Fight Harder

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.

***

8th Day of the 8th Moon, 299 AC

Lord Paxter Redwyne, Torrhen's Square

While sufficiently defensible, the seat of House Tallhart was not particularly prosperous, but it shouldn't have come as much of a surprise. The Tallharts were a mere Masterly House if one of the stronger ones amongst their ilk.

The Lord's solar was a suitably bright but bare room with a few hunting trophies, axes, and dusty tomes along a small bookshelf. Even the sole, worn-down tapestry behind the desk displayed some long-forgotten battle against the Ironmen. The Northmen seemed to have an odd aversion to displays of wealth and success that did not include martial prowess. But it was no longer Tallhart's solar but Paxter's, so it was high time for a change.

With sufficient time, manpower, and coin, Torrhen's Square could become an important trade hub, especially with the significant harbour already under construction at the mouth of Torrhen's river. Those were things House Redwyne had in abundance. 

The surrounding lands themselves were relatively prosperous. While not nearly as fertile and suitable for farming as the Reach could boast, there were some silver and significant salt deposits in the nearby hills, and the proximity to the Wolfswood gave him access to an inexhaustible source of lumber and furs. The generous amounts of wood, leather, and red clay in the vicinity were just a sweet bonus.

Of course, there were fields in which plenty of northern wheat and other things suitable for the cold were grown. All the fields were planted; the fleeing Northmen hadn't bothered to take or destroy the harvest, which would soon ripen. With the full-stocked larders and granaries for the coming winter, there was enough food to provide much-needed supplies for Baelor's army. 

Yet that was merely the beginning; once Torrhen's square and the downstream harbour were established as a proper trade hub, goods would flow in and out of it like White Harbour.

To realise all those ambitions, however, required a lot of effort. The vagrants were put to work, the zealots dealt with, and the Ironmen had to be slowly brought into the fold after being used as fodder–or brought to heel. Paxter prided himself on holding the key to the Iron Islands in his grasp with Asha Greyjoy wedded to his heir. Naturally, Renly also had to sit on the Iron Throne to add the most essential layer of legitimacy to this venture.

He and his cousin Mace had plans, many plans on how to multiply their riches, prestige, and holdings, but things had gone awry. Things were supposed to be simple, and victory had been not only before them but nearly in their grasp. Yet the Seven had decided otherwise.

It was hard to identify the exact moment the tides had turned, but what was a certain victory seemed to be slipping further and further away, so far that Paxter struggled to see it as of late. 

Was it perhaps when the arrogant Tyroshi had been so brutally surprised by the stubborn defiance of Stannis' daughter? 

Was that new, cruel disease creeping through the South a punishment from the gods?

The death of Margaery and Mace was a devastating blow to Renly's cause, and the mad septon had proclaimed Hightower king. And Paxter had already made his bed and had no choice but to lay in it. With his second son, Hobber, being a personal aid for Baelor and enmity against the North already formed, he could only declare his allegiance to the Hightower king. The mere idea of trying to beg mercy from a cruel boy like Joffrey and his grandfather was dismissed as quickly as it came.

It sounded like madness, but Baelor Hightower had all his wits to him, and they were all sharp. While his lordly father was still alive, everyone knew Leyton had left his duties a decade prior, content to let his eldest deal with all matters of House Hightower.

"Greyjoy might prod and try us, but he won't move while we have his daughter," the austere newly-crowned king assuaged his fears. The crown of stars interwoven between a circlet of diamonds sat well on his pale brow. "Asha Greyjoy is held with far more esteem than Theon, who was a Stark hostage for a decade."

The new King of the Faithful had invited him politely to a private dinner on the day he had been crowned while his army continued marching towards Winterfell. And kings were not so easily turned away from your doorstep.

"Balon has crowned himself as well, Baelor," Paxter pointed out coldly after swallowing his meagre serving of salted herring. "Fighting will be inevitable sooner or later."

A three-day fast was announced after Baelor's crowning, both for religious reasons and to preserve their food. It was not oft that the Lord of the Arbour's choice of palate was restricted to salted herring, dark bread, and onions. 

As pious as he was ambitious, the Hightower heir was now the only one Paxter could rely on. Tywin Lannister and his cruel grandson had no shred of mercy. The Old Lion suffered no slights, and this whole war had greatly humiliated him.

While Renly was still alive, he had proven himself incapable and unfavoured by the gods and would soon expire. Losing battle after battle when having the number advantage was bad enough, but losing his queen and his principal bannermen? It was a sign of incompetency. With his good brother Mace perishing in the fighting, nothing remained for Paxter on the sinking ship called Renly Baratheon. 

House Tyrell had invested too much into propping up the prancing stag, and now it was all gone to the extent that their future had turned shaky. Even their positions as Lord Paramounts of the Reach looked extremely weak.

While Willas was a bright young man, a cripple could lead no armies. Even if he could, he had no men left.

Paxter wanted to help his aunt Olenna, yet not at the expense of his own House. Despite marrying her daughter, he had not forgotten that the Queen of Thorns was a title she proudly wore, showing her allegiance had long been to the Tyrells, not the family of her birth.

"Fighting the Ironborn?" Baelor had smiled coldly. "It might very well be so, but neither of us want to strike first. Yet time works in our favour. If we can take Winterfell and the Moat, our position will be significantly stronger with each following day as the Faith Militant adds swords to my cause. The Ironmen are just up-jumped pirates in the end, and they have fewer men in their dreary Isles than the Hightower lands alone boast."

"The upjumped pirates have my daughter," Paxter had reminded, cursing the day he had agreed with his cousin's scheme. Hightower was lucky his daughter was with Baelor Blacktyde, the sole reaver lord following the Seven, who also bent his knee to the King of the Faithful. "Desmera is dear to me."

"Lady Desmera ought to be safe as the wife of an Iron Prince," had been the placid response. "Greyjoy might have your daughter, but we have his. Fret not; you were promised the Iron Isles, and you'll have them in the end."

Yet the Redwyne Lord knew his histories. Greenlander wives didn't have an easy time in the Iron Isles; even Leila Lannister, a princess who had married an Iron king, had met a tragic fate.

"We should march to White Harbour instead," he proposed. "It's a far easier target than Winterfell and far less defended. Even if Manderly wasn't fully invested in fighting Grimm, Hewett, and the rest at the Moat, he would still lack the swords to resist us."

"Beesbury advised me much the same, but Winterfell is the true prize in the North," Baelor reminded. "No matter how empty, even a city the size of White Harbour won't surrender, and they can stall us enough for those fifteen thousand swords in Winterfell to arrive. No, we shall continue marching to Winterfell. If it were Eddard or Benjen Stark in Winterfell, I wouldn't dare to think of it, but neither of them is here. It's just some women, children, green boys and greybeards left in command. If I smash the army Winterfell musters, the keep shall fall soon after."

"And what if they turtle behind the walls? Greybeards are old and cautious–time has taught them much patience." 

"Then we take Cerwyn, fortify the river, and head to White Harbour," the new king's voice was filled with conviction. "But doing so would see a chance and sufficient time for the Young Wolf and Tully to send support here. Have faith, Paxter. The Seven shall light our path, and the warrior shall bring us victory, for our cause is righteous!"

Plans upon plans swirled into Paxter's mind. Things seemed grim, but there was still a road forth–a victory, either against the reavers or the Northmen, would grant them legitimacy, expand their power base, and grant them much-needed time. Construction of proper shipyards took time, and it was safer to build them around Torrhen's Square and the harbour down the delta with nearby access to the wolfswood.

Then, there were the pesky problems of old huntsmen and the wolfswood clans being a nuisance to the loggers.

The best route of action would be to take Winterfell. With Barrowton and Torrhen's square to draw resources from, the supply crisis had lessened considerably. Some might claim that taking Winterfell was risky, but what was the Game of Thrones and war but one enormous gamble? Paxter knew the only two outcomes–death and victory, and he had no plans to die anytime soon.

The Northmen were hardy fighters but were significantly outnumbered; their finest were far away, with Robb Stark making trouble along the Ocean Road. While the Reach was left wide open to the retaliation of the Northmen, the crueller they turned, the faster the Faith Militant would recruit more eager men against the heathens.

Paxter was far from happy with the repealing of Maegor's laws and giving the Faith so much power, but the alternative was simply worse. While House Redwyne, Hightower, and the naval might of the Reach were significant, they could not contend with the rest of the Seven Kingdoms on their lonesome, no matter how exhausted.

Of course, they were not facing the united Seven Kingdoms by far. Greyjoy, Hightower, and a Targaryen pretender had all claimed a crown once more, turning the two kings into five. The further division increased their chances of success significantly. Renly still lived, no matter how weakened, Joffrey, and most importantly, Tywin, had died, and no matter how much Tommen was proclaimed as the rightful king, the Iron Throne was empty, and the Seven Kingdoms had never been more divided.

The so-called Aegon Sand, as Baelor called him, sought to conquer the Seven Kingdoms with only the Dornish and the Golden Company behind his back. Baelor's chances of success were not terrible, but it wasn't rosy either. Even the warmth of the eighth moon felt chilly, and things would go unbearable in two moons, forcing them to halt their campaign upon failure to capture Winterfell.

A small part of Paxter regretted everything, but he quickly squashed it. They all did what they did, eyes wide open forward. Bending the knee and a peaceful surrender was not even an option anymore, for the veneer of courtesy and honour had been torn asunder long ago.

Of course, Hightower was no fool and knew they needed more allies. Prince Garth Greysteel, alongside a small retinue, had been sent to the Vale to court the old Lady Waynwood and the Most Devout there to their side. Anya Waynwood winning a trial of the Seven and distancing most of the Vale Lords from the abominable line of Cersei was a sign of the gods.

Of course, the risk of this venture was significant, considering Garth had to cross vast tracts of land belonging to lords swearing to the Iron Throne. "It is a task I entrusted to Garth precisely because I trust him," Baelor had said. "My brother knows the necessity of expediency, and the few can succeed far easier where the plenty would have failed."

With Barrowton and Torrhen's Square under their command, things could have been better. The Moat, White Harbour, or Winterfell would give them a significant advantage. So far, the supposedly unbreakable Moat Cailin seemed like it would fall first.

The once glorious bulwark that protected the North for millennia had fallen into dire straits and was nought but a ruin, and it was just a matter of time before Serry and Grimm managed to take it down. Even Lord Manderly's and the crannogmen's attempts to thwart them only delayed the inevitable and exhausted their forces, no matter how surprising they had held so long. Baelor had taken a mere third of the zealots on his march to Winterfell; most of the rest were funnelled into the Barrowlands and towards the Moat - tens of thousands facing a mere three or four thousand Northmen backed up by unknown numbers of elusive crannogmen.

No matter how many plans Paxter had, things would ultimately be decided on the field of battle. It was high time he rejoined the army marching on Winterfell; knowing Baelor, he pushed everyone to reach the Heart of the North with all haste. While Paxter was a better warrior at sea, the number of knights and men-at-arms he invested in merited his presence. Besides, someone had to countermand the zealots and septons whispering in Hightower's ear.

Just as he waved over his Graceford Squire to prepare his baggage, arms, and armour for travel, Horas rushed into the solar, face not only pale but splattered with blood.

"What happened?" Paxter reached for his sword.

"I… I k-killed Asha," the hoarse response chilled his blood more than the northern wind.

"Boy," the Lord clenched his fist. "You better have a good explanation for not only killing your pregnant wife but putting your sister's life in jeopardy." 

"I s-saw her naked abed with that f-first m-mate of hers, and the s-sword leapt into my hand on its own…" Horas swallowed heavily and looked around warily. "W-What do we d-do now?"

Paxter groaned. He could feel his plans crumbling again. A part of him wanted to be surprised by the Greyjoy girl acting like a common whore, but what did the Ironmen and their Drowned God care about propriety and fidelity?

"Who knows about this?"

"I… nobody but my personal guard?" 

"Good," Paxter sighed, feeling a small measure of relief. The situation might still be salvaged if he moved fast. 

***

12th Day of the 8th Moon, 299AC

Desmera Redwyne, outside of Stonegate Castle

Arya Stark's death was as unexpected as it was unpleasant. Watching her husband visit the feral girl's tarred head with a morose countenance even more so.

While piteous, it only showed the barbarism of the reavers, even though her Theon had managed to deal with the Drumms. The rest couldn't put up a proper resistance without any proper command.

Theon arrested the few disgruntled ones who dared to protest too loudly for treason while bringing Andrik the Unsmiling, a giant of a man with arms as thick as trees, to his side with the promise of Stonegate Castle's lordship once the Wull keep fell. 

Theon's unhinged show of violence and murder had somehow made the Ironmen respect him more, much to Desmera's bafflement. Were the Ironborn nothing more than just a band of savage pirates in the end?

Just as she thought her husband had some redeeming qualities, he started laying with the once-again widowed Elinor and no longer visited Desmera's quarters at night. Theon did it proudly, without even bothering to hide, and the vapid rose's moans and cries of pleasure echoed each night through the camp, shaming Desmera even further.

So she drank the moon tea prepared by Septa Alyce. It was petty, but why would she be any better if her brute of a husband could be such?

Desmera never wanted to be wedded to a reaver, even to one who had been converted to the Seven and supposedly abandoned his heathen ways. It had been merely a mummery to save his hide, she suspected, even more so as he never showed any adherence to the Seven. Yet for all his faults, once he was in a set of clean clothes and well rested, Theon Greyjoy had a dashing, roguish charm to him that made her heart beat faster, even though she'd never admit it out loud.

And just as she had begun to warm up to Theon–and the idea of bearing him a child as a proper wife ought to, he started seeking out her whorish cousin Elinor.

This morning, Desmera woke up feeling stiff, cold, and nauseous, but it was nothing new. However, the hooting of an owl that had awoken her was new. Just as she had her handmaid Elia clothe her, Desmera stormed out of her tent to find the offending bird and have one of the marksmen take her down, but it was already gone.

Even the birds here were shrill and unpleasant, lacking the melody of song that she had grown so used to in the Arbour and the Reach. Living in the North was a miserable existence, and she struggled to comprehend how the locals survived for so long. Yet there was something new in the air, something different. A sort of heavy apprehension hung above, just like the stormy clouds in the sky.

The Ironmen also seemed to sense it, judging by their uncharacteristically wary faces; none of the scouting parties had returned yesterday. 

The rumble heralded the two newly constructed trebuchets lugging rocks at Stonegate Keep once more, but the defenders had hastily repaired the last day's damage at night. Yet their materials were not endless, and the pitiful Wull seat would fall sooner or later. 

Desmera had seen better castles belonging to even the poorest landed knight sworn to her father on the Arbour, yet the Ironmen were all eager for the paltry picking. Or perhaps it was the love of violence, death, and plunder that the Drowned God instilled in them?

Suppressing her apprehension and ignoring the lusty looks the damned reavers threw at her without shame, Desmera made her way to the clearing before her husband's tent, where he held his morning council. While she couldn't participate, nobody barred her from listening, especially as she brought a flask of Arbour Gold to Theon, who received it with the barest nod of acknowledgement.

"It's not a new thing for the scouts to delay," said Dagmer Cleftjaw, the brutish and scarred greybeard with a grotesque split lip. "Ralf must have decided to weather the night up the hills again."

"The wolves are growing bolder," Andrik's voice rumbled. The giant of a man towered a whole head above everyone else. "My men said they saw some near the boats, unafraid to attack groups of men in ringmail and axes. We've lost over a dozen Ironborn to these beasts the day before. It's unnatural."

Theon sat on a weirwood stump in the middle of the camp, and his hands clasped as his brow was scrunched up in thought.

"We have lost scouts to the occasional clansmen warband before, but for all to be late and not return?" Theon snorted as the reaver captains started scratching their heads. "This is no coincidence." 

Dagmer's weather-worn face lit up again.

"You are saying the clansmen up the hills are trying to attack again?" 

"Perhaps the Knotts or the Burleys have finally gathered their guts to come and fight us," Theon mused, though he did not seem particularly worried, even though his ever-present frown had not left his face since the Stark girl had died. "But even if they come, they could only cobble together eight hundred men at most."

"Give me fifteen hundred Ironborn, and I'll bring you their heads," Andrik grunted, his hand reaching for his axe as if in anticipation of the lives he would take. A brute through and through.

"Very well," Theon said after half a minute of silence. "Be careful, though. They might be preparing an ambush, so don't follow them up the hills if they break."

"Bah, the Flints showed their mettle–good warriors for their Greenlander make. I'll grant these Burleys and Knotts a worthy death."

And so, a quarter of the reavers soon pulled on the byrnies, padded jackets, and helmets before leaving to screen the hills. 

Theon visited Elinor's tent again, infuriating Desmera even more so that the damned haughty whore kept cattily smiling at her throughout the day. She could even imagine what went through the head of the lesser rose, probably something along the lines of becoming Theon's salt wife. But if Elinor had already lain with two Ironborn lords, what was one more?

"Lady Desmera," Elia came to her in the tent, her young face full of hesitation. "When can we go home?"

Desmera wanted to console the handmaid but couldn't find the words for it. Half a year prior, she had thought life was a beautiful tale, and everyone had a happy ending. But now…

"I don't even know if we have a home anymore," she said. "But don't be afraid. I will make sure you're always protected."

"I… thank you, m'lady," Elia's face reddened, but her shoulders quickly sagged. "I don't like how some of the sailors look at me."

At three and ten, her handmaid was on the cusp of womanhood and was shaping to be quite the beauty with her sun-kissed hair and freckled heart-shaped face. The brutish Ironmen were many things, but blind they were not. Desmera still remembered the day she had chosen Elia as her personal handmaid–the young girl and her parents had been jubilant. It was an honour for a merchant's daughter to serve the daughter of a highlord such as Desmera. Yet that blessing had now turned to a curse amidst the brutish Ironborn. 

The drudgery of war was especially dreadful to Desmera, for she had nothing to do. She was only here to give Theon an heir, and the rest of her days and nights were free. There was no household to run, no servants or stewards to command, and no ledgers with sums and numbers to keep records of. There were no merchants and guilds to negotiate with or children to rear, just boredom. The supposedly prized daughter of Lord Redwyne had fallen low, reduced to a mere broodmare of a cowardly pirate. All those dreams of gallant knights and beautiful lords had become a vague, childish longing lingering in the back of her mind. Perhaps things would have been different if her father had finished the talks with Stafford Lannister.

She would have been married to Daven Lannister, the young queen's brother.

Alas, dreams were cruel. 

Worse, the annoying cold was everywhere; the chill wafted down from the hills, and Desmera still couldn't believe that the distant peaks to the east were always capped with white, even in the height of summer. In her boredom, she found herself resorting back to her childhood lessons and grabbing her crude, brown fur-lined cloak.

Some decent embroidery would definitely make it look livelier.

"Braid my hair," Desmera waved over Elia as she grabbed her needle and the golden cotton thread ball and busied herself over her cloak.

"Which style?" 

"The crown braid," she said. It was the common braid of the pious women of the Reach, something Theon had no way of knowing. It was her own way of showing her unhappiness with the Ironmen and her position, as well as a slight show of support for Baelor Hightower. 

The hours slowly dragged on, and Desmera soon got bored of her attempts at embroidery after lining her sleeves with golden stars. 

Despite the worrisome council in the morning, the day was shaping to be dreadfully uneventful again when suddenly, the warhorn blew, its dreadful echo lingering in the air.

The outsides quickly turned chaotic as men started shouting and running around, and Desmera hastily strapped her cloak over her shoulders and left to look for Theon.

"TO ARMS!" The reaver lords and captains roared around, everyone hastily looking for their armaments. "FASTER!"

She found him hastily pulling on a suit of plate with the help of one of the reavers while a breathless man wildly gesticulated northwards.

"Northmen! At least thousands of them over the hill," the Ironman wheezed breathlessly. "They just showed up the crest, marching in perfect order. I saw them from the watchtower under a white wolf banner."

"There's no House with such a coat of arms," Desmera said faintly, her hands trembling.

"But I know a man with a white direwolf," Theon said, his voice thick with apprehension. "Jon."

"Jon who?"

"Jon Snow." The dread in his words was palpable. "Arya's favourite brother. I never thought much of him, but the last rumours I heard before Robb left for war were… disconcerting."

Before Desmera could even ask why they were so afraid of some bastard, Theon was now fully clad in his dark plate, the golden kraken of Greyjoy proudly emblazoned on his breastplate and hastily strapped Red Rain on his belt.

"If things go awry, stay by Arya's remains and protect them," he said, dark eyes shimmering behind his visor with something Desmera couldn't decipher - he looked like he wanted to say more before shaking his head. "It will probably save your life."

Two disgruntled Ironmen were left as her guard, and Desmera hastily made her way to the tent where Arya Stark's remains lingered, and her Septas rested. She took out one of Theon's far-eyes, quickly put the tube over her eye, and looked northwards. Thankfully, Arya, Theon, and her tents were not only in the middle of the camp but at its highest point, giving her a good vantage point.

The reavers hastily converged towards the northern side of the camp while Dagmer Cleftjaw led five hundred men to face Stonegate Keep. Before they could line up, banners appeared over the hill. A white shaggy wolf head on black facing the running grey direwolf of House Stark on white. It was hastily followed by the green thistles of Norrey, the white knife of Burley, the three blue moons of Harclay, the brown fret of Knott, the pinecones of Liddle, the twisting red river of Redcreek, and many more that Desmera has not the chance to learn of their banners - only the most important of the clans.

Hardy Northmen marched underneath the banners, slowly spilling over the crest of the hill in good order. The blood splatters and banged-up shields quickly explained what had happened to Andrik the Unsmiling and his fifteen hundred men.

Desmera's racing heart eased slightly as she saw the Northmen, who were lesser in number than the reavers, if not by much. At their helm was an odd man, and all she could make out through the far eye was the gleam of his crystalline armour. Was this Jon Snow? Why and how was he wearing an armour made out of glass? 

While Desmera loathed the Ironmen with all her heart, the Northmen were hardly any better. Everyone knew what had happened to the defeated Reachmen after the battle of the Trident. 

She could only numbly watch as Theon raised a parley flag. It was a cunning move because it gave the Ironmen time to form lines as he rode off on his garron to face the Northern party. Yet the negotiations seemed to be short, as her husband stopped twenty yards apart, drew Red Rain and pointed it at the Northman leading them.

A challenge for single combat. Yet another surprisingly wise move, considering her husband was no slouch, and he now wielded dragonsteel.

It seemed that the glass-clad Northman had no patience and dismounted to meet the challenge. Yet just as Desmera rejoiced, Jon Snow lunged so fast her eyes struggled to track his movements. Yet there was no need because her husband fell on the ground, his head rolling away from his armoured torso despite the steel gorget that ought to have protected his neck.

Desmera knew that things were wrong then, as many things happened at the same time. Some of the Ironmen charged at the warrior who beheaded Theon, and some turned tail and dashed towards the longships. The horn blew from Stonegate Keep, and the Wulls sallied out.

And from the small woods to the south… another terrible sound echoed, making her skin crawl and even her bones shake. The deep, rumbling sound echoed again and again, making her knees tremble while Elia started crying by her side.

Swallowing her apprehension, Desemera twisted her head to look southward.

The moment a hairy behemoth of a monster, more than twice taller and wider than a grown man, appeared from the treeline, Desmera knew the Ironmen were done for. A second, a third, a fourth and more followed until eleven of these beasts were lined beside each other, wielding wooden bludgeons with stone hammerheads the size of a tree. Hundreds of savages followed in their wake, some were even women and what seemed like countless wolves that dashed forth at the exposed backs of Theon's forces and Dagmer's men.

Jon Snow was the anvil, and the hammer were those… monsters and savages, Desmera realised. 

More and more reavers fled to the safety of the longship, and even her guards turned around and fled.

Blood hammered in her ears, but she remembered Theon's last advice. Desmera dragged the crying Elia into the tent with Arya's bones, and she didn't even have time to pay any attention to the shivering Elinor who had joined them.

The chaos outside only grew worse as Desmera's heart leapt into her throat each time she heard growls, the clanging of steel, pained shrieks, howls, and the moans of the dying. 

"Father above, grant us protection," the Septas kneeled, clasping their hands in prayer.

"Merciful Mother, grant us strength-"

Desmera joined in their prayer, but it did nothing to soothe the terror in her heart.

It wasn't long before the sounds of battle dwindled, but her apprehension only climbed.

A blood-splattered figure accompanied by a silvery direwolf the size of a horse was the first to pass through the flap, and Desmera found a blade dripping with crimson resting on her neck faster than she could blink.

"Your name." The harsh, cold voice echoed the pair of flinty grey eyes peering behind the helmet. The metallic scent of blood was overwhelming, making her lightheaded. Seven above, each inch of his armour was coated in gore and blood like macabre heraldry of death, and the only thing that wasn't was his cold eyes. How many had he slain?

Elia shivered while some of the septas shrieked and others fainted. Yet a cold glance silenced their cries. 

"Desmera Redwyne," she said weakly. 

"A hostage, then," was the callous reply. "Or do you want to resist?"

"I… surrender, Ser. But I must know to whom I entrust my life?"

The warrior finally lowered the blade from her neck, and an involuntary sigh of relief rolled off her lips as the choking pressure she had not noticed until then disappeared. Then he unstrapped his helmet and took it off, and all Desmera could do was blink.

His face was young, painfully young, if incredibly harsh, made even more dashing by the numerous scars lining his flesh. 

"Jon Snow of Winterfell, and I'm no knight."

Desmera cursed the heat that rushed up her neck.

***

Val

The battle against these so-called reavers was surprisingly simple. Surround them and strike from two sides, and they fell apart. Killing their leader probably helped, though. Val was quite disappointed; she had expected more from the Southron sailors. Some had even tried to surrender and threw down their arms, but it only got them killed faster.

The direwolves and the hundreds of wolves that had joined in the last few days hungrily feasted on the flesh of the fallen, and it was a generous fare.

What she liked the least was that woman, Desmera–the squid prince's widow. She was a 'hostage', whatever that meant, and made doe eyes at Jon, much to Val's chagrin. Yet, unlike the other spearwives, this one was prettier, with very white and straight teeth, flame-touched hair, and a pale, heart-shaped face dotted with freckles.

Her stride had a sort of arrogance despite the lack of any martial skills that just irked Val.

"Why spare the women if not to let the men steal them?" She asked. "You certainly cared little about sparing Lerna and her cannibals." 

"Desmera's father is a powerful man," Jon said. "He boasts many ships and supports the other self-proclaimed king here."

"And if that father doesn't care about his daughter, are we just going to drag them along and feed a dozen useless mouths for nothing?"

"Then, we still have a good blood claim on the Arbour with her." Val had no idea what that meant, but she understood enough. Jon wasn't interested in any of the women, only in the arrogant kneeler lady's father. "Killing them would be easy, but they're worth more alive to me, for now."

What Jon was interested in were Melisandre's claims that she could preserve his sister's body until a moment arrived when Arya could be buried in his childhood home as was proper. It was an odd thing that nobody burned their dead here, but then again, the kneelers had never let the Others here since the Wall had been built. 

"And… you cannot bring her back?" The question was asked in a whisper, and Val knew why. 

"I've never done such a thing, and her head is already severed," the red priestess answered, tilting her head quizzically. "Her flesh has begun to rot, despite the Septas' care, since it's been a sennight now. Even if I somehow managed to drag her mind from the direwolf back into her body, she would be more wolf than a girl now. Worse, it would just be creating nothing but a wight, a dead creature that could move, the shadow of the human that once was."

Jon closed his eyes as if to chase the regret for a moment and sighed.

"Very well. Preserve her remains. Theon's head, too, if you can."

"It shall be done," Melisandre bowed.

The oldest greybeard, or more like whitebeard, Val had ever seen was leading the bucket clansmen. He ought to have died a decade or two prior, but he was not only still alive, but the wrinkled old man was surprisingly spry, and his muscles peeked under the sagging flesh, explaining his vigorous demeanour. 

She knew not to underestimate him, as the deadly weirwood longbow in his arm had felled a dozen fleeing Ironmen.

"Pardon, Lord Stark," he rasped out, bowing to Jon, who hastily caught him, halting the movement.

"I'm Lord Stark's son," her husband explained wryly. "Jon Snow."

"You look like Rickard Stark," the Wull whitebeard squinted at Jon, tilting his wrinkled head. "I could swear before the gods I saw you last harvest feast!"

"Forgive my great great uncle Osric," a younger clansman wearing three buckets on his surcoat hastily ran over. "He's very old, and his wits have no longer been as sharp for years now."

"Bah, Hugo, show some respect to His Grace Aegon. Your father should have tanned your hide more, you little-"

"Uncle Osric, I'm Edwyn," the warrior with a shaggy mane of hair reminded. "Hugo's son. And there is no Aegon here."

"What?" Osric Wull tiredly rubbed his bald, spotted head and once again blinked at her husband. "Don't fool me, boy–I have seen the Unlikely himself dozens of times. I was even there when he visited Winterfell with Duncan the Tall. And his fair, silver-haired wife-"

"Lord Osric," Jon cleared his throat loudly, though Val could feel his hand stiffen. "I am Lord Stark's natural son, and Aegon's wife was a Blackwood with their raven manes without a single drop of dragon's blood."

"Aye, everyone knows Aegon the Unlikely had the colouring of the dragon," Ronard Burley guffawed. "Old man Osric, you will soon forget your name."

Osric Wull spluttered at the sight of the grey-haired Burley chieftain and angrily waved a fist.

"Pah, Ronard, you old crook, you still live?!"

"I am a young man compared to the likes of you," Ronard only laughed harder.

The whitebeard was about to erupt when he finally caught sight of the direwolves, giants, and singers slowly approaching. His mouth hung open, revealing a mouthful of half-missing yellowish teeth.

A blood-splattered Soren came over, smiling like a madman. Val noticed that he had a brand new ringmail that was slightly tight around his shoulders, along with a dented breastplate that was a bit too large for his torso.

"Some of the damn southrons managed to sail away," he said, though his gaze seemed to pause on that kneeler lady with brown hair. "About a handful of boats, but we slaughtered the rest. Well, Ghost and his pack did a good part of the killing."

"So Balon Greyjoy will know his son is dead," Jon said. "A harder fight."

"His son wasn't much," Duncan scoffed. "The Ironmen are all just a band of cravens and turncloaks."

"Victarion and Balon Greyjoy are not to be underestimated," her husband pointed out warily. "They probably have more than twice the swords we have and will have time to prepare for our coming. We lost the element of surprise, and the odds are not in our favour."

"We'll just fight harder, then," Osric eagerly slapped his chest.

"I like this one," Val said to Jon. "I thought most of the kneelers were gutless cravens."

"Uncle Osric had gone three winters to hunt out in the snows alone, but he kept coming back with game each time," Edwyn Wull explained as his great-granduncle started arguing fiercely with the Burley about some woman called Black Betha. "The old man just refuses to die."

The nearby free folk looked at the fierce whitebeard with new respect.

"What do we do with these women dressed in white?" Sigorn asked, eyeing the gaggle of Southron women the clansmen called 'septas'. Some weird kneeler ritual about worshipping stone statues.

"It is in bad taste to strike down holy men and women without due cause," Jon sighed. "Lady Stark shall be the one to decide their fate."

"We could give them to the weirwoods," Melisandre came over. "The faith of the false gods' clergy is potent."

"You ought to convince Lady or Lord Stark, then," was the amused response. "Each life we reap here is in the name of House Stark and Winterfell."

The red priestess bowed deeply, but Val suspected she would definitely raise the matter before the wife of Jon's brother.

"And what of the corpses?" Leaf asked eagerly. "There are thousands of them, all fresh." 

"Chop off the heads and pile them up like a hill by the coast as a warning," Jon decided. "Tar me the Drumm's heads. Those three are going to Winterfell to accompany my sister in death along with the other Iron Lords." 

"We can regrow hundreds of weirwoods with that many corpses," the leafcloaks all looked rather joyful at the prospect. But the mere memory of the eerie rite made Val shudder inwardly, while some of the clansmen seemed quite interested in the idea of restoring the weirwoods the Ironmen had cut down.

The greying Bernard Harclay limped over, using his great sword as a crutch.

"What do we do now?"

"Now we recuperate for two days to get a much-needed respite from the gruesome march before continuing down to Deepwood Motte," Jon said, face twisting into a savage smile. "I have killed one Greyjoy, but a few more still live."

Rickon chose that moment to run over, happily carrying a blood-stained steel axe, which Jon quickly snatched out of his grasp and again caught his ear.

"Ow-ow-ow-"

"What did I say about live steel?"

"Errr… not to?" Rickon shuffled uneasily. "I just found it on the ground, though. It looked lonely, so I took it with me so someone wouldn't trip over it!"

The clansmen all turned to Jon's young brother, who only shrank further in his boots.

"Right," Jon sighed, kneeling to meet his brother face-to-face. "Rickon, you can't fool me, so don't try lying. One more stunt like this, and I'm sending you straight back to Last Hearth."

The young boy tried to look adorable, blinking innocently at her husband, but it didn't work.

"Argh," Rickon growled, his little face scrunched in frustration. "Can I go see the Wull godswood, then?"

"You can," Jon said, but his lips twitched in amusement. "But after you've helped dig the latrines."

***

17th Day of the 8th Moon, 299 AC

Ser Garlan Tyrell, the Red Watch

"Garlic, garlic, one dragon for a clove of garlic!"

"I'm looking for turmeric and red clove-"

"One piece of poplar bark or a stalk of sage, and you can have my daughter's maidenhead…"

"Praise Ebrose the Merciful! May Renly the Deceiver burn in the Seven Hells!"

"Need more hands to work on my garlic fields. I have a hedge wizard who can brew Ebrose's Blood-"

Many hastily flocked to the last man. Ebrose's Blood was what they called the supposed cure Archmaester Ebrose had managed to find and spread before Renly had him hanged like some common brigand.

Garlan thought he had seen misery in the Crownlands, but the Stormlands were no better. 

The roads were filled with men, women, and children fleeing from every direction. Some fled from the wartorn marches, some from the eastern coasts, for their own lords and knights struggled to protect them against pirates yet struck down any militias that formed. The last hailed from King's Landing or Blackwater Bay, fleeing the Black Plague–and spreading it further. 

Many openly cursed Renly's name, a daring deed bordering treason, yet nobody seemed to want to raise a sword to defend his already tarnished name. They were far more preoccupied with the looming threat of the Black Death. Thankfully, Ebrose's cure actually worked, and Garlan had managed to secure a good batch from an old acolyte at an inn near Felwood. Only one out of every ten of his men had perished to the disease, even if it had almost beggared Garlan's purse.

Not everyone was nearly as lucky; many charlatans and mummers claimed how to brew the cure, only to waste the precious ingredients–or sell something else entirely and have the ailing men perish.

"We ought to have made this man join us," Ser Androw Crane stated. "What if we start falling ill again?"

"We did recruit the old hedge witch that claimed to have healed that crofter's village," Garlan wryly reminded, though he shuddered at the memory of the wrinkled, warts-covered face that lustily looked at him. "You can still turn back and go home–or join Renly, who is trying to regroup near Bronze Gate. I no longer serve the Lord Hand or House Baratheon of Storm's End."

Never would Garlan think he was a proud oathbreaker. Some might give an excuse that he had broken no oaths until he had refused a summons from either his lordly brother or sworn king, but it was paltry wordplay that did nothing to change the truth.

"Renly cares nought for his subjects or bannermen," Ser Edmund Meadows proclaimed boldly. "Why would we pledge our swords to his unworthy cause?"

Nine out of ten of the thousands of knights and outriders he had led in the Northmarch had left Garlan when he had announced his decision to change his course from Goldengrove to the Red Mountain and find out what happened to his wife and sister. 

Truth be told, Garlan was surprised that so many even decided to follow him–a force of over two hundred knights and their squires, as well as a hundred outriders who were unmatched in mobility and power. While they couldn't defeat an army, they could bypass it and make everyone else think thrice before confronting them.

His now-broken honour was again discarded as Garlan was forced to abandon his quest for righteous vengeance, but the vows before the gods came first. He wanted to see what had happened to his sister and find out what had happened to his wife. Logic dictated they met a grisly end, but Garlan wouldn't stop hoping until he saw their corpses with his own eyes–or heard of their demise from someone trustworthy who had.

And so, Garlan rode as hard and as fast as he could without killing their horses. Once again, he had his fill of misery and had only stopped twice to ride down groups of bold brigands attacking Septs in broad daylight. 

Once they reached the Red Mountains, the roads narrowed and quickly cleared of smallfolk. Even the villages and the inns were nearly empty or very wary of their group, especially since Garlan did not have them raise any banners. Perhaps many would confuse them for brigands or deserters, aND perhaps they were. After all, neither Garlan nor the men who had chosen to follow him were here on behalf of their Houses or the Crown.

Soon enough, however, his road forth was barred by a force of fifteen hundred lancers–with twice that number in accompanying men-at-arms, all flying under the black crow of Morrigen. It made sense since they were crossing House Morrigen's lands, though the rose knight had expected them to muster their forces for their liege, Renly. 

But it seemed that Renly had lost the confidence of even his principal bannermen. 

Garlan gave the sign, and his column halted while Ser Androw Crane raised the parlay flag.

After a minute of hesitation, a knight wearing a grey lobstered plate with the black raven gracing his dark green padded surcoat rode forth to meet him.

"Who do I have the pleasure of speaking to?" Garlan began as the other knight measured him with caution. 

"Ser Richard of House Morrigen, heir to the Crow's Nest," he said, removing his greathelm, revealing a mane of dark hair and a harsh, angular face. Then, his voice thickened with disdain. "What has brought a flower so far away from your famed gardens?"

"I am on a quest, Ser Richard," Garlan inclined his head. "I mean to find out what happened to my sister Margaery and my wife, Leonette, who was her lady-in-waiting."

Yet the reply only seemed to heighten the Stormlander's suspicion. 

"Under whose orders? Renly is too late if he thinks he can ask us for more swords after a vain showing of grace and protection."

"I no longer answer to Renly," the rose knight professed, resigning himself to fighting another senseless battle. "I am here upon mine own behalf. A concerned brother and a worried husband. I have no wish to cross swords with you, but I will if I must."

"There's no need," Richard Morrigen's face stormy blue eyes softened. "You can pass if you still desire. But I know what happened to your sister. My brother, Ser Guyard the Green, perished in her defence. Seven above, I was so proud of my little brother that he had joined the kingsguard, no matter how queer Renly had profaned the sworn brotherhood in his whims. Alas, my pride turned to ash when word of his demise reached me."

Garlan's insides twisted.

"Tell me," he asked. Nay, demanded. "Tell me what happened, Ser."

"I found a field of corpses, all ravaged by the Dornish brigands," Morrigen's gauntlets balled into an armoured fist. "My brother was beheaded, and so were all the others. All the low-born handmaids were despoiled and left to die naked in the cold, and from them, I found out what happened to the Queen and her ladies-in-waiting. Yet… I must warn you. It is not for the faint of heart."

Garlan felt that fury brewing in his belly churn angrily but pushed it down. Now was not the time for fury. 

"Do they live?"

"The unlucky ones, I'd say. I saw the Queen's corpse gutted open after the damned Dornish scum were done with her unborn babe and all, and the rest were taken-"

Someone bellowed with fury, drowning out everything else. It was a harrowing, heartwrenching sound that made his steed shuffle uneasily, and it took Garlan a few heartbeats to realise that the inhuman shriek of fury was coming from his own throat. 

***

The flames of war and ambition had engulfed Essos like a vice of death; sellswords and armies were in great demand, giving all ambitious brigands and pirates time to shine. With the chaos of war and disease, many fools with daring that otherwise would have been quickly smashed started moving with impunity.

It came as no surprise that the usually conflict-averse Lorathi suffered a heavy defeat from the Ibbenese whaling fleet. When Ibb conquered Lorrassyon with little to no opposition, the Ruling Council of Lorath sent a formal request to the Sealord for assistance.

The Sealord, however, was hesitant, as the streets of the city were filled with dead and dying, and the canals were filled with corpses. Many of the suffering sought a swift end at the House of Black and White, but even the faceless men began falling ill, and the temple itself closed its doors. Some claimed all of the devotees of the Many-Faced God had been struck down by the Black Plague, and there was nobody else left to administer the gift.

His hesitation was quickly explained as the Sealord had also fallen ill and perished within a sennight.

Atop the turmoil, Braavos was facing one of its most difficult elections.

The plague had yet to spread to the Summer Isles. Still, the new Corsair King off the Basilisk Isles struck at Jhala, enslaving many of the inhabitants and defeating the armies of the Princes from the Red Flower Vale and Sweet Lotus Vale. Yet, Aarano the Cruel was not satisfied with mere plunder and slaves and seemed to have come to the Summer Isles to stay.

Khal Lhono and his seven thousand screamers passed through the Khyzai Pass and demanded a hefty tribute from the Great Masters of Mereen–the daughter of Arhzak zo Pahl, the richest master in Mereen. After being generously welcomed in the city proper, the greedy Khal and his drunk men were killed for their insolence by the proud Pahls at a 'tribute feast'. The Great Masters, however, knew things would not end there, so they started preparing for war, purchasing all the available slave soldiers–be it from Astapor or the far-lands of Leng and Yi Ti.

The legend of the Dothraki's invincibility had been broken with Khal Drogo's death, and by Eddard the Bloody Blade's hand, accounts of the devastating defeat of Khal Palo had begun to spread across Essos along with the name of the Chainbreaker.

Surely enough, Jhono, Bhono, and Rhono, Lhono's brothers, raised forty thousand screamers from Vaes Dothrak and started raiding along Slaver's Bay to avenge the death of their brother.

For a moment, the Ghiscari seemed to be ready to unite against a common enemy, but New Ghis had sent its fleet to occupy the Isle of Cedars and the adjacent coastline in a bid to control the flow of slaves and goods in and out of Slaver's Bay, increasing tensions with Astapor, Mereen, and Yunkai.

Things did not look good for Volantis either; the ruling Golden Council was formed by middling merchants from Volon Therys, and freedmen were soon faced with their first challenge. Their attempts to ban the purchase and selling of slaves in the usually peaceful Valysar and Selhorys were met with cold silence for a moon. Without the Golden Company to bolster their ranks, the new rulers of Volantis struggled to project the power and influence that the Triarchs once held, and soon enough, rumours of a new self-proclaimed Grand Archon in Selhorys started to spread, challenging the authority of the Golden Council. Many of the freed slaves even joined him.

Surprisingly, the misshapen Tyrion Lannister handled the newly conquered Tyrosh with surprising efficiency. Unlike the Golden Council, he didn't free all the slaves immediately, leaving countless souls without means to eke out a living or even a fundamental purpose, but he started by banning the sale and purchase of flesh.

The next law he passed was the emancipation of slaves–each child was now born free regardless of their parents' status, and each slave had the right to buy their freedom through labour. Things were shaky at first, but the cunning dwarf had even used a good part of the wealth looted from the Tyroshi magisters to buy the freedom–and loyalty of many slaves from their masters. All of Tyrosh's nobility had been gutted–or hanged, which turned into a boon and a woe for Tyrion Lannister. Nobody was left to oppose him in his endeavours, but there was nobody to help him along.

Lys redoubled its efforts to get rid of the pirates in the Stepstones and slowly swallowed one isle after another, now unimpeded by the Dornish or the Myrish.

Things in the Sunset Lands, however, looked ugly. Five kings now fought for a single throne, and the vast parts of the Westerosi kingdoms were ravaged by the plague. Many of the lords who left Renly gravitated towards either Baelor or Aegon–who had the largest force left. Many doubted Aegon Targaryen–both his claims of legitimacy and being the fruit of a union between the Wolf Maid and the Silver Prince.

Despite the raging Black Death, which often killed more than half the souls everywhere it passed, the war continued. It was said that three out of four souls perished in the Crownlands in the span of half a year, and the death toll in the Northmarch and the Stormlands quickly began to climb as the disease spread further and further. The Riverlands and Vale were also affected. The first ill were spotted in Gulltown, and even though Lord Grafton closed his city, forbidding anyone from leaving or entering, the Stranger's Hand swept into the Vale a week later.

Ebrose's cure was effective, but it wasn't easy to prepare, and everyone was willing to pay a lord's ransom or even kill for it. The ingredients were far from enough for everyone, and many farmers and lords focused their lands on producing more herbs in a bid to get rich or stave off the Stranger's Hand from their territories.

Yet the more the plague spread throughout the Reach and the Stormlands, the more smallfolk seemed to rise in support for Baelor Brightsmile, joining the newly reinstated Faith Militant in hopes it would please the Seven and would be spared the divine punishment for sinners, heathens, and heretics. 

While Tommen Baratheon could boast the greatest legitimacy for his right to rule for Kevan Lannister held King's Landing and the Iron Throne in his name, the young boy-king was barely ten and stuck in Essos, far away from any thrones and ghost-cities like King's Landing.

The multitude of wavering Sunset Lords found themselves unwilling to support someone renowned for being meek, soft, young, unexceptional and far away like Tommen. The fact that his older brother had always overshadowed him did not help his cause. Some even doubted that he still lived, thinking it was a rumour spread by Kevan Lannister to strengthen his shaky grip on the Iron Throne.

Renly's rebellion was already approaching the start of its second year, but no conclusion seemed to be in sight; peace seemed further away than ever before.

Robb Stark was rushing down to Highgarden; Garlan the Grim was carving a bloody swathe through brigands and bandits through the Dornish Marchers. Abandoned by most of his bannermen, Renly Baratheon was trapped between Edmure Tully and his Riverlords from the north and Aegon, the Dornish, and the Golden Company from the south…

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