A Fatal Misstep

Obligatory disclaimer: I don't own ASOIAF; that honour goes to GRRM.

Edited by: Himura and R. Yorkshireman; B. Reader: Bub3loka

I also want to thank everyone for their support and encouragement.

***

12th Day of the 6th Moon, 299 AC

The Bog Devil, Myrish Marshes

The air was heavy with the buzzing of flies and mosquitos; the stilted smell of the marshland nostalgically tickled his nose, soothing Howland's taut nerves after the massacre.

"Never seen man so small and so dangerous," Zolo's words came out stilted as he patted Howland's shoulder. His smile looked almost demonic as his copper-skinned face was splattered crimson with blood from the earlier battle. 

The self-proclaimed Ko of Khal Eddard had proven his mettle aplenty now, and the more he fought for the Lord of Winterfell, the more he liked it. The Dothraki were no longer held in mistrust, and after the bad apples were removed, the rest proved themselves worthy of trust as they showed their valour and honour in battle.

He had even donned a chain shirt and an arming doublet beneath it, looted from some of the sellswords, and a dragonsteel arakh lay on his hip, taken as spoils from one of the slain captains of the Windblown. His previously cut hair had begun to grow again, now woven into a short braid with six bells softly tinkling as he moved–signifying the six victories he had won since he joined them as per his people's tradition. They had fought over a dozen battles, but Zolo simply did not count minor skirmishes where their opponents were lesser in numbers as true victories worthy of a bell.

Howland wiped the blood off his three-pronged spear with a brown cloak ripped from one of the fallen enemies and gave him a respectful nod. 

"You're not so bad yourself," he mused. "Few riders would dare bait an enemy into a swamp they've never seen before."

Zolo's laughter grew boisterous, "There's nothing Zolo doesn't dare with such a brave Khal. If he dares fight foe thrice bigger, we only have to fight harder!"

"Great work, Reed," Damon also came, smiling widely, though his armour was caked with even more gore and muck, and its yellow colours could no longer be seen. "At least even fools back home know not to follow Crannogmen into a bog."

He had felt useless in the open plains and the clash of horsemen before, but the bog was where he and his crannogmen shined. Traps, smaller ambushes, trick attacks while the Myrish lost their footing–they had killed as many foes as any other despite their lesser numbers.

"I cannot take all the credit," the Crannoglord waved the praise away. "Most of the plan was Lord Stark's."

"Aye, but we couldn't have made it without you," Rogar Wull also came, looking exhausted after making his way through the bogs and hitting the Myrish in the rear. He and Burley oversaw the recruits - the freed slave volunteers. They had not taken everyone, of course, only the hale, the strong, those who listened to orders and had a measure of talent in fighting. Of those who volunteered, barely one in twenty-five made the cut, but that still made for shy of fifteen hundred eager men who now served as skirmishers and reserve.

After Eddard Stark's rampage through their lands and the sellswords, the Conclave of Myr did not send an envoy to negotiate but mustered a united force of over eight thousand led by Crahan Drahar to deal with them instead. Howland could easily guess what they thought: a good mix of crossbowmen, some hired heavy lancers, and pikes would easily defeat a foe barely a third of their number, so why negotiate?

Numbers in battle gave men a certain confidence, which easily turned to arrogance, so it wasn't a surprise when Ned's plan worked. His friend always took such things into account.

Zolo had baited the Myrish into the swamp where the Dothraki supposedly couldn't retreat further. They thought wrong, for Howland had found three pathways that let the horselords wheel around. Then the Essosi were met with a second line of troops led by Howland, who, after a short fight, managed to retreat even further in the swamp towards where Ned awaited, leading the Northern elite in a tight line. 

By the time the Myrish met the Northern core, they had broken rank and were tired from going deep into the bog. It had given the hidden skirmishers and the Dothraki enough time to wheel around and strike Drahar's forces in the rear.

It had been yet another devastating defeat for the Myrish, although it seemed that the Northern forces didn't escape unscathed this time. It was difficult to count the dead in the bog–the number of bodies they had to fish out of the still waters felt uncountable, and many would probably remain lost there. The aftermath continued until sundown. Over three hundred lay dead, and many more were wounded–most of them the freedmen volunteers, but a few of their Northmen and Dothraki forces also fell. With such a difference in numbers, even with such a well-thought-out strategy, losses were inevitable.

"The turgid stink of the swamp will cling to us for days after this," Ryswell groaned, looking tired enough to fall asleep in his suit of plate as Eddard Stark gathered his council in the evening.

To the side, Tommen was trying to untangle the bits of mud from Winter's shaggy fur that now looked like a mix of brown and dark russet. The prince had seen no action since the day the sellswords had ambushed the camp, but Eddard Stark doubled his lessons and guard, and Howland often heard him explaining each battle and skirmish at length.

Morgan Liddle laughed, looking completely unscathed. "Look at ye, whinging like a little girl, as if you would have to deal with the cleanup. Your poor Glenmore squire has to shine your muck-covered armour, not you." 

"The Myrish will not be able to muster another force for quite a while after this," Manderly pointed, his voice gratingly hoarse. The nearly endless fighting and the hellish pace Eddard Stark had set had taken a lot out of the Mermen knight, and he had lost most of his plumpness, and his armour had to be refitted thrice. He had lost his left eye in a battle three days prior, too, and an eerie eyepatch covered the hollow socket. 

"We can have two or three days to rest and recuperate," Ned decided, rubbing his chin, where an angry red scar ran up towards the mouth, leaving a bald line in his beard. While the dragonsteel scaleshirt did its job admirably, it did not protect his head. The Lord of Winterfell had been in the thick of each battle, leading the most perilous tasks for himself and had not escaped unscathed. "The Myrish will have to come to negotiate; if not, finding more sellswords will take them some time."

The expected Myrish envoys never came, but a messenger from the Wolfpack and the supposed rebels approached them instead. 

***

15th Day of the 6th Moon, 299 AC

After much deliberation, Eddard Stark agreed to meet the ragtag rebels in a place of his choosing. After all, they had freed tens of thousands of slaves in the last moon and a half, and the revolt that was pushed out of the Ashen Plains suddenly found itself with plenty of room to breathe.

"Zolo's men counted less than four thousand spears, but there are probably more spread out." Howland heard the Dothraki whisper to Ned. "Good spirit, but not warriors." 

The envoy was a familiar face for once – one Asher Forrester, the exiled son of Gregor Forrester.

"Lord Stark," he had knelt when he saw Ned for the first time, much to the other sellswords' surprise.

"So you have chosen to sell your sword for coin," Ned noted neutrally, though those who knew him as Howland could hear the subtle disapproval in the words. 

"I know nought else but the sword and bow, and a man has to make a living," Asher mumbled, face flushed, but to his credit, he looked the Lord of Winterfell in his eyes without flinching. Even his spine straightened. "Besides, it's a cause better than any. I am willing to swear my blade in your service if you would have me, Lord Stark."

"You have already bound yourself to these men," he tilted his head at the other men of the Wolfpack. "I would not have you break your word on mine behalf. Perhaps after your contract expires, I shall still require your services. These are interesting times, far too interesting for my taste, and the gods have decided that one can never have enough skilled swords."

The young Forrester swallowed his disgruntlement and nodded.

Manderly leaned in, "Can you tell us anything about the revolt's leaders? I did not expect an escaped slave to be able to plan such a campaign and hold out for so long." 

"Well, it's good that he has never been a slave," Asher chuckled but refused to say anything else.

The Wolfpack and the Ragged Marksmen were the two main sellsword companies aiding the rebels, with smaller bands that Howland couldn't even pronounce the name of backing them. The crannoglord noticed most had arranged themselves on the other side of the hill. Still, they made for a poor sight along with the former slaves. Gaunt, most dressed in rags, but each had a spear, a bludgeon, and a shield. Howland could spot plenty of padded gambesons, thrice as many padded jackets made of a patchwork of different fabrics, and some battered byrnies and dented kettle helmets, but he could also count the ribs on their horses. Their dilapidated tents were hardly any better; many looked like a cold gust of white wind would topple them.

There was plenty of apprehension in their gazes, mixed with a healthy dose of fear. Howland couldn't blame them; the Northern retinue cut an imposing figure. Strong, well-fed, armoured to the teeth, each of them hardened even further by bloodshed and a string of victories. 

Even the lauded Wolfpack, the infamous company founded by Hallis Hornwood and Timotty Snow after the Dance, barely looked Northern after two hundred years. Most of their faces were swarthy, or the colour of olives, and Howland could see a few fair-haired men who would look more at home in Lys than the North, though they were better equipped than the slaves but not nearly as good as many of the companies Ned had defeated.

A minute later, they finally met at the top of the hill where Ned had decided to meet. In a sign of good faith, the Northmen could bring as many men as they wanted–though the number was settled on a dozen, while Zolo's men and a hundred Northmen remained at the base of the hill, keeping an eye out for any deception. The rebellion's leaders were three men, two former slaves, judging by the sword-shaped brand seared on their brows–probably former pit-fighters. Their gaits were also wary, and they eyed Ned as if he would leap forth and tear out their throats with his bare teeth.

The one at the front, clearly in charge of the three, looked familiar and did not show an ounce of fear, unlike his companions. 

"Wait," Damon Dustin frowned at what looked to be a scarred young man in a banged-up plate bearing the bronze rune shield of Royce. "Aren't you Bronze Yohn's boy?"

"Ser Dustin," the knight gave a respectful bow, and Howland noticed that the glove on his left hand had two fingers sagged as if they were empty. The digits were doubtlessly lost in battle. "I am indeed Robar of House Royce, second son of the Lord of Runestone."

"Well met, Ser Royce," Eddard dipped his head slightly. "I take it that my gift has reached Vaes Dothrak?"

The mention of their holy city had Zolo stiffen for a heartbeat, but he quickly recovered. 

"Aye, it was given to Drogo safely and received more than well," a ghost of a smile flashed through Royce's hardened face. "The Mad King's daughter was not as happy to see us, nor was Jorah the Slaver, but it mattered not in the end. Viserys had already perished when we arrived, and the dragon's claim is dead for threatening the Khal's unborn child." 

Ned's face was unreadable, but Howland knew the gift had probably succeeded. The other Northmen let out a grumble of approval; the House of the Dragon had long lost any support it enjoyed in the North, especially the Mad King's sons.

"What of Ser Donnel Locke and the rest of the retinue sent with him?" The Mermen knight asked. "At least half of them were my father's men."

"Maester Arren is still with me." The Royce's voice thickened with grief then, "Alas, most of the knights and men-at-arms died when Donnel remained behind to buy us time to retreat from a harsh battle against the Windblown and the Long Lances. Ser Donnel lives still but has lost a leg and an eye and is too infirm to move until he recovers."

"I would have expected you to return home after such a long journey," Ned noted languidly. "Yet here you are."

The unasked question hung above them, and Robar Royce sighed, rubbing his face tiredly.

"We were on our way back to Westeros in truth. From Pentos to Vaes Dothrak and then from Mereen to Myr, our eyes feasted upon the misery of men and chains, and our hearts had enough. The Red Riots were said to be bloody, but they were nothing compared with the aftermath when the slaves arose," His tone grew cold. "Donnel and I broke when we saw a pregnant woman being gutted open, unborn babe and all, near the docks–her husband was heard saying words in support of the revolt, you see. We would have both been killed for rushing out in anger if not for Arren."

"And you just decided to lead a revolt against the might of a Free City with a handful of men?" Dustin shook his head, but his eyes were ablaze with admiration.

"After a night of rest and much discussion, we decided to start slowly–aid a small group of escaped slaves outside the city and work from there. We even garnered some support from Lys, even if it was given just to spite the Myrish Conclave. Truth be told, it was folly from the beginning. We all knew it was an uphill battle that would have probably seen us all die, but it would be a worthy death."

The two freemen besides Royce nodded solemnly.

"All of us are ready to die for the hope of freedom," the taller one rasped out with a thick accent. "Death sets us all free in the end. Dāez Morghon!"

His Valyrian was weak, but after the last moons, he knew enough to understand the meaning.

Freedom or death.

"Dāez Morghon!" The other slaves down the hill chanted, and Howland wanted to weep for the tragedy. The resolve was beautiful and touching, as it was grim. Yet this was a mere corner of a vast continent.

"Truth be told, we were pushed out and on the brink of defeat," Royce continued solemnly. "Even with all of our training and Donnel's experience and tactical acumen, we would have been cornered within a moon at most. We didn't have the numbers, we didn't have the training, we didn't have the land. And then you came, cutting through the sellswords and the Myrish like a hot knife through butter. Newly freed slaves flocked to our cause, and those who had lost hope realised the gods were finally smiling upon us. We were reduced to less than fifteen hundred, yet here we stand, five times as strong with your aid."

"Admirable, but I can hardly claim all the credit." Ned inclined his head. "If the freedmen did not think you were worth following, they would not flock to your banner. A worthy thing to swing your sword for such a cause. I still remember when you were born–Robert and I were visiting Runestone. You were a loud, quarrelsome babe, but you always laughed when Robert tossed you in the air and caught you, much to your father's chagrin. He said, 'This lad is going to be a great fighter; I can feel it in my bones', and now, here you stand, fighting for greater things than many."

Royce blushed, actually blushed, like a maiden and had to cough a few times to cover his embarrassment.

"My father never told me…" he shook his head. "Nevermind. You must wonder why I approached you like this."

Ned snorted. "Wonder? Perhaps a little, but I can take a good guess. You want to unite forces against Myr." 

"Aye, you have just crushed most of the last forces fielded in the Ashen Plains. Yet this is not all that Myr could muster. My sources inside the city tell me they still have three sellsword companies and four thousand city guards, a third of which are Unsullied. The training of new cohorts of crossbowmen has already begun–something we both know doesn't require much time. Should we join forces, we can scour the rest of the Ashen Plains and siege the city together."

"I guessed as much." Ned exhaled slowly, but his words were devoid of feeling, and the icy mask of the Lord of Winterfell was back. "And herein lies the issue. You want to break Myr, while I want safe passage back to Westeros. I have a prince I promised to return hale and hearty to his mother and another, just as urgent war awaits us home."

Aside from the utter slaughter through the Ashen Plains, his friend had not been idle since it became apparent that they would clash with Myr–after it became clear that the Free City would not provide a safe passage back home. A handful of volunteers from the mariners had been silently sent to the smaller port towns or fishing villages, hoping to find a smuggler or even a bigger fishing vessel willing to brave the tumultuous Narrow Sea and reach King's Landing to send a message.

How many would succeed was another matter entirely.

Word had it that Tyrosh had failed to blockade Blackwater Bay, which meant there was a good possibility of returning home if Tywin Lannister found out about their predicament. If the royal fleet came to the waters, all they had to do was take one of the smaller coastal towns–which was far easier than storming Myr's formidable walls. It was still risky, as the Myrish fleet could potentially sail out to defend their waters, but Ned was already waging a war against the city.

"But you killed the slavers," one of the men by Royce's side frowned. "Why would they listen to you?"

"They pay the Dothraki generous tributes to avoid the bigger Khalasars, so why not me?" Ned chuckled, but it was devoid of warmth. 

"The Conclave of Myr cannot be trusted," the other freeman warned. "Their greed knows no end, and they smile in your face while planning to sink a knife in your back."

A cold glance from Ned had him shrink in his boots, much to Howland's amusement. If Winter were here, the freedmen would have pissed themselves on the spot. 

"Regardless, I have a duty to my people and my liege," Ned said, not unkindly. "We can work together until a moment comes when my forces can reasonably return home but expect no further assistance."

"Better than the position we were in before," Royce said after a moment of thought and squeezed Ned's outstretched hand. "It will be an honour to fight on your side, Lord Stark." Then he leaned in closer, his face growing softer. "And I must give my thanks regardless. You've brought us hope where there was none."

***

18th Day of the 6th Moon 

Myrcella, Winterfell

On heavy days like this, the castle felt empty without Rickon and Arya running around, causing a commotion in the halls or yards. There were two less direwolves now, leaving Lady practically alone. But even the well-behaved canine preferred to linger around the babes. One could mistake her for an oversized guard hound.

Myrcella had also gotten too used to seeing their young, flushed faces as they ate together in the solar and felt their loss keenly. But both Rickon and Arya were safe–just in case. 

Yet a dark cloud had hung over the North, and she struggled to enjoy the company of her ladies-in-waiting as of late; the maidens themselves were in dire need of cheer.

"That damned foolish boy!" She had never seen her good mother so wroth. Even when it became apparent that Eddard Stark had disappeared in the tumultuous waters of the Narrow Sea or that her Father, Hoster Tully, had passed away, it had been silent grief, not rage.

Had something happened to Robb? Or perhaps the Ironborn had taken another keep. At first, they thought the Ironborn were just testing the waters, looking for weakness–perhaps a reaving party over the more remote villages in search of thralls. It sounded crude, but the North could do nothing in such a case.

Robb had taken most of their horse, and there was no fleet to oppose the Ironmen on the Western coast, so the North could only bear such minor raids with indignity. Yet the Ironmen were not here for minor raids. The full might of Houses Orkwood and Ironmaker had stormed Flint's Fingers and Bear Isle en mass and were, of course, repelled after a bloody struggle.

Two days prior, word had arrived that Flint's Fingers had fallen to Victarion Greyjoy leading the Iron Fleet and a gaggle of Harlaws, a grand reaver fleet of over two hundred ships. And now, the Ironmen had a foothold in the North–a harbour they could use as a springboard for resupplying and further attacks on the northern shores. Worse, there was very little Winterfell could do. Retaking Flint's Fingers would require men to march all the way to the Neck and make their way through the Fever River and the Marshland before reaching it.

A perilous journey of over a thousand miles that would take many moons by land to accomplish, but no men could be spared for such, for the Ironborn attacks only grew fiercer. Worse, the loss of Flint's Fingers made them utterly blind to those coming from the Sunset Sea.

Myrcella shared a grimace with Sansa just as Ser Rodrik Cassel arrived in the solar; the old greying master-at-arms seemed stoic.

"You summoned me, my lady?"

"A raven from Lady Dustin arrived," Catelyn stabbed her finger at the roll of parchment on the desk by the map. Luwin sat on the chair, nervously tugging his chain.

"Has the Dustin Seat fallen under siege already?" Myrcella frowned. "I thought the young Artos Dustin and Benfred Tallhart had gathered nearly five thousand swords there?"

The red-haired woman laughed then, but it was cold and utterly bereft of joy, sending shivers down Myrcella's spine. "They had, but what good are swords led by two green boys thinking themselves Roddy the Ruin come again? Four and ten, their heads are filled with dreams of glory and valour instead of wits!" 

Ser Rodrik was aghast. "Surely the Ironmen cannot defeat such numbers without the element of surprise?"

Luwin coughed, looking pale. "They saw a small army of longboats with Farwynd and Blacktyde sails land on both sides of the Barrow River and split up their forces, thinking they could defeat both at the same time. Only, they were ambushed by Hightower and Redwyne, who seemed to have landed a few miles away on both sides the previous night."

"...What are Reachmen doing here?" Myrcella uttered, tiredly rubbing her wide eyes. "I thought they would try and blockade King's Landing."

"So did everyone else," Catelyn sighed, collapsing on one of the tapered chairs. "It's not just a small force too. The whole naval might of the Reach is there–over a thousand ships. Hightower, Redwyne, Chester, Grimm, Hewett, Serry, and Blackbar. Worse, the banner of the seven-pointed star was with them."

"How did they go unnoticed?" Sansa asked, her face as pale as chalk.

"The Ironmen struck first, taking down most of the outposts and watchtowers on the coasts, and the Reachmen probably descended under cover of the night," Myrcella mused outloud. "Cleverly done to pave the way for the Reachmen. I always knew the lands along the Mander were fertile and populous, but it baffles me how they can still spare the men to attack here instead of sending more swords to support the Renly the Pretender or Oakheart."

Catelyn's face grew colder still. "It's because of the Ironmen. Hightower and Redwyne usually leave most of their forces in reserve, along with the other coastal houses, to guard against the reavers. But now that the Ironmen aren't a problem, that's at least fifteen, maybe twenty thousand men, who can enter the war."

Luwin cleared his throat, face pale. "This… they can only boast such numbers if they cleared out every men-at-arms and knight left in the reach, leaving only green boys and greybeards for garrisons."

Taking a deep, shuddering breath, Myrcella ignored the sinking feeling in her gut. The North would struggle against the combined might of the Ironborn and the Reach's coastal houses, which was before the young Dustin boy had lost so many men. Worse, the North was vast, and most of the swords to spare were spread over thousands of miles.

Despite dreading the answer, she asked, "And what of Artos Dustin and Benfred Tallhart?"

"It was a well-planned ambush; The Reachmen struck at their rear while engaged with the Ironborn, broke rank–running into a second ambush, and the forces were almost completely slaughtered. The foolish Dustin and Tallhart boys were captured and burnt alive," came the sombre reply.

Ice chilled Myrcella's veins–burning meant zealots. Worse, both Brenda and Eddara had lost a brother. Seven above, they would be devastated, and Myrcella would have to be the one to bring them the ill news, for they were her ladies-in-waiting. The drowning feeling threatened to consume her.

The silence grew grave as if they were in the Crypts of Winterfell. Myrcella could see it now: the fear, the apprehension, and the disbelief. War had been a distant affair for the North; it had happened a thousand miles to the South, and everything had been peaceful from the Neck to the Wall. The Night's Watch was stronger than ever, and whatever threat loomed from the Lands of Always Winter had turned tail; four hundred marksmen manned Moat Cailin, and all the keeps on the Western coast had been well-manned and prepared for battle.

Yet the fragile sense of peace was shattered into a million fragments as if made of glass.

All those cruelties and bloodshed that sounded like a nightmare were now knocking on their doorstep, and suddenly, everything was real.

"This must be revenge for the Trident," Luwin added hoarsely as he scanned the letter. "Renly must be sending all of his zealots here."

"A bold move, considering he might need those swords in the battles of the South." Rodrik twirled his grey moustache. "It only makes Lord Robb's tasks easier, though."

"Foolish, foolish boys," Catelyn lamented. "If only they had waited. Fully manned, Barrowton could hold out for moons–enough time for the rest of the eastern lords to muster, and we would have ten thousand more swords ready to relieve Dustin. But no, rush blindly without scouting and for what? Some meagre piece of fleeting glory!"

Sansa sat by her mother, grabbing her hands in support. "But why would the Reachmen invade the North? We have no riches here, no plunder aside an abundance of clay, timber, and furs, and the winters are cold and long."

"To get rid of the zealots," Myrcella answered. "To demoralise Robb's forces. If the Stark bannermen knew their lands were under attack, they would want to go home and defend them instead of fighting in a faraway kingdom."

"Thousands of Reachmen have landed on the northern shores of the Saltspear, and even more are landing with each next day. Now, there's nobody near to oppose them. They're using the North's size against us." Catelyn picked up the parchment again, and her eyes hardened. "Lady Dustin writes her scouts saw the Redwynes using the captive Northmen to build large docks at a small bay near the mouth of the Barrow River, doubtlessly so they can anchor their cogs, galleys, and carracks easier."

Myrcella's mind raced like a doe, and she did not like the conclusion her thoughts reached.

"A one-time invasion wouldn't require docks. This means they are here to stay," she wrung her hands. "Possibly ship even more zealots. We cannot possibly deal with the Reachmen and the Ironborn simultaneously. What now?"

The silence grew stifling until Luwin coughed, "Lady Dustin writes that she's fleeing Barrowton and has ordered the citizens to do the same. Most of them are heading to White Harbor, but the lady and the rest of the remaining knights and men-at-arms are coming here."

Ser Rodrik rubbed his chin and loomed over the map of the North. "We should try to further fortify Moat Cailin. Its northern defences aren't as strong, and if it falls, any reinforcements from the South will be denied to us."

Catelyn turned to her, then, with an expectant gaze that said, 'It's your decision; you're the Lady of Winterfell now'.

"I'll write to White Harbour to call Manderly. He's closest to the Moat and can reinforce it fastest," she declared, though her voice cracked, coming out raw and jagged like a broken glass. The fate of the North rested upon her shoulders. Yes, Winterfell was a strong fortress, but it was not only her life at stake but that of countless Northmen and her son, Edwyn.

Myrcella knew what happened to the princesses and their get once castles fell. Should they lose, her precious baby would doubtlessly be fed to the fires or meet the same fate the young Rheanys had. 

Plans were already swirling in her mind. First, she would try to expand the militia and train even more men, then call Alastor and triple the order of crossbows. Have the steward hoard each goose feather he can get for arrow and bolt fletchings. Perhaps a few scorpions wouldn't hurt; Alastor was certainly capable of building some. The castle also had to be prepared for a lengthy siege, and the granaries and larders filled to the brim, just in case things went awry further than they had already. The cleaners also had to check the curtain walls and remove any overgrowth of moss or ivy that could give hold for attackers to scale the walls. 

Ravens had to be sent–to all the Northern Houses, even Skagos. Then to King's Landing and maybe even the northernmost Riverlords or the Vale.

"We shall try to deny the Ironmen and the zealots as much ground as possible," Myrcella frowned at the map. "How many moons until the cold season returns in full?"

"Four, maybe three, since it's autumn," Catelyn said darkly. "But we cannot let the Reachmen or the Ironborn ravage the North with impunity. It will only see the authority of Winterfell weaken."

"We can try and give them battle after the muster finishes," Ser Rodrik proposed, though his wrinkled brow was furrowed with uncertainty.

"Further plans can be made when we see how they move," Myrcella said, her heart heavy. 

Oh gods, how she wanted to go and sing to her little Edwyn–to soothe her nerves more than lull him asleep, for plenty of work and woe awaited. Yet she couldn't. The weight of the North was crushing, and it felt like all of it rested upon her shoulders.

***

21st Day of the 6th Moon, 299

The Lord Regent, King's Landing

Tywin's face was unreadable. This wasn't new, for his brother considered bared emotions a weakness, but after years, as his right hand, Kevan recognised the slant in his eyebrow, expressing thinly veiled fury.

A glance around the Hand's audience chamber saw five red cloaks positioned along the walls–the usual protection Tywin had begun employing against assassination—that and wine and food testers, of course. Yet Kevan recognised these red cloaks; they were the cream of the crop and those Tywin trusted most in his retinue–after the barber who shaved his head daily. Anything that happened here wouldn't leave the room under any circumstance.

Kevan swallowed his questions and was content to observe. After a minute of stilted silence, the Spider entered, bowing deeply. The overwhelming scent of rosewater made him gag–the damned eunuch had overdone his perfumes today.

"My lord Hand, you summoned me?"

"Take a seat, Varys," Tywin motioned to the chair and after a moment of hesitation, the eunuch complied. "Any word from the Free Cities?"

"Some. A message from Volantis," the Spider clasped his powdered hands. "The city has fallen to the Golden Company."

"I meant nearer," his brother squinted. "If the unrest in Myr is resolved, the Myrish have enough power to tilt the scales of war. Pentos as well, should they decide to meddle."

"Alas, what little birds I had in Myr perished in the revolts," the eunuch said regretfully. "And for Pentos… they are forbidden from raising even a militia or hiring sellswords."

Tywin scoffed. "I know what their peace treaty with Braavos says, but you should know best that such matters are rarely worth the ink they are written with, let alone a century after. Forget it. I have heard a most interesting rumour from the scarce flow of merchants hailing from the other side of the Narrow Sea. There are whispers of a new force raising a wolf banner."

Varys tittered, "Indeed. Every now and then, a new group of sellswords forms up and chooses a wolf for their banner, thinking themselves a group of predators."

"But you did not mention any of this," Kevan noted neutrally.

"A new sellsword company is hardly of any import to the Iron Throne. I am aware of it, but it takes time to investigate the rumours before bringing such minor matters to the crown's attention. It doesn't help that these sellswords are constantly on the move, and the East is aflame in war."

"Intriguing," Tywin said. "Yet you returned from your short trip to Essos two days prior, trying to dig into the matters and spread your web further."

"Yes, Lord Hand."

Tywin's lips twitched. "Indeed? To my amusement, I received three visitors from Essos over the last three days, who insisted on meeting Lord Lannister most urgently."

The eunuch's obsequious expression slowly melted away as the silence grew deafening. "Envoys, My Lord?"

"One can say so," his brother hummed, inspecting Varys carefully as if seeing him for the first time. "It is not every day Northmen come from Essos, telling a most interesting tale."

For a mere heartbeat, the eunuch's face contorted. It was so fleeting and unexpected, but Kevan could swear on the Mother that it was not a product of his imagination.

Tywin's gaze remained impassive as he continued slowly.

"They told me a most riveting story, you see. It was plain and rough-spoken but sounded better than the most lauded bard's finest song." His brother slowly took a sip of wine from the gilded goblet, closing his eyes to savour it. "Lord Stark is alive, and so is my grandson and their hefty retinue, and they are trying to find a way home. They crashed in Old Andalos and rode down to Pentos, where the city declined their entry, and are now on their way to Myr. I would have thought them mummers and frauds, but lo and behold, Karstark's men recognised all three by name and face." 

"This is great news, my lord," Varys smiled with a bow, but his movements were slightly stiff. "We should write to Lady Shireen to redirect her fleet to the harbour nearest to Lord Stark."

"Spare me your platitudes. You and I both know that ravens are trained to fly to castles and keeps, not vessels moving across the vast sea," Tywin reminded evenly. "But that is a moot point. The fastest galley is already sailing to the Royal Fleet with the news. Yet, I find myself curious about an entirely different matter. In your recent jaunt in Essos, you passed through Pentos. One of my trusted men claims to have seen you disembark from the sole Pentoshi trading ship that graced our makeshift docks for the last fortnight."

The eunuch frowned, seemingly confused.

"Lord Hand?"

"The Pentoshi might be excused for not recognising the grey direwolf of Stark, but he was far from the only one. The crowned stag of Baratheon, the horsehead of Ryswell, the merman of Manderly, the twin axes of Dustin, and a myriad of clansmen and other minor houses were all beside the direwolf, all unique and eye-catching. What is your excuse?" Tywin's voice grew lower. "Worse, Stark was at Pentos three moons ago, and you have said you have agents in the city before, yet you brought no word."

"My birds are stretched thin as of late, Lord Hand," Varys bowed apologetically, yet Kevan noticed his bald head glistened with sweat. "There's so much mayhem and bloodshed across the land–from Volantis to the Wall, and they must have missed it." 

"Perhaps," his brother inclined his head slightly. "Eddard Stark and Tommen's mere presence can tilt the scales of victory in our favour. Yet your silence and mummery reeks of incompetence. Or malice. Perhaps you knew about Stark's presence and chose not to inform the Iron Throne."

Tywin gave the barest nod, and one of the red cloaks silently approached, unsheathing his sword.

"Give me more time-"

The eunuch's words halted as his head slid off his shoulders, and a warm splash of blood squirted in Kevan's eyes as the body and the head tumbled to the side.

"Did you have to kill him so quickly? The damned eunuch deserved worse." Kevan grumbled, wiping the stinging blood off his face and blinking at the crimson stains littering the chair, the desk, and the Myrish rug below. "Sloppy. The stain will take forever to remove, too."

"The carpet can be replaced, and Varys' usefulness ran out," Tywin said as the red cloaks carried out the corpse and the head separately. "Besides, the slippery eel knows the Red Keep and all the secret tunnels that Maegor dug like the back of his hand. The Spider would have slipped away if I had given him the barest chance."

"Joffrey will not be happy," Kevan noted tiredly.

"My grandson is never happy. Besides, I suspected someone warned Renly about Robert's demise early. I questioned the remaining white cloaks–the news was kept silent until the morning, yet the prancing stag was gone by then."

"And you think Varys did it? Why would he?" 

"Does the truth even matter to one such as Varys? I find myself questioning every word that has left his tongue for years. Is it just another string or well-timed lie in his web of deceit?" Tywin Lannister snorted. "As for why–to sow trouble, of course. I have seen these old tricks since Aerys' reign but dismissed them as harmless scheming until Stark's messengers started trickling in. Worse, with his silence on the matter, I now can't help but suspect he had a hand in the poisoning attempt upon my Grandson and the Lord of Winterfell."

It indeed seemed suspicious. 

Kevan sighed tiredly and finally finished wiping the blood off his face, though it still felt sticky. "We should have kept him in the black cells and wring him for everything he knew and planned."

"I have no patience for such foolery anymore, and venomous spiders are best squashed before they can bite you." His brother's face somehow hardened even more than usual, making his two green eyes look like two cold chips of sinister jade. "Ravens arrived from Winterfell and Stilwood Castle just an hour ago. Stark has Crakehall under siege and claims he can retake it within a fortnight. But word from the North does not bode well. The Reachmen are invading the North en masse–with their zealots and the Ironborn and have defeated a force led by the Dustin spare."

It certainly explained why his brother had taken such drastic measures. 

"Now the whole western coast of the North bar the Wolfswood is wide open," Kevan said, groaning inwardly. Just as he thought the war was turning in their favour, victory slipped away further and further. "Yet you do not seem worried."

"Fools. There's a reason why nobody managed to conquer the North from the outside. Winter is coming," Tywin's lips twitched with amusement. "They can enjoy some measure of success for a handful of warm moons, but the snow shall take care of them when the end of the year approaches. And those who survive long enough will fall to the cold. Besides, there are many reasons to celebrate. By all three accounts, Stark has managed to recover Brightroar, and now Tommen is the one wielding it. After over three centuries, House Lannister has recovered what was lost!"

Tommen was only half a Lannister–the wrong half, and Kevan had too many questions to count, yet for the first time in over a decade, his brother looked happy. Or as joyous as Tywin Lannister could ever be–with a barely noticeable curve of his lips as Arbor Gold freely disappeared into his throat.

Sighing, Kevan was too tired to ask a thousand questions swirling in his mind–like how the dragonsteel blade lost in the Doom ended up in Stark's hands, so he raised his cup in a toast and emptied it in one breath.

A Tommen Lannister had lost Brightroar, and it only seemed right that another Tommen reclaimed it, even if this one was half a stag.

***

23rd Day of the 6th Moon, 299 AC

Word slowly spread that Varys had been caught passing vital information to Renly's spies, and both had been killed while resisting arrest by the red cloaks. It was a load of shite, but nobody questioned it.

Nobody shed a tear about the Spider, for he had not made any friends in his long tenure as a master of whispers.

Even Joffrey waved off the news as unimportant, focusing on his silver-haired paramour.

Kevan, however, was tasked with catching and cleansing all of the eunuch's 'little birds' from the city.

"Just in case," Tywin had told him. "I am still not sure who truly pulls Varys' strings. Not that it matters–the entire city must be purged."

Kevan expected to wrangle with some sort of sorcery and cunning network of informants, not a gaggle of young, pitiful children with their tongues removed. With the city no longer bustling and the aid of the Gold Cloak, hunting down the mute orphans turned out rather easy, as they stood out. All the beggars and orphans were supposed to be expelled, so those who lingered stood out like sore thumbs, even if they wore well-made garments to avoid scrutiny.

Killing so many children out in the open would cause plenty of discontent, and he would baulk at doing such a vile deed but would rather avoid such cruel bloodshed unless Tywin ordered it. Besides, slaughtering so many young orphans in cold blood might invite the Mother's ire upon his sons, which doubly stayed his hand. 

So Kevan simply put them to work–digging, carrying, and fetching things for the men-at-arms. 

What few souls that dared cross the streets were filled with unease–the Reachmen continued launching corpses over the curtain walls each day, and it was common to see half-mangled, half-smashed carcasses in different stages of decay being carted to the Dragon Pit. Some puked at the sight, and even Kevan averted his gaze from the gruesome spectacle.

Mace Tyrell still kept sending axemen with torches to try the wall and the portcullis deep in the night but made no further assaults. Yet despite the seeming calm, ignoring the occasional rumble of the boulders and corpses crashing into the ring of half-ruined houses near the walls, Kevan couldn't help but feel uneasy.

Later that evening, his suspicions were proven correct when one of the watchmen on the walls came to him, looking worried.

"Me bucket of water was shakin'," he reported, and Kevan grew grim. "It wasn't heavy Pate's lumbering steps either; the surface kept rippling on its own."

Sappers. It seemed like Mace Tyrell acknowledged he couldn't go through the gates or over the walls and decided to dig underneath–or even try and collapse them.

Three hours and one pulsing headache later, buckets of water were positioned across the length of the city walls to alert of any sapping activity. A task force over a thousand strong was organised to begin counter-digging to collapse the passages the Reachmen were trying to make–the only way one could counter sappers.

Just as Kevan reached his quarters in the Red Keep, already imagining his soft feather bed, his brother summoned him again.

Suppressing his disgruntlement, Kevan dragged his feet to the Tower of the Hand. But this time, he was not alone. Cersei was already waiting there, clad in a revealing crimson gown slashed with gold, tapping her foot impatiently. The last moon had been stifling for his niece, but nobody had time–or the resources to pander to her whims.

Kevan suspected Cersei would have been remarried if a worthy candidate had brought a sufficient number of swords to the table. While in her early thirties, she was still fecund enough for a child or two and was still a beauty. Yet the kingdoms were all dragged into one war or another. Dorne was in open war with Lys after the sacking of the Water Gardens, and the stalemate of the Vale continued as Waynwood continued to delay the Trial of the Seven.

"What is so urgent to wake me in this hour, father?" Cersei asked impatiently.

This time, there were no red cloaks in the room itself, which meant their talk was to remain private.

"Harrenhal has fallen," Tywin said, carefully inking a letter, yet Kevan could detect a hint of satisfaction and respect in his tone. "Literally. Edmure Tully had somehow organised tens of thousands of smallfolk to dig underneath the wall's foundations, and the main gate collapsed into rubble along with a portion of the wall. Rowan and his band of the Reachmen were all put to the sword as deserved."

Kevan could only shake his head at the numbers of smallfolk Edmure had somehow managed to gather–though the Riverlands probably united against the Reachmen's brutality. Or perhaps it was the hatred against Harren's cruel seat, built on the Rivermen's blood, sweat, and tears.

His niece's eyes flashed with self-satisfaction as if she had forgotten that this whole war had started because of her stupidity.

"So, Renly ought to retreat or be smashed, then?"

"It's still more than a moon's march from Harrenhal to King's Landing," Kevan reminded. "Perhaps even double that because Penrose probably swept clean everything worth eating on the way and is competent enough to delay and harass Tully's forces. The Riverlords will still need to handle all of those smallfolk. Returning them to their homes or even conscripting them will take even more time." 

"Still, two moons, and this dreadful siege and war shall end," Cersei waved dismissively.

His brother frowned. "If it were only so simple. We might not have enough time. There are signs of plague spreading in the city. Some men-at-arms complain about fatigue, shivering, and nausea and their eyes are irritated by sunlight. The first day saw five cases, and I dismissed it as a common stomach ache. The second day saw a hundred, and the first men's digits had started to blacken; today, I was notified of nearly a thousand men falling ill. I have given orders to keep things quiet and ward off the sick near the Sept of Baelor, but only the gods know how fast it will spread."

Kevan's mouth went dry, and even his niece turned pensive.

"What does Pycelle say?"

"It's not something he has seen before, and there are no mentions of such ailment in the royal records. It would look like a common fever if not for the swollen flesh. Some of the heavily infected have nasty bulbous-like swells that darken as time passes." Tywin closed his eyes. "Pycelle estimated that up to two-thirds of the infected will perish, even if treated promptly."

His knees grew shaky, and Kevan would have collapsed if he weren't already sitting on his chair. He did the numbers in his head–with this rate of spread, the whole city would be aflame within a sennight, and if over half of them perished, there could be nothing for Edmure Tully to save. 

This was worse than the Grey Death!

Why did the gods have to punish them so?

Even Cersei looked… morose, and this was the first time Kevan had seen his niece so speechless and pale. Though she had been plenty pale lately, and her figure had grown thinner in her lengthy stay in the Maidenvault.

"What shall we do?"

Tywin scoffed. "Lug some corpses back to Renly, of course. He and his carcasses caused this, and it's only right we send it back to him. Of course, the city cannot be evacuated even if we wanted to; these meagre docks do not allow us to evacuate even half of the men. Nor would I ever give Renly the satisfaction of sitting on the Iron Throne. But Cersei, you and Myrielle are leaving the city before dawn. I have arranged a vessel-"

"My good daughter can flee for her safety, but I want to stay in the city, Father," she interrupted. "Someone needs to keep the court in order-"

"Do not give me these paltry excuses, Cersei," Tywin frowned. "Do you think Pycelle did not tell me when your maid discreetly requested moon tea to cover up for your affair?"

Cersei's face turned as pale as a ghost, and even Kevan blinked in confusion.

"I… there's no lover, father. Just a moment of weakness for a grieving widow-"

Tywin's face darkened. "Do you take me for a fool? I keep tolerating your nonsense because you're my daughter. Do you have any idea what it would look like after Renly's accusations if you spawn a bastard now?!" 

"Then, why did the old fool deny me the moon tea?" Cersei hissed out, and Kevan wanted to bury himself in the floor. Gods, he just wanted to sleep on his featherbed, not deal with this mess.

"Because Pycelle said your health has grown feeble enough that taking it might just kill you," Tywin sighed, looking ten years older. "You're still my daughter, even if a lackwit. You will take the boat awaiting Myrielle, retreat to White Harbour, and await Lord Stark and your younger son's return."

"Tommen is alive?" Her voice was torn halfway between hope and disbelief.

"Without a doubt, according to the Northmen," Kevan sighed. He knew that the court had shunned his niece, but to see her out of the loop to such a degree was piteous, even if they kept things under wraps. "Eddard Stark has shown up in Essos, hale and hearty with his men. Tommen was seen by his side at every step."

"Good. That's good–Stark promised me he'll keep him safe, and he is a man of his word." For a moment, Kevan gazed at Cersei's hopeful face, which looked far more tender than he ever thought he would see his niece. Her love for her sons was unquestionable. Yet her joy drained away, and she swallowed heavily as she finally looked at her father's stern visage. "And what shall I do if a child in my womb quickens?" 

Tywin carefully lifted the tangle and dripped a heated wax onto the scroll before pressing it down with his signet. "Lord Manderly can be very discreet. He shall provide you with accommodations and seclusion so you can give birth to your bastard safely and without a scandal. Go now, get ready to leave, or must I get my men to aid you along?"

"There's no need, Father," Cersei stood up and curtsied smoothly. It was done all too easily, his niece doubtlessly hatching another foolish plan in her pretty head.

"You're not as smart as you think you are," Tywin warned coldly. "Play your petty games after the war is won, lest you wish to put your son's rule in peril further."

She gave them a practised smile–one of the fake ones given in court. "I shall not disappoint you, Father."

As soon as the door closed and her footsteps no longer echoed in the darkness, Tywin sighed and poured himself a generous cup of Arbor Gold.

"Where did I go wrong with my children?" He took a heavy gulp and closed his eyes. "All three of them proved weak or foolish. Is it too much to ask for one capable heir?"

Kevan awkwardly poured himself some wine and sighed.

"There are still plenty of kinsmen left to you," he said delicately. Like himself and his sons, who served loyally. "Casterly Rock and House Lannister will surely not fall into ruin."

"You are right, of course," Tywin's lips thinned. "There's always Tommen–Stark will raise him right, if a tad too honourable. But judging by the Young Wolf, that honour is just a velvet glove hiding an iron fist underneath. Tomorrow, I shall draft a new succession for House Lannister. Tommen shall be the Lord of Casterly Rock should I perish–provided he is not before burdened with other lands or is, for some reason, unable to take the Lannister name. After him comes Myrcella as my spare, on the condition that she gives birth to a second son to rule Casterly Rock. Her young husband is already defending the Westerlands well enough."

Kevan's heart clenched–of course, he wasn't even considered. He was just a dutiful brother, not a part of the precious Lannister legacy birthed by Joanna. "What if she only has daughters?"

"I suppose one of your sons can wed her then."

"What of this plague?" Kevan asked, changing the topic while trying to ignore the giddiness threatening to overwhelm him. In the end, he was a dutiful brother. "It might devastate the city."

Tywin laughed harshly, the sound as jarring as a jagged piece of steel.

"Does it matter? After Cersei's ship sails away, I'm sealing the city; we have the food to endure. The royal succession is secure. Myrielle is pregnant, Tommen is alive, and Myrcella has a son already. Should we perish to the plague in the caprice of the gods, Stark shall dutifully pick up the royal banner for us–the old or the young. We should help them and ensure Renly chokes should he try to take the city."