Of Flesh and Schemes
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.
***
4th Day of the 9th Moon, 299 AC
Lord Redwyne, outside Winterfell
"It is clear that the Northmen won't give us battle." Paxter began with far more calm than he felt. "Umber and his nine thousand men are fifteen miles from here, content on skirmishes and minor clashes with Clegane and the Faith Militant, but they still prevent our foraging parties from venturing northward. We should turn back–take Castle Cerwyn, at least. The longer we stay here, the more men we bleed. Snow might not yet come for another moon or two, but winter is upon us–didn't your men in the Citadel write that autumn will dwindle before the end of the year? If we move fast, there's still time to take White Harbour before the cold sets in."
Once the sun disappeared behind the gathering clouds, the cold gale could make one shiver, and the nights became even more chilly with every passing day. It wasn't uncommon to find a handful of men frozen to death each morning amongst his troops. Only in the Year of the False Spring had he felt such a chill before. But this was not the Arbour, and it would grow colder still. Paxter realised House Stark's words were not empty posturing or a claim to grandness but a warning.
"Beesbury said much the same." Baelor's face was as stony as the granite walls of Winterfell. "Extolling the virtues and boons of controlling the North's largest harbour–and all the supplies it has for the winter. Let the Northmen and their army starve in the cold, for they cannot get more supplies. But if I turn tail here and run, many would say I've lost the Seven's favour."
It was a half-lie, the Lord of the Arbour knew. He could still feel the hint of fury in the pious king's voice–something everpresent since his brother's death at the parley. Baelor was many things, but a man who would let his brother's demise unpunished, he was not.
Paxter scoffed. "Since when do kings care about the opinion of the rabble and the septry?"
"It is the rabble and the Faith that made me king, and they can unmake me just as easily."
"They need you as much as you need them, if not more," the Redwyne Lord tiredly rubbed his face. "Winterfell will not fall easily."
"But it shall fall. Catelyn Tully made a mistake–trying to bait us here by keeping a smaller garrison was doubtlessly her idea, but it shall prove her undoing. We shall take Winterfell."
"It's been barely a fortnight, and we've lost over two thousand men–and the Northmen barely lost two hundred. How many more will we lose before we take the walls?"
Baelor's face twisted into a snarl then.
"However many it takes!" His words were filled with steely resolve. "I will have that whorish abomination that killed my brother under a parley flag squeal for mercy at my feet!"
"Grant me leave and six thousand swords, and I'll get you Castle Cerwyn-"
"No. I need the full army here."
Paxter knew that even the basic courtesies had long perished in this war, but he misliked it. Before, a lord could be on the losing side of a battle, bow his head, bend the knee, and be pardoned. Or declare to take the Black and wash away his previous offences while his son took up his mantle. But hatred had been sown, and no mercy would be reaped whoever won this war, and he couldn't back off even if he wanted, for turncloaks would be looked on with disdain by both sides. His men had killed Northmen and burned their way here just as Hightower's did.
With the Iron Fleet barring his way back home and Hightower holding his son hostage–because, as a personal aide, that's what he was. A hostage–Paxter had no choice but to hold on to this bucking wild horse with all he had, like a new knight given an unbroken stallion on his first joust.
An hour later, Baelor was already holding a speech outside.
"...The Seven are with us, and the Warrior shall help us strike down the heathens hid and took all the food. Even the Night's Watch has awakened to the vileness of the Northmen and have taken up arms against their oathbreaking Lord Command–"
Suddenly, a scorpion bolt skewered one of Hightower's personal guards who was standing not ten yards from the king. The crowd erupted into a frenzy, cursing and spewing obscenities against the Northmen as they ran for cover.
Meanwhile, Baelor calmly stood up and raised his fist. "The Northmen shall not cow us with their pesky defences. The Seven are with us!"
"The Seven are with us!" The crowd clamoured, shouted, and roared with jubilation despite the knight's death.
"The Seven are with us!"
The rest of the Hightower knights quickly herded the king away; the scorpions atop Winterfell's walls had a greater range than anyone expected. Despite his bravado in front of the men, Paxter knew Baelor was also shocked and would no doubt order more wooden barricades and walls to be constructed to prevent such a repeat. Regardless, the Redwyne Lord would move his quarters to the far end of Wintertown.
Paxter knew what the pious king was doing. The mutiny in the Watch was partly his doing–though the black brothers had already been unhappy with the passage of Jon Snow, and their long-term plans did not need much effort to convince their brothers to revolt.
Besides, as if a green bastard with a thousand wildlings crossing the Wall could change the course of the war. Perhaps he could make a difference if he had five, no, ten thousand, but nobody would take a pesky warband of savages seriously.
They still used bone and stone and, rarely, bronze and knew little of the matters of war.
Jon Snow didn't matter in the end; at most, he was a skilled huntsman who got lucky in a few ambushes.
Baelor's methods were indeed cunning. Aside from pouring oil into the fire of hatred towards the Northmen and the heathens, he was promising them the food and shelter that was Winterfell. Baelor wanted to put them into a corner where their only choice was to take House Stark's seat or die.
And since Baelor didn't want to retreat, this seemed to be their best chance at taking the fortress.
Winterfell was designed with the sole purpose of resisting an army such as theirs, yet Hightower had the layout of the fortress in detail, down to every nook and cranny, for the Citadel's knowledge spread far and their influence even further. Even now, over a hundred engineers toiled in their army, leveraging thousands of men cutting down trees and making pontoon bridges, platforms, ladders, and trebuchets for their plans, each wilder than the rest. House Hightower had mobilised everything it could to see it happen–even the Archmaester of Warfare had provided a lengthy collection of letters providing his thoughts on the possible ways to create weaknesses in Winterfell's sturdy defences and how to take the hardy fortress.
Yet his foremost advice had been summarily ignored by Baelor: starve out the defenders or simply don't siege the castle, for there lay a graveyard of armies.
On days like this, the Redwyne Lord cursed himself for being pulled into this folly. Perhaps they would succeed, but taking Winterfell did not mean victory; it meant merely more fighting as the North was riddled with holdfasts big and small everywhere. The Ironmen loomed to the west, the Northmen to the North, and an endless amount of trouble was brewing in the South, along with the hand of the Stranger. The Black Death.
He missed the long summer, the time when Robert Baratheon sat on the Iron Throne, nobody dared to break the King's Peace, and his only woe was haggling with merchants over the price of wine. Oh, how he missed the warm breeze of the Arbour.
Meanwhile, the first constructed trebuchets were hurling rocks without respite–at the top of the walls, trying to smash the ballistae apart or beyond the walls to create as much mayhem and destruction as possible. The engines had to be constructed as close to the walls as possible for any results, yet the scorpions on the walls constantly disabled them, necessitating repairs and mobile bulwarks to shield the worst of the bolts.
All the while, more builders were busy constructing massive ramps made from wood, steel, and mud. These ramps would be dragged by thousands of men to form a platform on which the army could finally get on the walls should the assault against the gates prove unfruitful. And there were the madmen building that weird contraption that was supposed to rip off the outer portcullis, but Paxter didn't put much stock in it.
Streams of zealots kept rushing at the gates to try them with torches and axes, and the main gate's old portcullis was visibly damaged but still holding firm. At this rate, one of the gates would surely give, and the outer wall would fall into their hands.
Not that it would do them much good because then they would have to cross nearly two dozen feet of a moat and face the inner curtain wall, which was taller, thicker, and more defensible.
And the food was slowly but surely running out. His quartermaster, Galen, told him they would have to do away with the last warhorses. The mules, the donkeys, drays, and other beasts of burden had long been given to the butchers to feed the army, and only the scouts were allowed to keep their steeds. Even the thousand men fishing along the White Knife and hunting in the Wolfswood weren't enough.
And yet, the vast woodland barely provided any food, and the foragers only found death the deeper they ventured as of late. They brought tales of huntsmen and wolves and antlered beasts fighting along grumkins and snarks in the dark in eerie synchrony–clearly, the words of men lost their wits to fright and cold.
Paxter would easily dismiss such talk of ghosts and shadows gaining flesh and fighting men if it weren't for the piles of skulls that had started to appear at the edge of the Wolfswood one morning. While small, they chilled his blood, and cajoling the lumbermen to cut down trees without a hefty protection was a struggle.
Of course, they had the season's crops sown around Barrowton and the Barrowlands to rely upon, but it would be another half a moon until they saw the first of it. Even so, things weren't looking as bad as Paxter thought. While the rations were not always enough, there was plenty to go around for everyone–especially those who volunteered for the next assault.
That night, his son joined him for dinner, his face scrunched up in worry.
"What is it, Horas?" His voice lowered to a whisper. "Have they found out about our ruse yet?"
Now would be the worst moment for Greyjoy to find out his daughter was killed and try to attack them. While Asha's crew had been executed for treason to cover it up, a look-alike was sitting in Torrhen's Square in her stead. It wasn't too hard to find one–Balon's sole daughter had average looks and had never acted in a manner befitting of a highborn lady.
"What?" Horas shuddered, closing his eyes. "No, nobody ought to know about the whore. Father, the pits are nearly empty!"
"What?"
"They're not burying all the dead," his son took a deep breath and murmured a prayer under his nose. "I think nearly half of the corpses are brought to the kitchens in the cover of the night. The kitchens that the king placed just beside the corpse pits."
Paxter just blinked. It was… terrifying. Inhuman, against everything the Seven-Pointed Star claimed was dear and right. It was amongst the heaviest sins to eat the flesh of fellow men.
But it made so much sense. Too much sense. After that revolt in Barrowton, the flow of meat had increased significantly, and the tension with the zealots and the vagrants had dwindled considerably. The colder part of his mind was racing– one hundred and fifty bodies had a significant amount of meat, over ten thousand pounds, and the bone broth they could cook would also stave off hunger. And mixed with the horseflesh and the wild boars, deers, and fish… it wouldn't be as noticeable.
Baelor the Pious… he would do it, if it helped him get vengeance for his brother–the Rose Septon would too. Paxter knew of his ilk, a cunning old fox that would close his eyes when it suited him while roaring for the heavens to hear of any perceived injustice when it didn't. Was this why a third of the cooks had their tongues cut off for blasphemy and were almost constantly drunk?
So they wouldn't speak of the atrocities?
"-Father, Father, what will we do?"
He looked at Horas' worried face. His son was pale as chalk and had not touched the steaming roast on the table, which was his favourite.
"Do?" Paxter cursed himself for all the choices that led him here. The Northmen would tear them apart alive if they showed even the slightest sign of weakness. Neither the daughter of Hoster Tully nor the Granddaughter of Tywin Lannister would be the merciful sort, even if they were women. "We do nothing. You have not seen a thing."
Even so, he couldn't bring himself to touch the roast of horseflesh and salmon before him. It galled him to the core, but even so, Paxter would visit Baelor on the morrow and warn him to tighten the security around the kitchens. If Horas could find out, then others could too, and if word of it spread through the camp, it could very well be their undoing.
Even so, no secret could possibly stay hidden forever. Sooner or later, word would get out, and they had to prepare for the fallout–control it, even.
***
The first half of the 9th Moon, 299 AC
Robb Stark
A part of him still worried about his wife, mother, siblings, and newborn son. It was the irrational part of him, desiring to leave everything and rush back home, regardless of the consequences. And because the fear could not be squashed, it chased him from Old Oak to Highgarden, regardless of how fast he rode.
He was far from alone. Many of the lords voiced their desire to return home now.
"Our lands are under attack, and we are all flush with more plunder than we could have dreamed of."
It was the petty lords and masterly Houses whose lands were trampled by Hightower speaking, but Robb could see Ryswell seemed to be in silent support of them while the rest of the North's powerful bannermen were lukewarm. He had to nip this in the bud.
"Any deserters will be executed, and when the pretenders are broken, I shall ride down to your keep and kill everyone inside myself," Robb warned darkly.
After catching and beheading twelve deserters, such talks quickly died down. Thankfully, Lord Dustin showed himself ironhanded in matters of discipline as his soldiers were the loudest in their desire to turn home. His wife and daughter were in Winterfell, and he had no choice but to trust House Stark and remain loyal. Robb swore to himself to reward his staunch loyalty to House Stark.
His rational side could see the consequences of leaving now would be devastating. Robb wouldn't care if not for the fact that his mad rush back North would take too long to make any difference. By the time he could ride his men all the way to Winterfell and sweep away Hightower and his rabble, they would either be dead by the cold or would have turtled in some castle or another.
Worse, his absence here would give the Reach enough respite to get off its feet. It would let Aegon or Renly take its place.
Still, the worry pressing on his mind made it hard to focus on the task ahead. And there was plenty for him to do. Fighting and winning a battle or two was only the beginning, and he had to win the peace now, whether through a quill or fire and sword.
Unsurprisingly, the Lords of the Reach trickled in one by one, answering his summons to swear fealty to the rightful king, each with a retinue of a handful of knights or a dozen lancers. Even Tarly barely brought a hundred horse with him, and now Robb understood–the chivalry of the Reach was devastated, whether by the war or the plague.
Ambrose, Appleton, Peake, and many other petty lords and knightly houses like Reddings and Middlebury were quick to show up to Highgarden and bend the knee to Tommen–or him. Worse, they all brought their younger sons and a handful of unwed daughters to give out as 'wards' or 'squires'. But most of the daughters were too young to be wed, merely girls yet to flower, for Margaery Tyrell had used the ones of age as her ladies-in-waiting to strengthen the alliance with the Stormlands. Or they had perished in the marches with the Rose Queen.
After much contemplation, Robb reluctantly took a second squire, the eldest son of Lord Ambrose. Alyn Ambrose was a gangly boy of three and ten who had been betrothed to Elinor Tyrell before she had been sold off to the Ironmen. Even Alyn was only accepted because he had to show the fretful Reachmen they were accepted back in the King's Peace. Robb also encouraged his bannermen–even the chieftains, to take a squire themselves.
Despite having no daughter, squire, or page to dangle before Robb, the most annoying of the newcomers was Lord Alekyne Florent, thinking himself more important than he was because his young cousin was the mistress of ships. He was toting his claim over the Reach and Highgarden for all to hear. A few others tried to approach him with a similar desire, only to run away at the sight of an annoyed Grey Wind growling their way.
Worse, Florent had betrayed Renly, and Robb found it hard to trust the man, even if the traitor was supposedly just a 'distant cousin'. No distant cousin would dare betray his liege without assurances–though those probably came from Tywin or Joffrey.
In the end, Robb sent the fox lord away to raid the Hightower lands and his vassals. Florent, Dustin, Ryswell, and Ser Daven Lannister, with six thousand light horse, would lead the endeavour with the sole purpose of setting everything on fire and killing every soul they met. At least the Lannister knight and Lord Dustin could finally get to vent.
"Even the women and the children?" Lord Ryswell had asked cautiously.
"Everything," Robb confirmed grimly. "From the Mouth of the Mander to the Redwyne Straits to the Red Mountains, each and every Lord who supports Baelor the Fool shall have their lands scoured down to the very last chicken. Every madman who raises the banner of the Faith Militant will be declared an outlaw, and his family and subjects shall be put to the sword."
It would also soften up Oldtown.
Robb had no time to rush to Oldtown and siege it, but he would not need to. Without the farms and fields to feed those living in Hightower's city, it would crumble under the inability to feed its citizens. Or it would collapse under the strain of Hightower's smallfolk seeking refuge behind its walls. The castles and the lords and the city would survive the scourging, but only for a time. A castle was just a hardy collection of stones, in the end. After all, what was a lord without his people? What was a lord but a fool with a castle without lands to draw wealth, men, and power?
By the time Robb was prepared to march on Oldtown, it would be ripe for the picking.
"We have to squash the Faith Militant before it can gain strength," Tarly quickly agreed. The bald Reachlord was a grim, dangerous man–and one of his most vocal supporters, though Robb still couldn't figure out why. He was also the only one unphased by Grey Wind's presence from the Reachlords. "Maegor struggled for half a decade with them, and he had the Black Dread, something we cannot afford. While there's little of them in our part of the marches, up the Rose Road and Blueburn, they have swelled in number. And plenty of peasants are just rebelling against the crushing war tax of their lords, using the Faith Militant as a pretext..."
"Damn that fool Baelor," Titus Peake cursed. "The Hightowers have always been ambitious, even if they hid it very well, but the Faith Militant? Have they lost their wits?!"
"A Peake should know a thing or two about unrestrained ambition," Ser Wendel Manderly noted, warily eyeing the Peake Lord. That feud over the power struggle over influence in House Gardener's court was long gone–just like House Gardener–yet the rotund mermaid knight seemed to remember after a thousand years. Just as the Peake lord's face started to redden, and Robb threw Manderly a warning glance, Ser Wendel hastily added, "But I agree. The Faith Militant must be ground to dust, and all the rebels must be pulled out root and stem."
"We don't have any ships to ferry troops and strike at Chester, Grimm, Hewett, and Serry," Tarly's finger tapped on the four Shield Islands that were supposed to serve as the Reach's bulwark against Ironborn. Yet their forces were now assaulting Moat Cailin after working side by side with the very enemy they were supposed to halt.
"That we don't… for now," Robb agreed. "Their time shall also come. We have the shipyards on the Mouth of the Mander building as fast as they can, and Lannisport has been doing much the same for a few moons now."
The next few hours were a long, painful drudgery that had to be done. Planning over the quelling of the rest of the Reach, squashing any peasant or Faith Militant revolts, and punishing every lord that dared to bend the knee to Aegon. The Reach was a big kingdom, almost as large as two other kingdoms combined, aside from the North, but far less united. Each corner had its own sort of trouble–and even if he took his Uncle Edmure's march towards Golden Grove, there were plenty of things to be done.
Then, there was the pesky problem of the terrible plague. After much back and forth, it was decided that a fourth of every field would be dedicated to planting and raising sage, garlic, turmeric, red clove, and poplar trees. The Reach was big and fertile, and it had lost much of its vast population in the war. It would solve any problems with a potential outbreak of the plague here. The Black Death scared Robb far more than he would care to admit out loud. He never thought he would face a foe that could not be defeated with a sword, arrow, or lance.
But as any enemy, it could be beaten. If it took garlic, poplar, and other herbs to fight it, then so be it.
The war and the plague had left a significant portion of the Reach's nobility gutted, and more than a handful of Houses had lost their lords, heirs, and spares. They were ruled by some distant cousin or by a young swaddling babe, a boy too young to even wield a wooden sword or a castellan.
Alas, no matter how much Robb wanted to march to Oldtown and burn it to the ground or face the fool who pretended to be his brother-cousin in the Stormland marches, he lacked the numbers. And the myriad of small woes could not be ignored, lest they grew big and troublesome.
His thoughts drifted to the Tyrells he had slain. The only children in the House of Flowers were girls given to the Silent Sisters with their mothers and cousins, and Robb was thankfully not forced before a choice that would eat at him forever. Killing grown men for the ambition and treachery of their House was one thing, but children–entirely another.
Even now, he wasn't certain he would have gone through with it if his hand was forced.
Now, a House that had boasted half a hundred men was reduced to a handful–Ser Garlan Tyrell, Ser Moryn Tyrell, the Commander of the City Watch in Oldtown, and his progeny, of which only four survived, two of which were studying in the Citadel.
A part of Robb was tired of killing, of murder, of seeing death and devastation. It was an ugly thing; it pressed down on your thoughts, twisted your insides, grated on your soul and made you drunk on woe. But with each raven arriving from Rillbrook and White Harbour, Robb steeled himself and soldiered forth, no matter how grisly the decisions he had to take were.
Yet, with each next corpse, the sight became easier. Orders to kill countless men and women and children left his tongue with far less struggle. It was easy to just say the word and decide the fate of hundreds of thousands of souls that lived in the Hightower lands.
Many would say he was merely doing the same thing Hightower was doing to the Stark lands, to the men under House Stark protection, and to the bannermen of the North.
Robb now understood his father's lesson far better.
Ours is the Old Way.
A part of him dreaded becoming too jaded, so vengeful in his quest to demolish Hightower that life no longer mattered. It was just so… easy. For good or bad, life was just so fragile, and his father had taught him the ways of war and fighting. The ways of killing. Killing a man, and killing a lord, and killing a kingdom, even if the latter took time, there wasn't much difference to someone who could command tens of thousands of swords and lances.
Just as he headed towards the Green Hall, a sprawling chamber of marble that was as distastefully opulent as everything else in Highgarden, a hurried Maester Arryk waylaid him.
"Lord Robb," he said, his usually energetic face completely solemn. "A raven from Deepwood Motte."
"Did Balon Greyjoy take Glover's seat?" Robb's hands balled into fists. "Why would Glover write to Highgarden?"
"The letter was originally sent to Casterly Rock for you–under Glover's seal. Maester Creylen saw it was meant only for your eyes, so he sent it here. It's unopened, my lord."
The whole might of the Iron Isles should have been sieging Deepwood Motte now. Balon and Victarion Greyjoy were considered mad but capable, especially in matters of war.
Another foe to face, another king gnawing at his lands. Robb was tired of killing, but it seemed he had no choice but to continue down this bloody path for the war would not end anytime soon.
"Open it and read it for me," he said, unwilling to lay his eyes on another message detailing his failures.
After a short shuffle, the maester's face blinked in incomprehension. "It's either a jest or some sort of secret code based on the Old Tongue's runic script, written in blood and… weirwood sap? Smells like it. And it's signed by… Jon Snow and Lord Glover."
"Give it here!" Robb snatched the roll of parchment. He looked at the messy scribbles that seemed like someone had taken Old Tongue and Common and twisted them together and tried to push his mind to remember. It was his sister Sansa's idea to invent their secret language–and she had dragged him and Jon into it. But it had felt like a lifetime ago, and then Sansa abandoned it once her lessons with the septa started.
It took him fifteen minutes to remember how to decipher it, but when he did, Robb roared with laughter.
"Good news, my lord?" Arryk asked, his face curious. The maester had remained dutifully unmoving, yet the Stark only had eyes for the decisive script in his grasp. He read it, and then he read it again and again.
Slaughtered through the Ironmen on the Western shores. Theon, Balon, and Victarion have fallen to my hand, and so have their reavers. I will deal with Hightower soon. Focus on the South.
"Very good news," Robb chuckled, a savage grin finding his way to his face, then squeezed Arryk's shoulder and met the man's gaze. "Maester. You shall not speak of this to anyone."
"Of what, my lord?" the maester clasped his hands into his sleeves, smiling slyly. "Maester Creylen has merely sent a report about the accommodations of the new silent sisters."
His mind, however, raced. Jon couldn't have too many wildlings under his command. Otherwise, their uncle would not let him pass. This meant he mustered the clansmen up the hills, but they were not enough to face the might of the Iron Isles in open battle. But Jon would know this and would attack from an ambush.
With Glover and the mountain clansmen, the wolfswood would be his brother's oyster. And even better, that part scarcely had ravens bar from Deepwood Motte, which meant Hightower probably wouldn't know.
If, by any chance, Hightower had ears amongst the Reachlords or the servants in Highgarden, Jon's element of surprise would be broken. So Robb kept quiet, even if he wanted to shout to the high heavens and throw a feast for Greyjoys' demise.
Robb's joy was suddenly snuffed like a candle in the wind as his mind raced. If Jon, the brother who was supposed to be in the thick of fighting, lived, then which sibling had he lost? Was Robb and Grey Wind mistaken? But no, the feeling of loss still lingered…
He shook his head and bit his lip; it was no use worrying about it. Whoever had died, Jon would surely avenge them. There was simply nothing that Robb could do about it.
Still, with the Ironborn threat destroyed and Hightower soon to face more than green boys and women, he could focus his mind on the challenges ahead, no matter how grisly or long, for Winterfell would be safe.
After dinner, Robb saw his squire looking glummer than usual, probably the rest of the Reach Lord's children still shunning the boy.
"What is it?" Robb prodded carefully.
Harys Oakheart reminded him of Jon when he was young. Closed off, brooding, and distant at times, and it was a small wonder–none of the squires from the Westerlands liked him, and children were cruel.
"Why do you care? I'm just a hostage," The boy bit out angrily. Then, his face paled, and he hastily mumbled, "Apologies, Lord Robb."
"I shall let a little bit of cheek go just this once," Robb chuckled generously. "As for why I care? Your father requested I spare House Oakheart should you surrender. He was a good lord, strong and true, even if his loyalty was given to the wrong king, yet he remained loyal to his liege to the end. I would honour him by teaching you what I can."
There was confusion amidst the hatred in his blue eyes.
"Even though you killed him?"
"Death is the fate of all traitors. It's easy to order a man to his death or send him off to King's Landing, but I didn't kill him because I hated him or thought him unworthy. I could afford him no greater honour than to take his head myself. I care because I agreed to take you as my squire, with all the duties on my end that it entails."
"I…" Harys Oakheart looked at his hands and balled them into fists. "What if I grow up and kill you?"
"If it is not in times of war to make us foes, you'd make an enemy of House Stark," Robb noted. "You'd make an enemy of my brothers, of my sons, or my father."
"It would still be death."
"It would. But there are unspoken rules to war, courtesies to keep and considerations to hold in your mind while you're on the field, lest you create unnecessary feuds. Your father slighted Crakehall with his actions in the Westerlands, but the castellan refused any offers of surrender, so he shouldn't have expected any mercy. I am not a Crakehall, so I care not. Now, the lands of House Oakheart are largely unmolested beyond providing us with supplies, but you will face many problems from House Crakehall after the war."
Harys nodded slowly, his face still guarded, and Robb took a deep breath and continued.
"Now, Hightower, on the other hand, has made things personal. He has killed mine own bannermen, burned prisoners of war, slain men, women, and children under the protection of my house, and has ordered weirwood and heart trees chopped down and burned. Barrows undisturbed for millenia had been dug out, disturbing our ancestors' eternal rest, and much, much worse has been done. And thus, Hightower shall receive no mercy from me, even if he comes on his knees begging, just like Tyrell. Your father fought well, and he fought honourably, so you're not merely here to guarantee your grandmother's good behaviour but someone I shall do my best to raise as is proper for a lord. This is a chance to make connections and forge friendships and alliances that will last you a lifetime, Harys of House Oakheart. So spill."
For the first time ever, Harys blinked at him with confusion and not a small measure of surprise and acceptance.
"I…I don't know what to do. Some of the other squires call me a traitor–even those from the Reach. The son of a fool and a weakling, if never to my face…"
"Words are wind. But if it bothers you so much, challenge them out in the yard," Robb pointed out. "Make them eat their words."
"Some are older, bigger, and stronger than me," was the resigned response. True enough, the boy was thin and a bit awkward in his movements, but Robb thought it had been because of his grudge.
He squeezed the boy's shoulder.
"All the more reason to not give up. Your father rivalled an Umber in stature and was dangerous with a sword. Maybe you won't win right away, but they will respect you for not giving up. You won't get better by avoiding spars and fighting, either. Come to the training yard."
"Now?" Harys looked around with a frown. "It's dark already."
"Well, the sooner you show me what you have, the sooner I can start correcting any deficiencies in your martial education." Robb chuckled. He missed whacking a dummy with a sword–nobody got hurt or killed. It's been a while since he had time to enjoy a plain old practice. "Besides, I might be busy tomorrow–and so will you. Being a lord at war is not easy, and you shall be my shadow and observe everything from now on."
The stiffness left the young boy's small frame, and he almost rushed to the training yard as Robb Stark shook his head. He wasn't nearly old enough to be teaching anyone anything, but the best teacher was experience, and the boy would have his fill of it soon.
***
11th Day of the 9th Moon, 299 AC
The Bloodroyal, Near Blackhaven
"How have the mighty fallen," Wyl clicked his tongue. "The marches could have mustered nearly fourteen thousand men a year prior. Yet look at them! A motley two thousand come to bar our way."
Surely enough, their entry into the Stormlands had not gone unnoticed, and a small force was barring the way out of the Boneway. While the passes of the Red Mountain made Dorne hard to invade, they made it just as difficult to field a proper army into the Marches.
Only a fool would push their whole army through the treacherous passes of the steep Boneway, and so Aegon had decided to split the army in three. Or was it the Bold or the exiled Griffin who had made the decision? Anders could not say. They let the young Aegon take command but were doubtlessly whispering in his ear. While the boy clearly lacked experience, he was not stupid and listened to advice well.
Regardless, fourteen thousand men of the Golden Company and their dozen surviving elephants had disembarked to land at Stonehelm. Considering how spent and spread out the Stormlords were, they probably met no opposition and were already sieging the seat of House Swann. Fowler, Manwoody, Blackmont, and Dayne marched up the Prince's Pass with eight thousand men to take Nightsong.
Aegon and the old Selmy knight were leading the rest of the Dornish muster here, along with three thousand former tiger cloaks from Volantis, a total of twelve thousand men. And now, their way was blocked, just at the widening mouth of Boneway.
"They might not be here to stop us, Lord Wyl," Aegon noted dryly. "Here comes the request for parley."
"It might be a trap," Arianne cautioned.
The Martell princess seemed enamoured with her husband, yet her place was not in a campaign. But a stubborn man like Doran Martell had raised a stubborn daughter, and here she was, against all sense. If the rumours were to be believed, it was because of one of Aegon's personal servants, some healer handmaid from Volantis whose brother was leading one of the regiments of the Tiger cloaks. With silver hair, skin as pale as porcelain and violet eyes, Talisa Maegyr was a classical Valyrian beauty from the Old Blood.
"Let me go, then," Quentyn Martell proposed boldly. The boy had turned into a man before Anders could even realise. And he was wedded and bedded to some Lyseni chit from the Orthys family. "You have yet to fill your kingsguard, and I'm less valuable than you."
And the infamous white cloaks were not even half filled, with Ser Joss Jordayne and the foolish man they called the Duckfield. The old Selmy knight had donned the white cloak again, once more a Lord Commander, and Jon Connington had been the one to take command of the Golden Company, which left four kingsguard to be appointed.
But Aegon didn't want to nominate any more warriors from Dorne, and wisely, if he wanted to rule the Seven Kingdoms.
"A Prince of Dorne is invaluable," Aegon pointed out rightly. "You are your father's heir."
Gwyneth could have been Quentyn's wife with just a word of assent from Doran Martell, and all the grievances between their Houses would have been forgotten. Even now, the offer for Trystane's hand was rebuffed, and Anders was slighted yet again.
"I have Trystane as a replacement," the young Martell shrugged almost lazily. "The Stormlords have a measure of honour–even the Lightning Lord returned the young Edric Dayne to Starfall when the war started, so there's probably nothing to fret over. But if they kill me here, they would not receive any mercy."
"I don't see the crow of Morrigen or the fawn of Fawnton amongst them. The crowned stag of Baratheon is also absent," Anders said, snorting. "Renly has truly lost the respect of his own bannermen."
Aegon laughed, his voice melodic, earning himself a smouldering gaze from his wife. For a woman who wanted to be a queen, the foolish chit lacked even the most basic restraint. But no, despite being three and twenty, Arianne Martell had yet to act like a woman grown.
Doran Martell had coddled her too much.
"Then perhaps we shall get off without a fight today," Aegon said, his smile wide. The blood of the dragon was something else. With his easy smile, silver-gold hair, the purple eyes of the dragonlords, and pale skin that resisted the sun's kiss, he made for an almost ethereal sight and wielded charisma with laughable ease.
"Let me also try and talk to them," Ser Barristan's voice was hoarse. "I know most of them. I know their sons and brothers and cousins. Perhaps I can make those stubborn old mules see reason."
As the old knight and Quentyn Martell rode off accompanied by two Martell knights, Anders' mind wandered.
Walton Wyl, who should have been the one leading the procession and the scouts, remained silent. The infamous Black Adder had lost the favour of the king before he could even swear fealty with the stunt his bastard brother had pulled. Of course, he had denounced and disavowed the bastard for the stupidity–raping and killing noblewomen with no cause was terrible for business. A daring raid deep into the enemy lands to capture them for a ransom would be considered the height of boldness, and all of Dorne would sing his praises and bravery.
But good old murder of noble ladies with no prior grudge? It was uncouth.
Regardless, Barristan Selmy had lost a grandniece, and while the old knight would not say a word, he had other ways to show his displeasure. And nobody could deny the Bold's influence over Aegon. The young king had not spoken a word to Lord Wyl, who failed to produce even a single hostage–or an excuse.
If Anders was to wager a guess based on someone as impetuous and hot-headed as Moryn Sand, any survivors from Margaery Tyrell's retinue had long left the Seven Kingdoms.
Alas, when Quentyn Martell and Ser Barristan returned with thoughtful faces, Anders knew there would be no battle today, nor would he get to lay siege on one of House Yronwood's ancient foes–the Dondarrions.
The Marcher Lords recognised they were outnumbered and were willing to bend the knee to Aegon on a single condition–he had to win a duel against the lightning lord.
Despite all advice, Aegon agreed to fight himself instead of appointing a champion, eager to show off Blackfyre in a trial by combat. Rightly so, for he had the skill to back it up, as Lord Beric Dondarion quickly found himself on the back foot. The marcher lord was bloodied in battle and fought as if his life depended on it.
Aegon was better. While younger than his opponent by at least half a decade, he was visibly taking advantage. Quick on his feet, with powerful strikes that would have seen Dondarrion lose even if he wasn't wielding a dragonsteel blade.
Anders quickly lost interest in the duel, and his thoughts drifted toward the coming war. With a Greyjoy and a Hightower king and the plague, the Seven Kingdoms were divided, ripe for the taking. According to their last report, Renly was cowering in Storm's End, but the Bloodroyal knew no war was so easy.
The Young Wolf had already denounced Aegon as a mummer and 'no kin of mine', and Eddard Stark was alive in Myr with Tommen Baratheon under his wing. None could deny Doran Martell's cunning. He had given Dorne's backing to Aegon to save his House Martell's sinking reputation while mending fences and winning himself a potential Queen.
Predictably, Dondarrion was knocked to the ground, disarmed, and yielded. The Marcher Lords started swearing fealty without much fuss, though most looked reluctant.
Another Martell Queen, another war; Anders could see the irony, and he was far from the only one. Dorne would once again bleed for the ambition and ineptitude of House Martell. The Dornish lords were dissatisfied with House Martell, even more so after the sacking of the Water Gardens, which meant that they were trying to ingratiate themselves with Aegon.
Even Anders was calculating how to profit most from this conflict, preferably while getting back at House Martell. Alas, for good or for bad, the Old Lion was now gone, and so were his sweet offers of boons that would have seen the most greedy fool salivate.
***
After two moons, the plague was finally dwindling down. My family was cut by a mere half, but many were not as lucky as I–the streets were filled with more corpses than living, and the recent census estimated that two-thirds of the city had been spirited away by the Many-Faced God.
Someone observed that the disease did not spread into the colder places, and the coldest city in the world, White Harbour, barely saw more than a quarter of theirs perish, though some argued it was their clean streets and sparse population.
Pentos was also beset by the plague, and so was Volantis, who had just started to deal with a revolt against the new council of freemen.
The news of the plague in Volantis greatly concerned the masters of Astapor, Yunkai, and Mereen, who started isolating each newly arrived ship on a special harbour for a moon to see if they brought the disease with them.
The madness of war was still going strong in the Sunset lands.
The Siege of Winterfell was quickly turning out to be one of the bloodiest in recorded history, with the constant assaults on the gates. Doubly more so when the rumours of cannibalism spread, and Baelor Hightower hung a dozen of the army's cooks for the deed, claiming they were supporting Joffrey and Tommen, the two incest spawn. Even the Rose Septon's writ of pardon for the sin didn't placate the hackles raised, and there was a mutiny.
It was quickly squashed, however, and Lord Costayne, who tried to leave "This crazed place", was caught and hung for desertion along with his men.
The defenders capitalised on the mayhem and managed to sally out and burn some of the newly-built trebuchets but lacked the numbers to dislodge Hightower and took heavy casualties in the process.
Meanwhile, the battles along the Wall were quickly turning against the outnumbered mutiny, allowing whispers to finally reach Braavos through the continued trade of the happenings with the self-proclaimed King of Rock and Salt. It was particularly hard to untangle the mess of superstitious nonsense I kept hearing from the ever-dwindling merchants. Some fools claim that the White Huntsman had giants and Children of the Forest under his command; others whispered he led an army of grumkins and snarks or an endless horde of wights and wolves. According to one of the rebelling commanders on the Wall, he had tens of thousands of wildlings with him, but I find that number highly unlikely.
Things about magic, live sacrifices, and the such are near impossible to confirm and are likely the product of too much indulgence in wine.
The only thing they agreed upon was that the Ironborn were crushed. The how is the question. I think Jon Snow managed to muster the mountain clans and lead a certain number of wildlings–no more than three to five thousand–before taking the Ironmen by surprise.
The mountains of skulls he left in his wake are far easier to believe, though far more challenging to confirm, considering no trader dares to venture all the way around Westeros and to the Bay of Ice.
Meanwhile, Beron Dustin, whom the Reachmen had started calling the 'Skull-Splitter', was doing his best to kill everything living south of the Mouth of the Mander. Robb Stark started to consolidate his gains in the Reach. The most interesting were the rumours of Garlan the Grim sneaking into Dorne with a warband of daring men…
Excerpt from 'Lazyro Zelyne's thoughts on the Sunset War'.