Teetering on the Brink

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.

***

19th Day of the 7th Moon, 299 AC

Eddard Stark, Outside of Myr

Unlike Tyrosh, Lys, and Volantis, the walls of Myr were made of ordinary granite. It was of no surprise since, according to what Ned remembered from his childhood lessons, the town was either founded by Valyrian merchants or had started as a walled Andal town, conquered by the Freehold later.

Forty-foot tall curtain walls dotted with watchtowers, squat gatehouses, and a garrison were more than enough to keep armies out of the city until the resident dragonlord took to the skies–or assistance arrived from the Freehold itself.

But the Freehold, the Forty, and their dragons were gone, and the Myrish hadn't even bothered to dig a proper moat to protect their walls. 

"Tommen, your thoughts?" 

His page's brow was adorably scrunched up as he gazed at the city with a heavy frown.

"You have all the men digging trenches and building dikes," the boy slowly said as his green eyes roamed the surrounding camp, which was churning with activity. Thousands of former slaves had picked up spades, shovels, and pickaxes again to build defensive fortifications instead of enriching their masters. Yet it was done with great enthusiasm; the mere knowledge they contributed to the downfall of the hated Myrish Conclave had lit a fire in their hearts. "Which means preparing for a siege–a long one. But we already beat the Myrish!"

The Lord of Winterfell sighed; for all his cunning and wits, Tommen was merely a boy and still had much to learn.

"One should never underestimate your foe, no matter how weakened," he cautioned. "Even a cornered rat can bite, let alone such an old and powerful city with many connections and plentiful wealth. The Myrish should still have a thousand lancers left that can sally out and make trouble for us."

Tommen's face lit up. "So that's why we spent a month sweeping everything around the city. To isolate them and discover any other sally ports!"

"Indeed. A general should always secure his backlines, supply routes, and a place to retreat if he can. Sometimes, you can be cornered with little options, which is usually the result of bad planning." Ned sighed, gesturing towards the city. "But now we have about thirty thousand men besieging a city of nearly a million–while we outnumber the city guard, the defenders, and their remaining sellswords, eight in ten of our men have not held a spear or a sword until a moon ago. And there's far more to a warrior than shoving a blade and shield in his hands."

One reason Ned took his time before reaching Myr was to drill the former slaves into a semblance of discipline and bloody them so they wouldn't break at the sight of the enemy. Sweeping away the surrounding villages and walled towns was just a bonus. Sadly, it only made the Myrish retreat with any vessels they had back to the city. 

Being in nominal command of such a patchwork of an army was a challenge. Each company, regiment, and wing had different equipment, different numbers, and different training, and some of their commanders and captains did not even speak the same language! Ned had the hefty task of reorganising this mess into some useful semblance, which was a heavy test of his skills in warfare. He also took the chance to familiarise himself with how the slave revolt operated.

"One man on the walls is worth at least three below," Ser Robar Royce added grimly. "Sometimes five, or even more, if the walls are good. Storming well-defended fortifications is a bloody business, so many prefer starving the defenders out. But then it becomes a game of waiting–will the defender's food run out, will their morale break first, or will a relief force arrive to aid the besieged."

Tommen rubbed his face, and his gaze moved from Myr's walls back to the Northern army camp, looking as if he were trying to decipher a vexing puzzle. 

"But we killed everyone the Grand Conclave commanded outside these walls, so there's no relief force for Myr," he said, tilting his head adorably. "And… we can't starve the defenders 'cause they can resupply by sea."

Eddard couldn't help but shake his head inwardly. Gods… the boy simply had an instinct for the matters of warfare, rivalling his talent with the blade; he was earnest and hardworking, soaking up all the lessons he offered. Rarely did Ned have to repeat a lesson twice.

"Which is why we'll use layers of trenches to cover our sappers underground so they can tunnel under the walls in a few locations. Thankfully, Ser Damon has brought three men well-versed in engineering-" which had been a stroke of luck, but a welcome one, "so we can have well-made trebuchets, battering rams, and siege towers. A three-pronged assault–as long as one of the attacks succeeds, the defence will collapse. Of course, men with torches and axes will be sent to test the gates first before committing to anything significant." 

Tommen's diligent nod as he gazed at the distant walls raised a serious question–what in the seven bloody hells had Pycelle and Robert been doing with the lad? Aside from basic courtesies, some heraldry and history, Tommen had been a blank slate, knowing practically nothing.

A cold cackle echoed in his mind. 'If you taught your heir half as well as you're teaching the blonde boy, then there's hardly anything to fear for the future of House Stark.' 

"They can always surrender," Ser Wylis Manderly cleared his throat, coming from the side. "They have just raised a parlay flag, Lord Stark."

Belio the Black Blade, one of the slave leaders hailing from the Fighting Pits and Robar's left hand, spat. 

"Beware the Magisters," he eked out with a heavy, hoary accent. "The Myrmen are indifferent sailors and feeble warriors; they favour the dirk, dagger, and crossbow, preferably poisoned. And those who rule the city are thrice worse."

"Meeting place?" Ned asked.

"Halfway between the gate and the camp," came the grim reply.

The Lord of Winterfell shook his head. Did they think him a fool? Halfway between the camp meant he would be in the range of the scorpions lining the walls.

"If they want to negotiate, they can send their envoys here, in my camp," he said slowly. "Their well-being will be guaranteed on my word-"

"But Lord Stark-" Belio hurriedly interrupted but swallowed his retort as Winter growled warningly.

"Proper rites ought to be observed, no matter the grudge." Ned exhaled slowly. "Besides, they want to negotiate–something they avoided doing until now. It reeks of desperation. Something must have happened."

Yet that only made the former slaves and Royce more worried. The Lord of Winterfell had not hidden that his main priority was going home. While the men under his direct command—Northmen, Dothraki, and recruited Freedmen—barely made three thousand, they were by far the most capable of the gathered host. If they made a deal with the Myrish to leave… not only the fighting potential but also the morale of the rebels would suffer a severe blow.

After much dallying, Ned's suspicions were proven correct, and four hours of back-and-forth later, an envoy with a small retinue reluctantly made their way to the Northmen's camp as the sun was setting and dusk quickly approached.

'I know of their sort,' his usually quiet ancestor whispered furiously. 'They don't have the guts to face you in battle, so they resort to methods that would make even cravens baulk and the gods rage. Clad yourself in steel.'

And so, the Lord of Winterfell was garbed for battle, arming doublet underneath the dragonsteel scale, and his men wearing half-plate and armed to the teeth. Winter was behind him, prowling quietly in the dark and sniffing at the air, and Tommen was sent away with Ser Gendry and a hefty escort of Dothraki lest they truly encountered treachery.

"Did they run out of men to send a woman?" Jory asked faintly underneath his helmet, though his gaze was glued to the alluring sight before them. Four Unsullied were carrying a litter, an ageless beauty sitting atop the silken cushions. Hair the colour of beaten gold flowed around a flawless olive-coloured face adorned by two lilac eyes. But what gathered most of the gazes was her attire below. If it could even be called an attire, for the gown's fabric was so thin and scarce it barely left anything to the imagination.

'A honey trap,' Theon sourly spat. 'I would be wary of her sleeves. Why have solid sleeves on such a whorish dress if not to hide tricks?'

Walder's enormous form barred their path, his hefty poleaxe laying low in anticipation, ready to sweep through the five eunuchs accompanying the litter on each side. "Only the lady may pass."

"All of you are clad in steel and armed as if going into battle," she pouted. While surprisingly well-versed in the common tongue, her voice was melodic, with a sultry lilt to her soft accent. "Do you fear a poor maiden so much?"

Some of the Northmen looked abashed, and a flush crept up Morgan Liddle's neck. But most stared stonily at her like statues.

"The City of Myr has yet to show us anything worthy of trust," Ned said, focusing his gaze on her eyes. Even he was tempted, for she was a beauty like no other, sensual in a way words failed to describe, and not even Ashara Dayne could rival her. But he had given vows before the Heart Tree and would not break them no matter what. Besides, her teats were lesser than Cat's, if by a little–did not even look as firm. Winter's golden eyes focused on her sleeves, ready to pounce. Ned could feel his four-legged companion smell something subtle, something vile. Poison. 

Was there no decency left in the world?

"Very well," she conceded. "We shall do this your way."

He was tempted to strap on his helmet like the rest of his retinue, but instead, he tensed and nodded gruffly. "I am Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. Who am I speaking to?"

"I am Serala Vaeltigar, sister of Magister Erreno Vaeltigar, envoy of Myr," she proudly proclaimed, raising her chin. "I have heard great things about your… honour and the Sunset Lands' infamous hospitality. Yet I see nought of it here. Was it all just empty talk?"

Ned waved, and Mallo brought over a platter of the hardest dry bread in the whole army camp, along with salt. 

Serala's haughty face broke as soon as her fingers touched the bread, but to her credit, she gingerly dipped the piece in the salt and slowly took a small bite, crunching through it with an expressionless face. Swallowing heavily, she smiled, even if it looked like a grimace, "This should be enough, no?"

"Very well," Ned acknowledged. With a wave of her hand, one of the Unsullied knelt before the litter, huddling up, and Serala used his back as a step. 

The Lord of Winterfell scoffed inwardly. "Follow me."

The eunuchs were left under the watchful eyes of the Northmen and Dothraki, all armed with bows and ready to make pincushions out of the slave soldiers should they move a toe out of line.

Ned led the way to the specially prepared clearing while keeping an eye on Serala's movements with Winter and ensuring he was at least seven feet away at all times. They stopped before his main tent, where Vayon had hung out dozens of lanterns that illuminated everything, and he turned to face the seductress in full sight of his men and Robar Royce.

Smiling coyly, she twirled a strand of golden hair and innocently looked at him, "Surely there's no need for steel now that I've taken your rite of hospitality?" Serala took a step forth, giving him an even better view of her ample cleavage, and Ned tensed even further. 

"Enough of this dallying," he said coldly, his hand visibly resting on the icy hilt of his sword. "You've come to say your piece. Do so and go."

After a coquettish pout and a long, drawn-out sigh, she finally acquiesced, "Quite direct… I like it! Lord Stark, this is a great misunderstanding. The City of Myr and the Grand Conclave have no quarrel with the North."

"Truly?" Ned raised an eyebrow. It was a lie; Winter could feel it. "My memory must be faulty, then. Perhaps I imagined the Stormcrows, Maiden's Men, and the Second Sons going out of their way to attack us unprovoked, despite having the banners of the North raised high for all to see? Was it a fevered dream when Crahar Drahan and his army came to hunt me down?"

"It was a misunderstanding, as I said." Serala sorrowfully bowed her head. "A grave one, at that. Someone from Pentos had placed a price on your head, My Lord. Our contacts traced correspondence between people of ill repute and one of the men supposedly working with one of the newly risen Cheesemongers. The sellswords did what they have always done–chase after coin."

Ned's eyes barely flinched; truth. Yet, not entirely. She was holding something back.

"We need not be enemies, Lord of Stark."

"Perhaps two moons ago," he allowed. "But the gods have decided otherwise."

Her face grew solemn, and she straightened her spine. 

"The Conclave of Myr understands the hefty insult levied on House Stark and are willing to redeem themselves with gift and weregild. Two million of your Westerosi dragons, ten chests of precious gems and our finest fabrics, a dozen Valyrian Steel blades, half a hundred dragonbone bows, and two dozen of our fastest warships so you can go home as quickly as your heart desires. This should be enough to show our sincerity, no?"

A small part of Eddard Stark would be tempted if the words did not reek of half-lies. "I have heard your offer loud and clear, but I need time to consider it. I'll inform you of my decision after a sun's cycle."

'They would give you faulty ships or try to drag you into an ambush, where you'd be outnumbered.'

Usually, Ned wouldn't be one to jump to such conclusions without proof, but the subtle smell of what felt like poison, coupled with the earlier dishonesty, was more than enough for him. They wanted to get rid of him by hook or crook. His direwolf slowly prowled behind the envoy, causing the rest of the Northmen to blink, but none dared make a sound.

"Perhaps I can offer something more to sweeten the deal?" Serala's voice turned low and husky as she stepped forward with a practised sway of her hips, unbothered by the dozens of Northmen watching. Yet a heartbeat later, she froze as Winter's warning growl rumbled clearly. His silvery form was already behind her, sniffing at her sleeves.

Realisation dawned on her face, but she didn't pale from spoiling her plot as he suspected. Even Winter's presence didn't make her flinch. Instead, she flushed crimson red that looked more like purple on her olive skin in the ruddy torchlight, yet she still did not dare move an inch. Ned decided there was something wrong with her head. Or she was simply brave–too brave.

A mocking cackle came from within his mind, 'Oh, sweet summer child. I've seen a few of her ilk before. It takes a special daring and desire to volunteer for what can very well be a suicide endeavour. She wants to kill you–but not before riding you first-'

"Enough of this charade, I've heard your offer. This talk is over," he declared, also silencing the nuisance in his head. "Escort her back to her eunuchs."

"Your kingdom is under attack," she cried out, and the Northmen about to grab her paused. "Word arrived from the Sunset Lands on how zealots and the Iron Reavers have assaulted your precious North. Surely your presence is needed at home urgently?"

For the first time, the words were not a lie or a half-truth, and his retinue turned uneasy. Yet that meant little.

"As I said, one sun cycle for me to deliberate," Ned waved to his men, and they unceremoniously picked her up. Yet Serala neither screamed or raged or cussed but lifted her chin and closed her eyes, her face turning into a prideful mask.

'Sack that city,' the hungry whispers continued, far more urgent. Was that desperation in his voice? 'Your bannermen love you; the kingdoms know your justice. You must show everyone else that House Stark is not to be trifled with, especially now! Just a bit more and your enemies back home will retreat at your mere presence! Slinking away will dampen the Northmen's spirit, but a victory will raise their morale-'

'Enough. You are losing your wits.'

Ned almost laughed as he heard the teeth grinding in his mind. 'Listen, boy-'

'I liked you more when you remained silent. Be what it may, it's autumn now. Winter is coming. Northern winter.'

Theon was silenced, and Ned didn't hide the small snort this time. Once again, his ancestor was not wrong in matters of warfare. But he had failed to mention the most compelling advantage. Should Myr fall, Ned could leverage a good chunk of its wealth and power into a proper Northern campaign against the Reach and the Iron Isles. Manpower, money, weapons, and other resources could tilt the scales of victory where desperate haste would fail.

While a part of him was worried for his wife and daughters in Winterfell, another acknowledged that he could hardly do anything from here. A small source of solace was that Cat was aware of and knew how to prepare for such cases. And it would not do to dwell on far-away things he couldn't change and ignore what was before him. Any road had to be trodden step by step–even the road home, and the first step was the city before him. 

Once Serala was dragged out of sight, Ser Robar Royce came, looking fearful.

"I must admit, hearing her offer–even I felt tempted. Will…."

"Will I accept?" Ned finished icily. "Hardly. It sounds good–too good. The fact that almost every word that came out of her mouth was a lie didn't help. The siege continues."

But no matter how calm the Lord of Winterfell portrayed himself to be, molten rage coursed through his veins, and his mind churned furiously with plans upon plans to break the city as quickly as possible. Yet a colder, more cautious part of him knew excessive haste could be fatal in warfare. 

***

20th Day of the 7th Moon, 299 AC

Margaery Tyrell, the Red Watch

Margaery never felt uglier. Her hands and feet were swollen, and her body had lost all traces of the elegance and grace she was so proud of. Her once hourglass-shaped figure had swollen into an ugly mess, and her lithe, thin waist had thickened.

It made her angry; Renly barely did anything, but she had to suffer all of this for an heir, previous indignities aside.

"Three more moons," she murmured, running her fingers over her belly as her wheelhouse slowly rumbled through the gravel-covered road. "Three moons and you'll be born."

"My mother says the first pregnancy is the hardest," Talla Tarly said softly. Unlike her lordly father, who could be mistaken for a stone statue at times, everything about the young maiden was soft: her chubby cheeks, her hands, her Norvoshi wool dress, her grey eyes, and her smile. An innocent girl of four and ten and one of the ladies-in-waiting Margaery did not wish to part with just yet.

However, the Queen hoped she wouldn't 'struggle' with her first birth only to deliver a babe the likes of Samwell Tarly. The rumours had it he had weighted a whole stone at birth, almost ripping the poor Melessa Florent open. Yet for good or bad, the infamous craven had even managed to get himself killed in a rabbit hunt last year, just before the war had started.

Rhaelle Selmy's face darkened. "The birthing bed is a battle. I still remember my lady mother giving birth to my sister, her fifth child, a moon too early. She screamed from dawn till dusk, and the next morn, the maester told us both mother and daughter perished. I was only three, and the screams are all I remember of her." 

The callous words made Talla shrink, edging closer to Margaery. 

The Selmy maiden was named after the princess who wedded Ormund Baratheon to placate the Laughing Storm's wrath after the Prince of the Dragonflies spurned his daughter for some lowborn witch. Margaery had heard the name was given in hopes of currying favour with House Targaryen and Baratheon, but in the end, it had failed with both. Rhaelle Selmy also looked nothing like the House of the Dragon, with her chestnut hair, harsh blue eyes, and a barbed tongue.

"Enough of this morbid talk," Leonette Fossoway, Margaery's good sister, warned. "As you said, the birthing bed is our battle, one we cannot escape any more than our brothers and fathers could escape this bloody war."

While Margaery had yet to visit Harvest Hall, which was too far to the west, Lord Arstan Selmy had sent his sister to Storm's End with a small retinue, politely explaining how all of his available men were busy dealing with the large numbers of 'all-too-well organised' brigands and raiders. The holdfast of the Arron, one of the landed knights under his rule, had been sacked by one such group a moon prior.

Dondarrion and the Castellan of Blackhaven had given a similar reply, of course, but without any daughter or sister to join her ladies-in-waiting. And Margaery didn't dare to tempt the Stranger by venturing that deep into the Marches despite the hefty escort of Brienne of Tarth the Blue, Ser Guyard Morrigen the Green, fifteen knights, and four times as many soldiers, a mix of lancers and veteran men-at-arms.

Of course, there was an entourage of cooks, handmaids, and servants that doubled their total number and two more wheelhouses with seven more of her ladies-in-waiting, though they were all married or already betrothed. Margaery's guard was thrice larger than before, but they slowed her progress considerably, and she decided to send off a good part of them to aid the coastal houses that struggled with the corsair raids despite Ser Guyard's objections.

Her current defenders were more than enough, and Margaery needed to raise more support.

"What do you think Stonehelm is like?" Talla shyly changed the topic, her gaze wandering through the opened window, the green outskirts of the Red Mountains to their right and the misty Rainwood to their left. The so-called Red Watch region where Cape Wrath met the Red Mountains wasn't as beautiful as the roiling fields of golden wheat in the Reach or the endless green pastures, but it had a certain charm. 

"With tall curtain walls, cold, hard, and fortified, like all the other castles in the Dornish Marches," Rhaelle provided gingerly. "And with good reason, I'd say. Barely a hundred years of peace, and the Dornish show their true colours again."

Margaery sighed. "Two more days before we arrive at this pace." 

This would be her last stop of the Stormlands' progress before returning to Storm's End. To the east, lords were beset by pirates and corsairs, and the Dornish were making plenty of trouble to the west. And she wanted to give birth to Renly's heir in Storm's End, a small gesture for the Stormlords that would hopefully win her boy some of the favour his father had lost. 

However, it might have been in vain. Just this morning. Ser Guyard reported that Lord Swann had ridden with four hundred men to aid Blackhaven.

Margaery feared that even if she dangled Rhaelle or Talla to the Swann heir, he would be unresponsive to her pleas–or simply have no more men to spare. Still, she had to complete the journey, show her face in Stonehelm, hear the woes of House Swann and see if something could be salvaged from this situation.

This journey could not be shirked, especially since Ser Balon Swann, the Swann spare, was loyal to Joffrey and wedded to one of the countless Lannisters of Lannisport.

Worse, the Commander of the Gold Cloaks was highly competent, and one of the reasons King's Landing lasted as long as it had was until the old lion arrived to relieve the city.

Perhaps she could learn of Ser Balon Swann's weakness from his kinsmen. There wasn't much Margaery could do to tilt the scales of victory, but she had to try. Especially since her Father's last letter was darker than usual, speaking of disease spreading through the city and Renly's army–even Loras had fallen ill. For a few heartbeats, Margaery felt vindictive pleasure at her brother's misfortune, but it had quickly evaporated once she realised that Loras could very well die. Even though Margaery was still angry at him, she didn't want him to perish.

Then, the carriage stopped.

"Why did we stop?" Talla looked around nervously, wringing her fingers.

Margaery latched open the small shutter facing towards the coach's seat. 

"There's a heavy tree fallen ahead, blocking the road, Your Grace," Brienne's hoarse voice, now tight with tension, echoed from the front, sword already drawn.

"I'm sure there's nothing to worry about," Margaery reassured calmly. "There was a fierce storm last night, was there not?"

The Tarth maiden shook her head.

"Our scouts have yet to return, and the tree was chopped down." The words made her heart skip a beat as if the Stranger had spoken them.

"FORM UP, PROTECT HER GRACE'S CARRIAGE," Ser Guyard's cry echoed as twangs and whistles filled the air. Many things happened at the same time.

Just as Brienne picked up her helmet and was about to strap it, she halted with a jolt, her eyes widening. A weak gurgle escaped from her throat as a bolt had lodged itself in her unprotected neck, crimson gushing around the dark shaft.

Margaery screamed.

***

22nd Day of the 7th Moon, 299 AC

Garlan Tyrell, Tumbleton Hills

After nearly two moons, Garlan had a newfound respect for the infamous Blackfish. Brynden Tully's reputation as a knight was well-deserved. The man was cunning, able, and rarely made mistakes, and his skills as a scout and outrider were admirable.

He had split his men into groups of two or three hundred with the sole goal of causing as much devastation as fast as possible. Raiding supply lines, ships, carts, carriages, wagons, and villages in hours and be gone before any relief force could arrive. 

But the Blackfish had grown too aggressive; he had ventured too deep into Reach territory, and Garlan had managed to mobilise the local garrisons and additional militia. The locals knew these hills better than the Rivermen, and not all the knights and scouts under Brynden Tully were as skilled as he was. With the support of the locals and the additional manpower, Garlan focused on hunting down the groups not led by the Blackfish.

It was bloody at first, but Ser Androw Crane and Gyles Rowan had been eager to prove themselves after their failure with the Mountain, and the Rivermen were gradually reduced in number. That cruel aftermath of the Battle of the Rushing Falls had come to bite him in the arse. The Rivermen were unyielding, and nobody surrendered. Each battle left hundreds of corpses in its wake on both sides, so Garlan started ordering his men to give the enemy a path to retreat.

And now, after finally chasing the Blackfish for over a sennight with nine hundred knights and lancers, Garlan had managed to corner him by a cliff at his back and a deep ravine to his right. The experienced veteran knight wouldn't have made such a mistake if he knew the terrain, but this was Reach land.

True to his name, Brynden Tully showed no sign of wealth on his person save for the small golden brooch lined with obsidian holding his cloak bearing the blue and red of his house's colours. His armour was plain mail and padded leather, with a padded surcoat bearing a black trout. His men were similarly lightly armoured, trading protection for speed. Garlan and his troops had the luxury of full armour and change of fresh horses at any small holdfast, village, or stud farm.

"We should attack," Ser Gyles Rowan advised, his tangled auburn mane growing wilder by the day since he had sworn not to shear or shave until his older brother, Mathis Rowan, was avenged. "They're too lightly armoured. Either get the marksmen and hunters here to rain arrows until they all perish, or we can end them now; three waves of lancers charging will crush them."

"Not yet," Garlan said. "Someone get me a parlay flag!"

Ser Androw Crane, the infamous wielder of the Red Wing, frowned. Just like Gyles, he was a storied and proud knight, and one might even claim them arrogant due to their dragonsteel blades, but they had the skills to back it. Garlan believed he could match them in skill should they wield a castle-forged steel sword. Still, dealing with prickly and well-connected subordinates was stretching his nerves thin.

"We're going to negotiate with heretics and heathen-lovers?"

"You're going to do whatever I order you to do lest you want to lose your head for disobedience, Ser Gyles," Garlan warned darkly. He had tired of bloodshed; he had had his fill of killing men half a year ago. He would do it because of his duty, but Garlan had had enough of this talk of heresy and blind theology. If things were different at the Rushing Falls, if he had managed to restrain that post-battle frenzy, perhaps the situation wouldn't have grown so ugly.

But the deeds were done, the lives taken, and time could hardly be rewound; Garlan would have an easier time controlling the weather. This did not mean he wanted to keep pouring oil into the flames of hatred, to stoke the fires of zealotry any further.

Just as the uneasy Rivermen seemed to gather in a desperate attempt to break free of the encirclement, a rainbow flag for parley was raised.

"What if they try to take you hostage or kill you, Ser Garlan?" His captain, Lomas, asked.

For a heartbeat, Garlan paused. Yes, this was risky. Hatred flowed both ways, and he very well could very well be going to his death. Then, there would be no honour left in the world.

"Then I die, and Ser Androw Crane shall be in charge." Ser Gyles Rowan was older and more experienced but was too proud, evidenced by his poorly hidden frown at the declaration.

The risk of death always followed him, but was there any honour or decency left even now in those lauded knights whose names stretched far and wide since before he was born? Garlan wanted to find out, even if it killed him.

Accompanied by his companions, Sers Bayard Norcross and Willam Wythers, though the former was now missing an eye after the last bloody skirmish, Garlan sallied forth, and the Blackfish rode out to meet him with two of his men halfway. Up close, the infamous knight looked just as plain as his garb: craggy, weather-worn face marred with a few fresh scars. Even half of his right ear was missing.

"Ser Garlan… the Gallant," Brynden Tully's voice was tinged with begrudging respect as he gave him a slight nod. "You have us cornered, lad. We will probably not live to see another dawn, but we can drag down a few hundred of yours in the Stranger's grasp while we're at it."

"Indeed," Garlan agreed, weariness dripping from his words. "But do we need to continue this senseless slaughter?"

A raspy, mirthless chortle escaped the old knight's chapped lips. "Senseless slaughter? It was you, Reachmen, who barged into the Riverlands, killing, looting, and burning your way in. It was you who refused to take hostages for ransom or give captives the chance to take the Black. Only a fool would dare surrender to a Reachman now!"

Garlan sighed, his lips breaking into a brittle smile.

"It doesn't have to come to this," he said.

Seven above, he was tired.

"Life is not a flowery bard's song, Ser," the Blackfish shook his head. "I know today is the day I die-"

"A duel," Garlan interrupted. "Single combat–knight to knight. You and me." The Tully knight blinked in incomprehension as if seeing him for the first time, so Garlan continued, "Should I win, you and your men shall surrender their arms and swear on their liege and the Seven to go and take the Black."

"And should I emerge victorious?"

After a moment of hesitation, he said, "You and your men can leave freely." 

It wasn't quite treason, but it went against the orders his father had given him. Some would call him a fool or a lackwit. But Garlan wanted to try. He wanted to see if there could be any honour left in this savagery and madness that had taken hold of the Seven Kingdoms.

The silence stretched as Brynden Tully stared at him for what felt like an eternity before giving a slight nod. "Very well. Choice of arms?"

A more cunning man would choose a mace, a warhammer, or an axe, rendering Brynden's chainmail and padded surcoat nearly useless. Or perhaps he would choose a war lance and have them clash in the deadliest tilt, where Garlan would have a heavy advantage with a full suit of heavy plate.

"Longsword and a side-arm, no shield."

A glimmer of surprise flashed in the Blackfish's blue eyes, but he grudgingly nodded, "Fine. Here again in ten minutes?"

"So be it." Garlan simply clasped the outstretched glove and shook it. "Make it quarter an hour, and I shall bring a Septon to bear witness." 

Once they returned to the rest of the Reachmen, Ser Bayard cautioned, "It will be a hard fight with just a sword."

"How do we know the Rivermen will honour the Blackfish's promise?" the Red Wing's wielder asked, his voice thick with irritation. "What's to stop them from running away and simply rejoining Edmure Tully?"

"The Seven shall bear witness to their vow, and so shall we. Should they have a smidgeon of honour left or some fear of the gods, they will stay true to their promise," Garlan said as he waved over his new Roxton squire to unstrap his plate.

Ser Gyles frowned, gripping Golden Leaf's hilt tightly as he usually did whenever anxious or annoyed. "Why are you taking off your armour? A normal blade will do nothing against your plate."

"The Blackfish only has ringmail and an arming doublet, and I will match him. It is only fair. Besides, ringmail will stop a sword's edge well enough, and the plate will weigh and tire me out. I will meet him in skill and test his endurance."

Neither his captain nor the knights seemed to approve of his idea. Garlan could see it in their eyes; they thought this was madness. Some were particularly disgruntled as the Blackfish and the men causing mayhem in the region could possibly get away. Ser Gyles was one of them, and his hatred for Riverlanders, especially House Tully, ran hot after the slaughter of his lordly brother in Harrenhal. But neither he nor anyone else raised further objections.

Eventually, a limping local septon was hastily brought here to officiate.

Garlan faced Brynden midway betwixt their forces on a small, slightly sloped grassy clearing. A dozen Reachmen and Rivermen stood fifteen yards behind the respective contestants. The Tully knight critically inspected Garlan's choice of armour but gave him a gruff nod.

"Under the eyes of the Seven, Ser Garlan Tyrell and Ser Brynden Tully have decided to resolve their differences by single combat." The septon croaked out with a mouth of rotten teeth while leaning on an old cane. "Do you both agree to surrender the outcome into the hands of the Gods?"

Providence, luck, preparation - these were all taken into account, but while a knight could prepare or try to tilt the scales into his favour, the outcome was never certain until blades were crossed, especially under the eyes of the Seven. Thus, whoever won had divine favour.

"Yes," the two knights echoed in unison, longswords drawn in their mailed fists. Just like the Blackfish, Garlan had a dagger in his left hand. While Ser Brynden Tully was slightly taller and lean, Garlan's shoulders were broader and stockier in build.

"Begin!"

After the septon's feeble proclamation, the two knights cautiously approached each other, circling and looking for weakness. Garlan grimaced; despite his ample battle experience, he saw no opening in his foe. Despite the slightly lowered sword, the Blackfish's form with his left foot forward was unorthodox but surprisingly solid. Garlan had sparred against thousands of men-at-arms before the wars and hundreds of knights afterwards, but only a handful had looked as stalwart. And they had been some of the most challenging foes to best; Garlan found himself losing more than winning in such cases.

But he could not afford to lose right now.

Yet the sun had other plans; the sky was clear, and the afternoon was turning arid. As the minutes passed, neither knight made a move to attack, but the tension mounted, and rivulets of sweat trickled down Garlan's brow underneath the visored barbute, stinging his eyes. The Blackfish showed no signs of irritation or annoyance, like a still pool of water.

Taking a deep breath to centre himself, Garlan gritted his teeth and lunged. His thrust was met and batted away with simple precision, and the rose knight was struck on his wrist by the counter. Garlan cringed in pain and almost dropped his blade, but he managed to jerk away from the next swing, aiming at his elbow. 

Exhaling, the rose knight stepped sideways to avoid another strike aimed at his dagger hand, then feinted at the opening to the right the Blackfish had deliberately left. The older knight leaned in to take the hit before it reached full swing, but Garlan managed to twist his stiff wrist and land a solid hit on the shoulder, eliciting a pained grunt from the Blackfish.

Brynden's strikes were surprisingly strong for a man his age, and he tried to use his height and slight reach advantage to the fullest, having chosen a longer longsword than Garlan. Yet the rose knight gave as good as he got. After a few more painful hits, he avoided getting stuck in the joints and vitals. The duel quickly became a game of skill and endurance. 

Garlan's strikes were quicker and stronger, but the Blackfish was like a slippery fish, avoiding many by a hair's breadth while constantly pulling away at the edge of his range. His longsword kept buzzing around, a constant threat at his wrists and vitals like some annoying hornet. It prevented Garlan from being too aggressive and using his strength to the fullest. Yet with the ringmail, padded surcoat, and an arming doublet, a one-handed strike was far from lethal, but each hit would leave bruises.

The minutes passed, but the end of the duel was nowhere in sight. While the Tully Knight looked winded, his breathing was heavy but still well-measured. Despite the dozens of hits Garlan had landed, none of them had done any real damage save from shattering a few links from the chainshirt, while his wrist was probably bruised blue and would soon break from the punishment it had received.

After a moment of hesitation, instead of trying to catch the Blackfish's next strike like usual, Garlan stepped back. 

The unexpected move gave him two heartbeats of time, just enough to strap his dagger back to the sheathe on his belt and grasp the hilt of his sword with both hands. The duel quickly devolved into a contest of who could take more punishment, and by using two hands, each of Garlan's hits was far heavier than before. Yet the bruises on his body began to pile up as the Blackfish's strikes were faster, and he still had his dagger; his shoulders, forearms, a good part of his torso and sides were all aching and would probably be more bruise than flesh by tomorrow at dawn.

Yet his newfound tactic at leveraging his youth and superior strength proved successful. His heavy blows began to slow the Blackfish visibly. 

Finally, a well-aimed strike at his side chained into attack to his forearm caused the older knight to lose his grip on his sword, and Garlan lunged forth to grapple Brynden Tully before he recovered his blade. He managed to deflect the dagger aimed at him just before the collision. The momentum had both of them painfully roll on the trampled grass, but his foe was half a heartbeat slower in recovering.

Garlan took the superior position above, pinned the Blackfish's right arm with his knee and held his dagger at the slit of the knight's helmet right over the eyes.

"Yield?"

"I yield," came the pained grunt. "You've won, Ser."

"The gods have decided that Ser Garlan Tyrell is victorious," the septon announced sleepily, but he paid him no heed. The rush of the fight was receding, and in its place, the familiar ache was striking with a vengeance. 

Every bruise and hit felt sore, and his fingers were so tense that they couldn't let go of the dagger, and he was forced to pry them open with his left hand. He almost regretted abandoning the plate armour and a shield. But now, none could claim that Garlan Tyrell had won unfairly, for both sides used the same arms and armour; the only difference had been the smith who forged them and the skill of their bearers.

Groaning, Garlan stood up and offered a hand to help the Tully knight up.

Yet Brynden Tully did not accept the offered help but shakily removed his helmet, looking wearily at him.

"You would abandon that chance of Lordship your good brother promised just to spare me?" 

"I've had my fill of bloodshed for a lifetime," Garlan said breathlessly. 

"None would blink if you strike me down now," the Tully Knight whispered. "You would be in the right."

"Enough is enough. Go to the Wall, in peace, Ser. The Night's Watch will need men of your skill if the Others have truly returned."

The Blackfish grasped his hand, and the rose knight knew it then. The Seven had not abandoned him or his. Honour could be found even in these trying times. His body was on fire with pain and soreness, but Garlan Tyrell had never felt so good since the start of the war.

"It's been forty years since I've seen a knight of your calibre, Ser," a pained rasp escaped the old knight's throat. 

"There are many as skilled as I am," Garlan eked out a brittle chuckle.

"Any brigand or fool can swing a sword or promise hefty vows when there's no cost to it. While you're quite good at it, it's even rarer to see someone with such staunch character as you. Fret not. I and all my men will take the Black, on my honour."

Garlan's mouth turned dry. A bested foe's frank yet plain words sounded sweeter than the most skilled bard. And… acknowledgement of his efforts by a man of the Blackfish's calibre was a feeling like no other.

***

24th Day of the 7th Moon, 299 AC

The Redgrass Field

After much grumbling and plenty of suspicion, the remaining Rivermen had all accepted the defeat, surrendering their arms and any loot without a fight. Aside from their horses and daggers, none of the Rivermen had anything to defend themselves or attack anyone. 

Solemn promises were given in the small Sept that night before Garlan had let them go, if with a small group of scouts trailing afterwards, to see if they would follow their word. While he trusted the Blackfish, he couldn't say the same for the rest of his entourage.

Still, a handful of Rivermen raiding parties remained along the Goldroad, and he had to hunt them down or cow the remaining ones as he did with the Blackfish, so he dispersed his men into regiments of four to five hundred horse each. While his brother, Loras, had fallen ill in the Crownlands and the war still looked grim, Garlan never remembered feeling so free of burden.

Loren Roxton, his young squire, was rather taciturn, and Garlan would not hear his voice for days, but he didn't mind. The silence helped him clear his mind, and the boy of four and ten did all of his duties well enough. Even the other squires didn't particularly like the silent Roxton, but Garlan cared little. The only thing that could break the boy's silence was his love for history and old lore.

"This is where Daemon Blackfyre fell," Loren said, looking around the overgrown hill. "That over there should be the ridge Bloodraven used to ambush the rebels. I wonder if I can find the stream by which Fireball was killed?"

Ser Willam Wythers chuckled. "The smallfolk still dig up bones or some abandoned daggers, shields, swords, and other pieces of armour to this day. Some even claim the sword of kings is still here, buried in some ditch."

"Bollocks," Ser Bayard clicked his tongue. "Everyone knows Bittersteel took Blackfyre with him to Essos."

"But there are hardly any records of what happens to the blade after that," the young Loren said faintly.

"It's agreed that the Golden Company has the sword. But Valyrian Steel isn't that rare in Essos," Garlan added thoughtfully. "It's not uncommon to see pirate captains have a sabre or an arming sword forged in the fires of the Freehold. They say a lucky wandering journeyman or a sellsword can find a dragonsteel sword with sufficient time and luck."

"Heh, I imagine Ser Gyles would not be strutting like a peacock with his sword if he were in Essos." Ser Bayard guffawed, "He would simply invite others to duel him for the blade."

"Or pick it up from the corpse of a defeated foe," Willam murmured. "Perhaps we ought to go to Essos once this war ends and try our luck?"

"Well, almost everything east of the Narrow Sea is at war, so strong sword hands should always be in high demand," Garlan said. Perhaps he would have joined them if he had not been a married man. Leonette was fair, shy, and quiet, but it was a union of duty, not love. They had been strangers when they wed, and the war had kept them strangers still.

Just as their party trodded halfway through the grassy field, his captain Lomas hurriedly came over, a handful of scouts in tow. The same scouts that had been sent to track the Rivermen. Garlan's blood turned to ice. Had he been mistaken about Brynden's honour?

"What is it?" He asked, his voice cracking.

"Ser Gyles wheeled his group around the Field of Fire and attacked the unarmed Rivermen early at dawn," the scout said, grimacing. "He slaughtered them all to the last man."

The words were said, but Garlan could not hear them. He could not breathe. His heart felt like it had leapt into his throat.

His honour… his honour was shattered because of overproud fools. Who would trust his word now? How can there ever be peace to this senseless slaughter? The Rivermen were unarmed, not a danger, and swore oaths! Why…

Garlan wanted to cry then, to weep for those men. He looked them in the eye and promised them safe passage to the worthy knight whom Garlan tested his mettle in a duel of honour and received respect from. A great man like Brynden Tully deserved a better death than to be ambushed by some up-jumped, overproud tourney knight! 

Garlan wanted to cry, but no tears came. No, he had no more tears. Instead, a savage, angry roar escaped from his throat, spooking the nearby horses.

***

The Rowan Knight had famously claimed that the Blackfish was breaking his word and was aiming to rejoin his nephew, Lord Edmure Tully.

The meagre excuse was not accepted, especially when one of the guilty men-at-arms confessed about agreeing to join in exchange for becoming a landed knight once Gyles Rowan was enfeoffed as a reward for killing a Tully. After Ser Garlan Tyrell hunted down Ser Gyles Rowan and the rest of his men, he hung the nobles and knights who had ambushed the Rivermen like common brigands.

The men-at-arms were stripped and whipped with a barbed whip. The surviving ones were made to clean Brynden Tully and his men's desecrated remains and bring them to Riverrun on the pain of the death of their mothers, fathers, sisters, and children.

Golden Leaf, House Rowan's Valyrian Steel bastard sword, was tossed into the deep rapids of the Blackwater Rush. According to witnesses, Garlan the Grim had proclaimed, "It is a cursed blade. From this day on, I curse this damned sword; should some fool be lucky enough to find it, let it turn against him and all who wield it."

Garlan Tyrell's wrath was great. 

Insubordination in war was a grave enough crime, but this was worse. His given word trampled by those under his command was a stain that 'only the blood of House Rowan could wash away'. Instead of rejoining Renly's forces in the Crownlands or sweeping the remaining Rivermen attacking the supply lines, he turned his forces to march on Goldengrove, making good on his word. Even the local septons condemned Ser Gyles and House Rowan, claiming them traitors and oathbreakers for besmirching the divine arbitration. All of a sudden, the remaining cousins, wives, and young children of House Rowan found themselves unwelcomed, treated like dangerous lepers by any who would sight them.

Meanwhile, the Northern Crusade under Hightower and Redwyne met heavy difficulties as they progressed further inland.

While the steady stream of vagrants and zealots provided quick numbers, the Northmen deeper in the land had fled, their abandoned fields empty, their meagre possessions and food stored in hidden caches, leaving little for the invaders. News of a new curse had spread after those who dug through the Barrows of the First Men started dropping dead not even a sennight after. Hundreds of zealots were estimated to have died of cold and starvation each day despite the usually warm middle of the year.

It didn't help that Hightower, Redwyne, and the other Reachmen hoarded each bushel of food, every woollen cloak or fur-lined garment for their army. The siege of Moat Cailin turned ugly, but despite the Crannogmen's heavy harassment, the Reachmen continuously mounted frontal assaults of zealots at the Moat's towers with the promise of food upon success. Yet progress was slow.

For once, Balon Greyjoy and the reavers of the Iron Isles made no big moves aside from besieging Deepwood Motte and some minor skirmishes along the outskirts of the Northern Mountains, seemingly satisfied with their current gains. But the number of Ironborn in the North was estimated to be above ten thousand.

Rumours of disgruntlement also spread through the Watch over Lord Commander Stark's possible involvement in the war slowly began to spread. Still, all dismissed them as baseless fearmongering, for Benjen Stark was preparing for an expedition to subdue Chieftain Harle, who had over seven thousand wildlings and was trying to claim the whole of Storrold's Point from Hardhome.

Things were not going well for Renly either. While word of the disappearance of Queen Margaery and her ladies-in-waiting took some time to spread, it did the following sennight, and Renly's cause took yet another blow. But things were far from over, especially with two major battles looming.

Upon awakening, Robb Stark immediately resumed his march down the Ocean Road, dead set on smashing through Oakheart once and for all. But while the Young Wolf was unharmed from yet another attempt on his life, word of the acolytes' betrayal spread, and the prestige of the Citadel and the Maesters took its biggest blow in centuries.

"If they dare to poison my good brother, who's to say they won't poison me?" Joffrey's infamous sentiment was shared in every corner of the realm. Acolytes and maesters were looked upon with suspicions for years to come, and none could even say what far-reaching consequences this would have. Scores of maesters and acolytes even lost their lives to their overly-suspicious lords, blaming them for one mishap or the other. 

Yet another, far more important battle seemed all but inevitable.

The situation at King's Landing was getting worse for both sides, but neither was willing to give up. While Edmure Tully and his men slowly but surely approached the capital, thousands were falling ill with the black plague each day both outside and inside the walls, and just as many perished. The brutal slog underground between miners in the dark continued but to no avail, aside from more and more deaths. Tunnels were collapsed, men were buried alive, and new ones were being dug again and again.

It looked like the city would never fall, and Renly would be forced to retreat and regroup his forces to match Edmure Tully's fresh army. Just as the first preparations for a retreat were underway, the Lion's Gate exploded in green flames in the darkness of the night. It was said that the explosion could be heard from three leagues and felt from thirty, though many dismissed the claims as exaggeration. Still, the volatile wildfire bloomed into a green cloud, ejecting a good portion of the gatehouse and the surrounding curtain wall into the sky. At the time, nobody suspected unstable caches of wildfire lay buried underneath each gate, but it is commonly agreed that one of the sappers chanced upon one such trove in their brutal struggle.

Regardless, a gaping hole nearly thirty yards wide was left in the fortifications, and Renly ordered his men forth into a full assault despite rampant disease and the lingering green flames-

Excerpt from 'Lazyro Zelyne's thoughts on the Sunset War'