five miles away. There were bodies here and there, and stragglers and wounded left by the pursuit. Riders brought in Renly and Brienne, both of them badly wounded and barely conscious. They'd been found surrounded by half a dozen dead, apparently saved by a group of knights who regrouped and counterattacked the pursuers. Or at least that was what she'd been able to deduce when she'd seen them riding by, slumped over their saddles and covered in blood and what had been explained by a messenger who'd gone about when they'd halted to dress their lines. They were bundled off to the baggage train by a Maester and a pack of squires and camp followers acting as stretcher bearers and nurses, and the advance continued, Mace looking increasingly fretful.
The hillside where Renly had met Tywin was strewn with a multicoloured smear, increasingly dense up to the tangle of dead men and horses around what looked to be a line of stakes or some other wooden obstacle. They halted on their own hillside and began to deploy into battle lines, while the horse grenadiers picked their way up through the maze of bodies. When they reached the top of the hill, Tane spotted three flashes from a field mirror, the signal for all clear. She had the message passed along, and the advance resumed.
Many of the men on the hillside were still alive and sometimes even unwounded, only pinned under dead horses or stunned. That was usual for armoured fighters, though she saw others had their visors pulled open and had been stabbed to death. Some had even been mutilated or scalped. Tane didn't look away from the ruined faces. It wasn't as if she hadn't done that sort of damage to people before.
She ordered her men to avoid trampling on anyone if at all possible(mostly it wasn't), sent a runner back for the camp followers to be brought up, and kept up the advance.
There were no bodies once they got past the crest of the hill, the formation awkwardly shifting into a three file wide column to pass through the gaps in the stakeline that must have been pulled up during the assault.
Her orders were yelled over the noise of dying horses. It was always the horses that got the worst of things in a fight like this. Only the better equipped knights armoured their horses, and no-one cared enough to take them prisoner, or pull them out of the fight once they went down even if hauling off such a large animal was practical. She ordered the dying animals throat's cut, and any riderless animals recaptured.
They crested the hill, and saw Tywin's men snaking off into the distance, beating a hasty retreat.
"Captain Tane?" Bywater said. "There's something you might want to see." He pointed at the eastern horizon.
There was a third army marching in. Stannis.
The smell of flea bottom hit her like a lance strike. It was overwhelming, the all-encompassing stink of manure human and animals, rotting corpses of horses and dogs and rats, and the blood and sweat and tears of a sea of humanity crammed into far too small a space.
She was glad she was born noble. It was her lot to live amongst luxury, not amongst filth; and in return she had only to do a highborn's duty to look after their smallfolk, and as the wife of the absent Hand of the King, the people of King's Landing, who had no other lord, were hers to look after. Today she was bringing a cartful of food to an orphanage in Flea Bottom, run by a Septon on donations from the faithful.
She could hear yelling outside as people came to watch, and a horse whickering nervously. A highborn coming anywhere near flea bottom was a rare sight.
"Are you sure this is safe?" Elinor Tyrell asked.
"They don't hate us." Margaery said, followed by a whispered "They hate the queen."
"Even so… this is still dangerous."
"No, you're right. If a mob is hateful enough, they can kill even dragons. That's why we have to make them love us. And going out into the city rather than hiding in the red keep will do that." Margaery added.
Margaery glanced at the shapes moving outside their litter. She would have preferred to be on horseback. She'd be safer if she could move freely and see clearly, and it would tell the smallfolk that she wasn't afraid of them.
The litter lurched to a halt, and she heard raised voices ahead. Voices, at least half a dozen, yelling for the whore to show her face. She felt her heart beat faster, and wished she was in the habit, as some ladies were, of carrying a dagger.
She ignored the fear, pushed the litter open and leaned out.
"What is it?" she asked the nearest guard. Cleg the Peg, an old, weather beaten man who'd first fought in the war of the ninepenny kings. She'd managed to get the reason for his name out of a couple of comrades. He'd had his leg maimed so badly by a crossbow bolt at Storm's End the Maesters had thought they'd had to amputate it, but he'd recovered near flawlessly. His comrade's hadn't let him forget the incident, though.
"There's a man blocking the path. Says Selyse is a faithless highborn whore and wants her to come out and face him."
Margaery paused in thought. Trying to argue with fanatics would be more trouble than it was worth, but simply ignoring a problem seldom solved it.
What was it Garlan said? Facing danger, it is often safer to charge than to hesitate.
She leaned further out of the litter.
"Margaery, no!" Elinor squeaked from behind her.
"I'll have you know I'm not Selyse, faithful to the seven and no whore. Though I am, in fact, Highborn." Margaery shouted.
She heard a few boos in the crowd, but more cheers.
She retreated back into the litter, laughing to herself, half in relief and half in exhilaration. Elinor laughed with her.
The litter began to move and sway as the servants carrying her set off again. She made a note to herself to pay them extra, for having to carry her through Flea Bottom.
Septon Samwise greeted her when she arrived at the orphanage, alongside the High Septon. The two couldn't look more different. Samwise was tall and lean with a kindly smile, in plain roughspun robes. He dedicated every bit of wealth he could get his hands on to looking after his orphans, keeping them fed and clothed, or getting them apprenticeships or positions as lord's servants.
The High Septon, on the other hand, was fat, aging, and dressed head to toe in fine robes. One of them, she knew, was the perfect image of what a man of the Faith should be, and it wasn't the High Septon.
She clambered out of the litter, letting a maid on foot take her hand as she did so, and ordered the guards to bring out the food, and the old tapestries she was donating to the faith.
*
When she returned to the Red Keep, it was nearly midday. She clambered down out of the litter as soon as they were within the walls, greeting the Tyrell guards as she was carried through. She wanted to stretch her legs.
"Want to go find something to eat?" Margaery asked. "It's almost lunch." She glanced at the sun's positions.
"Preferably something nice smelling." Elinor said.
Margaery laughed.
"I'll tell the tell the cook that."
Since Alester had been appointed acting Hand of the King and the Horse Grenadiers had left, the Tyrell contingent had been thrown into the Maidenvault, and they'd gotten their food from the keep's main kitchens rather the Tower of the Hand's.
They ducked through hallways and waved to servants, acting like she would have in Highgarden while trying to pretend that she didn't have half a dozen armed guards following after her, spears over their shoulders and mail slithering.
She heard angry voices up ahead, and as she drew closer they turned into words.
"The Lord of Li-"
"Bugger the lord of light and bugger your prattling."
"The Lord of Light is the one true god of our one true King."
"The false god of our queen, you mean. Stannis don't give a fuck."
"You dare insult my queen?"
She heard the noise of a sword being drawn, and then another and caught a glimpse through the doorway of a man in Renly's colours backing away, hands raised.
"Look, mate, there's no need…"
She stopped, her breath catching in her chest. They're going to kill each other in the Red Keep.
"Stop them. Now." Margaery yelled, surprised at the fear and anger creeping into her voice.
"Yes, M'lady" Cleg grunted. "On me!"
It had to be said, Mace had picked good men to protect her. They pushed forwards in a sort of wedge, the men who'd brought shields unslinging them, and rushed through the doorway. She heard bellowing to the effect of "Stand down!", only with the downright rainbow vocabulary of soldiers. It lasted for several minutes.
When the yelling had died down, she ducked through the doorway. The Handsmen and Queensmen-that was what they were calling themselves now, both claiming to be the ones truly loyal to Stannis-had been forced apart by the Tyrell footmen. One of them was on the ground, pinned by a Tyrell spear-shaft pressed across his back with his sword lying out of reach.
"We are at war!" Margaery said plaintively. "Why should the followers of the true King fight when an abomination threatens his true rule?"
Because that war is likely as good as won, and already men seek new enemies. Florent against Tyrell, Seven against Rhllor, me against Selyse…
But that had to wait, until the present enemy was defeated.
*
She ambushed Selyse after dinner in the great hall, glancing about to make sure they were alone.
"Your Grace" Margaery said, curtseying neatly.
"Yes?" Selyse asked, looking down her nose at her.
"I'd like to pray with you at the Nightfires."
"Is that so?"
"Yes, on one condition. In the name of peace and unity, you'll pray with the High Septon."
"I will not worship false gods."
"You just have to put on the mask of doing that. Say that you are having a crisis of faith and are thinking of reconciling."
"And why should I do this?"
"Because our men are moments away from slaughtering each other in the red keep. Because the commons are moments away from rioting because they see you as faithless. Because it would give me an excuse to worship at the night fires, and I am becoming rather curious about this red god."
Selyse looked skeptical-she was not a hard woman to read-but she nodded anyway. "The red comet foretold the rise of Rhllor in this realm, and he will need many converts. You may worship."
Renly VI
Tywin's army was supposed to be one of the finest in Westeros, but all Renly saw of his vanguard were a few thousand levied men with spears, shaking out of march columns into a ragged shieldwall. Archers were steadily appearing on the slopes of the hill behind them.
10,000 horse, against unsupported foot we outnumber. It'll be a rout. Then we can roll up the rest of his army as they try to deploy for battle, or retreat and lure them back into the infantry.
That was what they'd agreed, in the hasty council of war they'd held in the early hours of the morning after his scouts had ran into and skirmished with Tywin's. Garlan had urged caution and bringing the infantry into play, Ser Cuy a spoiling attack, and Randyll an attack aimed at overwhelming the vanguard and forcing the rest of Tywin's forces to retreat, inflicting a defeat in detail like he'd inflicted on Robert at Ashford. In the end, they'd agreed to a compromise, bringing the whole vanguard up then smashing Tywin's vanguard in with overwhelming force. Renly was happy enough with that. If they relied on the infantry, men would say it was numbers and sorcery that defeated Tywin Lannister. If it was with an attack by the vanguard… well, that would be Randyll's plan, with a little more caution, but listening to his generals was a credit to a commander.
He glanced back behind himself, checking the stream of knights and other armoured lancers still streaming down the hill and fanning out into line on either side of him. Knights of the Reach, mostly; the few Stormlands men were all with his personal guard.
How long? How long?
If the vanguard took too long to deploy, they would lose the advantage of numbers as the rest of Tywin's force came up, and besides, he was getting a horrible itch sitting still in his saddle.
The archers on the hill were working, as if digging.
"What do you reckon they're doing?" he asked, glancing at Brienne. She'd sworn to protect his life with hers a day before the battle, and Renly had accepted. As a woman, she was absurd, but as a knight she was ideal. And he didn't much care for women.
She squinted at them. "Driving in stakes. Tywin wants to make his stand here, I believe."
"Then we'd best attack." he said.
He spurred forwards from his position on the vanguard's right, the place of honour, and watched the line forming. The right under his own command and the centre under Randyll were fully deployed. The left under Garlan was nearly finished, and the reserves under Rowan were still coming over the hill. He could attack without the reserves-by the time they were needed, they would have finished deploying-but leaving an open flank was less than ideal.
He waited until Garlan's men were done forming. It seemed like an eternity.
He returned to the lines and called for a trumpeter.
"Signal the attack."
The boy nodded and blew out the notes, and the rest of his army echoed it. Renly's squire handed his lance, and he shook out the pennon of Baratheon on its end as he spurred his horse forwards at the walk. It was about 500 yards to the first Lannister line, and his horse, a tourney-trained destrier, was stamping at the bit. He forced himself to keep pace with the knights on either side. If they got strung out, they'd have to pause to dress the lines, and that would be even more time wasted.
They worked in closer and closer, slowly and steadily. When they were two hundred yards out, he sped up to a trot, the men on either side matching his pace, and then the whole formation was moving, faster and faster.
The spearmen formed shieldwall, the front rank crouching and bracing their spears butt-first against the ground, the second rank layering their shield over those in front, presenting a wall of wood and steel. At a distance, they seemed almost a joke compared to the raw power of the chivalry Renly had at his command. This close, though… he didn't like the idea of hurling his horse against those points.
They'll break before contact, peasants always do. And besides, I'm armoured, my horse will die, not me if they don't break.
He sped up to the gallop, his powerful horse letting him move out ahead of the rest of the line. Robert had always said the best way to deal with fear was to channel it, into a desire to kill the other bastard before he killed you. They moved in, a hundred yards, fifty, twenty… he couched his lance as the men facing him began to cringe away, and he caught a glimpse of a spearmen's shocked face before his lance tore through it.
They didn't have a chance. His horse slammed into them, spears glancing off it's armour, knocking men down, coming down to a halt as the mass of men arrested it's momentum with their packed bodies. Renly was first rocked back in the saddle by a spear thrust, then knocked forwards by the impact with the shieldwall. His horse paced up to a walk as it regained momentum, kicking and biting at anyone in it's way, ploughing through the foot who were already beginning to run. That was the worst thing they could have done.
Renly hurled his broken lance aside and grabbed his warhammer, small and light, unlike the monster Robert had wielded, and began to lay on, crushing helmets and faces, pursuing the men up the slope. He glanced back and saw the first lines of the cavalry intermingled with the foot. A few clumps of infantry had kept their nerve, or the knights had lost theirs, and were holding their opponents off with spears. They would soon be flanked and rolled up, he knew, by the vast sea of horseflesh. The casualties they'd taken almost paltry compared to that. So he ignored them and kept pressing on, other riders falling in with him on either side.
He screamed for the knights to stay on him, but found he couldn't hear his own voice. Arrows began to fall, first in dribs and drabs, then in swarms that he swore made the sunlight flicker. Horses staggered and fell, and the Lannister spearmen too, but the knights were mostly unharmed except for those who had opened their visors.
He began to see why, as the air in his helmet became increasingly stale, but ignored it and kept moving, his horse heaving under him. He pricked it with his spurs, forcing it back to the gallop, rushing at the archers uphill.
As he drew in closer, though, he saw Brienne was right, and there were stakes, thick as a forest, screening their front. He kept pushing forwards, aiming to rush them down, to jump the stakes. Something slammed into him, hard, and his horse staggered, and for a moment he feared he would fall but his horse righted itself. A knight, Emmon Cuy, who had ridden up ahead of him fell, man and horse, and Renly leapt the dying beast. He felt a rush of exhilaration, and then he knew why Robert had loved war so.
Then they hit the stakes. He tried to get his horse to jump, but something must have hit its legs, because it staggered forwards onto the stakes instead. He was thrown forwards, visor knocked askew. He tried to get to his feet. Someone knocked him face-first into the dirt. He felt a weight straddle him, and someone grabbing at his helmet, and he tried to yell out "I yield!" but he couldn't make the words come out, and then the weight was lifted. He rolled onto his back, and threw his helmet off. Brienne of Tarth in her blue armour had managed to jump the stakes and was standing over him, laying on with her morningstar, facing half a dozen men on foot with swords. Others had done the same, or had dismounted and were pulling up stakes.
No need to yield, no need to yield, we're winning, we're winning….
He staggered to his feet as if drunk, and went for his sword. As he looked down, he saw his surcoat and shield had half a hundred arrows shot through them. He cut down one of the men facing Brienne with half a dozen butcher's blows, was knocked staggering by a spear thrust to his back, turned to face his attacker, then hacked first his spear then his shield then his skull to splinters.
"FOLLOW ME! OURS IS THE FURY!" he screamed, the terror of mere moments before forgotten.
The archers were routing too, now, as cavalry began to spill in through breaches in the stake line. He kept running forwards, amongst knights on foot and horse, and fleeing archers. One of them turned to fight, cutting at his face; he parried and gutted the man on reflex. He'd never been an especially good swordsman, but it was enough for facing terrified, disordered peasants.
Then he saw the tips of lances coming over the hill crest, and the banners of Lannister and Crakehall and Marbrand and a thousand others, and then the riders, and then horses, and blocks of pikemen mixed in amongst them, and his own knights, many of them horseless, milling about, trying to regroup after breaching the stake line.
He said a silent prayer to the warrior, for he was going to need his help.
Tane VII
The first of the vanguard to return where outriders, warning that they'd contacted Tywin's forces and were preparing to advance, and ordering the foot to move up to support the vanguard.
Mace happily accepted, pushing his troops at double-quick time to attack the Lannisters, joking about how he wasn't going to have his goodson steal all the glory.
Then the cavalry came over the horizon. Some of their squadrons were in good order, though most were badly organized mobs, clouds of stragglers trailing behind them. They were nearly a mile out when she got her first good look at them, silhouetted against the gently rolling hills.
Tane stood up in her saddle, reaching for her spyglass when she saw them coming.
Hostiles?
She panned past the knights, stag and rose flying over their heads, some of them slumped over their horses, others riding pillion, and watched the horizon for pursuers. A victorious army didn't return looking like that.
"Boudace, find Mace and tell him we've got a problem. Bywater, get the men into approach columns and halt now."
The knight obeyed, bellowing orders to the company captains and NCOs. There was no time for arguing about precedence or complaining about being ordered about by a woman.
Tane trotted her horse over to Gryff, now the Lieutenant-Captain of the 3rd Horse Guards Grenadier Company after Tane had been promoted to Colonel of the silvercloaks. The horse grenadiers were riding alongside the silvercloaks, ready to act as light cavalry support or dismount and supplement their firepower as needed.
"Get the Grenadiers out to that hill, screen for pursuit. If you see them, fall back, warn me, and get back into reserve. You know how close cavalry support works. Morgan, stay with the grenadiers."
"Yes Ma'am" Gryff and Morgan barked simultaneously, then turned to the Grenadiers, shaking them out into a six rank deep combat formation.
Tane turned back to the silvercloaks, watching them fan out into their combat formation. 10 deep, pikes at the center, crossbows and calivers on the flanks, short weapons back in reserve. They were at the head of the main force's march columns. Even so, it took an agonizingly long time for each company to come up out of the march column and begin to deploy. She could see some of the contingents behind were moving off the road and into the wheatfields on either side, in anticipation of forming on the silvercloaks flanks.
Thank fuck for officers who can take the bloody initiative.
She glanced back at the column, looking for Mace's banner, seeing how close he was.
Only about, say, five minutes away. A little less time until the first units of the vanguard arrived, since most of them seemed to be going at a slow trot. With a force of Westermen ready to come charging over the horizon any moment in pursuit, that might as well be an eternity.
Come on Gryff, get those pickets out there.
Gryff was more experienced than she was and had been her lieutenant since she was commissioned into the Grenadiers, but even so, not commanding the horse grenadiers herself felt wrong somehow.
She checked the lines of the silvercloaks as she waited, checking that they had matches lit, had enough room between files to countermarch and fight effectively, that the officers and NCOs were in their correct positions. She'd been lucky that the miracle had brought their books back with them, including a drill manual for line infantry that included instructions on matchlocks. Matchlock musketeers were a dying breed back home, but they were all the silvercloaks had.
The first knights began to ride past them. Tane saw the arrows and even snapped off lances and pikes sticking into them, impaled into their shields and surcoats and caprissions. Many of the horses seemed to be barely on their feet, whether from exhaustion or wounds.
She searched for Renly's banner amongst the masses of men and couldn't find it. Plenty of crowned stags, but not the massive embroidered one with no crown Renly used as his personal standard.
One of the first units that had actually kept it's cohesion rode in, the half-formed shieldwall on her left opening a gap for them to ride through. They were in the colours of Brightwater Keep and it's bannermen, less shot up than the others.
Tane trotted over to them.
"What happened? They got cavalry in pursuit?" Tane asked.
A tall knight with a fox shield lifted his visor. His eyes seemed almost glazed over.
"We, we pushed in Tywin's vanguard but then he counterattacked…. He smashed the right and center and routed them… there was nothing we could do…"
"Do they have horse coming after us?"
"They caught and butchered the knights of Oldtown, they were coming for us but we outran them…"
Mace rode up to her in his bulky armour, surrounded by heavily armed bodyguards.
"What is happening? Has Renly returned? Are we under attack?". He seemed almost puffed after riding up a mild slope.
The knight turned to face him, babbling about stakes and clouds of arrows and outflanking while Mace asked questions, his face increasingly panicked.
As far as Tane could tell, Renly had just been given an object lesson in why combined arms existed, and his forces had routed, but Tywin had enough good sense not to pursue straight into the infantry. That would have been disastrous for both of them.
"Is Renly with them? Is Garlan?" Mace asked.
"I don't know."
"Well, we need to find out!" Mace snapped.
Oh, bugger.
"Renly attacked. Renly got thrown back. Now, what do we do?" Tane said, as calmly as possible.
Like a sergeant telling an Ensign to get his act together, only with a man in charge of 60,000 men.
"We, uh, should wait until we see what Tywin's doing. And find out what happened to Garlan and Renly." Mace began.
"We need to get a credible line of battle together in case Tywin attacks, figure out where he is and what he's doing, and get the cavalry regrouped before-"
Mace galloped over to another group of horsemen without even letting her finish.
"Where is Lord Renly! Where is Garlan!"
"I saw Garlan's horse killed by a lance, I don't know what happened to him afterwards…" one of them said.
Mace seemed somewhere between outraged and about to break down in tears.
"We, we advance on Tywin! We have him two to one or more!" Mace said, his fear suddenly forgotten.
"Is that wise? We may fall into the same trap as Renly did." a lord in Mace's retinue said.
"We have the numbers! Renly was outmatched, but we are not."
*
It took them two hours to reach the battlefield, only five miles away. There were bodies here and there, and stragglers and wounded left by the pursuit. Riders brought in Renly and Brienne, both of them badly wounded and barely conscious. They'd been found surrounded by half a dozen dead, apparently saved by a group of knights who regrouped and counterattacked the pursuers. Or at least that was what she'd been able to deduce when she'd seen them riding by, slumped over their saddles and covered in blood and what had been explained by a messenger who'd gone about when they'd halted to dress their lines. They were bundled off to the baggage train by a Maester and a pack of squires and camp followers acting as stretcher bearers and nurses, and the advance continued, Mace looking increasingly fretful.
The hillside where Renly had met Tywin was strewn with a multicoloured smear, increasingly dense up to the tangle of dead men and horses around what looked to be a line of stakes or some other wooden obstacle. They halted on their own hillside and began to deploy into battle lines, while the horse grenadiers picked their way up through the maze of bodies. When they reached the top of the hill, Tane spotted three flashes from a field mirror, the signal for all clear. She had the message passed along, and the advance resumed.
Many of the men on the hillside were still alive and sometimes even unwounded, only pinned under dead horses or stunned. That was usual for armoured fighters, though she saw others had their visors pulled open and had been stabbed to death. Some had even been mutilated or scalped. Tane didn't look away from the ruined faces. It wasn't as if she hadn't done that sort of damage to people before.
She ordered her men to avoid trampling on anyone if at all possible(mostly it wasn't), sent a runner back for the camp followers to be brought up, and kept up the advance.
There were no bodies once they got past the crest of the hill, the formation awkwardly shifting into a three file wide column to pass through the gaps in the stakeline that must have been pulled up during the assault.
Her orders were yelled over the noise of dying horses. It was always the horses that got the worst of things in a fight like this. Only the better equipped knights armoured their horses, and no-one cared enough to take them prisoner, or pull them out of the fight once they went down even if hauling off such a large animal was practical. She ordered the dying animals throat's cut, and any riderless animals recaptured.
They crested the hill, and saw Tywin's men snaking off into the distance, beating a hasty retreat.
"Captain Tane?" Bywater said. "There's something you might want to see." He pointed at the eastern horizon.
There was a third army marching in. Stannis.
I'm amazed how they go through a number of effective, reliable and cheap strategies then decide to pick the one with the most points of failure...and nobody finds that a problem.
How the heck do they wage so much war and still be so shitty at it?!
Hit a trap, press go again.
How much of the strategy is wishful thinking?
No Greater Fury: Renly VII, Margaery V, Tane VIII
- Location
- Brisbane
Renly VII
He relived what had happened in the rout half a hundred times.
Cavalry coming down on them at the trot, slow but inexorable. Himself screaming for his men to form up. Arrows starting to fall again, coming down from their right this time. Pikes straight ahead, pressing forwards.
Himself on a captured archer's horse, riding for his life, amidst the tumult of thousands of panicked horses galloping downhill. The reserves could have salvaged it, or the left, but the former was swept up in the rout and the latter flanked and swarmed once the rest of the line fell apart.
His horse killed under him yet again, trapping his leg. He couldn't move. He couldn't stand. He couldn't feel his leg.
Half a dozen knights surrounding him, one of them poking at him with his lance. Brienne charging back in, screaming, unhorsing two and scattering the rest in a blur of violence. The agonizing, red hot pain as he freed his leg and tried to get to his feet and collapsed straight afterwards, and one of the knights got to his feet and drew his sword.
His pleas for mercy ignored as the man stomped over, kicked his visor open and slashed his face open. Grabbing at his legs and managing to pull the knight down. Rolling on the ground with the man, fighting over the blade, before he managed to pull it from his hands and killed him with his own sword. Brienne on foot, staggering as if drunk, unable to stop the blows the two remaining mounted men were raining on her. The echoing crack of a lance hurling a man from the saddle, their destriers slamming together a moment later. The others turning and running. Them being hurriedly heaped onto horses and led to the rear, his vision blacking in and out over and over.
Waking with Loras standing vigil over him, his soft brown curls hanging over the hardened steel of his armour. Calling out his name. Loras staring at him puzzled before the face melted and he realized it wasn't Loras, it was Brienne.
He'd had the same dream half a hundred times, it seemed, and he had no idea how long it had been since the battle. He'd tried to work it out in the precious minutes of lucidity between sweetwine induced sleep, but it was futile.
She watched him for a very long time. Her blue eyes looked almost like they were on the verge of tears.
Ugly great fool in love, he thought, then useful fool. She saved my life.
"We won the battle. Tywin fell back after Mace came up and Stannis threatened to cut his lines of retreat." Brienne finally said. That was the first time she'd spoken to him, that he could remember.
That was cold comfort. He was maimed, and had gotten his vanguard shattered by trusting that fool Randyll. Thousands would be dead or maimed or captured.
"M'lord, a message from King Stannis!" someone said.
He didn't respond. He couldn't, because his face was swathed in plaster and bandages.
"Renly is weak-" Brienne began.
He limply waved them in, his whole body alternately numb and burning with pain.
Weak or not, I don't need you speaking for me.
"His Grace would have you return to King's Landing at the earliest convenience." the messenger read. "Mace Tyrell and Randyll Tarly are to have joint command of this army. Your rapid advance forced Tywin to leave the mountains, he says. The force left behind by Tywin was killed to a man, including the renegade Kingsguard Selmy Barristan and the attainted bandit Gregor Clegane. Loras insisted on seeing you, but could not be released from his duties over mere friendship. However, he would have you know he is unhurt" The messenger added.
Renly would have breathed a sigh of relief if not for his ruined face. His knight of flowers was safe.
Though if Loras would still want him, with his wounds…
He pushed the thought out of his head.
He nodded, trying to indicate that he had heard what the man said and to think through the Maester's haze.
It's not as bad as it seems.
Stannis didn't seem too displeased at his performance, and he could always point out the charge was Randyll's idea. Loras was safe, so Garlan or his horror of a mother wouldn't try to kill him. Depending on how well the wounds healed, he would have some fetching scars. He…
A surge of pain broke his train of thought, and he wanted to scream but couldn't. He clenched his hands, digging his nails into his palms, and found he had just enough movement in his jaw to grind his teeth. That helped a little.
Must be why Stannis does it. To deal with the terrible, terrible pain of being Stannis.
Despite the pain, a reflex made him laugh, and he ended up sputtering and twitching.
Brienne stood over him, blue eyes full of concern. Like a mother watching over her sick child. He shuddered at the thought.
"Fetch a Maester!" she barked at the watching messenger. He nodded and ran off, and moments later, an old man in greying robes shuffled in, opening a bottle. Renly tried to push the bottle away, but another surge of pain hit him.
He didn't have a choice.
Margaery V
The nightfire blazed, sending a column of smoke and sparks marching up into the night sky. Half a hundred lords and ladies and knights and what few smallfolk there were who worshipped the red god watched enraptured, presided over by Melisandre and the queen. They were only burning wood, of course, but she'd heard whispers that nightfires should destroy everything impure-idols of false religions, traitors, sinners.
That meant, of course, statues of the seven, Selyse's enemies, and worshippers of the seven, respectively.
Queen Selyse was utterly enraptured by the flames, watching them like a starving woman stares at food. Her arm was interwined with Melisandre's, the red priestess's red eyes reflecting the red flames. Alester Florent had given himself wholly to Selyse's cause and was in attendance too, the flickering light playing across his red doublet.
It was, Margaery though, very red.
"These are the flames that shall burn the enemies of Azor Azhai, Warrior of Light, King of the Seven Kings, Champion of Rhllor! These are the flames that shall destroy Joffrey Waters, abomination of incest, who brought impurity to our halls! These are the flames that shall reveal the truth of Rh'llor!" Melisandre yelled.
The others chanted along with her, echoing her words. "Azor Azhai! Burn his foes! Azhor Azhai!"
"The Red Comet was a portent of his victory, and a sign that the death of that creator of abomination pleases him!" Melisandre called. The red streak had cut the night sky over a moon ago, a terrible portent of something. Everyone had their own opinion: the victory of Stannis or Tywin(though that one wasn't spoken out loud), a sign of the Red God or the Seven.
The wind changed, and the smoke blew back into them. Margaery had dragged Elinor and Meridyth Crane along for company, and Elinor was reduced to a fit of hacking coughs, while Margaery lifted her scarf over her face. This was the sixth time she'd worshipped with Selyse, and the queen had still refused to attend the great sept, coming up with an unending series of excuses.
The rumours had somehow gotten loose into the city, that the common's beloved Margaery had forsaken the faith, though few wanted to believe them.
This, Margaery decided, had been a very foolish idea.
Not quite so foolish as Selyse rubbing her red god in the face of the seven's faithful.
Another blast of smoke blew in their faces, and burning embers. Elinor squealed in panic as sparks caught in her dress. Margaery stared, frozen in surprise, as they caught on the hem of her dress. Meridyth pushed past her, beating at them, and then Margaery joined in too, yelling for help. She remembered something she'd once seen the servants at Highgarden go, unwrapped her scarf and tried whipping at the flames. It wasn't especially effective, but it was better than nothing.
Elinor was screaming by now, the flames moving up her skirts towards her body. Onlookers surrounded them staring in shock or yelling in panic. Melisandre simply watched without any visible reaction. Finally, a knight muscled past them and beat the flames out with his cloak.
Elinor's lovely green dress had was half scorched by the time they were done.
She fell to her knees, unfocused and pale.
Margaery remembered her courtesies and thanked the knight, a burly, ugly man she remembered as Ser Narbert, then helped Elinor to her feet.
"We should find a Maester" Margaery said. She apologized to Selyse as quickly as possible and left hurriedly. Melisandre watched her the whole time with a look that chilled Margaery to the bone.
"Did you get burnt?" Meridyth asked.
Elinor shook her head. "I, I don't think so."
"Best have Maester Ballabar look at it anyway." Margaery said.
"This was a mistake." Meridyth said. "Worse than that time Mother gave me some wine and I went off to see that wood witch."
Elinor laughed nervously, despite the fact that she looked close to tears.
"Oh, that wasn't that bad, she just told you you were going to marry some hedge knight, not get thrown down a well or murdered by your little brother or anything of the sort." Margaery said.
"Why did you decide to go to the night fires anyway? This is madness!" Meredyth said, a little too loudly.
"Because I thought that it might calm things down in the court a little, and make her mislike me less. And convince Selyse to worship at the great sept, to calm things down amongst the commons. Of course, she still hasn't kept her side of the bargain. A Lannister might pay their debts, but a Florent sure doesn't." Margaery said.
Meredyth chuckled. "Oh, I know you wouldn't fall for some mad prophetess, Marge. Just wondering what scheme this is now."
"A poorly thought through one. Not as poor as trying to get me to seduce Stannis, though." She said.
Elinor and Meredyth both laughed at that. Elinor already seemed a little less pale.
Laughing about it, though, didn't change how potentially dangerous her little scheme had been.
And how stupid.
*
Selyse ambushed her the next morning, as she was going to the sept to pray, slipping in to walk alongside her. Elinor had been uninjured, just as she'd said, though her skirts were almost burnt through and Maester Ballabar says it way lucky the knight had intervened, otherwise she would have had her legs roasted.
"Melisandre says those embers were most inauspicious."
"Getting set on fire tends to be." Margaery said, forgetting her courtesy.
Selyse sniffed. "The Lord of Light casts judgements upon all of us, and his judgement is that you are false."
Oh dear.
"That might be so. Elinor only came to keep me company." She said, deflecting.
"Melisandre sees true."
"It is true I am merely curious about the red god, and wished to prevent our houses coming to blows. But you wound me by saying I deceived you."
Selyse suddenly swung about, facing her and blocking her path. Selyse towered over her, all bones and joints.
"You did not deceive me, because I was never deceived." Selyse hissed. "You wanted to lure me into your houses of idolatry."
Margaery feigned shock, hopefully convincingly.
"I wanted you to calm the fears of the smallfolk. I didn't care a whit if your worship was true."
"And was your worship true?"
"I was merely curious. I would have converted if I'd liked what I'd seen."
Of course, there was no chance of that.
"You would never have liked what you saw, because your eyes are clouded by the great Others falsehood."
Selyse stormed off, a section of Baratheon guardsmen falling in after her.
A charming woman, and a perfect match for a charming man.
Tane VIII
They were living amongst a moving city of cloth and canvas. She'd been in tent towns before, though more often billeted or bivouacked, but never one of this size. Armies on the march had their own economies. Sutlers sold liquid courage; laundresses cleaned clothes, farriers and armourers and fletchers offered to maintain and replace every part of a soldier's fighting gear, and of course there were whores everywhere, ranging from the high lord's personal bedwarmers to women who probably had every venereal disease known to man, and the usual assortment of sutlers and servants who complemented their income on the side.
They'd been in place for almost a week, first regrouping after the rout of the vanguard, then waiting for Stannis to return from his attempt to cut off Tywin. It hadn't worked, and his army was now camped opposite their own, planning their next move.
The noise was constant; the clack of wood on wood as spearmen drilled, yelled orders, drunken laughter, the click and scrape of a horse being shoed and the jeering catcalls that inevitably followed as soldiers and camp followers realized who was riding past them.
She spotted the great lords and knights of Renly's force, nearly fifty of them, gathered on horseback just behind the trenches Randyll had ordered put into place with escorts and squires swarming around them. Renly himself was conspicuously absent, too hurt to ride, though all the others were present.
Why Renly had been assigned to lead the Reach forces, rather than his native Stormlands, was, as far as she could tell, a bit of petty revenge from Stannis for "stealing his birthright" of Storm's End, not that the king would ever say that out loud. Westerosi lords bickered over castles like fourteen year old girls bickered over boys.
"Anyone not arrived?" she asked as she rode up.
Randyll turned in the saddle. "You're the last one."
"Then we should set out." Tane said, Boudace and her escort lance falling in behind her.
There was only half a mile or so between the two camps. The wagons had already begun to drive ruts into the grass between them. They passed a group of soldiers in an array of colours heading to Renly's camp, a gaggle of camp followers heading the other way, a wagon with a broken axle being hastily repaired while draft horses grazed around it.
She noticed Brienne riding across from her, staring very intently at the road ahead.
"I thought you were with Renly?" Tane asked.
"I was. Stannis insisted I attend the council of war. What for, I don't know."
"If half of what I've heard is true, you saved his brothers life. He's liable to reward you."
"I swore to protect his life with mine. I failed. He lies maimed and crippled."
The big woman sounded almost heartbroken.
"And not dead. Neither are you, though honestly, common sense would say you should be after going hand to hand with half a dozen knights."
She looked away. "I did my best."
"You won. Simple as that. This is war. Shit happens, people die, people get maimed, the best you can do is do as much damage to the enemy and take as little as possible. You didn't choose to charge into that ambush. You did choose to risk your neck pulling Renly out, and then charge back in to save him when he went down. You took on half a dozen fully armoured horsemen on your own, and took half of them down before help arrived. You're a bloody hero."
Brienne didn't answer, though she did look somewhat less glum.
Stannis's troops already had trenches and stakes encircling their camp, even though they'd only been encamped for days. The densely packed nature of the camp and the lack of decoy fires offended her military sensibilities, though she had to remind herself the Westerosi didn't have to deal with airships and dragons. Not anymore, anyway.
The guards on duty, Myrish crossbowmen with ungainly windlasses on their belts and pavises slung across their backs, waved them through. Stannis's camp was more ordered, with tents in neat rows and far fewer drunken soldiers and camp followers visible.
Stannis's pavilion was at the centre, a great crowned stag on a field of gold flying above it. Loras Tyrell stood guard, battleaxe in hand. The lords dismounted, chaos reigning as they passed their horses over to the squires that attended them.
He ushered them in, watching Brienne intently as they marched in single file. Stannis's pavilion was vast, with a long trestle table set up within. It wasn't long enough, though, for everyone, and she found herself standing alongside the sellsword captains, knights and lesser lords, while the great lords took their seats.
She got a few odd looks from the Stormlands men, and heard a few mutterings about "camp follower" this and "sent by a miracle that". Back home, if any noble had called her a whore, she would have ran them through without hesitation. Here, she had to be more careful. She was getting used to it by now.
Only, what, a year and a month or two?
It seemed like an eternity.
Stannis sat down at the head of the table, Balon Swann at his side, and called for silence. He was dressed only in a plain doublet, a mail shirt visible near his collar. A sensible precaution.
"You are of course aware of the battle along the Goldroad against the forces of Tywin Lannister, his retreat, and the encirclement and defeat of the rearguard led by Ser Selmy Barristan. You will also be aware of the defeat suffered by Lord Renly and Tywin again retreating at my approach. I have also received intelligence that Stafford Lannister is leading his forces south to unite with Tywin's, and that Eddard Stark is moving to break through at the Golden Tooth." Stannis said.
And not a word of his maimed brother.
"He has no stomach for open battle, only rearguards and ambush!" Mace Tyrell shouted.
"As opposed to you, who only has a stomach for waiting!" someone else shouted back.
"Tywin is no fool. He knows he's outnumbered. He's trying to bleed us dry without letting us bring our full numbers to bear. Sooner or later, though, he'll have to beat us on the open field or retreat into his castles" Randyll growled, letting his low hard voice get their attention.
You can talk.
She'd tried to find out as much as possible about how exactly the Reach's vanguard had splattered themselves against a stake line and been smeared off by pikes and knights, and apparently Randyll of all people was to blame, for repeating the strategy he had tried at Ashford. Tywin must have anticipated it, because everything about the battle with the benefit of hindsight screamed trap.
"Indeed he is. Unfortunately, as Lord Tyrell can tell you, starving out castles will take far too long. We must destroy him in the open, if we want a swift resolution to this war." Stannis said.
For fucks sake, this lot aren't as bad as fourteen year old girls, they're worse.
"He'll never face us in the field as long as our troops are united like this." A stormlands knight she didn't recognize said.
They had overwhelming numbers, but Tywin had a maze of fortifications he could fall back on in the north of the Westerlands, though they'd taken the ones in the south with ease. He was clearly trying to pick them apart piecemeal and stop them bringing their numbers to bear; exactly the strategy needed when outnumbered. He'd engage one army or the other, but only when he had the advantage, such as a pass or an isolated vanguard.
"He can't crush us because we outnumber him, but he won't allow himself to be pinned down where we can bring our numbers to bear. We have to lure him into offering battle, probably by dividing our forces so we seem weak then uniting and crushing him. Or bottle him up and force him to terms, either is good." Tane said.
"Not if it takes years to dig him out, girl." Randyll said, his voice dripping with disdain.
Tane bristled. She was still in her twenties, but older that what seemed like half the men here.
"Not if they yield when they realize they can't win. Or if we just leave them in there to rot."
"That will still take years. We could be stuck sieging that castle come winter." Randyll answered.
"Tywin knows that. He will prefer to try and defeat us on the field anyhow, since that is his only way to win rather than to delay his defeat. He has no allies to lift a siege; his men have no hope to hold out for." Stannis said. "Our two armies will march close together, but separated enough that Tywin will think he can pick us off piecemeal. In reality, they will be hammer and anvil. We'll trap and crush him."
"Too risky." Randyll said. "We'll be vulnerable to being torn apart piecemeal."
"It worked at Fair Isle. As long as everyone plays their part, it will work." Stannis answered.
Stannis ground his teeth. "There is one more thing. Tywin has Garlan Tyrell prisoner, and has threatened his life if we do not offer him terms. I have already sent word back that only unconditional surrender will be accepted."
His eyes shot to Mace, watching his reaction. The man seemed relieved. His son being taken prisoner was a damn sight better than his body being mangled and his armour looted beyond recognition.
"You tried to negotiate the return of my son without consulting me?"
"Yes. Tywin has no need for gold. Any terms he gives for Garlan will be something that brings him closer to victory."
"Garlan must be returned! If he cannot be freed, then-"
"Tywin will assume he will make you reluctant to attack. That will be a misculation. He will be freed, when you attack Tywin's baggage train from the rear. There is no negotiation beyond that. You are all dismissed."
"Then I'll lead my vanguard myself, to save my son!" Mace roared, slamming down his fist. For a moment, he almost seemed like a warrior.
He relived what had happened in the rout half a hundred times.
Cavalry coming down on them at the trot, slow but inexorable. Himself screaming for his men to form up. Arrows starting to fall again, coming down from their right this time. Pikes straight ahead, pressing forwards.
Himself on a captured archer's horse, riding for his life, amidst the tumult of thousands of panicked horses galloping downhill. The reserves could have salvaged it, or the left, but the former was swept up in the rout and the latter flanked and swarmed once the rest of the line fell apart.
His horse killed under him yet again, trapping his leg. He couldn't move. He couldn't stand. He couldn't feel his leg.
Half a dozen knights surrounding him, one of them poking at him with his lance. Brienne charging back in, screaming, unhorsing two and scattering the rest in a blur of violence. The agonizing, red hot pain as he freed his leg and tried to get to his feet and collapsed straight afterwards, and one of the knights got to his feet and drew his sword.
His pleas for mercy ignored as the man stomped over, kicked his visor open and slashed his face open. Grabbing at his legs and managing to pull the knight down. Rolling on the ground with the man, fighting over the blade, before he managed to pull it from his hands and killed him with his own sword. Brienne on foot, staggering as if drunk, unable to stop the blows the two remaining mounted men were raining on her. The echoing crack of a lance hurling a man from the saddle, their destriers slamming together a moment later. The others turning and running. Them being hurriedly heaped onto horses and led to the rear, his vision blacking in and out over and over.
Waking with Loras standing vigil over him, his soft brown curls hanging over the hardened steel of his armour. Calling out his name. Loras staring at him puzzled before the face melted and he realized it wasn't Loras, it was Brienne.
He'd had the same dream half a hundred times, it seemed, and he had no idea how long it had been since the battle. He'd tried to work it out in the precious minutes of lucidity between sweetwine induced sleep, but it was futile.
She watched him for a very long time. Her blue eyes looked almost like they were on the verge of tears.
Ugly great fool in love, he thought, then useful fool. She saved my life.
"We won the battle. Tywin fell back after Mace came up and Stannis threatened to cut his lines of retreat." Brienne finally said. That was the first time she'd spoken to him, that he could remember.
That was cold comfort. He was maimed, and had gotten his vanguard shattered by trusting that fool Randyll. Thousands would be dead or maimed or captured.
"M'lord, a message from King Stannis!" someone said.
He didn't respond. He couldn't, because his face was swathed in plaster and bandages.
"Renly is weak-" Brienne began.
He limply waved them in, his whole body alternately numb and burning with pain.
Weak or not, I don't need you speaking for me.
"His Grace would have you return to King's Landing at the earliest convenience." the messenger read. "Mace Tyrell and Randyll Tarly are to have joint command of this army. Your rapid advance forced Tywin to leave the mountains, he says. The force left behind by Tywin was killed to a man, including the renegade Kingsguard Selmy Barristan and the attainted bandit Gregor Clegane. Loras insisted on seeing you, but could not be released from his duties over mere friendship. However, he would have you know he is unhurt" The messenger added.
Renly would have breathed a sigh of relief if not for his ruined face. His knight of flowers was safe.
Though if Loras would still want him, with his wounds…
He pushed the thought out of his head.
He nodded, trying to indicate that he had heard what the man said and to think through the Maester's haze.
It's not as bad as it seems.
Stannis didn't seem too displeased at his performance, and he could always point out the charge was Randyll's idea. Loras was safe, so Garlan or his horror of a mother wouldn't try to kill him. Depending on how well the wounds healed, he would have some fetching scars. He…
A surge of pain broke his train of thought, and he wanted to scream but couldn't. He clenched his hands, digging his nails into his palms, and found he had just enough movement in his jaw to grind his teeth. That helped a little.
Must be why Stannis does it. To deal with the terrible, terrible pain of being Stannis.
Despite the pain, a reflex made him laugh, and he ended up sputtering and twitching.
Brienne stood over him, blue eyes full of concern. Like a mother watching over her sick child. He shuddered at the thought.
"Fetch a Maester!" she barked at the watching messenger. He nodded and ran off, and moments later, an old man in greying robes shuffled in, opening a bottle. Renly tried to push the bottle away, but another surge of pain hit him.
He didn't have a choice.
Margaery V
The nightfire blazed, sending a column of smoke and sparks marching up into the night sky. Half a hundred lords and ladies and knights and what few smallfolk there were who worshipped the red god watched enraptured, presided over by Melisandre and the queen. They were only burning wood, of course, but she'd heard whispers that nightfires should destroy everything impure-idols of false religions, traitors, sinners.
That meant, of course, statues of the seven, Selyse's enemies, and worshippers of the seven, respectively.
Queen Selyse was utterly enraptured by the flames, watching them like a starving woman stares at food. Her arm was interwined with Melisandre's, the red priestess's red eyes reflecting the red flames. Alester Florent had given himself wholly to Selyse's cause and was in attendance too, the flickering light playing across his red doublet.
It was, Margaery though, very red.
"These are the flames that shall burn the enemies of Azor Azhai, Warrior of Light, King of the Seven Kings, Champion of Rhllor! These are the flames that shall destroy Joffrey Waters, abomination of incest, who brought impurity to our halls! These are the flames that shall reveal the truth of Rh'llor!" Melisandre yelled.
The others chanted along with her, echoing her words. "Azor Azhai! Burn his foes! Azhor Azhai!"
"The Red Comet was a portent of his victory, and a sign that the death of that creator of abomination pleases him!" Melisandre called. The red streak had cut the night sky over a moon ago, a terrible portent of something. Everyone had their own opinion: the victory of Stannis or Tywin(though that one wasn't spoken out loud), a sign of the Red God or the Seven.
The wind changed, and the smoke blew back into them. Margaery had dragged Elinor and Meridyth Crane along for company, and Elinor was reduced to a fit of hacking coughs, while Margaery lifted her scarf over her face. This was the sixth time she'd worshipped with Selyse, and the queen had still refused to attend the great sept, coming up with an unending series of excuses.
The rumours had somehow gotten loose into the city, that the common's beloved Margaery had forsaken the faith, though few wanted to believe them.
This, Margaery decided, had been a very foolish idea.
Not quite so foolish as Selyse rubbing her red god in the face of the seven's faithful.
Another blast of smoke blew in their faces, and burning embers. Elinor squealed in panic as sparks caught in her dress. Margaery stared, frozen in surprise, as they caught on the hem of her dress. Meridyth pushed past her, beating at them, and then Margaery joined in too, yelling for help. She remembered something she'd once seen the servants at Highgarden go, unwrapped her scarf and tried whipping at the flames. It wasn't especially effective, but it was better than nothing.
Elinor was screaming by now, the flames moving up her skirts towards her body. Onlookers surrounded them staring in shock or yelling in panic. Melisandre simply watched without any visible reaction. Finally, a knight muscled past them and beat the flames out with his cloak.
Elinor's lovely green dress had was half scorched by the time they were done.
She fell to her knees, unfocused and pale.
Margaery remembered her courtesies and thanked the knight, a burly, ugly man she remembered as Ser Narbert, then helped Elinor to her feet.
"We should find a Maester" Margaery said. She apologized to Selyse as quickly as possible and left hurriedly. Melisandre watched her the whole time with a look that chilled Margaery to the bone.
"Did you get burnt?" Meridyth asked.
Elinor shook her head. "I, I don't think so."
"Best have Maester Ballabar look at it anyway." Margaery said.
"This was a mistake." Meridyth said. "Worse than that time Mother gave me some wine and I went off to see that wood witch."
Elinor laughed nervously, despite the fact that she looked close to tears.
"Oh, that wasn't that bad, she just told you you were going to marry some hedge knight, not get thrown down a well or murdered by your little brother or anything of the sort." Margaery said.
"Why did you decide to go to the night fires anyway? This is madness!" Meredyth said, a little too loudly.
"Because I thought that it might calm things down in the court a little, and make her mislike me less. And convince Selyse to worship at the great sept, to calm things down amongst the commons. Of course, she still hasn't kept her side of the bargain. A Lannister might pay their debts, but a Florent sure doesn't." Margaery said.
Meredyth chuckled. "Oh, I know you wouldn't fall for some mad prophetess, Marge. Just wondering what scheme this is now."
"A poorly thought through one. Not as poor as trying to get me to seduce Stannis, though." She said.
Elinor and Meredyth both laughed at that. Elinor already seemed a little less pale.
Laughing about it, though, didn't change how potentially dangerous her little scheme had been.
And how stupid.
*
Selyse ambushed her the next morning, as she was going to the sept to pray, slipping in to walk alongside her. Elinor had been uninjured, just as she'd said, though her skirts were almost burnt through and Maester Ballabar says it way lucky the knight had intervened, otherwise she would have had her legs roasted.
"Melisandre says those embers were most inauspicious."
"Getting set on fire tends to be." Margaery said, forgetting her courtesy.
Selyse sniffed. "The Lord of Light casts judgements upon all of us, and his judgement is that you are false."
Oh dear.
"That might be so. Elinor only came to keep me company." She said, deflecting.
"Melisandre sees true."
"It is true I am merely curious about the red god, and wished to prevent our houses coming to blows. But you wound me by saying I deceived you."
Selyse suddenly swung about, facing her and blocking her path. Selyse towered over her, all bones and joints.
"You did not deceive me, because I was never deceived." Selyse hissed. "You wanted to lure me into your houses of idolatry."
Margaery feigned shock, hopefully convincingly.
"I wanted you to calm the fears of the smallfolk. I didn't care a whit if your worship was true."
"And was your worship true?"
"I was merely curious. I would have converted if I'd liked what I'd seen."
Of course, there was no chance of that.
"You would never have liked what you saw, because your eyes are clouded by the great Others falsehood."
Selyse stormed off, a section of Baratheon guardsmen falling in after her.
A charming woman, and a perfect match for a charming man.
Tane VIII
They were living amongst a moving city of cloth and canvas. She'd been in tent towns before, though more often billeted or bivouacked, but never one of this size. Armies on the march had their own economies. Sutlers sold liquid courage; laundresses cleaned clothes, farriers and armourers and fletchers offered to maintain and replace every part of a soldier's fighting gear, and of course there were whores everywhere, ranging from the high lord's personal bedwarmers to women who probably had every venereal disease known to man, and the usual assortment of sutlers and servants who complemented their income on the side.
They'd been in place for almost a week, first regrouping after the rout of the vanguard, then waiting for Stannis to return from his attempt to cut off Tywin. It hadn't worked, and his army was now camped opposite their own, planning their next move.
The noise was constant; the clack of wood on wood as spearmen drilled, yelled orders, drunken laughter, the click and scrape of a horse being shoed and the jeering catcalls that inevitably followed as soldiers and camp followers realized who was riding past them.
She spotted the great lords and knights of Renly's force, nearly fifty of them, gathered on horseback just behind the trenches Randyll had ordered put into place with escorts and squires swarming around them. Renly himself was conspicuously absent, too hurt to ride, though all the others were present.
Why Renly had been assigned to lead the Reach forces, rather than his native Stormlands, was, as far as she could tell, a bit of petty revenge from Stannis for "stealing his birthright" of Storm's End, not that the king would ever say that out loud. Westerosi lords bickered over castles like fourteen year old girls bickered over boys.
"Anyone not arrived?" she asked as she rode up.
Randyll turned in the saddle. "You're the last one."
"Then we should set out." Tane said, Boudace and her escort lance falling in behind her.
There was only half a mile or so between the two camps. The wagons had already begun to drive ruts into the grass between them. They passed a group of soldiers in an array of colours heading to Renly's camp, a gaggle of camp followers heading the other way, a wagon with a broken axle being hastily repaired while draft horses grazed around it.
She noticed Brienne riding across from her, staring very intently at the road ahead.
"I thought you were with Renly?" Tane asked.
"I was. Stannis insisted I attend the council of war. What for, I don't know."
"If half of what I've heard is true, you saved his brothers life. He's liable to reward you."
"I swore to protect his life with mine. I failed. He lies maimed and crippled."
The big woman sounded almost heartbroken.
"And not dead. Neither are you, though honestly, common sense would say you should be after going hand to hand with half a dozen knights."
She looked away. "I did my best."
"You won. Simple as that. This is war. Shit happens, people die, people get maimed, the best you can do is do as much damage to the enemy and take as little as possible. You didn't choose to charge into that ambush. You did choose to risk your neck pulling Renly out, and then charge back in to save him when he went down. You took on half a dozen fully armoured horsemen on your own, and took half of them down before help arrived. You're a bloody hero."
Brienne didn't answer, though she did look somewhat less glum.
Stannis's troops already had trenches and stakes encircling their camp, even though they'd only been encamped for days. The densely packed nature of the camp and the lack of decoy fires offended her military sensibilities, though she had to remind herself the Westerosi didn't have to deal with airships and dragons. Not anymore, anyway.
The guards on duty, Myrish crossbowmen with ungainly windlasses on their belts and pavises slung across their backs, waved them through. Stannis's camp was more ordered, with tents in neat rows and far fewer drunken soldiers and camp followers visible.
Stannis's pavilion was at the centre, a great crowned stag on a field of gold flying above it. Loras Tyrell stood guard, battleaxe in hand. The lords dismounted, chaos reigning as they passed their horses over to the squires that attended them.
He ushered them in, watching Brienne intently as they marched in single file. Stannis's pavilion was vast, with a long trestle table set up within. It wasn't long enough, though, for everyone, and she found herself standing alongside the sellsword captains, knights and lesser lords, while the great lords took their seats.
She got a few odd looks from the Stormlands men, and heard a few mutterings about "camp follower" this and "sent by a miracle that". Back home, if any noble had called her a whore, she would have ran them through without hesitation. Here, she had to be more careful. She was getting used to it by now.
Only, what, a year and a month or two?
It seemed like an eternity.
Stannis sat down at the head of the table, Balon Swann at his side, and called for silence. He was dressed only in a plain doublet, a mail shirt visible near his collar. A sensible precaution.
"You are of course aware of the battle along the Goldroad against the forces of Tywin Lannister, his retreat, and the encirclement and defeat of the rearguard led by Ser Selmy Barristan. You will also be aware of the defeat suffered by Lord Renly and Tywin again retreating at my approach. I have also received intelligence that Stafford Lannister is leading his forces south to unite with Tywin's, and that Eddard Stark is moving to break through at the Golden Tooth." Stannis said.
And not a word of his maimed brother.
"He has no stomach for open battle, only rearguards and ambush!" Mace Tyrell shouted.
"As opposed to you, who only has a stomach for waiting!" someone else shouted back.
"Tywin is no fool. He knows he's outnumbered. He's trying to bleed us dry without letting us bring our full numbers to bear. Sooner or later, though, he'll have to beat us on the open field or retreat into his castles" Randyll growled, letting his low hard voice get their attention.
You can talk.
She'd tried to find out as much as possible about how exactly the Reach's vanguard had splattered themselves against a stake line and been smeared off by pikes and knights, and apparently Randyll of all people was to blame, for repeating the strategy he had tried at Ashford. Tywin must have anticipated it, because everything about the battle with the benefit of hindsight screamed trap.
"Indeed he is. Unfortunately, as Lord Tyrell can tell you, starving out castles will take far too long. We must destroy him in the open, if we want a swift resolution to this war." Stannis said.
For fucks sake, this lot aren't as bad as fourteen year old girls, they're worse.
"He'll never face us in the field as long as our troops are united like this." A stormlands knight she didn't recognize said.
They had overwhelming numbers, but Tywin had a maze of fortifications he could fall back on in the north of the Westerlands, though they'd taken the ones in the south with ease. He was clearly trying to pick them apart piecemeal and stop them bringing their numbers to bear; exactly the strategy needed when outnumbered. He'd engage one army or the other, but only when he had the advantage, such as a pass or an isolated vanguard.
"He can't crush us because we outnumber him, but he won't allow himself to be pinned down where we can bring our numbers to bear. We have to lure him into offering battle, probably by dividing our forces so we seem weak then uniting and crushing him. Or bottle him up and force him to terms, either is good." Tane said.
"Not if it takes years to dig him out, girl." Randyll said, his voice dripping with disdain.
Tane bristled. She was still in her twenties, but older that what seemed like half the men here.
"Not if they yield when they realize they can't win. Or if we just leave them in there to rot."
"That will still take years. We could be stuck sieging that castle come winter." Randyll answered.
"Tywin knows that. He will prefer to try and defeat us on the field anyhow, since that is his only way to win rather than to delay his defeat. He has no allies to lift a siege; his men have no hope to hold out for." Stannis said. "Our two armies will march close together, but separated enough that Tywin will think he can pick us off piecemeal. In reality, they will be hammer and anvil. We'll trap and crush him."
"Too risky." Randyll said. "We'll be vulnerable to being torn apart piecemeal."
"It worked at Fair Isle. As long as everyone plays their part, it will work." Stannis answered.
Stannis ground his teeth. "There is one more thing. Tywin has Garlan Tyrell prisoner, and has threatened his life if we do not offer him terms. I have already sent word back that only unconditional surrender will be accepted."
His eyes shot to Mace, watching his reaction. The man seemed relieved. His son being taken prisoner was a damn sight better than his body being mangled and his armour looted beyond recognition.
"You tried to negotiate the return of my son without consulting me?"
"Yes. Tywin has no need for gold. Any terms he gives for Garlan will be something that brings him closer to victory."
"Garlan must be returned! If he cannot be freed, then-"
"Tywin will assume he will make you reluctant to attack. That will be a misculation. He will be freed, when you attack Tywin's baggage train from the rear. There is no negotiation beyond that. You are all dismissed."
"Then I'll lead my vanguard myself, to save my son!" Mace roared, slamming down his fist. For a moment, he almost seemed like a warrior.
- Location
- Brisbane
That's where military leadership by committee, being simultaneously too cautious and overconfident, bad reconnaissance and assuming that just because you have the advantage(seemingly) in numbers you can afford to get sloppy gets you. Renly has form for this sort of nonsense in canon-he's a decent strategist but a poor tactician as I see him.
No Greater Fury: Tywin II and Tane IX
- Location
- Brisbane
Tywin II
The only way to describe the force marching down upon his camp was a shambles. Knights riding in clusters based on affinities rather than martial discipline, and spears and bows marching in long shambling columns.
Is this the best House Lannister can bring to bear? Is this what we've been reduced to?
He shook his head. He had his own men available, veterans, confident from their victory on the Oceanroad. Besides, even green men would kill and die well enough with their backs to the wall. They had Garlan prisoner, making Mace reluctant to attack. Renly, from what the knights who'd witnessed his fall said, was severely wounded and unlikely to survive. He had only to kill Stannis and the whole house of cards would come crashing down.
But what then? He'd have shattered the alliance against him, but he didn't have the men to regain Joffrey's crown. The riverlands and north were now heavily garrisoned and pushing south to counterattack through the golden tooth. Tyrion and Jaime were hostages. The Vale was neutral. The Reach might switch sides, if Renly died severing their link to the crown and he was able to use Garlan as leverage. But still… it would inevitably be an uphill battle, and he suspected Joffrey would be a man by the time they seized King's Landing.
Not that that fool boy will ever make much of a man. Truth be told, he'd wished it was Tommen who'd escaped kings landing, or Myrcella. They'd be easier to control, and once mature more likely to let the hand do their job rather than interfere in the affairs of state. At least with them vanished, there would be no shortage of sellswords with golden hair causing trouble for Stannis even if they lost the present war, and mayhaps they could gather support to retake the Iron throne.
That is unacceptable. His dynasty would not be allowed to die here. It could not. He had been hours away from achieving his families dream, his grandson on the iron throne, greater even than Cersei being crowned queen, and it had all been snatched by a Baratheon catamite and a foreign sellsword men said was a miracle, a gift from the Maiden sent to throw down the abominations of incest. Joffrey was Jaime's spawn, no doubt-Why didn't I see it, Joanna must have known since they were children-but that was irrelevant. He was still a Lannister, and a Baratheon if not by blood then by might of the swords and spears backing him, and he would see him on the Iron Throne or die a martyr to the cause of the true king of Westeros.
His attempt to behead the Reach army on the Oceanroad had only partially succeeded, so now his plan was much simpler-link up his own 17,000 men with Stafford Lannister's 20,000, locate Stannis's force, and crush it in open battle while trying to avoid engaging the Reach force. They were the larger force and best avoided; besides, Mace would likely be tardy to come to Stannis's aid if they concentrated on Stannis, whereas Stannis would seize the opportunity to pin him down if he attacked Mace.
To the end of encouraging Mace's slowness, he'd ordered his heralds to quietly negotiate his release on the condition that Mace failed to come to Stannis's aid in time. They hadn't received a response. Subtlety or refusal, he did not know.
"My Lord of Lannister" Stafford said as he approached. He was tall and blonde, with long whiskers, but he'd gone to fat, and Tywin knew from the way he moved that there wasn't muscle lurking under it. His escorts weren't even in armour.
Good thing his men's only duty is to be bait.
"Get your men encamped, then meet me at my tent for a council of war." Tywin said curtly, then turned away. He had no time for pleasantries. They had an usurper to kill.
*
He'd very pointedly told Joffrey to attend the council of war. That was all that was needed to keep him away from it. His lords surrounded him as he laid out his great map of the Westerlands, and the sets of game pieces painted in house colours used to illustrate deployments that Stafford had once bought. Childish, but still useful.
"Our goal, in the coming battle, is to kill Stannis. Nothing else will break the rebellion but his death." Tywin explained coldly. "Therefore, everything must be to the ends of forcing him to commit his reserves and himself with them, or else isolating him from escaping. Stannis's goals, most likely, will to be fix us in the field so that Mace can catch us between hammer and anvil. Therefore, we must kill Stannis, and quickly, then retreat or fall in on Mace."
"My Lord, would a flanking attack be of use? To get to Stannis in the rear?" one of Stafford's knights asked.
"We've have to go all around his army, break his bodyguard, kill him before he can escape, and mayhaps get out again. That's no mean feat." Ser Addam Marbrand said.
Tywin nodded grimly. "If it comes to it, we'll try. But we spent the best of our knights holding Stannis on the goldroad." They made him pay a high price, but not high enough.
Chivalric folly to use knights for that. Pikemen would have served and died just as well.
"A night attack, on his camp?" Stafford suggested.
"Stannis is no fool. He'll have trenches and stakes up to slow us, and pickets out to hear us coming." Ser Addam explained.
"Then how do we kill him?" Stafford asked.
"Concentrate the knights in a great mailed fist, to punch through the centre or swing around the flanks as needed, to strike at Stannis once he commits his reserves. Your men-" he nodded at Stafford-"Shall have the left and the first line of the centre. Mine own the right, the reserves, and the second line of the centre." Tywin said.
*
The rising sun shone over their shoulders, into the faces of Stannis's men as they deployed, their backs to the sea fifteen miles to the west. Tywin's own men unfurled into their lines and columns like a tent being set up. It was as planned; his best knights in his own reserves, the rest of his own host's horse on the right, most likely to be attacked if Mace was able to reach them in time. Stannis had eagerly accepted his offer of battle, his own forces fanning out. Cavalry on the flanks, infantry with pike and spear at the center, and archers out ahead who'd harass Stannis's men on the approach then fall back behind the shieldwall to support them with archery. Mace was six miles to the west, only beginning to break camp when the last scouts had come in on half dead horses. They'd have three or four hours before he had come up and was ready to attack.
He'd started out leading forces of hundreds of men, saving House Lannister from his father, and now he commanded thousands, saving it from his children. Everything depended on this day.
"Signal the attack."
His trumpeter blew the signal, and it echoed all down the line, the footmen trudging forwards, the cavalry sweeping forwards on the flanks. His own reserves moved down to follow after them.
He watched their movements with cold focus, scanning the field. Here and there, units briefly becoming visible only by the tips of their lances and pikes as they moved through the subtle graduations of the ground that could hide a man if he stood just so. The smears of colour on Stannis's ridge dissolved into men, thousands of them, guarded by oak and iron and clad in the colours of a hundred lords and free companies.
His reserves halted on a well placed ridge, four hundred yards away from Stannis's lines, close enough to see the battle, not so far they could not intervene when necessary. The footmen paused to dress their lines, while Stannis made final adjustments to his disposition up on the long low ridge he'd posted himself on.
The Myrish crossbowmen and Marcher longbowmen opened up on the front of Tywin's infantry, and then his own archers were throwing dark clouds back at them. Stafford's horse paced up to a fast trot, while they were still three hundred yards out from the Baratheon lines. Too early, they'll be disordered and vulnerable to counterattack, but there was no helping it. Besides, if they broke, Stannis's knights might make an overenthusiastic pursuit and leave themselves vulnerable.
Stannis's knights counter charged, just as Stafford's knights were beginning to become disordered, and the whole left of his army turned into a swirling chaos like flocks of birds fighting, raising great clouds of dust.
The front of the infantry lines met, Stafford's levy spearmen awkwardly trying to maintain their shieldwall as they shuffled forwards into thrusting distance, fought, took or gave ground, regrouped only a few dozen yards from the enemy, and did it all over again. Stannis's foot, well-drilled pikemen backed by proper men-at-arms armoured with mail and brigandines, took more ground than they gave against Stafford's light-armed levies, while the captains in Tywin's second line began to feed reserves into the flanks, slowly forming the lines into a ragged half moon. The cavalry on the left remained unengaged, watching each other from only a few hundred yards away.
it was like a dance of ants in molasses, agonizingly slow viewed from the hill, though he knew that from up close infantry combat was terrifyingly fast and brutal when the decisive moments came.
The cavalry fight on the right began to resolve itself, as Stafford's horse, despite slightly outnumbering Stannis's men, began to break. He ordered Ser Addam to send in a thousand horse of his reserve to break them before Stannis's left could regroup then return to the reserves. That would force Stannis to commit himself to cover his right or threaten Tywin's left. Even if he didn't personally command the reserves, it would reduce the size of his bodyguard. On the left, Stannis's heavy horse charged and a second cavalry melee began, this one more ordered.
Stannis's reserves, the crowned stag flying over them, began to maneuver towards his left flank, trying to stem the stream of fleeing horsemen as Addam's men, fresh and well ordered, slammed into the knights of the stormlands and Stafford's men started to regroup.
Mace's forces began to appear, coming up from the south, a great column of knights moving at the trot with infantry coming after them.
They'd marched faster than expected, truth be told.
Tywin's instincts told him that now would be the decisive moments, the fulcrum the battle swung upon.
He knew what needed to be done.
"Get Joffrey out of the camp, send him to Casterly Rock. The hostages too. Kill them if it looks like they'll be rescued. Prepare the mounted reserve to flank around the left and attack Stannis. I will lead them personally. Infantry reserves go to refuse the left flank."
He loosened his sword in his sheath and took a lance from his squire. "Stannis must die."
Kevan nodded besides him. "As you wish, brother."
Tane IX
"Halt! Dress… Lines" Tane barked, standing up in her stirrups and raising her spyglass to get a better look at the battlefield.
It was the usual chaos, masses of soldiers standing about in reserve or crashing and receding against each other, while people-camp followers bringing up arrows and water and pulling back casualties, alongside walking wounded and deserters-constantly flowed between the camp and the army. As she watched, she saw a cavalry fight reach its final stages on the nearer side of the battle, both sides feeding in reserves, the tide turning again and again like a see-saw. Dust clouded the action.
They'd been ordered to prepare to march four hours ago, gotten moving three hours ago-honestly quite an impressive feat-and deployed into fighting order in dead ground twenty minutes ago, before beginning the advance onto Tywin's flank. They were less than a mile distant, now, cresting a ridge. Randyll's plan was simple. The infantry would launch a head on attack on Tywin's flank, collapsing it and hopefully encircling him and cutting off his line of retreat, while the cavalry-that is, the cavalry that Randyll and Renly hadn't gotten killed-would be led personally by Mace Tyrell to charge ahead into the camp and rescue Garlan and the other hostages. It wasn't a bad plan, on paper, but considering who she was fighting alongside, they'd probably find a way to fuck it up beyond all recognition.
She heard horn blasts on her right, as the cavalry moved down through the rolling hills at a trot. Reserve infantry in Tywin's lines began to shift, forming a second line along his left flank. Buying him time.
More horn blasts, these from the infantry. Three blasts; the signal to advance.
"At the… March!" Tane yelled. Her forces began to advance. They were in the front line of Mace's army, towards the left flank, with blocks of spearmen and pikemen and archers on either flank. She had four companies of pikemen and halberdiers, ten deep-she didn't trust their discipline or drill enough for a shallower formation-in the centre, with two companies of calivermen and crossbowmen on each wing. The Horse Grenadiers were back behind them, providing close cavalry support. She didn't trust them under the tender ministrations of Mace Tyrell and Randyll Tarly.
They pushed forwards, agonizingly slowly. An individual, or a mob that didn't care for order, could have crossed the ground in a third of an hour even at a walk. A group-and a not particularly well drilled group at that-was much slower. As she watched, Tywin's cavalry reserves broke off from his rear and began to skirt the edges of his army. For a moment, she feared they would attack the Tyrell infantry, but instead they kept moving, trying to overlap Stannis's lines, blowing through a skirmish line that got in their way.
It took her a moment to realize what they were doing.
Cutting the head of the snake off. Christ-Horus, they're really going for it.
She glanced to her right. Mace's cavalry were halfway to the camp, some of them streaming ahead, others lagging behind on blown horses. Most of them were galloping already.
Cavalry should only pace up to the gallop in the last moments of an attack, or when speed and surprise was more important than good order. She supposed rescuing the prisoners was such a case, but the reserve squadrons they had to support them if they got into trouble were galloping too.
Barked orders of "at the double!" came down the line, echoed by a messenger on horseback, and she yelled it out too. Her silvercloaks increased their pace, and she yelled for the drummers to beat faster. They were only three hundred yards out, now. The camp was out of sight, hidden by a rise, but Mace's cavalry would be breaking in amongst it by now.
They pushed closer and closer; two-fifty yards, two hundred. Infantry moved up to oppose them, men with spear and shield, armoured in mail and leather-lined jacks. They halted to dress lines again, just out of bowshot. She dismounted, tossing her reins to Boudace and tucking her horse pistols through her sash, and accepted the pole-axe the page-girl passed to her, then jogged up to her position at the head of the pike block. They were her men too, now, and they needed an experienced commander. Her armour rattled and clicked and scraped.
At a hundred and fifty yards out, the arrows went up, though not many. They must have already spent most of their arrows, and been shooting with tired arms, because most of them thudded down short, except for a man off to her right who started screaming and didn't stop.
"Hold fire, hold fire!" Tane barked, seeing a few men beginning to level their matchlocks.
Reserve it to fifty yards or so, it'll tear right through their shields. Follow up with push of pike. Fire and shock.
The other officers, goldcloak men mostly, echoed the order. They moved in, closer and closer. The Western foot formed a shieldwall, as Tyrell archers began shooting back. Behind them, to her left she could see knights flying the lion of Lannister tangled up with Stannis's own reserves.
They shuffled in to fifty yards. "Open fire! Two ranks volleys, countermarch!" Tane roared. The pikes kept advancing as the calivers opened fire to barks of "Make ready! Present! Fire! Countermarch!" from the company officers.
She saw men falling and others beginning to back up. A second volley came in, and a third; by the time the 9th and 10th ranks had fired the 1st and 2nd should have reloaded. There was a bang, different to a gunshot, and screaming, and yells of "Put it out! Put it out!".
Matchlock must have cooked off someones ammunition.
She forced herself to concentrate on leading the pikes.
"Present!" Tane yelled as they came into 20 yards. Wood clattered around her as the pikemen lowered their weapons, the tips swaying from the natural flex of the wood. She gripped her pole-axe tighter, slammed her visor down and shifted into a high guard, butt-spike levelled at the face and axe blade chambered back to cut. The officers in the shield wall were scrambling to fill up the gaps that had been shot in it, but the volleys were coming in faster than they could close them. Her heart was hammering faster and faster, her vision narrowing down as the battle rush set in. Everything seemed to take an eternity, and an instant.
The Lannister men were shrinking away, terrified, as the pikemen pressed forwards to push of pike. Their tall oaken shields caught the pikes, locking them into a shoving match. Tane roared encouragement, watching for westermen trying to break through. A few of the men began to throw their spears, and they came down amongst the silvercloaks, biting flesh or coming shaft first as they deflected off raised pikes. Tane batted one away with her haft; another hit her on the helmet, making her vision jar. The pikes pushed forwards as the Lannisters gave ground. A wounded man, felled by a gunshot, lurched up and rushed her, dagger draw, hunched over to get under the forest of shafts. She jumped back, braining him with her axe as his dagger slashed thin air; moving on trained instinct. The clack of wood on wood was constant, as was the yells and grunting and the screaming of the wounded.
She glanced across to either side, trying to watch for flankers through the tangle of wood and bodies. Her own vision was narrowed; the usual effects of the battle rush combined with her bloody visor.
Why didn't I bring my lobster-pot like a sensible person?
Part of the Lannister foot broke out of their shieldwall and rushed in on the left of the pike block, trying to push back the shot then turn a vulnerable flank.
She slammed her visor up, to avoid muffling her voice. "Halberdiers left, shift left!"
There was no need. The Grenadiers under Gryff come crashing in. She saw a group of men fall down and go tumbling back like they were on a steep hill and a man turning on his own side in a frenzy as the war witch Morgan got to work, then the Grenadiers going in through the gaps before turning in on the troops facing her pike block, firing their pistols at point blank range. Swarms of calivermen with swords drawn followed them. She saw Sace break the lance her banner was mounted on against a knight's cuirass, sending him tumbling from his saddle, saw Gryff's short pollaxe kicking up a fine red mist, saw Morgan crush the mind of a man who came at her with a spear. The line began to collapse into chaos, not quite routing but getting there.
She pressed forwards into the fray, pikemen with their swords drawn and halberdiers following her, a cavalry officer's instincts to charge and pursue taking over. They were beginning to break now. Some primal instinct inside her screamed they are not rivals, not peers now. They are prey.
She picked out a man to her front and rushed him. She beat his spear offline, hooked the man's shield out of the way, rammed a thrust through his face, then hacked at his head to make sure he stayed down. A spear thrust scraped off her pauldron, sending up sparks, and then she was fighting two to one, against an old man and a boy, both with spears and shields, parrying furiously, fearing for a moment that they might be able to charge and overpower her if they pressed their advantage. She tensed to try and turn the tables; a rush left, striking at the old man's unshielded side, putting his body inbetween her and the son, but before she could do that a horse knocked the boy flat, and the old man turned to catch a blow from the rider on his shield only for Tane to chop at the mail protecting his neck. He crumpled, stunned, the blow like a punch to the trachea, and she stabbed him in the face to finish him off.
She glanced up at the rider and recognized her; Blodwen, an arrow sticking out of her buff coat, barely noticed. She called out a warning; "He's up!", and Tane turned to see the boy getting up with a hatchet in his hand and then going down again as a halberdier thrust through his studded leather jerkin. She made to attack a fourth man, but he turned and fled as she came at him. He left it too late. She put an axe blow right between his shoulders. He'd brought a shield, but that was no good facing the wrong direction.
The chaos was absolute, the entire left flank of Tywin's army disintegrating. Men with rose banners were on the ridge that Tywin's reserves had occupied, men with stags were on the positions that Tywin's foot had once held and the lion was flying over a furious cavalry battle to her left as Tywin and Stannis's foot struggled. It was no longer a shieldwall to her front, or a pell-mell, it was a rout, her own men hacking with sword and halberd while the Lannister men began to flee in a human river.
"Restrain pursuit! On me!". She gestured to Sace to pull in. The cornet stared at her blankly for a moment, her sword dripping red, then began yelling to the Grenadiers as she realized what was going on.
It took what seemed to be forever to get her troops back into order and resume an orderly advance, trudging over screaming wounded, wheeling to support the cavalry engaged in melee. Trying to do that got the poor silvercloaks disordered, so they had to spend more time getting them back into their ranks and files before advancing. By that time, the fight on the left was over, Lannister men fleeing in all directions or being swarmed by opponents who now outnumbered them. A dozen knights came galloping down towards them, the sun shining off their golden armour, one of them discarding a banner with the lion of Lannister on it as they came. Her shot put a volley into them, unhorsing half, felling another man and sending the rest scampering.
The fallen men began to rise, at least the ones who hadn't broken anything in the fall, while more knights came galloping down behind them. The silvercloaks made ready for another volley, but she saw the stags on some of those knight's livery and called cease fire.
Why can't these bastards decide on uniforms or at least field signs?
They swarmed in around the downed knights, relieving them of their weapons, gauntlets and helmets. She called halt and marched out ahead, hoping to claim her battalion's prisoners. One of the second group of knights, she saw, had a golden crown upon his helmet, half hacked away.
Stannis.
"Orders, your Grace?" Tane asked as she jogged up to him.
He turned to her and raised his visor. As she got closer, she saw the blood running down his right arm, and a dent over his chest that she would have taken for a gunshot anywhere else. A couched lance, or crossbow bolt. Maybe a mace.
He waved at the battlefield; at the rivers of broken men running for their lives, at the men still in formation, fighting to the last or too distracted by the threat to their front to notice the threat to their flanks and rear, at the corpses, some thrown about in heaps, others scattered.
"Finish them." he said coldly. "Then pursue until the sun comes down, and regroup here."
Tane nodded and marched back to her men, calling for a horse.
The only way to describe the force marching down upon his camp was a shambles. Knights riding in clusters based on affinities rather than martial discipline, and spears and bows marching in long shambling columns.
Is this the best House Lannister can bring to bear? Is this what we've been reduced to?
He shook his head. He had his own men available, veterans, confident from their victory on the Oceanroad. Besides, even green men would kill and die well enough with their backs to the wall. They had Garlan prisoner, making Mace reluctant to attack. Renly, from what the knights who'd witnessed his fall said, was severely wounded and unlikely to survive. He had only to kill Stannis and the whole house of cards would come crashing down.
But what then? He'd have shattered the alliance against him, but he didn't have the men to regain Joffrey's crown. The riverlands and north were now heavily garrisoned and pushing south to counterattack through the golden tooth. Tyrion and Jaime were hostages. The Vale was neutral. The Reach might switch sides, if Renly died severing their link to the crown and he was able to use Garlan as leverage. But still… it would inevitably be an uphill battle, and he suspected Joffrey would be a man by the time they seized King's Landing.
Not that that fool boy will ever make much of a man. Truth be told, he'd wished it was Tommen who'd escaped kings landing, or Myrcella. They'd be easier to control, and once mature more likely to let the hand do their job rather than interfere in the affairs of state. At least with them vanished, there would be no shortage of sellswords with golden hair causing trouble for Stannis even if they lost the present war, and mayhaps they could gather support to retake the Iron throne.
That is unacceptable. His dynasty would not be allowed to die here. It could not. He had been hours away from achieving his families dream, his grandson on the iron throne, greater even than Cersei being crowned queen, and it had all been snatched by a Baratheon catamite and a foreign sellsword men said was a miracle, a gift from the Maiden sent to throw down the abominations of incest. Joffrey was Jaime's spawn, no doubt-Why didn't I see it, Joanna must have known since they were children-but that was irrelevant. He was still a Lannister, and a Baratheon if not by blood then by might of the swords and spears backing him, and he would see him on the Iron Throne or die a martyr to the cause of the true king of Westeros.
His attempt to behead the Reach army on the Oceanroad had only partially succeeded, so now his plan was much simpler-link up his own 17,000 men with Stafford Lannister's 20,000, locate Stannis's force, and crush it in open battle while trying to avoid engaging the Reach force. They were the larger force and best avoided; besides, Mace would likely be tardy to come to Stannis's aid if they concentrated on Stannis, whereas Stannis would seize the opportunity to pin him down if he attacked Mace.
To the end of encouraging Mace's slowness, he'd ordered his heralds to quietly negotiate his release on the condition that Mace failed to come to Stannis's aid in time. They hadn't received a response. Subtlety or refusal, he did not know.
"My Lord of Lannister" Stafford said as he approached. He was tall and blonde, with long whiskers, but he'd gone to fat, and Tywin knew from the way he moved that there wasn't muscle lurking under it. His escorts weren't even in armour.
Good thing his men's only duty is to be bait.
"Get your men encamped, then meet me at my tent for a council of war." Tywin said curtly, then turned away. He had no time for pleasantries. They had an usurper to kill.
*
He'd very pointedly told Joffrey to attend the council of war. That was all that was needed to keep him away from it. His lords surrounded him as he laid out his great map of the Westerlands, and the sets of game pieces painted in house colours used to illustrate deployments that Stafford had once bought. Childish, but still useful.
"Our goal, in the coming battle, is to kill Stannis. Nothing else will break the rebellion but his death." Tywin explained coldly. "Therefore, everything must be to the ends of forcing him to commit his reserves and himself with them, or else isolating him from escaping. Stannis's goals, most likely, will to be fix us in the field so that Mace can catch us between hammer and anvil. Therefore, we must kill Stannis, and quickly, then retreat or fall in on Mace."
"My Lord, would a flanking attack be of use? To get to Stannis in the rear?" one of Stafford's knights asked.
"We've have to go all around his army, break his bodyguard, kill him before he can escape, and mayhaps get out again. That's no mean feat." Ser Addam Marbrand said.
Tywin nodded grimly. "If it comes to it, we'll try. But we spent the best of our knights holding Stannis on the goldroad." They made him pay a high price, but not high enough.
Chivalric folly to use knights for that. Pikemen would have served and died just as well.
"A night attack, on his camp?" Stafford suggested.
"Stannis is no fool. He'll have trenches and stakes up to slow us, and pickets out to hear us coming." Ser Addam explained.
"Then how do we kill him?" Stafford asked.
"Concentrate the knights in a great mailed fist, to punch through the centre or swing around the flanks as needed, to strike at Stannis once he commits his reserves. Your men-" he nodded at Stafford-"Shall have the left and the first line of the centre. Mine own the right, the reserves, and the second line of the centre." Tywin said.
*
The rising sun shone over their shoulders, into the faces of Stannis's men as they deployed, their backs to the sea fifteen miles to the west. Tywin's own men unfurled into their lines and columns like a tent being set up. It was as planned; his best knights in his own reserves, the rest of his own host's horse on the right, most likely to be attacked if Mace was able to reach them in time. Stannis had eagerly accepted his offer of battle, his own forces fanning out. Cavalry on the flanks, infantry with pike and spear at the center, and archers out ahead who'd harass Stannis's men on the approach then fall back behind the shieldwall to support them with archery. Mace was six miles to the west, only beginning to break camp when the last scouts had come in on half dead horses. They'd have three or four hours before he had come up and was ready to attack.
He'd started out leading forces of hundreds of men, saving House Lannister from his father, and now he commanded thousands, saving it from his children. Everything depended on this day.
"Signal the attack."
His trumpeter blew the signal, and it echoed all down the line, the footmen trudging forwards, the cavalry sweeping forwards on the flanks. His own reserves moved down to follow after them.
He watched their movements with cold focus, scanning the field. Here and there, units briefly becoming visible only by the tips of their lances and pikes as they moved through the subtle graduations of the ground that could hide a man if he stood just so. The smears of colour on Stannis's ridge dissolved into men, thousands of them, guarded by oak and iron and clad in the colours of a hundred lords and free companies.
His reserves halted on a well placed ridge, four hundred yards away from Stannis's lines, close enough to see the battle, not so far they could not intervene when necessary. The footmen paused to dress their lines, while Stannis made final adjustments to his disposition up on the long low ridge he'd posted himself on.
The Myrish crossbowmen and Marcher longbowmen opened up on the front of Tywin's infantry, and then his own archers were throwing dark clouds back at them. Stafford's horse paced up to a fast trot, while they were still three hundred yards out from the Baratheon lines. Too early, they'll be disordered and vulnerable to counterattack, but there was no helping it. Besides, if they broke, Stannis's knights might make an overenthusiastic pursuit and leave themselves vulnerable.
Stannis's knights counter charged, just as Stafford's knights were beginning to become disordered, and the whole left of his army turned into a swirling chaos like flocks of birds fighting, raising great clouds of dust.
The front of the infantry lines met, Stafford's levy spearmen awkwardly trying to maintain their shieldwall as they shuffled forwards into thrusting distance, fought, took or gave ground, regrouped only a few dozen yards from the enemy, and did it all over again. Stannis's foot, well-drilled pikemen backed by proper men-at-arms armoured with mail and brigandines, took more ground than they gave against Stafford's light-armed levies, while the captains in Tywin's second line began to feed reserves into the flanks, slowly forming the lines into a ragged half moon. The cavalry on the left remained unengaged, watching each other from only a few hundred yards away.
it was like a dance of ants in molasses, agonizingly slow viewed from the hill, though he knew that from up close infantry combat was terrifyingly fast and brutal when the decisive moments came.
The cavalry fight on the right began to resolve itself, as Stafford's horse, despite slightly outnumbering Stannis's men, began to break. He ordered Ser Addam to send in a thousand horse of his reserve to break them before Stannis's left could regroup then return to the reserves. That would force Stannis to commit himself to cover his right or threaten Tywin's left. Even if he didn't personally command the reserves, it would reduce the size of his bodyguard. On the left, Stannis's heavy horse charged and a second cavalry melee began, this one more ordered.
Stannis's reserves, the crowned stag flying over them, began to maneuver towards his left flank, trying to stem the stream of fleeing horsemen as Addam's men, fresh and well ordered, slammed into the knights of the stormlands and Stafford's men started to regroup.
Mace's forces began to appear, coming up from the south, a great column of knights moving at the trot with infantry coming after them.
They'd marched faster than expected, truth be told.
Tywin's instincts told him that now would be the decisive moments, the fulcrum the battle swung upon.
He knew what needed to be done.
"Get Joffrey out of the camp, send him to Casterly Rock. The hostages too. Kill them if it looks like they'll be rescued. Prepare the mounted reserve to flank around the left and attack Stannis. I will lead them personally. Infantry reserves go to refuse the left flank."
He loosened his sword in his sheath and took a lance from his squire. "Stannis must die."
Kevan nodded besides him. "As you wish, brother."
Tane IX
"Halt! Dress… Lines" Tane barked, standing up in her stirrups and raising her spyglass to get a better look at the battlefield.
It was the usual chaos, masses of soldiers standing about in reserve or crashing and receding against each other, while people-camp followers bringing up arrows and water and pulling back casualties, alongside walking wounded and deserters-constantly flowed between the camp and the army. As she watched, she saw a cavalry fight reach its final stages on the nearer side of the battle, both sides feeding in reserves, the tide turning again and again like a see-saw. Dust clouded the action.
They'd been ordered to prepare to march four hours ago, gotten moving three hours ago-honestly quite an impressive feat-and deployed into fighting order in dead ground twenty minutes ago, before beginning the advance onto Tywin's flank. They were less than a mile distant, now, cresting a ridge. Randyll's plan was simple. The infantry would launch a head on attack on Tywin's flank, collapsing it and hopefully encircling him and cutting off his line of retreat, while the cavalry-that is, the cavalry that Randyll and Renly hadn't gotten killed-would be led personally by Mace Tyrell to charge ahead into the camp and rescue Garlan and the other hostages. It wasn't a bad plan, on paper, but considering who she was fighting alongside, they'd probably find a way to fuck it up beyond all recognition.
She heard horn blasts on her right, as the cavalry moved down through the rolling hills at a trot. Reserve infantry in Tywin's lines began to shift, forming a second line along his left flank. Buying him time.
More horn blasts, these from the infantry. Three blasts; the signal to advance.
"At the… March!" Tane yelled. Her forces began to advance. They were in the front line of Mace's army, towards the left flank, with blocks of spearmen and pikemen and archers on either flank. She had four companies of pikemen and halberdiers, ten deep-she didn't trust their discipline or drill enough for a shallower formation-in the centre, with two companies of calivermen and crossbowmen on each wing. The Horse Grenadiers were back behind them, providing close cavalry support. She didn't trust them under the tender ministrations of Mace Tyrell and Randyll Tarly.
They pushed forwards, agonizingly slowly. An individual, or a mob that didn't care for order, could have crossed the ground in a third of an hour even at a walk. A group-and a not particularly well drilled group at that-was much slower. As she watched, Tywin's cavalry reserves broke off from his rear and began to skirt the edges of his army. For a moment, she feared they would attack the Tyrell infantry, but instead they kept moving, trying to overlap Stannis's lines, blowing through a skirmish line that got in their way.
It took her a moment to realize what they were doing.
Cutting the head of the snake off. Christ-Horus, they're really going for it.
She glanced to her right. Mace's cavalry were halfway to the camp, some of them streaming ahead, others lagging behind on blown horses. Most of them were galloping already.
Cavalry should only pace up to the gallop in the last moments of an attack, or when speed and surprise was more important than good order. She supposed rescuing the prisoners was such a case, but the reserve squadrons they had to support them if they got into trouble were galloping too.
Barked orders of "at the double!" came down the line, echoed by a messenger on horseback, and she yelled it out too. Her silvercloaks increased their pace, and she yelled for the drummers to beat faster. They were only three hundred yards out, now. The camp was out of sight, hidden by a rise, but Mace's cavalry would be breaking in amongst it by now.
They pushed closer and closer; two-fifty yards, two hundred. Infantry moved up to oppose them, men with spear and shield, armoured in mail and leather-lined jacks. They halted to dress lines again, just out of bowshot. She dismounted, tossing her reins to Boudace and tucking her horse pistols through her sash, and accepted the pole-axe the page-girl passed to her, then jogged up to her position at the head of the pike block. They were her men too, now, and they needed an experienced commander. Her armour rattled and clicked and scraped.
At a hundred and fifty yards out, the arrows went up, though not many. They must have already spent most of their arrows, and been shooting with tired arms, because most of them thudded down short, except for a man off to her right who started screaming and didn't stop.
"Hold fire, hold fire!" Tane barked, seeing a few men beginning to level their matchlocks.
Reserve it to fifty yards or so, it'll tear right through their shields. Follow up with push of pike. Fire and shock.
The other officers, goldcloak men mostly, echoed the order. They moved in, closer and closer. The Western foot formed a shieldwall, as Tyrell archers began shooting back. Behind them, to her left she could see knights flying the lion of Lannister tangled up with Stannis's own reserves.
They shuffled in to fifty yards. "Open fire! Two ranks volleys, countermarch!" Tane roared. The pikes kept advancing as the calivers opened fire to barks of "Make ready! Present! Fire! Countermarch!" from the company officers.
She saw men falling and others beginning to back up. A second volley came in, and a third; by the time the 9th and 10th ranks had fired the 1st and 2nd should have reloaded. There was a bang, different to a gunshot, and screaming, and yells of "Put it out! Put it out!".
Matchlock must have cooked off someones ammunition.
She forced herself to concentrate on leading the pikes.
"Present!" Tane yelled as they came into 20 yards. Wood clattered around her as the pikemen lowered their weapons, the tips swaying from the natural flex of the wood. She gripped her pole-axe tighter, slammed her visor down and shifted into a high guard, butt-spike levelled at the face and axe blade chambered back to cut. The officers in the shield wall were scrambling to fill up the gaps that had been shot in it, but the volleys were coming in faster than they could close them. Her heart was hammering faster and faster, her vision narrowing down as the battle rush set in. Everything seemed to take an eternity, and an instant.
The Lannister men were shrinking away, terrified, as the pikemen pressed forwards to push of pike. Their tall oaken shields caught the pikes, locking them into a shoving match. Tane roared encouragement, watching for westermen trying to break through. A few of the men began to throw their spears, and they came down amongst the silvercloaks, biting flesh or coming shaft first as they deflected off raised pikes. Tane batted one away with her haft; another hit her on the helmet, making her vision jar. The pikes pushed forwards as the Lannisters gave ground. A wounded man, felled by a gunshot, lurched up and rushed her, dagger draw, hunched over to get under the forest of shafts. She jumped back, braining him with her axe as his dagger slashed thin air; moving on trained instinct. The clack of wood on wood was constant, as was the yells and grunting and the screaming of the wounded.
She glanced across to either side, trying to watch for flankers through the tangle of wood and bodies. Her own vision was narrowed; the usual effects of the battle rush combined with her bloody visor.
Why didn't I bring my lobster-pot like a sensible person?
Part of the Lannister foot broke out of their shieldwall and rushed in on the left of the pike block, trying to push back the shot then turn a vulnerable flank.
She slammed her visor up, to avoid muffling her voice. "Halberdiers left, shift left!"
There was no need. The Grenadiers under Gryff come crashing in. She saw a group of men fall down and go tumbling back like they were on a steep hill and a man turning on his own side in a frenzy as the war witch Morgan got to work, then the Grenadiers going in through the gaps before turning in on the troops facing her pike block, firing their pistols at point blank range. Swarms of calivermen with swords drawn followed them. She saw Sace break the lance her banner was mounted on against a knight's cuirass, sending him tumbling from his saddle, saw Gryff's short pollaxe kicking up a fine red mist, saw Morgan crush the mind of a man who came at her with a spear. The line began to collapse into chaos, not quite routing but getting there.
She pressed forwards into the fray, pikemen with their swords drawn and halberdiers following her, a cavalry officer's instincts to charge and pursue taking over. They were beginning to break now. Some primal instinct inside her screamed they are not rivals, not peers now. They are prey.
She picked out a man to her front and rushed him. She beat his spear offline, hooked the man's shield out of the way, rammed a thrust through his face, then hacked at his head to make sure he stayed down. A spear thrust scraped off her pauldron, sending up sparks, and then she was fighting two to one, against an old man and a boy, both with spears and shields, parrying furiously, fearing for a moment that they might be able to charge and overpower her if they pressed their advantage. She tensed to try and turn the tables; a rush left, striking at the old man's unshielded side, putting his body inbetween her and the son, but before she could do that a horse knocked the boy flat, and the old man turned to catch a blow from the rider on his shield only for Tane to chop at the mail protecting his neck. He crumpled, stunned, the blow like a punch to the trachea, and she stabbed him in the face to finish him off.
She glanced up at the rider and recognized her; Blodwen, an arrow sticking out of her buff coat, barely noticed. She called out a warning; "He's up!", and Tane turned to see the boy getting up with a hatchet in his hand and then going down again as a halberdier thrust through his studded leather jerkin. She made to attack a fourth man, but he turned and fled as she came at him. He left it too late. She put an axe blow right between his shoulders. He'd brought a shield, but that was no good facing the wrong direction.
The chaos was absolute, the entire left flank of Tywin's army disintegrating. Men with rose banners were on the ridge that Tywin's reserves had occupied, men with stags were on the positions that Tywin's foot had once held and the lion was flying over a furious cavalry battle to her left as Tywin and Stannis's foot struggled. It was no longer a shieldwall to her front, or a pell-mell, it was a rout, her own men hacking with sword and halberd while the Lannister men began to flee in a human river.
"Restrain pursuit! On me!". She gestured to Sace to pull in. The cornet stared at her blankly for a moment, her sword dripping red, then began yelling to the Grenadiers as she realized what was going on.
It took what seemed to be forever to get her troops back into order and resume an orderly advance, trudging over screaming wounded, wheeling to support the cavalry engaged in melee. Trying to do that got the poor silvercloaks disordered, so they had to spend more time getting them back into their ranks and files before advancing. By that time, the fight on the left was over, Lannister men fleeing in all directions or being swarmed by opponents who now outnumbered them. A dozen knights came galloping down towards them, the sun shining off their golden armour, one of them discarding a banner with the lion of Lannister on it as they came. Her shot put a volley into them, unhorsing half, felling another man and sending the rest scampering.
The fallen men began to rise, at least the ones who hadn't broken anything in the fall, while more knights came galloping down behind them. The silvercloaks made ready for another volley, but she saw the stags on some of those knight's livery and called cease fire.
Why can't these bastards decide on uniforms or at least field signs?
They swarmed in around the downed knights, relieving them of their weapons, gauntlets and helmets. She called halt and marched out ahead, hoping to claim her battalion's prisoners. One of the second group of knights, she saw, had a golden crown upon his helmet, half hacked away.
Stannis.
"Orders, your Grace?" Tane asked as she jogged up to him.
He turned to her and raised his visor. As she got closer, she saw the blood running down his right arm, and a dent over his chest that she would have taken for a gunshot anywhere else. A couched lance, or crossbow bolt. Maybe a mace.
He waved at the battlefield; at the rivers of broken men running for their lives, at the men still in formation, fighting to the last or too distracted by the threat to their front to notice the threat to their flanks and rear, at the corpses, some thrown about in heaps, others scattered.
"Finish them." he said coldly. "Then pursue until the sun comes down, and regroup here."
Tane nodded and marched back to her men, calling for a horse.
No Greater Fury-Brynden III
- Location
- Brisbane
They saw the smoke and the glow before they saw Greenhill, embers rising on updrafts from the fires consuming the town.
Stannis got there first, or Renly, gods damn them.
Ned wouldn't be pleased. He'd planned to cut off Tywin's refuges in the north, spare the citizens of Lannisport the horror of a sack, and deflect any accusations of disloyalty after he'd left King's Landing. But if the Baratheon's had already gotten this far north…
The first and last goals were eminently sensible. The second was noble but more trouble than it was forth, and Brynden had his doubts about how well behaved northern troops would be anyway. In any case, Stannis having gotten this far would mean the war was practically already over.
When he and his outriders crested the hill, though, they saw something far worse.
Greyjoy sails were on the beach, dozens of them, with fishing boats and merchant cogs in the small harbour filling the sky with smoke. Parts of the dockfront were burning too, and he could see pitch arrows streaking up in the night sky.
Brynden glanced at Grey Gam, the archer with a fresh scar on his forehead and a bright castle-forged longsword on his belt from the battle on the riverroad.
"Ride fast and tell Lord Stark the Greyjoys are sacking the coast. Now."
As he watched, he saw people fleeing out into the fields and forests, appearing only as specks from this distance, marked out by their torches. Bells were ringing, scarcely audible.
Strike at night, the castle will be like a lighthouse to the reavers, while they won't know what hit them until its too late.
He ordered the scouting party to put out pickets, and to maintain their watch, then dismounted and ordered his men to catch some rest while Ned's forces, hours behind, came up.
Going down onto the plain with only fifty men would do nought but get them killed if the Ironborn were hostile. He had no idea if he was witnessing Balon answering the royal call to arms or the start of a new Greyjoy rebellion, but he had no intent of finding out with a throwing axe through his throat.
*
The Westerland's defences had crumbled. His men, many of them experienced in mountain warfare, had managed to find a path to outflank the Golden Tooth, letting them circumvent the first layer. Sarsfield had surrendered when they'd threatened to return Jaime to them in a catapult; though he suspected they simply wanted an honourable excuse to surrender. Tywin was a dead man walking. They'd found a fresh army encamped at Oxcross, and there was talk of sending the cavalry ahead for a night attack. Ned dismissed it as too risky, so they'd brought up the army for a conventional attack and found they were withdrawing to the south, to defend Lannisport or link up with Tywin.
He'd shadowed them for the better part of a week, operating days ahead of the main Stark army to confirm it.
The chirp of crickets and the occasional flutter of bat wings, familiar sounds from the trail, mixed with the distant sounds of burning wood and dying men. Brynden leaned back against the nearest tree and tried to get some sleep, though as usual the clink of mail and the squeak of leather was too distracting. Some people had the ability to sleep in armour. He was one of them, but he had to be bone tired to do it.
So instead he watched a town being sacked. The castle defenders must have gotten themselves organized, because he could see men struggling on the weirwood walls, lit by torches, and then more fighting in the courtyard. It gradually died out.
Dawn was breaking when the reinforcements caught up with him, five hundred northern horse under the banner of the flayed man. The fighting was still going on in the town and the fields, as a small group of horsemen, raised from some holdfast or another, charged into the town and were thrown back just as unceremoniously. From the ridge, it was little more than a war between ants amidst burning grass. Golden Krakens on a black field flew over the sept, and the towers of the castle's walls, though Greenfield's standards still flew on the weirwood keep.
"The Ironborn?" Roose asked as Brynden rode down to the northmen, shielded from view by the crest of the ridge. His voice was soft, half whispered.
"Yes. They're sacking Greenfield. Sailed right into the harbour at night, pillaging and burning as they came. Ten dragons they'll be raiding all down the coast."
Roose glanced at the rest of his men.
"Well, then, we'll see what they want."
They rode down in a column, pickets out on either side and to the front to stop them running into an ambush. The smoke stung at his eyes. He ignored it; he'd seen and done worse. As they approached, half a dozen Ironborn archers watched them for a while, then fell back.
They drew in closer. He saw that Roose had deployed the rest of his troops deployed up on the ridge, a forest of lances over their heads. A show of strength to keep the bastards honest.
Finally, the Ironborn confronted them. Half a hundred men, spears and bows, marched out, half a dozen men on horses at their head. A brutal looking, bearded man rode at their head, armoured head to toe in steel. Odd for a raider, Brynden thought, but then again the Ironborn were odd people. A white bone hand on red field flew on his banner.
The Ironborn halted as they approached, forcing the northerners to ride up to meet them. An obvious ploy; showing they were the ones in charge. Roose dismounted and marched up, alongside two of his escort and Brynden. An equally obvious ploy: He was unafraid and well protected, but not hiding behind his guards.
"So you would be Roose Bolton?" the Ironborn lord asked, glancing pointedly at the banners.
"Aye. And who would you be?"
"Captain Denys Drumm."
The young man dismounted and shook Roose's hand. He was tall, and younger than he looked. His plate armour had been blackened against rust.
"Well met. I didn't expect to meet wolves when I went hunting lions."
"And I didn't expect to meet Krakens." Roose said.
"What brought you here?" Brynden asked.
"Answering my lord and king's call." he said, his voice betraying no emotions.
But which king? Stannis or Balon?
The Ironborn declared themselves kings at the drop of a hat.
"Are you the only raiders?"
He shrugged, satisfied with himself. "Victarion should be storming Lannisport by now, Asha will be taking Faircastle, Dagmer and Aeron taking the Banefort, and I'll be sailing down to sack Kayce once we're done with this place."
"Is the castle yours?" Roose asked.
"Everything but the keep. Alas, they closed the gates too quickly. No matter, my men have enough gold and women to satisfy them."
They're half wildling themselves, these Ironborn. At this rate, I should take the black. At least then I might end up facing Others instead.
A man rode up behind Drumm. "Captain, the men in the keep want to negotiate. But only if they get to talk to the Northerners."
Harlaw nodded to Roose. "Well, I think that's your cue."
*
They rode in through the town, or what was left of it. Half a dozen buildings were wrecks, still smouldering; others still burning. The rest of the Ironborn were hauling out loot from the rest of the town, still intact, and stripping corpses. He saw a family hauled out at spearpoint; a husband, wife, an old man, a sobbing daughter, two younger sons. The raiders jeered over which of the women would make better salt wives.
Brynden looked away. He didn't begrudge his men a bit of looting, and burning peasant holdfasts was all well and good if it starved the enemy out faster or forced them to battle. It saved lives in the long run, or at least, that was what the kinder-hearted of his men told each other when they went foraging. But rape was just cruelty for the sake of cruelty, and slavery was forcing people who hated you into your own home.
The men guarding the gatehouse pulled it open as they rode up. It was carved weirwood, bone white, and a wooden face stared out at them with one good eye. The other had an arrow through it. Greenfield Castle had only a low wall, surrounding a keep of weirwood, up on a central mound. Bodies, ironborn and western, littered the slopes leading up to the hall.
"They tried to close the gates, but I put my sword through the gap and took one of the men's hands off. Had to fight half squeezed through the gap." Drumm said, dismounting and kicking a severed arm out of the way. "They died bravely, but they died all the same."
Brynden glanced up at the castle, still flying the Greenfield banner-surprisingly enough, a green field surrounded by white walls-while Roose trotted his horse up to the gates. Brynden rode with him.
"I believe you wanted to offer terms?" he called.
The gate creaked open and an aging man in armour stalked out, hands raised, though he had sword and dagger on his belt, and crossbowmen lurking in the shadows behind the castle gate.
"To the Northmen, aye. Stark or Umber or Bolton, one of the good houses. Not to these reavers."
"If you yield the castle, I'll escort you and all your family to safety. We've taken many prisoners and they've all been treated well." Roose said.
"I'll not leave my servants and soldiers behind to be butchered and raped. I want my whole household escorted out, and anyone in the town who hasn't been murdered already. I'll pay the ransoms for any prisoners you've taken."
"You're in no position to negotiate. We have you surrounded, and even if you defeat us Stannis and the North will crush you. Yield the castle, Roose offered you good terms." Drumm called.
"What's a lord with no smallfolk, no knights and no castle? Just some peasant with two names. If you don't like my terms, you can try and storm the castle. You've no siege weapons and weirwood doesn't burn easy. I'll kill more of your men than you kill of mine. But I'll yield if you protect my people, Bolton."
"Your terms are reasonable." Roose said. "Though I must ask that your family remain… guests of the North, until hostilities cease."
Greenfield gritted his teeth.
"Being a highborn hostage is a sight better than being an ironscum thrall. I'll yield on those terms."
"I'll arrange to have my men escort you out by noon." Roose said.
They had the stick of two very important hostages, the carrot of protection from the Ironborn for those who surrendered quickly, and the simple reality of lords wanting a way off Tywin's sinking ship with their dignity intact. Tywin was done. The only question now was the treatment of the vanquished and the diving of the spoils.
Stannis got there first, or Renly, gods damn them.
Ned wouldn't be pleased. He'd planned to cut off Tywin's refuges in the north, spare the citizens of Lannisport the horror of a sack, and deflect any accusations of disloyalty after he'd left King's Landing. But if the Baratheon's had already gotten this far north…
The first and last goals were eminently sensible. The second was noble but more trouble than it was forth, and Brynden had his doubts about how well behaved northern troops would be anyway. In any case, Stannis having gotten this far would mean the war was practically already over.
When he and his outriders crested the hill, though, they saw something far worse.
Greyjoy sails were on the beach, dozens of them, with fishing boats and merchant cogs in the small harbour filling the sky with smoke. Parts of the dockfront were burning too, and he could see pitch arrows streaking up in the night sky.
Brynden glanced at Grey Gam, the archer with a fresh scar on his forehead and a bright castle-forged longsword on his belt from the battle on the riverroad.
"Ride fast and tell Lord Stark the Greyjoys are sacking the coast. Now."
As he watched, he saw people fleeing out into the fields and forests, appearing only as specks from this distance, marked out by their torches. Bells were ringing, scarcely audible.
Strike at night, the castle will be like a lighthouse to the reavers, while they won't know what hit them until its too late.
He ordered the scouting party to put out pickets, and to maintain their watch, then dismounted and ordered his men to catch some rest while Ned's forces, hours behind, came up.
Going down onto the plain with only fifty men would do nought but get them killed if the Ironborn were hostile. He had no idea if he was witnessing Balon answering the royal call to arms or the start of a new Greyjoy rebellion, but he had no intent of finding out with a throwing axe through his throat.
*
The Westerland's defences had crumbled. His men, many of them experienced in mountain warfare, had managed to find a path to outflank the Golden Tooth, letting them circumvent the first layer. Sarsfield had surrendered when they'd threatened to return Jaime to them in a catapult; though he suspected they simply wanted an honourable excuse to surrender. Tywin was a dead man walking. They'd found a fresh army encamped at Oxcross, and there was talk of sending the cavalry ahead for a night attack. Ned dismissed it as too risky, so they'd brought up the army for a conventional attack and found they were withdrawing to the south, to defend Lannisport or link up with Tywin.
He'd shadowed them for the better part of a week, operating days ahead of the main Stark army to confirm it.
The chirp of crickets and the occasional flutter of bat wings, familiar sounds from the trail, mixed with the distant sounds of burning wood and dying men. Brynden leaned back against the nearest tree and tried to get some sleep, though as usual the clink of mail and the squeak of leather was too distracting. Some people had the ability to sleep in armour. He was one of them, but he had to be bone tired to do it.
So instead he watched a town being sacked. The castle defenders must have gotten themselves organized, because he could see men struggling on the weirwood walls, lit by torches, and then more fighting in the courtyard. It gradually died out.
Dawn was breaking when the reinforcements caught up with him, five hundred northern horse under the banner of the flayed man. The fighting was still going on in the town and the fields, as a small group of horsemen, raised from some holdfast or another, charged into the town and were thrown back just as unceremoniously. From the ridge, it was little more than a war between ants amidst burning grass. Golden Krakens on a black field flew over the sept, and the towers of the castle's walls, though Greenfield's standards still flew on the weirwood keep.
"The Ironborn?" Roose asked as Brynden rode down to the northmen, shielded from view by the crest of the ridge. His voice was soft, half whispered.
"Yes. They're sacking Greenfield. Sailed right into the harbour at night, pillaging and burning as they came. Ten dragons they'll be raiding all down the coast."
Roose glanced at the rest of his men.
"Well, then, we'll see what they want."
They rode down in a column, pickets out on either side and to the front to stop them running into an ambush. The smoke stung at his eyes. He ignored it; he'd seen and done worse. As they approached, half a dozen Ironborn archers watched them for a while, then fell back.
They drew in closer. He saw that Roose had deployed the rest of his troops deployed up on the ridge, a forest of lances over their heads. A show of strength to keep the bastards honest.
Finally, the Ironborn confronted them. Half a hundred men, spears and bows, marched out, half a dozen men on horses at their head. A brutal looking, bearded man rode at their head, armoured head to toe in steel. Odd for a raider, Brynden thought, but then again the Ironborn were odd people. A white bone hand on red field flew on his banner.
The Ironborn halted as they approached, forcing the northerners to ride up to meet them. An obvious ploy; showing they were the ones in charge. Roose dismounted and marched up, alongside two of his escort and Brynden. An equally obvious ploy: He was unafraid and well protected, but not hiding behind his guards.
"So you would be Roose Bolton?" the Ironborn lord asked, glancing pointedly at the banners.
"Aye. And who would you be?"
"Captain Denys Drumm."
The young man dismounted and shook Roose's hand. He was tall, and younger than he looked. His plate armour had been blackened against rust.
"Well met. I didn't expect to meet wolves when I went hunting lions."
"And I didn't expect to meet Krakens." Roose said.
"What brought you here?" Brynden asked.
"Answering my lord and king's call." he said, his voice betraying no emotions.
But which king? Stannis or Balon?
The Ironborn declared themselves kings at the drop of a hat.
"Are you the only raiders?"
He shrugged, satisfied with himself. "Victarion should be storming Lannisport by now, Asha will be taking Faircastle, Dagmer and Aeron taking the Banefort, and I'll be sailing down to sack Kayce once we're done with this place."
"Is the castle yours?" Roose asked.
"Everything but the keep. Alas, they closed the gates too quickly. No matter, my men have enough gold and women to satisfy them."
They're half wildling themselves, these Ironborn. At this rate, I should take the black. At least then I might end up facing Others instead.
A man rode up behind Drumm. "Captain, the men in the keep want to negotiate. But only if they get to talk to the Northerners."
Harlaw nodded to Roose. "Well, I think that's your cue."
*
They rode in through the town, or what was left of it. Half a dozen buildings were wrecks, still smouldering; others still burning. The rest of the Ironborn were hauling out loot from the rest of the town, still intact, and stripping corpses. He saw a family hauled out at spearpoint; a husband, wife, an old man, a sobbing daughter, two younger sons. The raiders jeered over which of the women would make better salt wives.
Brynden looked away. He didn't begrudge his men a bit of looting, and burning peasant holdfasts was all well and good if it starved the enemy out faster or forced them to battle. It saved lives in the long run, or at least, that was what the kinder-hearted of his men told each other when they went foraging. But rape was just cruelty for the sake of cruelty, and slavery was forcing people who hated you into your own home.
The men guarding the gatehouse pulled it open as they rode up. It was carved weirwood, bone white, and a wooden face stared out at them with one good eye. The other had an arrow through it. Greenfield Castle had only a low wall, surrounding a keep of weirwood, up on a central mound. Bodies, ironborn and western, littered the slopes leading up to the hall.
"They tried to close the gates, but I put my sword through the gap and took one of the men's hands off. Had to fight half squeezed through the gap." Drumm said, dismounting and kicking a severed arm out of the way. "They died bravely, but they died all the same."
Brynden glanced up at the castle, still flying the Greenfield banner-surprisingly enough, a green field surrounded by white walls-while Roose trotted his horse up to the gates. Brynden rode with him.
"I believe you wanted to offer terms?" he called.
The gate creaked open and an aging man in armour stalked out, hands raised, though he had sword and dagger on his belt, and crossbowmen lurking in the shadows behind the castle gate.
"To the Northmen, aye. Stark or Umber or Bolton, one of the good houses. Not to these reavers."
"If you yield the castle, I'll escort you and all your family to safety. We've taken many prisoners and they've all been treated well." Roose said.
"I'll not leave my servants and soldiers behind to be butchered and raped. I want my whole household escorted out, and anyone in the town who hasn't been murdered already. I'll pay the ransoms for any prisoners you've taken."
"You're in no position to negotiate. We have you surrounded, and even if you defeat us Stannis and the North will crush you. Yield the castle, Roose offered you good terms." Drumm called.
"What's a lord with no smallfolk, no knights and no castle? Just some peasant with two names. If you don't like my terms, you can try and storm the castle. You've no siege weapons and weirwood doesn't burn easy. I'll kill more of your men than you kill of mine. But I'll yield if you protect my people, Bolton."
"Your terms are reasonable." Roose said. "Though I must ask that your family remain… guests of the North, until hostilities cease."
Greenfield gritted his teeth.
"Being a highborn hostage is a sight better than being an ironscum thrall. I'll yield on those terms."
"I'll arrange to have my men escort you out by noon." Roose said.
They had the stick of two very important hostages, the carrot of protection from the Ironborn for those who surrendered quickly, and the simple reality of lords wanting a way off Tywin's sinking ship with their dignity intact. Tywin was done. The only question now was the treatment of the vanquished and the diving of the spoils.
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No Greater Fury: Tywin III
- Location
- Brisbane
A swords length. That was how close he had come to killing Stannis, in the tumult of that desperate final charge, before the tides of war swept them apart.
Now his army was broken, scattered, their hostages lost-he had no clue if the cutthroat's he'd sent had managed to slit their throats before being overcome-and on the run. Lannisport was burning, the smoke from it stinging their eyes on the march north.
The Starks were to the north, their outriders already brushing up against the walls of Casterly rock like probing fingers. He had scarcely 10,000 men left, many of them wounded, of his original 40,000 men. The rest were killed in battle or butchered in the rout, captured, wounded badly enough that they had to be left behind, or had fled and never rallied. Stafford had been brained with a mace in the cavalry fight; Ser Addam Marbrand had led a squadron back to beat off pursuers and never returned.
Joffrey had only barely made it out of the camp as Mace's cavalry swept through it, and Tywin had thought him taken for the whole retreat, only to find him already in Casterly rock when his remnants marched there.
He'd had three chances now to kill the leadership of the rebellion, and failed all three.
House Lannister cannot fall. He could not allow that. He had saved House Lannister from his father; now he must save it from his children. The only question was how.
Greyjoy had bent the knee, and were now at once enriching themselves and currying favour with Stannis. Dorne had managed to retain some semblance of independence facing the dragons, by use of knives in the back where spears to the face would not work. Even Targaryen still lived. He knew what had to be done. Smuggle Joffrey out to Essos, to gather supporters and mercenaries, and claim it was his lords doing, not his own. Yield to King Stannis and rebuild his forces, or fight to the death and damage Stannis's as much as possible. When the time came, and Joffrey returned, the west would rise again.
It would be hard. The western ocean was swarming with hostile ships, and they had already blockaded the rock. Joffrey was not like to be stealthy, and would have to travel far overland before reaching Essos. Many of those who would support an exile king would prefer to throw their lot in with the Targaryen's, or were tired of this or that faction begging for their aid. His lords might not support him, Stannis might not accept his surrender, or find a way to take Casterly rock with minimal casualties, the rising of the west might fail just as this one had.
They had no other choice.
*
"M'lord, Stannis's men are bringing in lumber, for catapults and towers." The sergeant said.
"Yes, I can see that quite well already." Tywin said, looking out the window to the sieges lines below. The united forces of the Stormlands and the Reach lay ahead of him, siege camps covering each of the main gates with patrols and pickets moving between them. They'd received panicked ravens from the north, informing them that the ironborn had sacked the rest of the Westerlands and it was crawling with Stark troops. No relief force would be gathered from there. One large enough couldn't be raised anyway, so it was a small loss.
Once the bombardment started, crushing his towers like he'd crushed Tarbeck Hall, and belfries were wheeled up to rake his walls and courtyards with scorpion bolts, they would have to retreat into the rock itself. They could last for a year in there. It wouldn't matter. Stannis would stop them up as sure as he'd stopped up the Reyne's, only Stannis wouldn't even have to flood them. He'd just let time take its course.
Even now, he knew, his lords would be scheming against him, racing to be the one to open the gates to Stannis.
There were only two options now: become the betrayer or betrayed. He knew what must be done.
"My loyal lords." Tywin said, turning back to the remaining nobles. Lord Flement Brax; both his older brothers presumed killed. Lord Roland Crakehall, his face swathed in bandages and his arm in a sling. Kevan Lannister, who had been at his side throughout the entire fight. Lord Leo Lefford, Ser Harywn Sarsfield, half a dozen others. All those of his great lords who had not fled or died.
"I summon you here to decide on our course of action." Tywin said. "We have supplies to feed our current force of 5,000"-he'd sent many of his men away, to reduce the strain on the supplies-"for over a year. Unfortunately, that is irrelevant since help is not coming. All our allies have deserted us. I have not heard word from the Iron Bank or the Faceless Men. The Ironborn have attacked us. Now, we have two options. Fight on for honour and glory, or yield. Which will it be?"
"Fight!" Sarsfield yelled, followed by a "Yield. There is no use laying down our lives for nothing." from Brax. Crakehall supported Sarsfield, and so did Lefford, loyal as ever. The rest supported Brax.
Tywin sighed.
He knew now, at least, who would betray him if it came to that.
All of them, but three.
He needed to get Joffrey out, and soon.
His best chance, he had decided, was to offer to negotiate personally with Stannis and his other lords. Have them ambushed and killed. The next dawn, as the camp tried to work out who was in charge, have Joffrey break out in a cavalry charge and flee, riding hell for leather to escape. With Stannis dead and Renly maimed, there would be anarchy in the seven kingdoms. All the better for Joffrey to escape, gather sellswords, and return triumphant.
"We could have Joffrey break out. A diversionary sally, while a squadron of knights breaks through the siege lines." Kevan said. Kevan had told him of the plan beforehand, and ever his loyal right hand, Kevan had proposed it to the council.
He didn't tell his lords that, though. Instead, he simply explained that they would break Joffrey out, and then yield, letting them surrender with dignity without losing their king. The only one to be told of the assassination part of the plan, outside his own family, would be Ser Melwyn Sarsfield, a second son whose Lord brother was safely at Sarsfield, unable to lead his men in the field due to a badly healed broken hip.
The man was cold blooded, and ambitious, with no chance of inheriting; he would be promised that his archers would ride in the breakout attempt with saddlebags full of Casterly rock gold, ready to be established as a new lord when they returned from Essos with sellswords in tow, to restore order to a land in anarchy.
All of them had their part in the plan; Brax would offer to open negotiations, supposedly to buy them time. Kevan would ride with Joffrey and take the blame for the assassination and breakout. Lefford would probe their defences with sallies to search for the best route out.
They all agreed to the breakout plan, some reluctantly, others enthusiastically. A plan, any plan, was better than waiting to die.
It was a long shot, and they only had one arrow left, but it was their only chance.
The west will rise again.
*
He took Joffrey aside that night after supper, his guards keeping eavesdroppers away.
"You must flee." Tywin hissed. "And await while I regather my forces."
"Casterly rock is impregnable." Joffrey said. "ten men on a wall are worth a hundred on the ground. We'll kill them until he's at wits end, then make him face us in single combat. I'll kill him with my crossbow, or set my dog on him."
"Casterly rock is difficult to assail. That is not the same thing as unassailable. Sooner or later it will fall, or we will be starved out, and I have no intention of you being in there when that time comes."
"You're just an old man, like Selmy, who always wants to run." Joffrey said. "You can run, if you want. I'll hold Casterly rock. I'll defeat Stannis. Robert killed the dragons, I'll kill the usurpers."
"Selmy is the only reason you are not dead or fled with Tommen and Myrcella. I am the only reason that right now, your lords have not turned on you. You would do well to have more respect for your elders."
"I AM YOUR KING! You should have more respect for me!" Joffrey screamed, spittle flying against Tywin's doublet. "I make the plans, not you!"
He pouted like a child whose toy had been taken away.
"Do you want to die, Joffrey Baratheon? If not, I suggest you take my advice."
"I told you, I'll kill them all-"
"Stannis will kill us all, or his men, if you do flee and I do not yield. Stannis will die, but we cannot defeat his whole army. Caution is the better part of valour, if you do not know that you are no better than-"
Joffrey drew his longsword with a yell of "I am no dragon!".
Tywin reacted instantly, grabbing the hilt before the blade had fully cleared the sheath and slamming an open palm into Joffrey's chest, pivoted so his entire body weight was behind it. Joffrey was a good swordsman for his age, but Tywin had experience and long years of training on his side. He fell backwards onto the tiles, looking stunned for a moment before it was replaced by a look of pure rage.
"Sandor. Help the king to his feet. He seems to have lost his balance." Tywin said, his voice flat. Sandor stalked over, chuckling darkly, but Joffrey jerked his hand away and scrambled to his feet, snarling.
"He hit me!" Joffrey screamed.
"You drew on him first." Sandor grunted. "If you don't want to get hit, don't start fights you can't win. And if you can't win, yield or run."
"You would do well to remember that, Joffrey." Tywin said, standing over him, still holding his sword. "Stannis will die by the crossbow, just like you wanted, before you break out to Essos, ready to return as the slandered heir of the good king Robert, to save a realm in anarchy. It is not cowardice. It is cunning. And you will break out."
Now his army was broken, scattered, their hostages lost-he had no clue if the cutthroat's he'd sent had managed to slit their throats before being overcome-and on the run. Lannisport was burning, the smoke from it stinging their eyes on the march north.
The Starks were to the north, their outriders already brushing up against the walls of Casterly rock like probing fingers. He had scarcely 10,000 men left, many of them wounded, of his original 40,000 men. The rest were killed in battle or butchered in the rout, captured, wounded badly enough that they had to be left behind, or had fled and never rallied. Stafford had been brained with a mace in the cavalry fight; Ser Addam Marbrand had led a squadron back to beat off pursuers and never returned.
Joffrey had only barely made it out of the camp as Mace's cavalry swept through it, and Tywin had thought him taken for the whole retreat, only to find him already in Casterly rock when his remnants marched there.
He'd had three chances now to kill the leadership of the rebellion, and failed all three.
House Lannister cannot fall. He could not allow that. He had saved House Lannister from his father; now he must save it from his children. The only question was how.
Greyjoy had bent the knee, and were now at once enriching themselves and currying favour with Stannis. Dorne had managed to retain some semblance of independence facing the dragons, by use of knives in the back where spears to the face would not work. Even Targaryen still lived. He knew what had to be done. Smuggle Joffrey out to Essos, to gather supporters and mercenaries, and claim it was his lords doing, not his own. Yield to King Stannis and rebuild his forces, or fight to the death and damage Stannis's as much as possible. When the time came, and Joffrey returned, the west would rise again.
It would be hard. The western ocean was swarming with hostile ships, and they had already blockaded the rock. Joffrey was not like to be stealthy, and would have to travel far overland before reaching Essos. Many of those who would support an exile king would prefer to throw their lot in with the Targaryen's, or were tired of this or that faction begging for their aid. His lords might not support him, Stannis might not accept his surrender, or find a way to take Casterly rock with minimal casualties, the rising of the west might fail just as this one had.
They had no other choice.
*
"M'lord, Stannis's men are bringing in lumber, for catapults and towers." The sergeant said.
"Yes, I can see that quite well already." Tywin said, looking out the window to the sieges lines below. The united forces of the Stormlands and the Reach lay ahead of him, siege camps covering each of the main gates with patrols and pickets moving between them. They'd received panicked ravens from the north, informing them that the ironborn had sacked the rest of the Westerlands and it was crawling with Stark troops. No relief force would be gathered from there. One large enough couldn't be raised anyway, so it was a small loss.
Once the bombardment started, crushing his towers like he'd crushed Tarbeck Hall, and belfries were wheeled up to rake his walls and courtyards with scorpion bolts, they would have to retreat into the rock itself. They could last for a year in there. It wouldn't matter. Stannis would stop them up as sure as he'd stopped up the Reyne's, only Stannis wouldn't even have to flood them. He'd just let time take its course.
Even now, he knew, his lords would be scheming against him, racing to be the one to open the gates to Stannis.
There were only two options now: become the betrayer or betrayed. He knew what must be done.
"My loyal lords." Tywin said, turning back to the remaining nobles. Lord Flement Brax; both his older brothers presumed killed. Lord Roland Crakehall, his face swathed in bandages and his arm in a sling. Kevan Lannister, who had been at his side throughout the entire fight. Lord Leo Lefford, Ser Harywn Sarsfield, half a dozen others. All those of his great lords who had not fled or died.
"I summon you here to decide on our course of action." Tywin said. "We have supplies to feed our current force of 5,000"-he'd sent many of his men away, to reduce the strain on the supplies-"for over a year. Unfortunately, that is irrelevant since help is not coming. All our allies have deserted us. I have not heard word from the Iron Bank or the Faceless Men. The Ironborn have attacked us. Now, we have two options. Fight on for honour and glory, or yield. Which will it be?"
"Fight!" Sarsfield yelled, followed by a "Yield. There is no use laying down our lives for nothing." from Brax. Crakehall supported Sarsfield, and so did Lefford, loyal as ever. The rest supported Brax.
Tywin sighed.
He knew now, at least, who would betray him if it came to that.
All of them, but three.
He needed to get Joffrey out, and soon.
His best chance, he had decided, was to offer to negotiate personally with Stannis and his other lords. Have them ambushed and killed. The next dawn, as the camp tried to work out who was in charge, have Joffrey break out in a cavalry charge and flee, riding hell for leather to escape. With Stannis dead and Renly maimed, there would be anarchy in the seven kingdoms. All the better for Joffrey to escape, gather sellswords, and return triumphant.
"We could have Joffrey break out. A diversionary sally, while a squadron of knights breaks through the siege lines." Kevan said. Kevan had told him of the plan beforehand, and ever his loyal right hand, Kevan had proposed it to the council.
He didn't tell his lords that, though. Instead, he simply explained that they would break Joffrey out, and then yield, letting them surrender with dignity without losing their king. The only one to be told of the assassination part of the plan, outside his own family, would be Ser Melwyn Sarsfield, a second son whose Lord brother was safely at Sarsfield, unable to lead his men in the field due to a badly healed broken hip.
The man was cold blooded, and ambitious, with no chance of inheriting; he would be promised that his archers would ride in the breakout attempt with saddlebags full of Casterly rock gold, ready to be established as a new lord when they returned from Essos with sellswords in tow, to restore order to a land in anarchy.
All of them had their part in the plan; Brax would offer to open negotiations, supposedly to buy them time. Kevan would ride with Joffrey and take the blame for the assassination and breakout. Lefford would probe their defences with sallies to search for the best route out.
They all agreed to the breakout plan, some reluctantly, others enthusiastically. A plan, any plan, was better than waiting to die.
It was a long shot, and they only had one arrow left, but it was their only chance.
The west will rise again.
*
He took Joffrey aside that night after supper, his guards keeping eavesdroppers away.
"You must flee." Tywin hissed. "And await while I regather my forces."
"Casterly rock is impregnable." Joffrey said. "ten men on a wall are worth a hundred on the ground. We'll kill them until he's at wits end, then make him face us in single combat. I'll kill him with my crossbow, or set my dog on him."
"Casterly rock is difficult to assail. That is not the same thing as unassailable. Sooner or later it will fall, or we will be starved out, and I have no intention of you being in there when that time comes."
"You're just an old man, like Selmy, who always wants to run." Joffrey said. "You can run, if you want. I'll hold Casterly rock. I'll defeat Stannis. Robert killed the dragons, I'll kill the usurpers."
"Selmy is the only reason you are not dead or fled with Tommen and Myrcella. I am the only reason that right now, your lords have not turned on you. You would do well to have more respect for your elders."
"I AM YOUR KING! You should have more respect for me!" Joffrey screamed, spittle flying against Tywin's doublet. "I make the plans, not you!"
He pouted like a child whose toy had been taken away.
"Do you want to die, Joffrey Baratheon? If not, I suggest you take my advice."
"I told you, I'll kill them all-"
"Stannis will kill us all, or his men, if you do flee and I do not yield. Stannis will die, but we cannot defeat his whole army. Caution is the better part of valour, if you do not know that you are no better than-"
Joffrey drew his longsword with a yell of "I am no dragon!".
Tywin reacted instantly, grabbing the hilt before the blade had fully cleared the sheath and slamming an open palm into Joffrey's chest, pivoted so his entire body weight was behind it. Joffrey was a good swordsman for his age, but Tywin had experience and long years of training on his side. He fell backwards onto the tiles, looking stunned for a moment before it was replaced by a look of pure rage.
"Sandor. Help the king to his feet. He seems to have lost his balance." Tywin said, his voice flat. Sandor stalked over, chuckling darkly, but Joffrey jerked his hand away and scrambled to his feet, snarling.
"He hit me!" Joffrey screamed.
"You drew on him first." Sandor grunted. "If you don't want to get hit, don't start fights you can't win. And if you can't win, yield or run."
"You would do well to remember that, Joffrey." Tywin said, standing over him, still holding his sword. "Stannis will die by the crossbow, just like you wanted, before you break out to Essos, ready to return as the slandered heir of the good king Robert, to save a realm in anarchy. It is not cowardice. It is cunning. And you will break out."
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Wonder how much of the Joffery plot is wishful thinking, I kind of doubt he could pull off a Return of the King when left in charge by himself. Hes got no leadership ability, so more likely he's going to be somebody's sockpuppet...except he's too dumb and stubborn to make a good puppet even.
No Greater Fury: Joffrey III
- Location
- Brisbane
"It is time." Sandor said, opening the door to Joffrey's candle lit room.
He hated the rock. He hated the dark passages packed with too many men, the dark passages, the candlelight, the smoke. His eyes stung and watered. He wanted to spend as much time as he could on the outer walls, shooting at the traitors with his crossbow, but Tywin had forbidden him and demanded he hide within the rock itself.
That was just like the cowardly old man, of course. He was a traitor, he knew it. Tywin wanted to kill Stannis, and then get him killed, thus letting himself rule Westeros for himself. Joffrey would not let that happen. He had a plan and Tywin, by asking him to watch Stannis die, was going to help make it happen.
He scrambled to his feet, putting on his best clothes and fetching his crossbow and a quiverfull of bolts, and the sword Tywin had taken from him then handed back like an old fool. Tywin wouldn't know what hit him. The thought was enough to make him smile.
His dog stomped ahead of him, armour rattling, carrying his lantern.
He was a traitor too. He had laughed when he'd seen his king assaulted in front of him. There would be consequences.
They came down through the Rock, through the twisting passages packed too tightly with soldiers, past servants who bowed and muttered "Your grace" when they saw him. They marched through the hall of heroes, lined with a thousand gilded swords and suits of armour, and out through the front gates. The sunlight stung his eyes as they marched into the yard. Tywin was already on horseback, clad in his own armour, while the archers of House Sarsfield milled about, stringing longbows and winding crossbows.
"You intend to witness the negotiations?" Tywin asked, eyebrow raised.
Joffrey nodded. "I want to see you kill Lord Stannis."
Someone snickered behind him, and Joffrey and every other archer on the wall turned to glare at him.
Tywin glanced at the crossbow. "Don't shoot until the signal is given. A torch, from the left tower." He pointed at one of the towers that protected the screening wall. "Ser Harwyn will throw it, when the time is right, overseen by Kevan. I will go forth and negotiate. It is a risk, but it is a risk that must be taken. Now, go."
Joffrey climbed up the walls, his legs hurting by the end, and peered over the battlements. The trebuchets were half built, and a pair of belfries, while trenches and mantlets sheltering the attackers from the hail of scorpion bolts launched from the rock proper slowly crept forwards. They'd take the outer walls, and then what? They'd have the stone hulk itself to storm. They could last for years. Tywin was just trying to trick him into fleeing.
The archers marched up onto the walls around him, arrows rattling in their quivers. Their armour stunk to high heaven, though not as badly as it would have in the tunnels. Some of them looked at him queerly, and he heard mutters of "What's the king doing here?" and "Should we ask Harywn?"
Smallfolk. So little faith in their betters.
Below, trumpets blew, and Tywin Lannister rode forth, alone. Stannis rode out to meet him, a good 300 yards from at the edges of scorpion-shot. He was armoured head to toe, but had taken off his helmet. Joffrey fidgeted in annoyance as he came closer and closer, taking seemingly forever, Tywin staying in the shadow of the walls. Finally, Tywin trotted out to meet him, well within bowshot.
They would be talking, babbling about peace and mercy, he knew, though they were out of earshot. The men crouched behind the crenulations, glancing at the left tower.
Any moment now.
Both men were still ahorse, circling, watching, talking. His trigger finger was itching. One bolt amongst hundreds, one shooter amongst dozens, going astray would not be traced, and if it was, a good king could face his enemies himself. He had to do it himself. The footpad he'd sent to kill that cripple had failed. His armies had failed him, as had his family. He would have to be like the warrior kings of old, with only his sword and his cunning to win his crown when all else had failed. He remembered what Robert had told him, that a king was strong and brave and cunning, and must rely on that above all else, else he was no true king. And Joffrey was a true king.
A horn blew, and a torch dropped. He stepped up over the battlements, aiming. He'd never practised much with the crossbow, but it couldn't be that hard. Point and shoot. He brought it down to aim at Tywin, his hands shaking, forcing himself to breath steadily, hoping no-one noticed who he aimed at. Tywin stood still, while Stannis began to turn to flee, having seen the archers taking aim.
He deserves it. The traitor deserves it. Kill him! He'd do the same to you.
He pulled the trigger, as did half a hundred others. The thrum of the crossbows made him almost jump, as the bolts whirred down around them. Tywin's horse twisted and fell, while Stannis kept galloping.
He leaned over the battlements. Tywin was staggering to his feet, his surcoat like a hedgehog, his horse twitching and dying beneath him. He heard a strangled scream, and looked up just in time to see a knight in gilded armour plunging from the tower, and heard someone yelling for his men to open the gates again.
What? Are they helping me? Do they know Tywin's a traitor, and Kevan too?
He saw a scorpion bolt take Tywin through the chest, and then someone grabbed him, pulling him back.
"Unhand me!" he yelled, but someone kicked out his leg and he went to his knees.
He snarled in fury, clutching for his sword, but his hand was twisted behind his back and he was slammed to the floor, his face ground against the splintery boardwalks. He screamed for Sandor, but no answer came.
"Do we kill him? Do we kill him?" someone yelled him, then "Save Stannis the trouble!" and a cut off, gurgling scream. "Get him hostage! Get him hostage!" Feet came pounding past his head, and then yells of "Secure the gates!" and "You fucking heard the captain, get to cover." were all around him.
Are there no loyal men left?
"No, please! Mercy! Mercy! I am your trueborn king!" Joffrey screamed, desperate, terrified.
An arrow landed in the floorboards, quivering, an inch from his head.
"Fuck it, move to the tower!"
He was wrenched to his feet, a burly arm almost crushing his neck, and bundled along amidst a river of men in mail and boiled leather. He saw Sandor up ahead of him and called out to him again, but he was grappling with a man, using him as a human shield against other archers looking for an opening to shoot him. He turned and saw Joffrey, and then turned and ran, wordlessly, disappearing from view.
There were archers shooting at them, up on the battlements carved into the rock itself that overlooked the walls, but he saw fighting up there as well, swords rising and falling.
"No!" Joffrey screamed. He was alone. He was alone, in a world of traitors who had killed his mother and father and taken his home, who had hounded him to the ends of the earth, who had stolen his crown.
"Traitors! Save your king!" he cried. No one answered. They threw him into the tower, cutting away his sword belt.
"What now?" someone asked.
"Brax and Lefford will be securing the main gate and spreading the word that Tywin was going to murder Stannis in cold blood, but we killed him instead, and that we'd best all surrender." An archer growled. "Best lie is the truth. Should just sit tight here."
"Should get the king out to Stannis as quick as possible. He'll like that."
"If you let me go, I'll give you all the gold in Casterly rock. Listen! I am your-"
He was silenced by a blow that cracked across his face. His vision swam, he felt blood filling his mouth, and worse pain than anything he'd ever felt before, like his head was dipped in wildfire.
A man in Sarsfield colours, old, his face pox marked, loomed over him.
"Because, son, nothing good happens to those who lose the game of thrones. And me and my boys don't intend to be on the losing side."
His boot slammed into the side of Joffrey's head, and then there was nothingness.
He hated the rock. He hated the dark passages packed with too many men, the dark passages, the candlelight, the smoke. His eyes stung and watered. He wanted to spend as much time as he could on the outer walls, shooting at the traitors with his crossbow, but Tywin had forbidden him and demanded he hide within the rock itself.
That was just like the cowardly old man, of course. He was a traitor, he knew it. Tywin wanted to kill Stannis, and then get him killed, thus letting himself rule Westeros for himself. Joffrey would not let that happen. He had a plan and Tywin, by asking him to watch Stannis die, was going to help make it happen.
He scrambled to his feet, putting on his best clothes and fetching his crossbow and a quiverfull of bolts, and the sword Tywin had taken from him then handed back like an old fool. Tywin wouldn't know what hit him. The thought was enough to make him smile.
His dog stomped ahead of him, armour rattling, carrying his lantern.
He was a traitor too. He had laughed when he'd seen his king assaulted in front of him. There would be consequences.
They came down through the Rock, through the twisting passages packed too tightly with soldiers, past servants who bowed and muttered "Your grace" when they saw him. They marched through the hall of heroes, lined with a thousand gilded swords and suits of armour, and out through the front gates. The sunlight stung his eyes as they marched into the yard. Tywin was already on horseback, clad in his own armour, while the archers of House Sarsfield milled about, stringing longbows and winding crossbows.
"You intend to witness the negotiations?" Tywin asked, eyebrow raised.
Joffrey nodded. "I want to see you kill Lord Stannis."
Someone snickered behind him, and Joffrey and every other archer on the wall turned to glare at him.
Tywin glanced at the crossbow. "Don't shoot until the signal is given. A torch, from the left tower." He pointed at one of the towers that protected the screening wall. "Ser Harwyn will throw it, when the time is right, overseen by Kevan. I will go forth and negotiate. It is a risk, but it is a risk that must be taken. Now, go."
Joffrey climbed up the walls, his legs hurting by the end, and peered over the battlements. The trebuchets were half built, and a pair of belfries, while trenches and mantlets sheltering the attackers from the hail of scorpion bolts launched from the rock proper slowly crept forwards. They'd take the outer walls, and then what? They'd have the stone hulk itself to storm. They could last for years. Tywin was just trying to trick him into fleeing.
The archers marched up onto the walls around him, arrows rattling in their quivers. Their armour stunk to high heaven, though not as badly as it would have in the tunnels. Some of them looked at him queerly, and he heard mutters of "What's the king doing here?" and "Should we ask Harywn?"
Smallfolk. So little faith in their betters.
Below, trumpets blew, and Tywin Lannister rode forth, alone. Stannis rode out to meet him, a good 300 yards from at the edges of scorpion-shot. He was armoured head to toe, but had taken off his helmet. Joffrey fidgeted in annoyance as he came closer and closer, taking seemingly forever, Tywin staying in the shadow of the walls. Finally, Tywin trotted out to meet him, well within bowshot.
They would be talking, babbling about peace and mercy, he knew, though they were out of earshot. The men crouched behind the crenulations, glancing at the left tower.
Any moment now.
Both men were still ahorse, circling, watching, talking. His trigger finger was itching. One bolt amongst hundreds, one shooter amongst dozens, going astray would not be traced, and if it was, a good king could face his enemies himself. He had to do it himself. The footpad he'd sent to kill that cripple had failed. His armies had failed him, as had his family. He would have to be like the warrior kings of old, with only his sword and his cunning to win his crown when all else had failed. He remembered what Robert had told him, that a king was strong and brave and cunning, and must rely on that above all else, else he was no true king. And Joffrey was a true king.
A horn blew, and a torch dropped. He stepped up over the battlements, aiming. He'd never practised much with the crossbow, but it couldn't be that hard. Point and shoot. He brought it down to aim at Tywin, his hands shaking, forcing himself to breath steadily, hoping no-one noticed who he aimed at. Tywin stood still, while Stannis began to turn to flee, having seen the archers taking aim.
He deserves it. The traitor deserves it. Kill him! He'd do the same to you.
He pulled the trigger, as did half a hundred others. The thrum of the crossbows made him almost jump, as the bolts whirred down around them. Tywin's horse twisted and fell, while Stannis kept galloping.
He leaned over the battlements. Tywin was staggering to his feet, his surcoat like a hedgehog, his horse twitching and dying beneath him. He heard a strangled scream, and looked up just in time to see a knight in gilded armour plunging from the tower, and heard someone yelling for his men to open the gates again.
What? Are they helping me? Do they know Tywin's a traitor, and Kevan too?
He saw a scorpion bolt take Tywin through the chest, and then someone grabbed him, pulling him back.
"Unhand me!" he yelled, but someone kicked out his leg and he went to his knees.
He snarled in fury, clutching for his sword, but his hand was twisted behind his back and he was slammed to the floor, his face ground against the splintery boardwalks. He screamed for Sandor, but no answer came.
"Do we kill him? Do we kill him?" someone yelled him, then "Save Stannis the trouble!" and a cut off, gurgling scream. "Get him hostage! Get him hostage!" Feet came pounding past his head, and then yells of "Secure the gates!" and "You fucking heard the captain, get to cover." were all around him.
Are there no loyal men left?
"No, please! Mercy! Mercy! I am your trueborn king!" Joffrey screamed, desperate, terrified.
An arrow landed in the floorboards, quivering, an inch from his head.
"Fuck it, move to the tower!"
He was wrenched to his feet, a burly arm almost crushing his neck, and bundled along amidst a river of men in mail and boiled leather. He saw Sandor up ahead of him and called out to him again, but he was grappling with a man, using him as a human shield against other archers looking for an opening to shoot him. He turned and saw Joffrey, and then turned and ran, wordlessly, disappearing from view.
There were archers shooting at them, up on the battlements carved into the rock itself that overlooked the walls, but he saw fighting up there as well, swords rising and falling.
"No!" Joffrey screamed. He was alone. He was alone, in a world of traitors who had killed his mother and father and taken his home, who had hounded him to the ends of the earth, who had stolen his crown.
"Traitors! Save your king!" he cried. No one answered. They threw him into the tower, cutting away his sword belt.
"What now?" someone asked.
"Brax and Lefford will be securing the main gate and spreading the word that Tywin was going to murder Stannis in cold blood, but we killed him instead, and that we'd best all surrender." An archer growled. "Best lie is the truth. Should just sit tight here."
"Should get the king out to Stannis as quick as possible. He'll like that."
"If you let me go, I'll give you all the gold in Casterly rock. Listen! I am your-"
He was silenced by a blow that cracked across his face. His vision swam, he felt blood filling his mouth, and worse pain than anything he'd ever felt before, like his head was dipped in wildfire.
A man in Sarsfield colours, old, his face pox marked, loomed over him.
"Because, son, nothing good happens to those who lose the game of thrones. And me and my boys don't intend to be on the losing side."
His boot slammed into the side of Joffrey's head, and then there was nothingness.
- Location
- Brisbane
Approximately 101 percent
Turns out more generous than that.Approximately 101 percent
200% wishful thinking.
He actively destroyed his own chances.
The only tragedy is how many fought for him.
No Greater Fury: Margaery VI
- Location
- Brisbane
She was taking her supper with her cousins when the news arrived.
"M'lady, a raven from the King." A servant girl called, from the doorway.
"Oh, gods be good." Elinor murmured besides her.
She knew what it would concern. The outcome of the battle with Lord Tywin. She hoped it didn't turn out as badly as the last one. Thousands killed, wounded or captured, including Garlan vanished, her lord husband crippled and maimed…
She'd had to retire to her rooms when she'd heard news of that clash, besides herself with fear. Not for Renly, as most supposed; he was a good enough man, and a loyal friend to the Tyrells if a little reckless, but he wasn't family like Garlan was. She hadn't grown up alongside him, watched him go from a young squire into one of the finest knights in the realm.
The uncertainty only made it worse; she did not know whether he was alive or dead, whether he would be set free or killed, whether to mourn for him or pray for his escape or release.
Mother have mercy on him, Warrior win him free…
She forced herself to focus on the present. "What news does it bring?"
"Selyse will tell the news to all the court tomorrow, but Grand Maester Nymos wishes you to know that Stannis was victorious, and that Garlan is unharmed, and Loras too."
Margaery smiled openly. He's alive. He's alive.
"Your name?" She asked, smiling her most grateful smile and looking at the girl like she was an equal. Smallfolk liked that, even more than the nobles raining down wealth from on high. That was why Stannis was so popular amongst his retainers, in spite of all sense.
"Uh, Tansy, M'lady."
She curtseyed.
She would have offered her a coin or trinket, some sign of thanks, but had none on her. You could learn all sorts of interesting things if the servants liked you.
"You have my thanks." Margaery said.
The maid curtseyed again and left the room. She would need to find out who sent her, and why. If Selyse had decided to give her the news early, that could be a sign she was attempting to smooth things over after the apostate fiasco. If the new Grand Maester was quietly sending her information, then she had a potentially valuable ally. Either way, she would need to be wary. The queen met her in public only with cold courtesy, and the few times they'd met in private, with barbs that weren't half so well hidden as she would have liked.
The feud would only get worse when Stannis returned, she knew; both would struggle for his favour, Tyrell against Florent, Hand against Queen, Seven against the Lord of Light. For now, though, neither dared move decisively. Selyse would not risk the wrath of Stannis if he returned to find she had moved against his brothers wife, even if Stannis personally cared little for her. She could not do much herself, with no swords, no hard power and the Faith disarmed.
Only gather information, and wait.
They finished their supper, telling stories about Garlan and speculating about how he'd been rescued or escaped, laughing with relief. It passed in a pleasant blur, before they set off for the sept to give their thanks to the Seven for their mercy.
*
Selyse Baratheon held court the next morning, Alester Florent and Melisandre at her side, all of them clad in red. There was something off about her, her face both dead eyed and wild as she watched the courtiers-mostly women, and the knights of the small garrison force-assemble around the empty Iron throne.
Alester Florent stood up, clearing his throat. "It pleases me greatly to announce the news that Seven days before, His Grace Stannis Baratheon and the Lord-Paramount of Highgarden Mace Tyrell clashed with and put to rout the army of Tywin Lannister. Tywin in his perfidy had many of the hostages put to the sword." He began to read off names of knights of the Reach. She'd met many of them, feasted with them, watched them train. All killed by a butcher because he couldn't bear to lose.
Is this some trick? Did Selyse lie to me that Garlan survived, to break me in front of court?
She doesn't have the cunning for that.
"However, a number of others, led by Garlan Tyrell, escaped when His Grace's knights stormed the camp. Garlan personally killed several men in the escape, I hear."
She breathed a sigh of relief.
"His forces now march north to place Lannisport and Casterly Rock under siege, and crush the usurper of Stannis's birthright and his cronies."
We won. Baratheon, Tyrell, Florent, Tarly and Stark, Andal and Northerner and Essosi and Genian, united under one banner. Until the outbreak of peace.
After that, the usual array of border disputes, pleas for protection from bandits, lawsuits and flattery began. Alester handled them well enough, except for the occasional case of Selyse berating some unfortunate petitioner or another and telling them that their concerns were irrelevant to the welfare of the realm.
Finally, after nearly an hour, as her legs began to cramp, an aging, hard faced man all in black stepped out from the crowd.
"Your Grace, I come bearing ill news from the Wall."
Something about it sounded rehearsed.
"What news?" Selyse asked, naked fear crossing her face.
"That the dead walk."
He marched right up to the Iron Throne and took something out from under his cloak. Selyse looked horrified, though not shocked. Alester almost fainted. Melisandre's eyes blazed with cold fire as always.
What is it? What is it?
She remembered old stories, of the long night and the Others, of armies of the dead and ice spiders big as hounds.
This has to be some jape.
But a man of the Watch wouldn't come this far for a joke, and Selyse was no mummer.
He turned around, and she saw what he held in his hand. A jar of vinegar, something in it. She stepped closer, squinting.
A hand. A rotting hand.
It twitched, then jolted to life, thrashing and grappling with nothing.
Elinor fainted, Megga catching her. Meredyth Crane swore under her breath. Someone screamed, and then another, and then she heard people at the back yelling "What is it?" and "May I see?" and "Only a mummer's trick!"
"Two dead bodies, of rangers killed beyond the wall, came to life and tried to murder the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. They were stopped. This is one of their hands…"
Margaery just stared, her mind unable to process what it was seeing.
"King Stannis, Azor Ahai, Warrior of Light is all that stands between the realms of men and the Great Other." Melisandre's voice boomed from the dais.
She forced herself to think.
At best, this was some sorcerer's trick, to justify bolstering a false faith and throwing down the true.
At worst….
The Maesters say a long summer means a long winter, the dead walk, a red comet was in the sky…
The Long Night is coming again.
Mother have mercy, Father have justice, Warrior grant us courage, Smith grant us strength, Maiden keep us safe, Crone give us wisdom. We will need all of it for what is coming.
"M'lady, a raven from the King." A servant girl called, from the doorway.
"Oh, gods be good." Elinor murmured besides her.
She knew what it would concern. The outcome of the battle with Lord Tywin. She hoped it didn't turn out as badly as the last one. Thousands killed, wounded or captured, including Garlan vanished, her lord husband crippled and maimed…
She'd had to retire to her rooms when she'd heard news of that clash, besides herself with fear. Not for Renly, as most supposed; he was a good enough man, and a loyal friend to the Tyrells if a little reckless, but he wasn't family like Garlan was. She hadn't grown up alongside him, watched him go from a young squire into one of the finest knights in the realm.
The uncertainty only made it worse; she did not know whether he was alive or dead, whether he would be set free or killed, whether to mourn for him or pray for his escape or release.
Mother have mercy on him, Warrior win him free…
She forced herself to focus on the present. "What news does it bring?"
"Selyse will tell the news to all the court tomorrow, but Grand Maester Nymos wishes you to know that Stannis was victorious, and that Garlan is unharmed, and Loras too."
Margaery smiled openly. He's alive. He's alive.
"Your name?" She asked, smiling her most grateful smile and looking at the girl like she was an equal. Smallfolk liked that, even more than the nobles raining down wealth from on high. That was why Stannis was so popular amongst his retainers, in spite of all sense.
"Uh, Tansy, M'lady."
She curtseyed.
She would have offered her a coin or trinket, some sign of thanks, but had none on her. You could learn all sorts of interesting things if the servants liked you.
"You have my thanks." Margaery said.
The maid curtseyed again and left the room. She would need to find out who sent her, and why. If Selyse had decided to give her the news early, that could be a sign she was attempting to smooth things over after the apostate fiasco. If the new Grand Maester was quietly sending her information, then she had a potentially valuable ally. Either way, she would need to be wary. The queen met her in public only with cold courtesy, and the few times they'd met in private, with barbs that weren't half so well hidden as she would have liked.
The feud would only get worse when Stannis returned, she knew; both would struggle for his favour, Tyrell against Florent, Hand against Queen, Seven against the Lord of Light. For now, though, neither dared move decisively. Selyse would not risk the wrath of Stannis if he returned to find she had moved against his brothers wife, even if Stannis personally cared little for her. She could not do much herself, with no swords, no hard power and the Faith disarmed.
Only gather information, and wait.
They finished their supper, telling stories about Garlan and speculating about how he'd been rescued or escaped, laughing with relief. It passed in a pleasant blur, before they set off for the sept to give their thanks to the Seven for their mercy.
*
Selyse Baratheon held court the next morning, Alester Florent and Melisandre at her side, all of them clad in red. There was something off about her, her face both dead eyed and wild as she watched the courtiers-mostly women, and the knights of the small garrison force-assemble around the empty Iron throne.
Alester Florent stood up, clearing his throat. "It pleases me greatly to announce the news that Seven days before, His Grace Stannis Baratheon and the Lord-Paramount of Highgarden Mace Tyrell clashed with and put to rout the army of Tywin Lannister. Tywin in his perfidy had many of the hostages put to the sword." He began to read off names of knights of the Reach. She'd met many of them, feasted with them, watched them train. All killed by a butcher because he couldn't bear to lose.
Is this some trick? Did Selyse lie to me that Garlan survived, to break me in front of court?
She doesn't have the cunning for that.
"However, a number of others, led by Garlan Tyrell, escaped when His Grace's knights stormed the camp. Garlan personally killed several men in the escape, I hear."
She breathed a sigh of relief.
"His forces now march north to place Lannisport and Casterly Rock under siege, and crush the usurper of Stannis's birthright and his cronies."
We won. Baratheon, Tyrell, Florent, Tarly and Stark, Andal and Northerner and Essosi and Genian, united under one banner. Until the outbreak of peace.
After that, the usual array of border disputes, pleas for protection from bandits, lawsuits and flattery began. Alester handled them well enough, except for the occasional case of Selyse berating some unfortunate petitioner or another and telling them that their concerns were irrelevant to the welfare of the realm.
Finally, after nearly an hour, as her legs began to cramp, an aging, hard faced man all in black stepped out from the crowd.
"Your Grace, I come bearing ill news from the Wall."
Something about it sounded rehearsed.
"What news?" Selyse asked, naked fear crossing her face.
"That the dead walk."
He marched right up to the Iron Throne and took something out from under his cloak. Selyse looked horrified, though not shocked. Alester almost fainted. Melisandre's eyes blazed with cold fire as always.
What is it? What is it?
She remembered old stories, of the long night and the Others, of armies of the dead and ice spiders big as hounds.
This has to be some jape.
But a man of the Watch wouldn't come this far for a joke, and Selyse was no mummer.
He turned around, and she saw what he held in his hand. A jar of vinegar, something in it. She stepped closer, squinting.
A hand. A rotting hand.
It twitched, then jolted to life, thrashing and grappling with nothing.
Elinor fainted, Megga catching her. Meredyth Crane swore under her breath. Someone screamed, and then another, and then she heard people at the back yelling "What is it?" and "May I see?" and "Only a mummer's trick!"
"Two dead bodies, of rangers killed beyond the wall, came to life and tried to murder the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. They were stopped. This is one of their hands…"
Margaery just stared, her mind unable to process what it was seeing.
"King Stannis, Azor Ahai, Warrior of Light is all that stands between the realms of men and the Great Other." Melisandre's voice boomed from the dais.
She forced herself to think.
At best, this was some sorcerer's trick, to justify bolstering a false faith and throwing down the true.
At worst….
The Maesters say a long summer means a long winter, the dead walk, a red comet was in the sky…
The Long Night is coming again.
Mother have mercy, Father have justice, Warrior grant us courage, Smith grant us strength, Maiden keep us safe, Crone give us wisdom. We will need all of it for what is coming.
No Greater Fury: Tane X
- Location
- Brisbane
Amos Casseria. Brandon Vellene. Artur Messelos. Gwenhefar Carnel. Four grenadiers dead. Amos and Brandon to Mandon Moore's sword, the only effective resistance the night of the coup. Artur in the final clash they were calling the Battle of Four Armies, hit in his unprotected face by a spear thrust. Gwenhefar dead to dysentery on the march to Casterly Rock.
Another six had been crippled by wounds at some point, unlikely to be fit to return to service, mostly due to damaged tendons and nerves in their sword arms. Two dozen silvercloaks under her command had also died, taking the brunt of the fighting and armoured only in cheap, crude butted mail. Many more were wounded, including several with missing fingers and burned faces from their cheap, low quality calivers bursting.
Only 65 or so enlisted left fit for combat, and her officers and staff. They'd seen things the Westerosi wouldn't believe. Rockets glittering in the night above the Hendiot range on night firing exercises. Bound demons tearing through charging wedges of Caterans. Great flights of wyverns, migrating over the border marches, but in a century, there would be no one alive on this planet who'd seen those things, utterly mundane to her but wondrous to the Westerosi. They'd be just as lost as the great northern wall or the seven wonders were to her own people.
Their only option was to become part of this new world, or conquer it and impose themselves as rulers over it like Arthur had. And they were too few for the latter.
"Ma'am, the king is going to be sentencing the prisoners tomorrow morning." Boudace said, sticking her head into Tane's room. They'd occupied one of the outlying villages around Casterly rock, while Stannis was holding court in the Rock now that the siege was over. Most had surrendered, but some had held out in the depths and heights of the rock. They'd been forced to surrender, overrun, often by former Lannister bannermen, or killed while trying to break out in the days following the betrayal, and now virtually all resistance had vanished. There was still resistance in the north of the Westerlands; Eddard's troops would be cleaning that up.
"Aye." Tane said, finishing up her check of the company muster rolls and the lists of pay and equipment. Stannis's sentencing of the surviving rebels was likely to be a hair raising experience. The man chopped off fingers for saving his life, and had seriously considered burning children alive. How he dealt with actual traitors… well, it wouldn't be pretty.
*
The sentencing was to be held in Casterly Rock's Golden Hall, surrounded by the evidence of House Lannister's pedigree. Suits of armour hung on the walls: Ironborn, Northern, Reachmen, Riverlanders, Reynes and Tarbecks, testament to thousands of years of probably fabricated glory. All of it destroyed because a knight couldn't keep it in his breeches.
Stannis had moved as much of his army as possible into the citadel, while the Westermen had been forced to camp out on the plains, to stop any reversal of the surrender. The hall was unpleasantly damp feeling, neither warm nor cold. Like a cave. Mostly because Casterly Rock, was, when you got down to it, a man-made cave network inside a mountain. If not for Sarsfield's treachery, they could have been sieging it for years.
A hundred or so nobles and near a thousand knights had been stuffed into the cramped space, while the Westermen prisoners were held in a second, nearby hall, ready to plead for mercy.
Eddard Stark had ridden south, taking his prisoners with him, for this. Renly had been unable to attend due to his injuries, and had sent south to safety to recover, alongside his sworn shield Brienne.
Stannis had quietly set out his plan for her future: an advisory position on the small council for matters military, and a command position if and when the Silvercloaks were expanded into a royal army. She'd agreed. Becoming a general was beyond her immediate skills, but she would learn, and royal favour was never something to be thrown aside. It was clear the idea of having loyal, professional troops with powerful weapons at his beck and call appealed to him.
There were hundreds of others in there with her. Squires and common soldiers set to receive knighthoods for some deed or another; nobles waiting to snap up empty holdfasts for their second sons and bastards.
Banners hung from lines strung across the wall, hundreds of houses of the Stormlands and Reach and a few from the North. Her own cornet hung amongst them, cleaned and stitched up after being trampled at the Battle of Four Armies, It a flaming grenade above the white three spoked wheel of the Commonwealth on a green field, the slogan of the Commonwealth's Horse Grenadier companies flying proudly above it-No Greater Fury.
Stannis marched out into the middle of the hall, it's ceiling lost in shadow. His right arm was stiff, too stiff; probably from his wound, a mace blow to the inside of the elbow. He was dressed in a red doublet and black breeches, with his hastily repaired crown on his head. The mere fact that his clothes weren't crumpled or dirty made him better dressed than almost every lord in the room.
"Firstly, the sentencing of all those who rose with Lord Tywin Lannister in his western rebellion. I will spare many, those who only served who they falsely believed to be their rightful king faithfully. Others, those responsible for Tywin's cruel sack of the riverlands and the spawning of the abomination Joffrey Baratheon, will be shown no mercy."
A golden haired man in a sweat stained shirt was led out into the hall, alongside a dwarf, both chained hand and foot. His face was a ruin, split by an angry red line and a mass of stitches, his nose and right eye gone. Jaime Lannister. He made his misshapen, dwarf brother-look outright charming in comparison, and Tyrion made your typical Woodwoose look beautiful in comparison.
"You are guilty of the attempted murder of Brandon Stark twice over, the killing of Lord Eddard Stark's men, abandoning your duties as a kingsguard, incest and rebellion. The punishment for all of those is death. You will be beheaded tomorrow. So will Tyrion Lannister for his role in the rape of the riverlands."
And for being a potential leader for the Lannisters. Can't have that.
They were lead off, Jaime's shouted demands for trial by combat ignored.
Other prisoners were led out. Those who had betrayed Tywin were only pardoned for treason, not rewarded. Harwyn Sarsfield, the man who had organized the scheme, was given an empty holdfast when he pleaded that he had believed in the truth of Joffrey's claims, but had immediately defected when he discovered the truth. For those who had stayed with Tywin to the last…
Wall, off with his head, Silent Sisters, Wall, off with his head summarized it well enough.
Finally, the King who had started all of this was led out. He was not the boy she had known in King's Landing, seemingly courteous, prone to fits of rage, who had once gutted a cat out of curiosity, who had threatened to have her tortured if she did not respect him. He was broken, his eyes downcast, red from crying.
"I shall not suffer the spawn of incest to live, nor usurpers." Stannis droned. "You shall be beheaded on the morrow."
This is butchery, not justice. Killing him to stop another war would be all well and good, if they didn't have a perfectly sensible way to dispose of him without killing…
He was led off, and then the knightings and granting's of boons began.
There were dozens of them. The squires Devan Seaworth and Bryen Farring were knighted for staying by their king's side even as Tywin's cavalry crashed in amongst them. An archer received his pick of the captured horses and armour as a reward for felling some Western lord with a single shot through the visor. Brienne of Tarth was offered three strong warhorses and a suit of armour paid at the king's expense for saving his brother's life. The lords were given their rewards too, obviously planned out ahead of time. Western Lord's lands for the landless, cuts of the loot, children as wards and hostages. A position as Master of Coin for Guncer Sunglass. A new position, as Master of War, for Randyll Tarly.
Casterly Rock, and the lord paramountcy of the West, went to some Frey who'd married a Lannister(though said Lannister was off to the silent sisters), though the livable parts of the Rock itself was to be bricked up and abandoned, leaving only the outer walls and courtyards to be inhabited and the deep mines to used, little more than a fortress around a mountain, rather than a mountain that was a fortress. She had her doubts about how well that would work, but it was better than having to siege the bloody thing all over again.
Tarbeck Hall and funds were granted to Ser Rolland Storm, alongside the wardenship of the west, command of the garrison forces that were to remain in the west, and legitimacy. He'd apparently led the force that had outflanked and destroyed Tywin's tiny rearguard in the passes, letting Stannis move fast enough to nearly catch them at the battle of the Oceanroad.
Eddard Stark was called up, too.
"Your Grace" he said, taking his knee, "As your favour, I beg mercy for Joffrey Waters. Though an abomination born of incest, it is the crime of his parents, not himself, that you condemn him for. By your leave, I would have him sent to the wall instead, no threat to the realm."
She'd had Eddard Stark's word that if she fought in trial by battle, the children would be spared. Cersei had died and the younger children vanished.
Back him. Force Stannis's hand. He bloody well agreed to this.
Stannis's jaw twitched. "He is too dangerous."
And risk having royal disfavour?
"Bryden Rivers caused no trouble once he took the black. Neither did Aemon."
Honour before politics. Come on, you've gutted people over insults, stand and fight over this.
"Spare him, Your Grace. That was the condition I agreed to in return for killing Trant." Tane said.
Stannis glared at her wordlessly.
"That too is the boon I would ask of you. Enough blood has been spilt on the Queen's account." A small man said. Davos Seaworth, freshly ashore from the blockade.
Back down, back down gods damn you.
Stannis said only one word.
"No."
*
The next morning, she stood amongst those assembled to watch the beheadings in Casterly Rock's courtyard. She'd started this by carrying out the coup; the least she could do was stay with it to the bloody end.
Stannis stood upon the stage, Illyn Payne at his side. The king looked as grim as ever, but there was something off about him.
The first captive was dragged across the stage, Ser Addam Marbrand. one of the senior Lannister leaders, taken alive after the Battle of Four Armies. He placed his head upon the block without being forced.
Dying bravely. She approved of that, although she approved of living bravely more.
Illyn hefted his greatsword.
At the last moment, Stannis called out "You are hereby commuted from a sentence of death, to a sentence of serving the Night's Watch. Your crimes against the realm are many, but you fought bravely for a false cause. Therefore, you must fight bravely for a true cause, for the Night's Watch needs brave men for what is coming."
Addam stood up, bewildered. He looked so resigned to death that he seemed to be almost disappointed to not be martyred in the name of his King.
The next lord, a huge Crakehall who looked like the rather more athletic twin of the man she'd duelled storming their castle, was dragged forth, forced to the block, then spared.
The procedure was repeated endlessly, thirty odd lords and knights, mostly those who had refused to surrender or participated in the Riverlands sack, had their sentences commuted. By the end, they abandoned the song and dance of forcing their heads to the block.
She could scarcely believe that Stannis had actually listened. He, of all people…
Has he been possessed?
She saw Eddard nodding approval, even as the soldiers grumbled; the more intellectual about why the nobles were spared while the commons where cut down on the field and the Lannisters had butchered their own prisoners, the less intellectual about the lack of blood.
Tyrion was pardoned too, sent to the wall for his part in the pillaging of the riverlands and treason, but otherwise no more to blame for the rising than any other petty lord, and then Jaime was brought forth.
His head was forced to the block. Illyn raised his blade. Stannis repeated his spiel about brave men and "what is coming".
"For the crime of incest, however, there can be no forgiveness, no second chances. Ser Illyn Payne, bring me his head."
The sword crashed down three times; one to kill, two more to remove the head. Illyn lifted his head, once handsome, now ruined, for all the crowd to see. The soldiers cheered, baying in approval. They had come to see blood; they'd finally gotten it after being cheated half a hundred times. The corpse was dragged off the stage, leaving a smear of blood on the wood.
Then Joffrey was lead forth towards the block, now blood spattered. He was struggling, screaming. "You killed Uncle! You had Father murdered! Usurper! Traitor!"
"Many have counselled me to spare you. People wise and brave. That would be the merciful thing. But mercy and justice are not the same thing. As long as I am King, crimes against nature shall never go unpunished. Ser Illyn Payne, bring me his head."
Joffrey fell to his knees, pleading, begging. Eddard was striding towards the stage, yelling that Stannis should do it himself. Ser Illyn grabbed him by the hair and dragged him towards the block. She started pushing forwards herself, irrationally.
"I swore on my honour, you grace-"
There was nothing she could do. She would not throw away her life to save some boy, even if she'd promised his monster of a mother to try and have him spared and spoken in his favor.
Where's your honour now?
The honourable thing is to see this through.
She'd signed his death warrant when she'd shot Ser Preston Greenfield in the head as he stood guarding the drawbridge, when she'd rammed her backsword up through Trant's voiders, when they'd punched through the shieldwall covering Tywin's flanks, when she'd convinced Cersei to confess.
If I'd not wanted to see him killed, I should never have taken part in the coup.
"Do it." Stannis said, ignoring her, ignoring Eddard moving forwards to call something out.
Illyn took the boy's head with a single cut.
Another six had been crippled by wounds at some point, unlikely to be fit to return to service, mostly due to damaged tendons and nerves in their sword arms. Two dozen silvercloaks under her command had also died, taking the brunt of the fighting and armoured only in cheap, crude butted mail. Many more were wounded, including several with missing fingers and burned faces from their cheap, low quality calivers bursting.
Only 65 or so enlisted left fit for combat, and her officers and staff. They'd seen things the Westerosi wouldn't believe. Rockets glittering in the night above the Hendiot range on night firing exercises. Bound demons tearing through charging wedges of Caterans. Great flights of wyverns, migrating over the border marches, but in a century, there would be no one alive on this planet who'd seen those things, utterly mundane to her but wondrous to the Westerosi. They'd be just as lost as the great northern wall or the seven wonders were to her own people.
Their only option was to become part of this new world, or conquer it and impose themselves as rulers over it like Arthur had. And they were too few for the latter.
"Ma'am, the king is going to be sentencing the prisoners tomorrow morning." Boudace said, sticking her head into Tane's room. They'd occupied one of the outlying villages around Casterly rock, while Stannis was holding court in the Rock now that the siege was over. Most had surrendered, but some had held out in the depths and heights of the rock. They'd been forced to surrender, overrun, often by former Lannister bannermen, or killed while trying to break out in the days following the betrayal, and now virtually all resistance had vanished. There was still resistance in the north of the Westerlands; Eddard's troops would be cleaning that up.
"Aye." Tane said, finishing up her check of the company muster rolls and the lists of pay and equipment. Stannis's sentencing of the surviving rebels was likely to be a hair raising experience. The man chopped off fingers for saving his life, and had seriously considered burning children alive. How he dealt with actual traitors… well, it wouldn't be pretty.
*
The sentencing was to be held in Casterly Rock's Golden Hall, surrounded by the evidence of House Lannister's pedigree. Suits of armour hung on the walls: Ironborn, Northern, Reachmen, Riverlanders, Reynes and Tarbecks, testament to thousands of years of probably fabricated glory. All of it destroyed because a knight couldn't keep it in his breeches.
Stannis had moved as much of his army as possible into the citadel, while the Westermen had been forced to camp out on the plains, to stop any reversal of the surrender. The hall was unpleasantly damp feeling, neither warm nor cold. Like a cave. Mostly because Casterly Rock, was, when you got down to it, a man-made cave network inside a mountain. If not for Sarsfield's treachery, they could have been sieging it for years.
A hundred or so nobles and near a thousand knights had been stuffed into the cramped space, while the Westermen prisoners were held in a second, nearby hall, ready to plead for mercy.
Eddard Stark had ridden south, taking his prisoners with him, for this. Renly had been unable to attend due to his injuries, and had sent south to safety to recover, alongside his sworn shield Brienne.
Stannis had quietly set out his plan for her future: an advisory position on the small council for matters military, and a command position if and when the Silvercloaks were expanded into a royal army. She'd agreed. Becoming a general was beyond her immediate skills, but she would learn, and royal favour was never something to be thrown aside. It was clear the idea of having loyal, professional troops with powerful weapons at his beck and call appealed to him.
There were hundreds of others in there with her. Squires and common soldiers set to receive knighthoods for some deed or another; nobles waiting to snap up empty holdfasts for their second sons and bastards.
Banners hung from lines strung across the wall, hundreds of houses of the Stormlands and Reach and a few from the North. Her own cornet hung amongst them, cleaned and stitched up after being trampled at the Battle of Four Armies, It a flaming grenade above the white three spoked wheel of the Commonwealth on a green field, the slogan of the Commonwealth's Horse Grenadier companies flying proudly above it-No Greater Fury.
Stannis marched out into the middle of the hall, it's ceiling lost in shadow. His right arm was stiff, too stiff; probably from his wound, a mace blow to the inside of the elbow. He was dressed in a red doublet and black breeches, with his hastily repaired crown on his head. The mere fact that his clothes weren't crumpled or dirty made him better dressed than almost every lord in the room.
"Firstly, the sentencing of all those who rose with Lord Tywin Lannister in his western rebellion. I will spare many, those who only served who they falsely believed to be their rightful king faithfully. Others, those responsible for Tywin's cruel sack of the riverlands and the spawning of the abomination Joffrey Baratheon, will be shown no mercy."
A golden haired man in a sweat stained shirt was led out into the hall, alongside a dwarf, both chained hand and foot. His face was a ruin, split by an angry red line and a mass of stitches, his nose and right eye gone. Jaime Lannister. He made his misshapen, dwarf brother-look outright charming in comparison, and Tyrion made your typical Woodwoose look beautiful in comparison.
"You are guilty of the attempted murder of Brandon Stark twice over, the killing of Lord Eddard Stark's men, abandoning your duties as a kingsguard, incest and rebellion. The punishment for all of those is death. You will be beheaded tomorrow. So will Tyrion Lannister for his role in the rape of the riverlands."
And for being a potential leader for the Lannisters. Can't have that.
They were lead off, Jaime's shouted demands for trial by combat ignored.
Other prisoners were led out. Those who had betrayed Tywin were only pardoned for treason, not rewarded. Harwyn Sarsfield, the man who had organized the scheme, was given an empty holdfast when he pleaded that he had believed in the truth of Joffrey's claims, but had immediately defected when he discovered the truth. For those who had stayed with Tywin to the last…
Wall, off with his head, Silent Sisters, Wall, off with his head summarized it well enough.
Finally, the King who had started all of this was led out. He was not the boy she had known in King's Landing, seemingly courteous, prone to fits of rage, who had once gutted a cat out of curiosity, who had threatened to have her tortured if she did not respect him. He was broken, his eyes downcast, red from crying.
"I shall not suffer the spawn of incest to live, nor usurpers." Stannis droned. "You shall be beheaded on the morrow."
This is butchery, not justice. Killing him to stop another war would be all well and good, if they didn't have a perfectly sensible way to dispose of him without killing…
He was led off, and then the knightings and granting's of boons began.
There were dozens of them. The squires Devan Seaworth and Bryen Farring were knighted for staying by their king's side even as Tywin's cavalry crashed in amongst them. An archer received his pick of the captured horses and armour as a reward for felling some Western lord with a single shot through the visor. Brienne of Tarth was offered three strong warhorses and a suit of armour paid at the king's expense for saving his brother's life. The lords were given their rewards too, obviously planned out ahead of time. Western Lord's lands for the landless, cuts of the loot, children as wards and hostages. A position as Master of Coin for Guncer Sunglass. A new position, as Master of War, for Randyll Tarly.
Casterly Rock, and the lord paramountcy of the West, went to some Frey who'd married a Lannister(though said Lannister was off to the silent sisters), though the livable parts of the Rock itself was to be bricked up and abandoned, leaving only the outer walls and courtyards to be inhabited and the deep mines to used, little more than a fortress around a mountain, rather than a mountain that was a fortress. She had her doubts about how well that would work, but it was better than having to siege the bloody thing all over again.
Tarbeck Hall and funds were granted to Ser Rolland Storm, alongside the wardenship of the west, command of the garrison forces that were to remain in the west, and legitimacy. He'd apparently led the force that had outflanked and destroyed Tywin's tiny rearguard in the passes, letting Stannis move fast enough to nearly catch them at the battle of the Oceanroad.
Eddard Stark was called up, too.
"Your Grace" he said, taking his knee, "As your favour, I beg mercy for Joffrey Waters. Though an abomination born of incest, it is the crime of his parents, not himself, that you condemn him for. By your leave, I would have him sent to the wall instead, no threat to the realm."
She'd had Eddard Stark's word that if she fought in trial by battle, the children would be spared. Cersei had died and the younger children vanished.
Back him. Force Stannis's hand. He bloody well agreed to this.
Stannis's jaw twitched. "He is too dangerous."
And risk having royal disfavour?
"Bryden Rivers caused no trouble once he took the black. Neither did Aemon."
Honour before politics. Come on, you've gutted people over insults, stand and fight over this.
"Spare him, Your Grace. That was the condition I agreed to in return for killing Trant." Tane said.
Stannis glared at her wordlessly.
"That too is the boon I would ask of you. Enough blood has been spilt on the Queen's account." A small man said. Davos Seaworth, freshly ashore from the blockade.
Back down, back down gods damn you.
Stannis said only one word.
"No."
*
The next morning, she stood amongst those assembled to watch the beheadings in Casterly Rock's courtyard. She'd started this by carrying out the coup; the least she could do was stay with it to the bloody end.
Stannis stood upon the stage, Illyn Payne at his side. The king looked as grim as ever, but there was something off about him.
The first captive was dragged across the stage, Ser Addam Marbrand. one of the senior Lannister leaders, taken alive after the Battle of Four Armies. He placed his head upon the block without being forced.
Dying bravely. She approved of that, although she approved of living bravely more.
Illyn hefted his greatsword.
At the last moment, Stannis called out "You are hereby commuted from a sentence of death, to a sentence of serving the Night's Watch. Your crimes against the realm are many, but you fought bravely for a false cause. Therefore, you must fight bravely for a true cause, for the Night's Watch needs brave men for what is coming."
Addam stood up, bewildered. He looked so resigned to death that he seemed to be almost disappointed to not be martyred in the name of his King.
The next lord, a huge Crakehall who looked like the rather more athletic twin of the man she'd duelled storming their castle, was dragged forth, forced to the block, then spared.
The procedure was repeated endlessly, thirty odd lords and knights, mostly those who had refused to surrender or participated in the Riverlands sack, had their sentences commuted. By the end, they abandoned the song and dance of forcing their heads to the block.
She could scarcely believe that Stannis had actually listened. He, of all people…
Has he been possessed?
She saw Eddard nodding approval, even as the soldiers grumbled; the more intellectual about why the nobles were spared while the commons where cut down on the field and the Lannisters had butchered their own prisoners, the less intellectual about the lack of blood.
Tyrion was pardoned too, sent to the wall for his part in the pillaging of the riverlands and treason, but otherwise no more to blame for the rising than any other petty lord, and then Jaime was brought forth.
His head was forced to the block. Illyn raised his blade. Stannis repeated his spiel about brave men and "what is coming".
"For the crime of incest, however, there can be no forgiveness, no second chances. Ser Illyn Payne, bring me his head."
The sword crashed down three times; one to kill, two more to remove the head. Illyn lifted his head, once handsome, now ruined, for all the crowd to see. The soldiers cheered, baying in approval. They had come to see blood; they'd finally gotten it after being cheated half a hundred times. The corpse was dragged off the stage, leaving a smear of blood on the wood.
Then Joffrey was lead forth towards the block, now blood spattered. He was struggling, screaming. "You killed Uncle! You had Father murdered! Usurper! Traitor!"
"Many have counselled me to spare you. People wise and brave. That would be the merciful thing. But mercy and justice are not the same thing. As long as I am King, crimes against nature shall never go unpunished. Ser Illyn Payne, bring me his head."
Joffrey fell to his knees, pleading, begging. Eddard was striding towards the stage, yelling that Stannis should do it himself. Ser Illyn grabbed him by the hair and dragged him towards the block. She started pushing forwards herself, irrationally.
"I swore on my honour, you grace-"
There was nothing she could do. She would not throw away her life to save some boy, even if she'd promised his monster of a mother to try and have him spared and spoken in his favor.
Where's your honour now?
The honourable thing is to see this through.
She'd signed his death warrant when she'd shot Ser Preston Greenfield in the head as he stood guarding the drawbridge, when she'd rammed her backsword up through Trant's voiders, when they'd punched through the shieldwall covering Tywin's flanks, when she'd convinced Cersei to confess.
If I'd not wanted to see him killed, I should never have taken part in the coup.
"Do it." Stannis said, ignoring her, ignoring Eddard moving forwards to call something out.
Illyn took the boy's head with a single cut.
Blimey Ned is going to be furious about this, it's one thing to take Jaimes head given that his deliberate involvement (no guilt by association for him, he did it all willingly). It's another to kill a child unnecessarily for someone else's crime. If he absolutely had to he should have done it because he's a lunatic and a monster not because his mother decided to sleep with her brother.
For all the talk about stannis the Mannis, people tend to forget that he was the mannis for a pretty short period and it took him being humbled at the Blackwater before he actually got over himself.
Here you have the downside of utterly unyielding 'justice' completely untempered by mercy. As it's pretty obvious that someone forced his hand rather than him coming to the realisation that hacking everyone's head off might not be a good idea.
For all the talk about stannis the Mannis, people tend to forget that he was the mannis for a pretty short period and it took him being humbled at the Blackwater before he actually got over himself.
Here you have the downside of utterly unyielding 'justice' completely untempered by mercy. As it's pretty obvious that someone forced his hand rather than him coming to the realisation that hacking everyone's head off might not be a good idea.
No Greater Fury: Margaery VII
- Location
- Brisbane
They came riding in their hundreds, lords and knights and Men-at-Arms.
She greeted them at the gates, of course, with the noblewomen and the stay-behind garrison there to greet them, waving scarves in the shadow of flapping banners.
Selyse stood beside her, and Shireen too, the princess-the heir to the throne, depending on who you asked-straining to see over the parapets. She was dressed in her finest, with a flesh-coloured patch on her face that tried to cover her scars but only drew attention to them.
The great lords were at the front of the column, under roses and stags, huntsmen and foxes.
Light glinted off their armour, freshly polished as though ready for a tournament.
Stannis rode at their head, easily recognizable from the crown on his head and the fact that his armour was otherwise undecorated.
Renly, of course, wasn't with them. He was still at Highgarden last she'd heard.
The gates opened, and Stannis and his high lords trailed beneath, his knights and lesser lords after them. The citizens of the city thronged around them, held back by goldcloaks.
"Stannis King! Stannis King!" they called, but "Down with the Red God!" as well. One brave man even shouted "Joffrey King!" before vanishing back into the masses. Selyse glared not daggers but spears at them.
I tried to help you about that, but no…
As the lords began to enter, Margaery and the others climbed down the walls, to their horses. They would ride to the Red Keep, then go to the great sept of Baelor to thank the Warrior for their victory. A great victory feast would be held within the week.
They clambered onto their horses, palfreys and jennets. Shireen struggled with her pony, and Margaery moved to help her. Selyse made an expression halfway between a grimace and a smile.
Noted. If Selyse was going to be unpleasant, the least she could do was be friendly to her daughter. Selyse was already convinced she had tried to convince her to turn apostate; it wasn't as if she could make things any worse.
Shireen thanked her, politely and exactly as her septa had told her, as Margaery clambered up onto her own palfrey.
She chattered amiably with her handmaidens, trailing her like squires after a knight, as they fell in with Stannis's column. Loras turned and nodded to her in acknowledgement, then quickly returned to scanning the crowd. There would be time aplenty to be reunited with her family soon enough.
She came up besides Garlan, in dull grey plate under a green cloak, not the magnificent green plate he'd set out in what seemed like an eternity ago.
"Thank the warrior you had the courage to cut your way free."
"Thank the mother they hesitated enough to get them by surprise. If they'd been paying attention I would have been cut down where I stood. And thank Stafford Lannister that his men where too indecisive to decide whether they were going to kill us or take us to Casterly Rock until Mace's men were in the camp already. If I'd had to defend myself for more than a few moments with my hands bound I would have died. Gods be good, I should have died on the oceanroad."
"You're alive. Loras is alive. Mace is alive. We're still growing strong." Margaery said.
Garlan sighed. "When I was at Highgarden, I told Renly that Loras had no chance in a real battle, that he'd get himself killed or maimed on some damn fool charge. Now look at us. Renly goes charging off into Tywin's army and gets maimed, I get unhorsed and taken prisoner, and Loras gets through with not even a scratch."
"Did you hear the news of the Night's Watch?" Margaery asked carefully.
"I wouldn't be surprised if it was some mummer's trick."
Margaery shook her head. "I've seen it with my own eyes. It was real."
"Stannis believed it well enough. It's why he sent every prisoner but Joffrey and Jaime to the wall rather than pardoning or killing them."
"The smallfolk were saying he spared Joffrey too. No idea where they got the notion."
Garlan laughed. "Don't believe everything you hear."
"But I do believe everything I see."
*
"Great Warrior, font of strength, lend us strength to our arms and courage to our hearts…"
Margaery joined in the singing in the Great Sept of Baelor with relish. She'd always had a good singing voice, and she enjoyed using it, especially in support of the faith. The High Septon, his voice flat and bored, led the singing, matched only in lack of enthusiasm by Stannis's irritation and Selyse's outright anger. Stannis had dragged her out here when she'd informed him of the religious tensions. At least Shireen seemed to be enjoying it more than her mothers nightfires. She'd arranged it herself, a great prayer session to celebrate Stannis's victory.
She could smell the incense over the scent of unwashed bodies, though the others could not; the privilege of being closest to the front. Hundreds packed the hall of the sept, returning soldiers and their families, great lords and humble sellswords, servants and ladies, even a few curious Horse Grenadiers. They'd been whispering before the service had started, whispering of the hand, of how demons had escaped the seven hells, of how the red witch was raising the dead, of how the Grenadiers had been sent as a miracle to throw down a false king.
The High Septon droned onwards, swinging his censer.
Finally, they finished the last song, and another septon, bony and hard faced, stepped forwards. "Septon Luceon will now read from the Seven Pointed Star" the High Septon said.
Luceon picked up the Seven Pointed Star and flicked to the earmarked sections he wished to read from.
"Firstly, a parable on the risks of illusion."
He held it up, his eyes slowly tracking across the page.
"Once there was a town in Andalos that lived in great fear…"
She was quite familiar with that story.
The town had been in terror of a dragon that lived inside a mountain. The town's priestess was a venal and cowardly woman. She said the people needed her to protect them from the dragon with his water magic, which would let her hold off the dragon. In return, they would give her gifts of fish and obsidian. One of King Hugor's seventy-seven knight's came to this town, looking to kill the dragon he had heard of. The priestess insisted he not go to kill it, for it would surely burn him alive.
But he went to face the feral dragon anyway, so she went with him. Crossing the lake, waves came up and nearly swamped his boat. But he prayed to the Warrior for courage, and the waves subsided and he sailed on. Then, he came to the cave. She once again begged him not to fight the beast. But once again he ignored her, and went into the mountain. There were great boomings and roarings from within. As he entered the cave, he saw the dragon before him. It breathed fire, but it caused him no harm. When he struck it, his sword passed through it. He prayed to the Crone for wisdom, and he saw the truth. It's breath of fire was only mist. The roaring had been a thrush beating a snail against the rocks. And the dragon was dead and lifeless, only a skeleton. The Priestess had used her meagre powers to construct illusions, to keep the weak in her thrall.
The knight turned on the priestess and cut her down, and the illusion she had cast over herself was lifted and she was revealed as a hag, a merling that walked on the land. The true monster had been before him all along. When he revealed the truth, the smallfolk converted to the faith that had given them true vision in gratitude.
The Septon shut the holy book.
"Thus our faith lets us look through illusions and see what is truly there. Not a roar but an echo. Not a harmless priestess but a lying witch. Not a living dragon but a dead skeleton. And nowadays, not a prince but an abomination and not a great man but a weak traitor."
"It also teaches that the faithless can be won over, once their illussions have been dispelled." Luceon continued.
She glanced at Selyse. She seemed confused for a moment, then anger crossed her face and she began to turn to leave before Stannis caught her wrist.
The Septon's point was not easily missed.
It was also being misinterpreted.
He hasn't seen it. He hasn't held it, felt the dead fingers hit the sides of the jar.
That wight's hand was not a mummer's trick. The parable was backwards; Melisandre was the dragon, the illusion that seemed mighty but was truly nothing, the Wight the hag priestess, the true monster before them.
*
Half a hundred men stood before them in the throne room, Alliser Thorne at their head.
There were prisoners from the war; Lancel and Tyrek Lannister, utterly forgotten in a tower alongside the other Lannister prisoners from the coup. A few dozen other criminals flung in jails or spared the noose since the last Night's Watch man had left, all shackled. And volunteers, many highborn, who had been shaken by the sight of the grasping black hand and Alliser's tale of dead men walking and the sorry state of the Night's Watch.
Seven protect them. Whatever was north of the wall, demons loose from the seven hells, wildlings trying to fight the Watch with black magic, or Others riding ice spiders big as hounds, it was real and dangerous. She was glad she was not the one to have to face them.
"The Crown wishes you well, in the wars to come." Stannis said. "I have already sent all the arms and prisoners captured in the Western Rising to the wall, and will be sending firearms as well when there are enough."
Selyse stood at his side, and Melisandre at Selyse's.
"You do the work of Rhllor, whether you know it or not, watching against the Great Other, keeping the darkness back with your watchfires." Selyse said, her chin held high.
"We serve the realm, not your Red God." Alliser said, scowling.
Margaery stepped forwards, drawing a handkerchief she'd embroidered with the Tyrell rose from her pocket. "Take my favour. You have earned it as much as any knight."
Alliser seemed taken aback.
"Why-"
"As a token of the gratitude some of the people of the South for defending the realms of men."
He almost snatched it from her hands. He was not a man who had seen much of the way in kindness, or respect.
She greeted them at the gates, of course, with the noblewomen and the stay-behind garrison there to greet them, waving scarves in the shadow of flapping banners.
Selyse stood beside her, and Shireen too, the princess-the heir to the throne, depending on who you asked-straining to see over the parapets. She was dressed in her finest, with a flesh-coloured patch on her face that tried to cover her scars but only drew attention to them.
The great lords were at the front of the column, under roses and stags, huntsmen and foxes.
Light glinted off their armour, freshly polished as though ready for a tournament.
Stannis rode at their head, easily recognizable from the crown on his head and the fact that his armour was otherwise undecorated.
Renly, of course, wasn't with them. He was still at Highgarden last she'd heard.
The gates opened, and Stannis and his high lords trailed beneath, his knights and lesser lords after them. The citizens of the city thronged around them, held back by goldcloaks.
"Stannis King! Stannis King!" they called, but "Down with the Red God!" as well. One brave man even shouted "Joffrey King!" before vanishing back into the masses. Selyse glared not daggers but spears at them.
I tried to help you about that, but no…
As the lords began to enter, Margaery and the others climbed down the walls, to their horses. They would ride to the Red Keep, then go to the great sept of Baelor to thank the Warrior for their victory. A great victory feast would be held within the week.
They clambered onto their horses, palfreys and jennets. Shireen struggled with her pony, and Margaery moved to help her. Selyse made an expression halfway between a grimace and a smile.
Noted. If Selyse was going to be unpleasant, the least she could do was be friendly to her daughter. Selyse was already convinced she had tried to convince her to turn apostate; it wasn't as if she could make things any worse.
Shireen thanked her, politely and exactly as her septa had told her, as Margaery clambered up onto her own palfrey.
She chattered amiably with her handmaidens, trailing her like squires after a knight, as they fell in with Stannis's column. Loras turned and nodded to her in acknowledgement, then quickly returned to scanning the crowd. There would be time aplenty to be reunited with her family soon enough.
She came up besides Garlan, in dull grey plate under a green cloak, not the magnificent green plate he'd set out in what seemed like an eternity ago.
"Thank the warrior you had the courage to cut your way free."
"Thank the mother they hesitated enough to get them by surprise. If they'd been paying attention I would have been cut down where I stood. And thank Stafford Lannister that his men where too indecisive to decide whether they were going to kill us or take us to Casterly Rock until Mace's men were in the camp already. If I'd had to defend myself for more than a few moments with my hands bound I would have died. Gods be good, I should have died on the oceanroad."
"You're alive. Loras is alive. Mace is alive. We're still growing strong." Margaery said.
Garlan sighed. "When I was at Highgarden, I told Renly that Loras had no chance in a real battle, that he'd get himself killed or maimed on some damn fool charge. Now look at us. Renly goes charging off into Tywin's army and gets maimed, I get unhorsed and taken prisoner, and Loras gets through with not even a scratch."
"Did you hear the news of the Night's Watch?" Margaery asked carefully.
"I wouldn't be surprised if it was some mummer's trick."
Margaery shook her head. "I've seen it with my own eyes. It was real."
"Stannis believed it well enough. It's why he sent every prisoner but Joffrey and Jaime to the wall rather than pardoning or killing them."
"The smallfolk were saying he spared Joffrey too. No idea where they got the notion."
Garlan laughed. "Don't believe everything you hear."
"But I do believe everything I see."
*
"Great Warrior, font of strength, lend us strength to our arms and courage to our hearts…"
Margaery joined in the singing in the Great Sept of Baelor with relish. She'd always had a good singing voice, and she enjoyed using it, especially in support of the faith. The High Septon, his voice flat and bored, led the singing, matched only in lack of enthusiasm by Stannis's irritation and Selyse's outright anger. Stannis had dragged her out here when she'd informed him of the religious tensions. At least Shireen seemed to be enjoying it more than her mothers nightfires. She'd arranged it herself, a great prayer session to celebrate Stannis's victory.
She could smell the incense over the scent of unwashed bodies, though the others could not; the privilege of being closest to the front. Hundreds packed the hall of the sept, returning soldiers and their families, great lords and humble sellswords, servants and ladies, even a few curious Horse Grenadiers. They'd been whispering before the service had started, whispering of the hand, of how demons had escaped the seven hells, of how the red witch was raising the dead, of how the Grenadiers had been sent as a miracle to throw down a false king.
The High Septon droned onwards, swinging his censer.
Finally, they finished the last song, and another septon, bony and hard faced, stepped forwards. "Septon Luceon will now read from the Seven Pointed Star" the High Septon said.
Luceon picked up the Seven Pointed Star and flicked to the earmarked sections he wished to read from.
"Firstly, a parable on the risks of illusion."
He held it up, his eyes slowly tracking across the page.
"Once there was a town in Andalos that lived in great fear…"
She was quite familiar with that story.
The town had been in terror of a dragon that lived inside a mountain. The town's priestess was a venal and cowardly woman. She said the people needed her to protect them from the dragon with his water magic, which would let her hold off the dragon. In return, they would give her gifts of fish and obsidian. One of King Hugor's seventy-seven knight's came to this town, looking to kill the dragon he had heard of. The priestess insisted he not go to kill it, for it would surely burn him alive.
But he went to face the feral dragon anyway, so she went with him. Crossing the lake, waves came up and nearly swamped his boat. But he prayed to the Warrior for courage, and the waves subsided and he sailed on. Then, he came to the cave. She once again begged him not to fight the beast. But once again he ignored her, and went into the mountain. There were great boomings and roarings from within. As he entered the cave, he saw the dragon before him. It breathed fire, but it caused him no harm. When he struck it, his sword passed through it. He prayed to the Crone for wisdom, and he saw the truth. It's breath of fire was only mist. The roaring had been a thrush beating a snail against the rocks. And the dragon was dead and lifeless, only a skeleton. The Priestess had used her meagre powers to construct illusions, to keep the weak in her thrall.
The knight turned on the priestess and cut her down, and the illusion she had cast over herself was lifted and she was revealed as a hag, a merling that walked on the land. The true monster had been before him all along. When he revealed the truth, the smallfolk converted to the faith that had given them true vision in gratitude.
The Septon shut the holy book.
"Thus our faith lets us look through illusions and see what is truly there. Not a roar but an echo. Not a harmless priestess but a lying witch. Not a living dragon but a dead skeleton. And nowadays, not a prince but an abomination and not a great man but a weak traitor."
"It also teaches that the faithless can be won over, once their illussions have been dispelled." Luceon continued.
She glanced at Selyse. She seemed confused for a moment, then anger crossed her face and she began to turn to leave before Stannis caught her wrist.
The Septon's point was not easily missed.
It was also being misinterpreted.
He hasn't seen it. He hasn't held it, felt the dead fingers hit the sides of the jar.
That wight's hand was not a mummer's trick. The parable was backwards; Melisandre was the dragon, the illusion that seemed mighty but was truly nothing, the Wight the hag priestess, the true monster before them.
*
Half a hundred men stood before them in the throne room, Alliser Thorne at their head.
There were prisoners from the war; Lancel and Tyrek Lannister, utterly forgotten in a tower alongside the other Lannister prisoners from the coup. A few dozen other criminals flung in jails or spared the noose since the last Night's Watch man had left, all shackled. And volunteers, many highborn, who had been shaken by the sight of the grasping black hand and Alliser's tale of dead men walking and the sorry state of the Night's Watch.
Seven protect them. Whatever was north of the wall, demons loose from the seven hells, wildlings trying to fight the Watch with black magic, or Others riding ice spiders big as hounds, it was real and dangerous. She was glad she was not the one to have to face them.
"The Crown wishes you well, in the wars to come." Stannis said. "I have already sent all the arms and prisoners captured in the Western Rising to the wall, and will be sending firearms as well when there are enough."
Selyse stood at his side, and Melisandre at Selyse's.
"You do the work of Rhllor, whether you know it or not, watching against the Great Other, keeping the darkness back with your watchfires." Selyse said, her chin held high.
"We serve the realm, not your Red God." Alliser said, scowling.
Margaery stepped forwards, drawing a handkerchief she'd embroidered with the Tyrell rose from her pocket. "Take my favour. You have earned it as much as any knight."
Alliser seemed taken aback.
"Why-"
"As a token of the gratitude some of the people of the South for defending the realms of men."
He almost snatched it from her hands. He was not a man who had seen much of the way in kindness, or respect.