End of the Rope

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.

***

21st day of the 9th moon, 299 AC

Melisandre of Asshai, near a nameless holdfast

Unlike the mere stop at Eastwatch in her quest for answers, Melisandre could now rest and look at her surroundings. And see, she did, for the North was different in her eyes. It differed from the lands sprawling Beyond the Wall and the primordial Haunted Forest. The Wolfswood was just as old, but the Northmen had left their trace on it, down to the well-trodden forest paths, the old remnants of ringforts, or the cabins and huts deep inside the woodland. They were a part of the forest itself as Melisandre's eyes slid over the dark greenery and moss covering roofs and old remnants.

The distinction was subtle but unmistakable, similar to how one couldn't possibly confuse Slaver's Bay with Volantis or the Three Daughters of Valyria. 

She could feel it in the ground, here where the worship of the Old Gods was strongest. She could see it in the air, like a greyish-green shroud blanketing the stream and stone, forest and hill. It was not focused the way the Priests of R'hllor used their skills and sacrifice to harness it, but it was all-encompassing here, everpresent and raw in a primal way, permeating into stone and wood and deep under the ground.

The belief of the Old Gods was an odd theological beast, a loose system of priestless faith with no ritual, hierarchy, sacred days, or even guiding texts. As any self-respecting priestess of devotion to the gods, such things were unacceptable. But Melisandre knew change was slow, especially to a faith as old as the land itself, with people as stubborn as they were hardy.

The jaunt through the Northern mountains opened her eyes further, for the belief was intertwined with the worship of House Stark, and she struggled to tell where one began and the other one ended. It was that almost blind, rabid faith that Winterfell would prop up the skies if they fell; all trials, no matter how impossibly hard, could be overcome when a Stark was leading. Or a Snow with the right blood and upbringing. 

It was the burning loyalty in the eyes of the clansmen, the absolute assuredness that Winterfell would lead them through all adversity, no matter how daunting. She had seen the same in Glover, if slightly more subdued. It was hardly a surprise, considering the aftermath of the battle of the Bloody Coast, as they called it.

Jon Snow managed to leverage his status and accolades effortlessly, with surprising skill and undeniable commanding presence for one on the cusp of becoming eight and ten. An age where many would consider him young, foolish, and green enough to 'piss summer grass,' as some greybeards said. But their loyalty was vindicated by heroic victories won against all odds that were the stuff of songs. Melisandre could see the makings of a true king there: bold where courage was needed, just where many would choose vengeance, harsh and unyielding where the song of sword, steel and blood was required. Yet he deliberately shunned the trappings of power, the symbols of authority beyond the martial arms and armament. 

Just like Stannis, Jon Snow was a creature of duty and family. There was no burning ambition in his eyes despite having all that power at his fingertips. Why else would he have ventured into the cold harshness Beyond the Wall to face off the Others on his lonesome?

Yet, just by being close to Jon Snow, Melisandre's path that was previously fraught with struggle and darkness turned easy and smooth, with little to no obstacles, just like the black dragonroads of Essos. The blood-singing of the weirwoods and the gift of precious tree branches turned into longbows helped aplenty. None of that would have been possible without the Stark bastard's silent permission. 

Even now, the Earth Singers were considered with a measure of suspicion and a healthy dose of mistrust, and Melisandre had no doubt they would be killed or exiled away if not for their ardent support for Eddard Stark's son.

But as a human, Melisandre met far lesser obstacles, though her origin still raised eyebrows. Yet the generous gift of weirwood tree branches turned into warbows had the Northmen taking her seriously. 

The plan ripening in her mind started coming to fruition at Deepwood Motte, where the Northmen had seen her abilities and their usefulness, and the pious widow, Sybelle Locke, had made a request. 

And so, the five-year-old Gawen Glover had become her first acolyte with the blessing of his lordly uncle. The boy was only fifth in line for Deepwood Motte after his young cousins, and Melisandre had made it clear that it would be at least a decade until he was ready to renounce any connection to his name in favour of the gods. Perhaps the arrangement was temporary, but it opened a new door of possibilities for Melisandre. 

After the initial caution, the boy was as enthusiastic as any child always was, expecting adventure and magic, but met swift disappointment at the life of abstinence and austerity on the march. His chances to become a true green one were fleeting, and Melisandre could teach him to see… and the many skills she had learned across her travels and the Temple of the Lord of Light in Volantis. While many had claimed the skills were a blessing of R'hllor, she now knew better. The Red God no longer answered her calls, but her skills remained, for they were her own. 

Two years earlier, the High Priest of R'hllor would have considered it the height of blasphemy and excommunicated her for such an offence, and Melisandre would have been hunted down by the Red Hand and all the Red Priests. 

But times had changed, and the flow of destiny had been shattered as though an angry child had broken a glass candle into a million shards. The Red Hand and the Red Faith had no power in these lands and would be broken by House Stark if they tried. The High Priest was dead, and the Red Temple of Volantis had fallen to ruins.

Clergymen and warfare rarely mixed well and created a dangerous precedent that Melisandre wanted nothing to do with. There was a clear example of how those things eventually ended. But it would not stop her from observing. 

She watched from a hill as the Faith Militant and the half-giant of a man they called the Hound were brutally dismantled by Jon Snow. The Reachmen's scouts had been purged from the Wolfswood in the span of mere hours with the aid of the wolves under Jon Snow. How could men-at-arms, knights and outriders ever hope to defeat the beasts that were the kings of forest in all but name or the Northern huntsmen who had spent their whole lives in the forest?

Especially now, on the cusp of winter.

Jon Snow had chosen the best moment to strike as Sandor Clegane led his four thousand men of the Faith Militant into another clash with Mors Umber's vanguard. According to Deer, they had clashed many times before with no significant losses, but this time it was different.

The merciless rain of arrows from the longbowmen fell on their exposed backs, mowing down hundreds of the Swords and Stars in heartbeats. The Hound was no fool, and he managed to muster a response and form a shield wall to advance into the Wolfswood, but the huntsmen were quick-footed and lightly armoured and simply retreated, and the Northmen under Mors Umber were in hot pursuit from the north.

The Faith Militant was forced to retreat, exposing their backs to the longbows once again. Clegane wheeled his small cavalry, but his charge was halted by the flood of direwolves, their very presence making the horses lose control and attempt to flee. Jon Snow, Ghost, and the finest of the Mountain Clans fell upon them a wave of steel, fangs, and death, slaughtering the disorganised foe within minutes. Even Sandor Clegane, the kinslaying knight, was yanked off his black destrier by the enormous snowy direwolf, never to rise again as the rest of the beasts tore him apart alive.

Moving like an angry phantom of frost and blood, Snow fell upon the back ranks of the Faith Militant as the Glovers and the Clansmen rushed to envelop the now-disorganised Reachmen. Within minutes, they were encircled.

After half an hour of blood and slaughter, the Swords and Stars were reduced to corpses strewn across the blood-soaked field, and Rickard Liddle was carrying their seven-pointed star banner skewered on a spear upside down. Those who had managed to fight out of the encirclement were hunted down by eager packs of wolves.

Jon Snow wanted no word to reach Hightower of the defeat here, and Melisandre knew he would succeed. It was a certainty not granted by a vision but by meticulous preparation, knowledge of the terrain, and vicious decisiveness. Complete and utter annihilation of an armed force was rare, considered nearly impossible. But with two skin-changers roaming the skies and direwolves that could sniff out any scouts, Jon Snow was dead set on doing the impossible.

"So much blood," the young Gawen Glover had turned as pale as a ghost at the sight.

"The kings and highlords play the Game of Crowns and Ambition, and the realms pay the price in blood," Melisandre noted. "Remember it, Gawen."

"Those who live by the sword die by the sword," Leaf added by her side, unperturbed by the bloodshed. "And so perish the new Faith Militant, bereft of glory or purpose, far away from home for a cause few believe in. It was this ancient order that slaughtered the most of my kinsmen, chopped down their forests, and burned our Weirwoods." Her cat-like golden eyes stared at the slaughter below, unblinking as if to commit the sight to memory. "Yet we still linger while the Seven's Militants have twice fallen."

Val, joining them atop her spotted mare, scoffed. 

"A fitting end for fools worshipping stone statues. The further south we move, the more foolish the Southrons seem."

"Few of them were true believers in anything other than violence and the pardon and plunder that the Rose Septon promised them in exchange for service." Melisandre's voice thickened with amusement. "These were not holy men of staunch faith and conviction that worshipped the Warrior. I have heard of Sandor Clegane and his ilk. They were but brigands, outlaws, ambitious hedge knights, a motley collection amongst the scum of the Reach, perhaps mixed with the occasional third or fourth noble son with no future in his own House." 

"Won't Hightower come and face us with his army now?" Gawen Glover asked, his voice shaking like a leaf. 

"He would if any of the scouts or routing cravens returned to warn him," Val's smile turned feral. "It's about four leagues to Winterfell from here, by my husband's estimate, and they must flee through the direwolves and Deer and Raugr's eyes in the sky unnoticed."

Melisandre knew it was near impossible to do so, considering Jon Snow had planned precisely for this scenario. He preferred to attack his foes when they least expected it and strike from their blind spots with impunity - as a prowling wolf would hunt a deer. The foolish Reachmen had no idea they were fighting more than just men.

After a short talk with the Northmen led by a man Melisandre later found to be named Walton Lake, they hastily cleaned the battlefield and made way to the nameless holdfast of the small masterly house of Mollen that Mors Umber had turned into his headquarters. 

***

Val

"I'm not listening to a wildling lover who barely brings three thousand spears and abducts my grandnephew!" 

A meaty fist slammed on the table, but her husband just looked irritated more than anything else. Mors Umber, the old brigand of a man they called the Crowsfood for the eye that had been pecked out by a crow one time he had fallen asleep by the road, was far less agreeable. His lone twitching eye was flinty as he stared at Jon Snow, and his reddening face was beginning to look like a lobster framed by a mane of white hair.

The situation in the tent where Umber was meeting them was more than tense despite fighting alongside each other mere hours prior. The Umber curmudgeon ignored Glover and the mountain clansmen in favour of glaring with outright hate and loathing at the wildlings and Leaf by Jon's side despite their significantly thinned numbers after the Battle of the Bloody Coast.

Seeing that Val was to spend her life amongst the kneelers, she had put in effort to learn about the kneeler houses of the North.

On the Umber side were men of Karstark, Wells, Ironsmith, Lake, some Cerwyn and Hornwood, and other lesser masterly houses, all looking at Jon with some unease. It wasn't the free folk as much as it was the presence of singers and giants and direwolves, the naked display of the sheer mastery over skinchanging with so many wolves provoking a primal sense of fear, along with the eerie chill brought by the icy armour he carried.

Before anyone could even blink, Jon lunged across the table, yanked Mors Umber by the white beard with one hand and slammed his face down the table with the other.

Everyone drew their swords and axes, and Ghost and the three direwolves started growling, but Jon already had Dark Sister drawn at Mors Umber's bared neck as he was pinned down on the table like a pig to the slaughter. 

"If you won't obey the command of Winterfell, I'll remove you and find someone who will," Jon said in a cold tone that left no doubt about what 'removal' would look like. "And then I'll have the bards sing far and wide the tale of Mors Umber, the stubborn oathbreaker."

Mors Umber twitched and twisted, his meaty hands clawing at Jon Snow's wrist, whose fist was clamped like a vice around the Crowsfood neck, but to no avail. 

"Bastard…" he grunted out weakly.

"That I am," Jon Snow agreed with dark amusement and slammed Mors Umber's face into the table again, leaving a bloody blotch on it as the stubborn greybeard's nose was now broken. "But to you, I am a bastard with the authority of Winterfell to command the armies of the North. What will it be, Umber? Will you stubbornly choose defiance when a Hightower is knocking on Winterfell's gates, or will you see reason?"

"Fine," the coughing response came after a moment of tense silence. "I said fine! Let me go, Snow!" 

And just like that, the tension in the tent bled out, and Jon let go of Mors' neck, releasing the wheezing greybeard, but not before Dark Sister blurred, and Umber's shaggy tangle of a beard fell to the table as her husband sheathed Dark Sister back in its scabbard with a well-practised motion.

Some of the men behind Umber murmured, "The Ned's get alright."

"Suppose Greyjoy has scurried back off back to his Islands if you're here?" Jarod Ironsmith asked.

"Greyjoy will no longer plague our shores," Jon offered coldly while Galbart Glover outright guffawed. "Hard to when he's a prisoner in my camp, his tongue missing and his tendons cut. I can bring him here, though he's a pitiful sight." 

"What about the Iron Captain and the Turncloak-"

"Dead by my hand. It was costly, but the Ironmen shall trouble us no further."

"Have it your way, Snow." Mors Umber spat a glob of crimson on the table, and his bloody, weather-worn face only looked fiercer by his scowl as his hand moved to tug on a beard that was no longer there, making his face twist even more. "But know that Winterfell's outer wall has fallen. That crafty Hightower wormed his way through one of the gates a few days ago, tearing parts of the old portcullis away with some kind of contraption and forcing Cassel to pull back the defenders behind the moat after a bloody retreat." 

Her husband's face darkened. 

"I am aware. He's also building pontoon bridges to cross the moat and as a platform on which he can scale the walls with ladders. My scouts saw him build wooden platforms using the outer gatehouses as a base to raise cover for his crossbowmen along the ramparts. A surprising show of competence and desperation, I must admit."

"Then you know we have to rush and dislodge them before they breach the inner wall," the Walton Lake said, face gruff. "Winterfell cannot fall."

"It won't," her husband stated in the same tone as if saying that the sky was blue. "Neither will Hightower escape. How are your numbers?"

"Eight thousand fit to fight," Umber grunted sourly. "The rest are wounded or dead by the hand of that cretin Clegane and his pious brigands. Good riddance to that kinslayer. How many swords do you bring?"

"Just shy of three thousand with a number of wolves."

"The mountain clans should be able to muster far more-" 

"Killing all the Ironmen was not without cost," Jon said, his face turning frosty. "Some of those I found were huntsmen deep in the Wolfswood or deserters who escaped after Clegane killed Arthor Karstark. My wounded remained to recuperate and garrison Deepwood Motte while Duncan Liddle is now gathering and training a new muster of levies to retake Bear Isle." 

"So eleven thousand men to Hightower's thirty thousand," Walton Lake summarised. "Better odds than before, that's for certain."

"There ought to be at least four thousand defenders remaining in Winterfell," Mors rumbled out. "And Hightower must have lost plenty of men in taking the outer wall."

"The self-proclaimed king is indeed bleeding men, for storming castles does not come cheap," Jon offered. "Twenty-three thousand with Hightower by my scouts' estimate, as they have replenished a part of their zealots from Barrowton along with some sorely needed provisions. And three thousand sieging Cerwyn, though those are mostly rabble that didn't make the cut for the Faith Militant, zealots led by a Mullendore knight."

"We can smash them on the field now," Jarod Ironsmith leapt eagerly, his eyes drunk on the promise of violence. "If we march out-"

"There is no need to be hasty," Jon warned coldly, and the kneeler quickly shrunk under his gaze. "The Reachmen have fortified their position too well. A pitched battle might see us win only to give Hightower a chance to retreat alive. How's your arrow supply?"

"Good enough," the Greybeard said, grimacing because of his freshly-broken nose. "Been stocking up on Lady Stark's orders, and we have over fifty thousand fletched arrows on the ready. Only fifteen hundred archers and slingers, though, and Hightower's crossbows outrange us due to the fortified bulwark facing our position."

"I see." Jon Snow did not look daunted at the disadvantage as he unfurled a rough map of Winterfell's surroundings. "Here's what we shall do…"

Three hours later, they sat under the starry sky for dinner at a clearing before House Mollen's holdfast in the middle of the surrounding village. Val wasn't impressed by the square grey tower that rose nearly forty feet on top of the hill. Though most of the villagers had either fled or were hiding in their houses.

Balon Greyjoy was hung from a cage like a trophy for all to see, but the cripple was, but a shadow of the warrior Val had seen and the Northmen quickly lost interest in him. 

Her daughter seemed to catch the attention of the Northern kneelers, many of whom looked at Calla's cursed colouring with wonder. "Blood of the dragon," they called with no small amount of apprehension as they shook their heads and glanced at Val as if she were an odd beast they had never seen before. It wasn't the same as the looks the free folk had given her when they considered her cursed witch, but one filled with confusion, some lust, and a different sort of wariness.

As usual, Nymeria and Shaggydog were playfully squabbling over the meat of a particularly thick auroch bone nearby. Two dozen direwolves were lazily sifting through the surroundings, feasting on the remains and two roasted pigs and a moose that Ghost and two of his pack had dragged in earlier to the shivering cook. 

The rest of the direwolves had feasted earlier on the corpses of the Faith Militant and the one they called the Hound.

Val's dinner was generous, the way all lordly kneelers seemed to like it, and the dishes were prepared in a manner that her mind had never thought possible. Just like in Deepwood Motte, the Southrons had tried their best to curry her favour as if a mere dish would endear them to her or Jon. But Val enjoyed the taste, especially since her appetite had only ripened with the babe quickening in her. 

A bronze platter of hare, richly glazed with darkened honey, sat before her upon the oak table. The beast's haunches were split, revealing tender meat, still pink at the bone, and stuffed with figs, cloves, and spiced wine-soaked chestnuts. Crackled and browned, its skin glistened under the rosy light from the dancing bonfire, dripping fat into the thick gravy pooling beneath. A wreath of winter greens and roasted onions framed the dish, and the scent of rosemary and thyme clung to the air, making her mouth water before she had even tasted it.

Jon's lips twitched to the side as he watched her devour what should have been a simple hare roasted on a campfire with relish. Her gaze wandered around the table, settling on the not-so-bald-but-still-very-short-haired Desmera Redwyne, sitting at the table's edge under heavy watch. None of the Northmen dared to approach her, and even her fellow kneeler kin, Elinor Tyrell, was hanging on the hand of the heavily scarred Ryk Longspear.

She was a slip of a girl with chestnut hair and a weary face that shouldn't have belonged to someone so young. But if the rumours were correct, this was her fifth 'husband'. She had been passed from one reaver to another, the third one being the unfortunate Theon Turncloak; then, she had been stolen by Soren Shieldbreaker, who had perished in the Battle of the Bloody Shore, and now Ryk had tried his chance.

It was a terrible fate, being sold to some mewling pirates from afar who could have never stolen her. And like all Southron maidens, the girl was too weak and soft to fight back.

But despite it all, Elinor Tyrell's eyes were not hollow; her spirit had yet to break. The girl had steel in her, even though some called her Elinor the Cursed–for every man she had lain with had died quickly after. Ryk was indeed a daring fool, but he had faced the Cold Ones and their shambling corpses a few times too many to care about mere curses.

Then, her gaze settled on the squire's table and groaned.

"Where is Rickon?" 

Val had managed to keep an eye on Rickon during the battle proper in his failed attempt to scour the battlefield for an axe. Annoyingly, he had run off after the meeting. 

"There," Jon pointed to the narrow gap between two houses leading to the nearby woods. Surely enough, a widely smiling Rickon arrived with a confused mountain eagle in his hands, followed by two younger direwolves with their tails wagging. The bird's plumage was brown like the rocks up the hills and the bark of the pines, darkening to black at its tail. Judging by size, the eagle seemed rather young, and its yellow eyes settled on Jon as it tilted its head. 

"Look, brother, I caught a chicken!" 

His enthusiasm was infectious, and Calla gurgled with amusement from Leaf's hands while Val couldn't help but chuckle.

"Rickon, that's not a chicken," Jon noted evenly, and his gaze moved to Melisandre and Leaf. "Does he…?"

"No, no bond with the beast that I can see just yet," the red priestess shrugged. "Your brother just managed to snatch the beast on his own, though the eagle does seem quite comfortable in his hands."

"Blackfeather here wanted a friend," Rickon said with all the seriousness a six-year-old could muster. "And he's a chicken. A brown chicken!"

Her husband tiredly ran a hand through his dark curls and sighed as men and women all around them either laughed or watched in wonder and mirth.

"Of course. Brother, let Blackfeather go."

"But-"

"No buts. If the eagle wants to befriend you, he'll return." 

The stubbornness on the boy's face receded slightly, and he reluctantly placed the mountain eagle on the ground. The bird shook itself, letting out high-pitched chirps before taking off, disappearing within the dark skies, much to Rickon's disappointment.

Just as the kneeler commanders and chieftains started to retire for the night, a commotion grabbed Val's attention.

"Marna! It is you!"

Mors Umber's imposing figure was towering over Morna Whitemask, who had discarded her white weirwood mask for the meal. The nearby crowd started whispering, "It's Broken Nose Mors again. The old mule never learns!"

"My name's Morna, Crowsfood," she stated with distaste, her gloved hand already reaching for her dagger, the spearwife always distrustful of kneelers as usual. "Marna was the name of my Ma. Now fuck off before I gut you."

The greybeard swore loudly but did not move. Before Val could blink, Jon was already between the two of them.

"Marna was your daughter's name, wasn't it?" her husband asked.

Umber's harsh face softened. "Aye. They took her from me, the damned savages. It would be twenty-eight years in two moons."

"I see," Jon sighed. "Morna, when were you born?"

"Before twenty-five cycles the kneelers call years," she said cautiously. 

"You're my granddaughter," Umber stabbed a finger at the spearwife. "My blood and kin."

"The name could be a coincidence," Jon noted evenly. "Calm yourself, Umber."

"I can recognise her anywhere. It's me daughter's face on this wildling!" Mors bellow made Val's ears ring, and Calla started crying.

"Stop hollering," her husband's voice turned dangerously icy, and the tall greybeard had the decency to blush. "Morna, Mors. The two of you are man and woman grown. Settle your damn affairs peacefully. And quietly. And I better not see anyone dead in the morning, even if this is just a misunderstanding. Out of my sight, now."

The sputtering Mors Umber and the murmuring Morna lamenting about 'annoying kneeler grandfather' were promptly dragged into the Mollen tower up the hill.

***

22nd Day of the 9th Moon, 299 AC

Lord Commander Barristan Selmy, Thunderhall

They were welcomed with open arms in the seat of House Lonmouth, Ser Geralt bending the knee to Aegon as soon as he saw the banners.

Just like his uncle Richard, the new Knight of Skulls and Kisses was tall, wiry, and, most importantly, loyal to House Targaryen. But only the test of time would show how deep the renewed loyalty ran. 

It wasn't just him; the Stormlords flocked to Aegon's banner in droves after the Marcher Lords reluctantly joined. Still, that didn't stop Ser Barristan from pushing the army to get out of the bottleneck that was the Boneway as quickly as he could. Now that they were in the hilly Marches, he could finally breathe out a sigh of relief. The castle, standing just five leagues northeast of the ruins of Summerhall, allowed them to rest after the forced march.

"House Lonmouth is honoured to host you here, Your Grace," Ser Gerolt quickly invited Aegon into his halls. With a glance at the cloudy sky, the king accepted, and the soldiers could finally get a few moments of respite. 

But there was a tension in the knight's gait as his cautious eyes kept sliding towards the king, looking for something. Madness? Hatred? Greatness?

Barristan could not say. The landed knight was not the only one watching; the Dornish lords accompanying them also kept an eye on Aegon to judge whether he was worthy. They followed him out of obligation to House Martell, but he had yet to win their true loyalty.

Aegon's road was bound to be fraught with difficulties.

"You must excuse me if my hospitality is lacking," the Lonmouth knight turned apologetic. "Robert Baratheon might have pardoned most of those who had supported your princely father and the House of the Dragon, but he never failed to make his displeasure known. Renly's failed rebellion and the Stranger's Plague didn't alleviate the burden."

"Fret not, Ser Lonmouth; you will find me just as generous as the Usurper to those loyal to me," Aegon quickly reassured. "Times might be hard now. I won't lie that the battles ahead will be easy, but once I win, the peace and prosperity shall be restored to the lands."

Tension seemed to bleed out of Gerolt Lonmouth's shoulders; his smile reached his eyes now, and he finally led them towards the lowered drawbridge. 

Thunderhall was a hardy castle, if somewhat small. A square keep with storm-darkened granite walls capped by a squat tower at every corner, all of it protected by a dry moat that filled in the stormy season–it was now nearly overflowing under the pattering rain coming from the Narrow Sea.

"I'm afraid I cannot let this cur or his honourless kin enter my walls," the knight stopped just under the gates, glaring at the shunned Walton Wyl. "Even if he does, I will not offer him or his bread and salt."

"And why would you deny a lord sworn to me hospitality, Ser Lonmouth?"

"My sister, Alice, was one of the companions who perished with Margaery of Highgarden," was the cold reply. "If Wyl dared enter my castle, I will not hesitate to challenge him to a duel to the death as is my due!"

The Marcher lords outright laughed while the Dornishmen looked more amused than anything else, and even Barristan held his tongue, for even his grandniece had been murdered by the adder's bastard. The Wyl Lord had become a pariah by his bastard brother's deeds. Judging by his reddening face, the proud Walton Wyl was rankled by the humiliating treatment. 

"Perhaps there is no need to come to blows," Prince Quentyn placated, the young man eager to cement his role as Doran Martell's heir now that his elder sister was a queen. "We can come to an arrangement."

Quentyn was his father writ small, along with the daring of youth. Some said he was a shy, hesitant boy, slow to mature for his age of eight and ten, but fighting, war, and marriage had their way of turning boys into men. But only time would tell if the change was for the better, for the shyness was replaced with a facade of lazy assuredness that bordered dangerously close to arrogance 

"So much for Stormlander hospitality," Walton Wyl scoffed. "There's no need to bother, Prince Quentyn. It would be poor form to slay his Grace's newest subject under his own walls, I fear. Worse, I would be a fool to trust a Stormlord's honour, so I shall camp with my men outside."

Ignoring the reddening Gerolt Lonmouth, Wyl wheeled his horse around with left with his chin raised high.

After the generous welcoming feast Lonmouth threw them, Arianne Martell decided to inspect the motley collection of merchants huddled underneath the castle's walls in hopes of profit amidst the army that devoured hundreds of bushels of food each day.

Aegon requested–more like demanded–the use of the knight's private audience chamber.

It was a spacious chamber with narrow slitted windows that overlooked the training yard below. A few oil lamps hung above, and the hearth roared with fire, chasing the cold that crept along the high stone walls.

Prince Quentyn, Ser Barristan, and Aegon sat at the end of the varnished table in the middle of the room. Its legs were carved into an elaborate tapestry of skulls, roses, and lips, and its size was just large enough to accommodate several guests for intimate council but small enough to keep a sense of familiarity and closeness.

Aegon's new squire, Maric Morrigen, was the only one here, chasing away the servants and bringing a casket of Arbour Gold. Aegon's quick thinking had brought the stubborn Lester Morrigen on his side to ease the concerns of some of the Stormlords. A suitable move, and it had shown that he didn't favour only Dornishmen for his court. It helped that the fourth white cloak had been offered to Ser Russell Rogers, Aegon's distant kinsman, the grandson of Branda Stark, the sister of Lyarra Stark. The Rogers knight was quick on his feet, skilled with a bow and a blade, though his skills were barely sufficient to earn his approval for the white cloak.

Despite Barristan's distaste, he knew kinship, reliability, and politics came first to skill in selecting white cloaks in times of war. Unlike staunch loyalty, at least deficiencies in skill at arms could be mended with time, experience, and practice.

"We have to deal with this mess with Wyl somehow," Aegon said, not bothering to restrain his annoyance in private. "I can hardly win the Stormlords over to my side when all of them bay for his blood. The Reach would be much the same."

"Not much we can do," Quentyn offered with a lazy shrug as he sipped on his own flask of Dornish Red. "The black bastard left no witnesses, though there is no doubt about his hand in the imbecilic deed. While Lord Wyl denounced his brother publicly for disobedience, I know Moryn Sand is probably lounging in the Wyl lands, out of sight until the sting of his deeds lessens or is forgotten. Walton might not hold love for his half-brother, but he would not bow his head or ever admit to any misdeeds in the Marches, for he has done none."

Aegon sighed.

"If wounds are left open, they would fester with time, Quent."

"Send Wyl forth to scout the way to Storm's End, then," Barristan offered quietly. "Keep him away from the army while letting himself prove useful and loyal."

"And bear the brunt of the Stormlords still sworn to Renly?" Aegon tilted his head in contemplation. "Rather fitting, I suppose."

"It's only a temporary solution," Quentyn cautioned. "Now that the marches are pacified, bands of 'bandits' will surely find their way into Wyl lands soon, raiding and pillaging and murdering. Nothing that would disrupt our supply lines, but Wyl will be inconvenienced." 

"He cannot expect his brother to murder so many noble ladies and escape unscathed." Barristan coldly reminded. "A mere bandit cannot gather the crossbows and arms to ambush and overpower a queen's guard on a royal progression so deep within the Marches."

"Perhaps, but I know Margaery Tyrell had sent more than half of them away to fight pirates reaving on the shores of Cape Wrath," Quentyn mused. "None will deny that what Moryn Sand has done is vile, but evidence would be hard to procure, especially in times of war. The Black Adder is a cautious and cunning man, always careful not to leave anything incriminating that will fall to his head. You can be certain no Marchers fell by his hand or orders."

Ser Barristan was a patient man. After more than sixty years, he had long abandoned his youthful impetuousness. After decades in court, his ears were used to all sorts of thinly veiled barbs and insults, and he thought that any ill words would wash off him like rain from a boulder.

But something in Quentyn Martell's almost lazy speech irked him. Before the Dornish lords and others, he conducted himself with a false mask of austerity, which quickly fell off in private. He was young, too young, a green knight of summer playing the most dangerous game and made up for it with indolent indifference. Or perhaps it was Moryn Sand's vile deeds he couldn't swallow. 

"Aye," the biting response left his lips before he could control himself. "Doubtlessly, Walton Wyl only allowed his brother to muster swords and closed his eyes."

"You know how justice against lords of the realm goes, Ser Barristan," the Dornish Prince sighed. "If things turn sour, Yronwood will still stand beside Wyl, for their alliance is an ancient one. It is not a pleasant thing, but Wyl will be glad to meet any accusations at a trial by combat, and he's in his prime and one of the most dangerous men in Dorne with a sword and spear. Besides, we need Wyl's spears in this war, and he knows it. Why else do you think he called his full muster and everything he could squeeze from his lands?" 

"Enough," Aegon cut in firmly, and Barristan quickly inclined his head. "These grievances shall be mended later, and we should focus on our supply lines. Dondarrion shall be in charge of the supply trains and foraging for now." And thus guilty if anything went awry. But it was doubly so a show of trust for the marcher lord.

Aegon seemed to have inherited the dragon's cunning, and Barristan couldn't help but feel pride swell in his chest.

"Maric, bring me a map," Aegon said after a moment of quiet contemplation.

The squire hastily brought up a roll almost as tall as he was. They took a few minutes to arrange the pieces on the map, which took more than half the table. Jon Connington and the Golden Company had taken Stonehelm after a bloody storming, for Lord Swann had refused to surrender and was now marching on Griffin's Roost, the only keep on the way to Storm's End aside from Crow's Nest. And Morrigen had already bent the knee.

Lady Larra Blackmont and the young Lord Edric Dayne had convinced the Castellan of Nightsong to surrender and leave with a third of the treasury. It was no wonder, considering Lord Bryce Caron, the last trueborn Caron, had perished by the Black Death in King's Landing, and the final living close of kin was some bastard knight in the service of Shireen Baratheon.

"Quentyn, do we have any word from Renly?"

"He's still sitting in Storm's End, last I heard."

"I don't get this," Aegon frowned at the map. "He has some leal houses yet. He could have mustered the men, brought the rebellious lords to heel, and at least met Edmure Tully at Stonegate or supported the Marcher Lords. He has to be planning something, but by the Seven, I cannot figure out what he aims to achieve." 

"I have seen Renly grow from a young boy into a man, and he's not made of the same steel Stannis and Robert were," Barristan offered. "He has lost his pregnant wife, his brothers, his good family, especially his dear… friend Ser Loras, and nearly all the power he had enjoyed since Robert granted him Storm's End. A lesser man would be broken by half the grief." 

And Renly was a lesser man despite the veneer of confidence and pomp. 

"The higher they rise, the harder they fall," Quentyn chuckled, amusement dripping from his words. "My father always said Renly Baratheon was the least dangerous of Steffon Baratheon's sons. A gilded sword–pleasant to look at, but no good in battle."

"A stag without antlers, then. But it doesn't change the course, nor has Renly agreed to my more than generous terms of surrender. I need Storm's End to push forth into King's Landing without the dagger that is Renly pointed at my back." Aegon shook his head, looking particularly disappointed. "Gods, if only the fool had taken my offer, he would have kept his castle and his head–there's hardly a lord in the Seven Kingdoms that doesn't consider Renly's name a curse or bay for his blood. What does he think he can achieve now?!"

"Grieving men are not known for wisdom," the old knight said. "We still need to be cautious of the Plague, Your Grace. Perhaps we can focus on gathering the necessary supplies for Ebrose's cure, lest we risk our numbers being devastated by the Stranger's Hand. Our Dornish allies have promised to supply all the turmeric we need. The rest of the ingredients we need to plant or forage from the lands."

"Or we can head to Highgarden," Quentyn's finger slid over the map and tapped at the Tyrell Seat where the direwolf figurine stood in silent defiance, looming over the whole of the Reach. Never had a Northern host gone so far south, let alone take the heart of a kingdom. "As far as I know, the plague hasn't spread beyond the Northmarch. The Black Death has devastated the lands around Storm's End, so Lord Connington and the Golden Company can easily pry off the castle from Renly."

Ser Barristan rubbed his brow. 

"Even Mace Tyrell, with thirty thousand swords, gave up on storming those walls, and Stannis had only five hundred men, while Renly now has at least two thousand. Even if Lord Connington can take the castle, the price would be crippling."

"More mouths to feed can be starved out faster," Aegon pointed out. "Still, it would also be unwise to concentrate all the army in one spot, or we would tempt the Stranger. Out of the hundred thousand swords gathered between Renly Baratheon and Tywin Lannister in the Crownlands, less than ten thousand survived the Black Death. I cannot afford such losses."

"Ousting Robb Stark out of the Reach would not be easy either," Barristan advised. "He might be young, but he has proven his mettle and skill again and again."

"We need the Reach if we're to win the war," Aegon reminded.

Quentyn scoffed. 

"The Reachlords from the Honeywine to the Northmarch are all crippled by the war," he said. "It will take them at least a generation to recover from this. I say let the Young Wolf deal with Hightower, the rebellious peasantry, and the fledgling Faith Militant–those ought to keep him busy for quite a while. We can always deal with him after we've taken King's Landing."

"Ah yes," Aegon's voice turned disdainful. "I bet Lords Rowan and Oakheart thought much the same. Or Willas Tyrell when he lost his white castle and his life before he knew he was under attack. And didn't your spies report that experienced commanders who know the lay of the land and are veteran warriors like Tarly, Peake, Ambrose, and Florent have already flocked to his banner? I would not underestimate Cousin Robb, Prince Quentyn."

There was a bitterness in his voice, then.

The sting of Robb Stark's ardent denouncement still cut Aegon deep, even if he tried to hide it. It had come quick and unyielding as if refusing the mere possibility of his aunt birthing a boy. All the ravens to Highgarden had received a single reply. 'We shall meet on the battlefield, Blackfyre.' Aegon had turned despondent for days, refusing any advice to take the field against his cousin.

Barristan knew the feeling of having your flesh and blood all but spit in your face.

"Our plans are still thwarted by the Black Plague," Aegon growled, looking at the map as if it had the solution to all of its troubles. "Surely we can do something more than slowly lounging through the Stormlands in fear of a disease or risking a slog in the Reach that my cousin might just avoid due to his mobility. You're here to give me counsel. Advise me."

"You have already sent envoys with generous terms of alliances to Tyrion Lannister, Lady Waynwood, and Lord Tully," Quentyn hummed. "With Tyrosh, the Riverlands, or the Vale by our side, our chances for victory would improve further."

"Tommen Baratheon's stunted uncle and a grasping fence-sitter," Barristan muttered, not hiding his disapproval, though Aegon seemed unfazed. "Not to mention you promised Edmure Tully a pick between Casterly Rock and Highgarden should he join–the former already pledged to the Imp, even. Worse, you're promising castles you have yet to take!"

"We cannot afford to be as idealistic as you are, Ser," the Dornish Prince drawled. "Edmure Tully is the most powerful Lord in the Seven Kingdoms right now, with the most swords to his name, and has proven to be a decent enough commander. His armies are not only closest to King's Landing but the Iron Throne's last line of defense, for the city proper is gutted. Should Edmure Tully join us, victory is all but certain. If a promise brings him over, there's hardly any harm."

After another gulp of wine, he continued. "Besides, while merely a steward, Tyrion Lannister controls Tyrosh and is not without influence or skill, for he has restored order in the city and is building up a small army of his own. He has every reason to join us after being passed over for Casterly Rock in favour of his niece. The old Waynwood might be a fencesitter, but she controls the Heir of the Vale and most of the Arryn bannermen after she won that Trial of the Seven. Their assistance shall make this war all the more easier. Wars are won with quills as much as they are with swords, Ser."

Barristan took a deep breath to push down the surge of anger.

"Ah yes, war. No doubt from your rich experience against that band of brigands you bested while outnumbering them five to one along the Greenblood, my prince," he pointed out dryly. "You keep speaking, yet all I hear are your father's words coming from your tongue."

Quentyn Martell's facade of lazy indifference fell as his face twisted, reminding Barristan of an angry frog.

"Enough," Aegon slammed his fist on the table. "We are here to solve problems, not squabble like little children."

"Apologies, Your Grace," Barristan bowed as the Dornish prince hastily echoed an apology. While the old knight could recognise the necessity of the more than generous offers Rhaegar's son had agreed to send, it didn't mean he approved. But, Barristan remained silent, for he had no better advice to deliver then. "Perhaps we can try something… bolder."

"Oh?"

"We can link up with the army Dayne and Blackmont are leading out of the Prince's Pass, putting our men at twenty-four thousand along with the Stormlords that joined us. While the Lord Hand and the Golden Company are sieging Storm's End, we will make our way up north slowly as we wait for the lord's crops of garlic and herbs to ripen, and once it's ripe, we can rush through the hills west of the Kingswood straight into the Rose Road. And then, nothing would stand between us and the Iron Throne."

According to Beric Dondarrion, every Lord in the Stormlands had put aside a third of their arable land to plant the ingredients for Ebrose's cure. But growing them took time, especially since sage and clove grew slowly in the cold.

"You want to avoid the Kingswood and Bracken," Aegon's brow scrunched up as he looked at the map. "Make a play for the poorly defended King's Landing."

"Indeed. The city is gutted, and if the spies are not lying, Kevan Lannister barely has three thousand men defending the walls and no men to repair the two destroyed gates and the curtain walls. But we will risk being hammered by Bracken on one side and Edmure Tully on the other. But it will be worth it, Your Grace. Just by sitting on the Iron Throne, your legitimacy will soar, and many previously hesitating will join."

Aegon's silver eyes roamed the map for half a minute before replying. 

"But this would rely on expediency and the element of surprise. Hardly a surprise, considering we have to wait for the garlic and other crops to ripen. Though we can feint towards the Felwood and deceive any scouts Bracken and Tully send to sell the ruse. While quite risky, I can see the merit in such action if we manage to succeed. Speak of this plan to no one for now."

"We can also try and spread rumours to confuse the undecided lords," Quentyn offered. "How Lord Stark and Tommen perished in Essos–or perhaps drowned in the stormy Narrow Sea on their way back. Perhaps even reach out to Robb Stark with an offer to acknowledge him as a Lord of Winterfell, pardon any crimes, turn a blind eye to his wife in exchange for his support-"

"Even if Tommen is dead, my cousin's wife and son are the next in line for the Iron Throne," Aegon reminded sourly. "It would be an insult to offer a son to raise arms against his father. Aye, everything would have been so much simpler if I had my kinsmen by my side, but Robert Baratheon is a cunning man. They called him a lecher, drunkard, and a whoremonger, but the man knew how to bind an alliance–it's hard to say where Lannister-Baratheon ends, and Stark begins as of late."

For once, Quentyn had no retort to offer.

"Robert Baratheon had many faults, Your Grace, but he loved Lord Stark fiercely," the old knight said, sighing tiredly. "More than he loved his wife or brothers, I suspect."

"It is of no matter in the end," Aegon murmured as if trying to convince himself more than anyone else. "If my mother's House refuses to acknowledge me, I shall force them to. We always knew Robert's line would hardly surrender without a fight."

"More like Cersei's line," Quentyn quipped. "Renly has the right of it–the three siblings are all lion and no stag."

"Convenient slander coming from Renly's mouth to justify his Rebellion," Aegon said with a heavy frown. "He could have called a Great Council with his so-called proof, but he chose to raise the banners instead–"

A knock on the door interrupted them.

"Prince Quentyn, a message from Sunspear," it was the muffled voice of Aero Hotah, Quentyn's capable captain of the guards, and Doran Martell's eyes.

"Let him in," Aegon waved at the bored Ser Russell, who quickly straightened up and opened the door.

"It bears Prince Doran's personal sigil," the tall Norvoshi warrior offered with his gruff accent.

Quentyn gingerly accepted the message, unfurled it and promptly swore loudly.

"What is it, Quentyn?"

"The royal fleet has torched Plankytown and the Shadow City and almost broke into Sunspear," the young prince hissed, his hands trembling with rage.

***

23rd Day of the 9th Moon, 299 AC

The Envoy 

It was still dark outside as he approached the army camped around Thunderhall, and his cloak, soaked by the earlier rain, brought him no respite from the nightly chill. The drizzle had stopped just half an hour earlier, the cold gale had subsided, and the clouds had dispersed, giving him much-needed visibility in the night. 

He slowly approached the Thunderhall and the sea of tents that threatened to drown the Lonmouth seat. The Wyl banners at the very edge of the encamped army looked demonic under the starlit sky. There were no ditches, stakes, or palisade, but it was hardly a surprise, for the nearest enemy army was over two hundred and fifty miles near Bronzegate.

"I bring a message to Lord Wyl," he said as he neared the patrolling guards at the end of the camp, his hoarse voice heavy with exhaustion as he flashed the silver token with the unmistakable adder wrapped around a leg.

"Ah, news from Lady Wyl," the drowsy sentries murmured. "Aren't you tired riding with that brigandine?"

"Better tired than dead. I heard rumours of daring brigands attacking lone travellers."

"Right," the guardsman yawned. "Well, if you don't want a dry set of clothes, it's on your head. Oy, Ryon, lead envoy…"

"Ethan," he offered quietly.

"Lead envoy Ethan to Lord Wyl's tent. But be warned, the lord has been wroth as of late. Perhaps waiting until dawn would be better than disturbing his sleep."

"It's urgent. Besides, what proper envoy fears his lord's wrath?"

"Well, you have more balls than wits, that's for sure," the guard muttered lazily. "Off you go, then, and best of luck. Wait–horses are forbidden in the camp proper–leave your steed here. I'll fetch the stableboy to take care of it."

"Take care of Thorn," the envoy requested softly.

"Don't fret; Lommy is very good with horses–when he's awake, that is."

A sleepy young man led him through the haphazardous tents filled with snoring men-at-arms and knights up to a pavilion of yellow and black sandsilk atop a slight elevation. At least an hour before dawn, everyone but the sentries were still asleep. The envoy could barely make out the details under the starlight.

They arrived at the silken pavilion that could only belong to Lord Wyl, judging by the banner above. It was the only one guarded by two men-at-arms, too. 

After standing in the drizzling rain for hours, both guards were tightly wrapped in soaked clothes, their cumbersome half-helmets discarded to protect their heads with a hood. The envoy knew all too well how helmets turned cold and chafed through the soaked padding underneath after rainfall. 

"What is it, Ryon?" The wiry man guarding its entrance asked. "Who is this?"

"An envoy," the young sentry covered a yawn. "I shall return to my post now."

And just like that, Ryon disappeared, leaving the three men alone before the pavilion. 

"I bring an urgent message from Castle Wyl, Ser," the envoy rasped out, showing his silver token.

"How urgent?" 

"The castle has been beset by brigands, Ser, and many perished."

The guardsman cursed, snatched the offer scroll from his grasp and disappeared into the tent after hastily taking a lamp from the nearby stand.

A minute later, another man swore on the inside.

"Bring me this envoy," fury seeped from the commanding voice. 

The Wyl guardsman let him in, and the envoy faced a wiry man with a stony, narrow face garbed in a silken nightshirt.

"Who dares attack Wyl?" Walton Wyl hissed, his beady eyes squinting with fury as he glared at the parchment. "And remove your hood–we're inside, you fool."

"Apologies, my lord." 

Garlan Tyrell's left hand pulled down his hood while his right hand drew his sword with a practised motion and beheaded the drowsy guard at his right.

"Guards! Gua-"

Wyl's shriek turned into a gasp as the bloody longsword sank into his bare belly. His black eyes widened with surprise, and Garlan felt a sliver of satisfaction. 

"For my sister. For my wife. I killed your wife, your brother, your sons and daughters, and even your cousins and set fire to your thrice-damned castle. You can meet the Stranger now, knowing that the vile line of Wyl has ended by the hand of Garlan Tyrell!"

The grand speech sounded hoarse and tired, far worse than he had imagined in his mind as he twisted his sword and dragged it up all the way to the ribcage, eviscerating Walton Wyl.

The last Wyl slumped dead on the ground as his shredded guts spilt out from the gaping cut in his belly, filling the air with the stench of shit. 

The fleeting sense of satisfaction was short-lived as the second sentry rushed into the tent with a readied spear.

Garlan barely avoided being skewered by the spear, but he grasped the shaft with his free hand and pulled the helmetless guard into a headbutt.

Ignoring the stars that appeared in his vision, he lashed out with his longsword, sinking the steel into his foe's undefended neck. The guard fell in a vain attempt to hold the blood gushing out of the cut as he gurgled weakly. 

Garlan dropped the spear and laughed, but the sound was raspy and weak, grating to his own ears. He had done it. He had taken vengeance for Margaery and Leonette, as any self-respecting warrior and knight ought to have done. But it didn't bring him the joy or satisfaction he had hoped for. 

Instead, he felt empty. 

Vengeance tasted like ash on his tongue, the air stank of privy courtesy of Wyl's eviscerated bowels, and Garlan's body felt wrung out from the tiring ride in the last few days, combined with insufficient rest.

Walton Wyl's last shout had born fruit. A commotion began to stir outside, shouts and the sound of unhappy men-at-arms and knights awoken from slumber. 

A part of him was tempted to run his sword through his neck and end it here. But taking one's own life was one of the greatest sins in the Seven-Pointed Stars. 

Forcing his weary body to move, Garlan stood up, grabbed one of the shields by the weapon rack and hastily strapped on what looked to be Wyl's helmet. It was a near-perfect fit; the Seven favoured him tonight!

It was time for glory and death to offer his last tribute to the Stranger.

He didn't waste his breath on speaking and left the tent, rushing at the first half-asleep man who only had a sword drawn and a cloak to ward off the nightly chill. 

Garlan swatted away the blade with the shield, and his sword slashed yet another undefended neck.

"INTRUDER! TO ARMS, TO ARMS!"

That seemed to awaken the other Dornish men-at-arms and knights, and within heartbeats, men hastily began to stream out of the tents like a stream of flesh. But the night was in his favour. While the haze of sleep and uncertainty lingered in their gaits, Garlan lunged forth, his blade dancing through the air.

The men in the camp weren't sleeping with armour or arms, and most were rushing him naked or in cloaks of wool and recklessly charging at him with swords, daggers, rocks, and spears. A few surged towards the supply wagons and armour carts where the armaments were, but they were far from Wyl's pavilion, and it took time to don armour in the darkness. 

Garlan lunged forth, rushing at the nearest enemy to avoid encirclement with all the viciousness he could muster. His shield caught a few stones thrown his way while his sword aimed at necks and bellies to avoid being stuck in bone. 

It was carnage. A disorganised rabble of half-naked sleepy soldiers attacking a knight donned in full armour and ready to die was hardly a fair fight. Men fell under his sword like sheep in a slaughterhouse.

Garlan stopped counting his kills after twenty, but his breathing soon grew laboured. The rain had long stopped, but the dampness and cold in his garments still seeped through his armour into his flesh and bones. Exhaustion returned with full force, his movements grew slower, and he started making mistakes.

Within a minute or two, the hits on his armour kept piling. At first, he barely felt a sting in the heat of the fight, but the pain slowly crept in along with the weariness. No matter how many men he killed, more and more came. Even without armour, they were warriors and not so easy to kill. The next enemy moved at the last moment, and Garlan's sword got stuck in his ribcage. He desperately yanked it out, but the moment had given the Dornish the time to form a loose encirclement. 

His movements grew frantic, and his sword felt heavy in his fist. A billhook pulled away his shield; his body started bruising as swords and spears landed on his brigandine.

He was dead, Garlan knew. It was just a matter of time. 

The chaos as torches and lanterns banished the darkness, the relentless but disorganised attacks receded after the angry bellows of one of the knights, and the Dornishmen finally surrounded him. None dared approach and risk their lives, but Garlan could no longer rush into them with the spears, billhooks, and halberds pointed his way.

The moment they managed to knock the sword off his tired hand or when one of the knights was about to don their armour, Garlan would finally meet the Stranger.

A horn blew in the distance.

"You're done, fool," the Dornishmen stopped attacking then, making way for one of the knights, now clad with steel from head to toe. "Even His Grace's men have stirred. You have nowhere to escape. Surrender."

"We should kill him, I say," another proposed angrily. "He gutted Yan and Roland."

"And Lord Wyl, too!"

"We should, but the king would want to interrogate him first–surely we'll get rewarded for his capture. Perhaps you can be the one to torture him."

The horn blew closer this time.

"Surrender?" Garlan spat as he gripped his longsword with both hands. "Torture? I have nothing to hide, Sers. I, Garlan Tyrell, came here to die for vengeance. Let the Stranger be my witness! If you want my life, come and take it!"

"Very well," the knight allowed as he motioned towards a squire who hastily handed him over a poleaxe.

The horn blew upon the camp as the thunderous sound of galloping horsemen echoed in the night, but Garlan was too numb to care. But the horsemen thunderous sound of hooves was not of trot or gallop but a full-blown charge.

Why was Aegon charging into Wyl's camp?

The following cries stunned Garlan. 

"GARLAN!"

"TYRELL"

"FOR VENGEANCE!"

"STILL WATER, SWIFT WINGS!"

Garlan's vision began to swim for some reason. 

But the unmistakable battle cry of the Ser Androw Crane echoed above all else. 

He could only watch under the starlight as a surreal scene unfolded. 

The unprepared Dornishmen were smashed by the cavalry in the back, the perfect charge. The Dornish knights fared little better, and those who managed to avoid the war lances skewering through their plate were trampled to death. The horsemen wheeled around Garlan and between the tents, cutting a bloody swathe through the unprepared Wyl men. The rippled edge of the Valyrian Steel blade, Red Wing, glistened with blood in the torchlight as it reaped through the men like a farmer would mow down grass with his scythe.

A few Dornishmen lunged at Garlan, but he didn't even need to raise his blade, for Ser Androw Crane, Ser Lomas, and all the other knights trampled and killed their way, only halting in a protective crescent around Garlan as the rest of the raiders rampaged through the Wyl camp unopposed.

"Quickly, my lord," his captain of the guard spoke urgently, the reins of Garlan's trusty destrier clasped in his gauntleted fist. "Mount up before the rest of the army awakens and surrounds us!"

"You disobeyed your orders, Sers," Garlan uttered, wheezing for breath. Gods, he was tired; his lungs were on fire, and his limbs felt like lead. "You were supposed to return to your Houses, go home, put down your swords or find service to an honourable liege or the rightful king."

"Kings are five a penny as of late," Ser Mern spat. 

"The only man I shall follow stands before me," Androw Crane stated, his blue eyes glimmering with conviction behind the blood-splattered greathelm.

"Lead us, Lord Garlan," Ser Bayard bowed his head. "Lead us, and we shall follow. From the Western Hills to the Shores of Asshai against any foes!"

"From the Western Hills to the Shores of Asshai!"

"Lead you where?" Garlan rasped out a bitter laugh as he spotted Loren Roxton, his foolish squire, amidst them. The boy was better off joining the Citadel with his love for history and knowledge instead of risking his life in these meaningless wars. "I am but a broken blade with no purpose now."

"The Lyseni still hold your wife and many maidens of noble birth," Androw Crane reminded, his voice as soft as silk. "We can still rescue them."

"Aye, it's just a Free City," Ser Janos Roxton quipped. "Walk in to sell some cabbages to scout the area, find out targets, and strike when they're least prepared."

A splutter of laughter echoed amongst the men, and even Garlan couldn't help but chuckle. Many had claimed it was madness to walk into the enemy camp as cabbage peddlers–even selling some to Arianne Martell, who failed to recognise him. However, a dead man like him could indulge and take refuge in audacity. Leonette… the wife he never wanted, the woman who was a stranger to him. 

"Lead us, Lord Garlan," Ser Willem Withers said earnestly as the surrounding men nodded eagerly amidst the bloody carnage in the night. "Lead us to victory. Lead us to vengeance; grant us honour and glory!" 

Fools drunk on glory and valour and success, but they were not wrong. His duty had yet to end, and… they were his fools.

Shaking his head, Garlan forced his tired body to move and climbed atop the saddle.