Escape:
This is really getting annoying, ok so it's not an ideal situation but maybe I underestimated Northern Honour.
I spin round and grab Brandon by the throat and slam him into the alley wall, "listen up, Blue Blood, if you want to leave the City alive you'll do as I say, I understand this isn't ideal but by nightfall tomorrow half the bounty hunters in the kingdom will be after your head, we need to leave today, but they'll be looking for a Stark in fancy armour and me, not a pair of common sellswords. I appreciate deception is a recent addition to your vocabulary but learn its meaning well, unlike in the North the Grand Game is very much thriving here!"
Brandon looks like he wants to knock my block off but takes a breath and calms down, "do you have a plan?"
"You ditch those fancy leathers and pay for common cloth, mail and cheap weapons," I tell him, walking cautiously down the alley.
"Why should I pay?" he demands.
"I have no coin that'd be accepted, not pure enough," I admitted as I peered round a bend, "second, you still have your purse, and third, I just saved your life, parting with a Sovereign or two is a small price to keep it that way."
"Very well," he grudgingly agrees.
"Once appropriately attired, we buy or steal a couple of horses and leave through one of the gates, as I said they'll be looking for a Lordling and someone in strange clothing," I continued, "then we ride for your home, wherever that is?"
"North, up the Kingsroad to Moat Cailin," Brandon decides, "my brother Eddard will be calling our Banners within the week."
"We need to leave the city first," I remind him, scooping up a handful of the dirt from the alley floor, "for that we need to look the part, ditch the coat."
Brandon stared at my hand until I started applying the dirt to my arms and face, understanding instantly he removed his fine leather jacket and his boots, before scooping up some dirt to cover his own body and clothes with.
Ten minutes later we're nearly ready, my jacket is rolled up tucked into a canvass sack we found in a barrel, my shirt is piled on Brandon's discarded boots and my jeans are nearly black.
As Brandon puts a few finishing touches to his shirt and trousers I pick up his sword and lay it so the hilt is on a stone block and the tip is on the floor, Brandon looks up in horror as I raise my leg to stamp on the centre of the blade to snap it, "Wait!"
"Why would a common sellsword have castle forged steel?" I ask him, as I waited, "especially a Stark blade?"
Brandon's eyes went to the wolf's head pommel and sighed, "my father gave me that blade on my sixteenth Nameday."
"We can't be caught with it," I pointed out, but took out my coat and wrapped it up anyway, then looked to the corner that led to the main road, "know where the smiths are?"
"Follow me."
The street of steel was aptly named, many of the buildings had iron or steel facings, they settled on a smithy just under halfway along. Stepping inside I knew we'd made a good choice, good quality but not the sort of thing knights and Lords would buy.
We both picked a padded under shirt, chain mail hauberk and splinted mail vambraces and greaves, but Brandon settled on a brigandine in the Northern style of palm sized diamond plates riveted to a leather coat while I picked a riveted three piece breastplate with a thin blue leather cover, segmented pauldrons for my shoulders and a helmet that resembled an Imperial helmet from Skyrim, it was surprisingly comfortable.
My hand went to the coin in my pocket, Brandon had agreed to split the coin between us, and inspected a rack of swords, everything from Gladii to Dornish Falchions and Dothraki Arakh to Bastard swords.
One caught my eye, it reminded me of Theoden's sword in The Two Towers film but had a Celtic design to the hilt rather than a horse theme, but when I drew it out of its scabbard I gasped at the pale grey blade.
I ran my fingers along the metal to confirm it, a genuine crystal grain pattern.
Bulat. Wootz. Damascus.
I'm not sure which I was holding, it's not Valyrian Steel, but definitely the next best thing.
I ran my finger over the edge then jumped, cursing at the cut it made through both mail and leather, it was sharper than Brandon's sword.
"Apologies, Ser," the Forge Master said, "but I was surprised to see you examining this blade."
"It is quite remarkable, almost Valyrian," I replied, drawing the blade fully and testing its weight, it was about thirty three inches long and had a near full length fuller.
"Most put it back on noticing that," the Forge Master sighed.
"Fools, all of them," I spat, surprising the man, "this may not be Valyrian but all other steels pale in comparison, what did you make it from?"
"I added Dragonglass during the smelting," the man explained, "as I said, most discard it."
"How much?" the man blinked in surprise, "I mean it, how much?"
"A Single Moon, ser," I fished out seven silver coins and pressed them into his hand, "and your armour is ready," I followed him back into the main area where Brandon was securing his brigandine.
"This is actually better than my last," Brandon commented, "well, get dressed," I flipped him the bird and walked to the counter, setting down the sword and picking up the undershirt.
As I adjusted my vambraces, I noticed an oddly shaped recurve bow on a stand by the window, a closer inspection showed the arms to have steel reinforcements.
"How much for the bow?" the shop keep looked up, saw the bow in my hand and went back to counting the bill, "One Stag, Ser," I tossed two coins on the counter, picking up a quiver holding thirty arrows and secured both.
Upon settling the bill we left, narrowly avoiding a squad of Gold Cloaks searching the streets.
"What kicked off this whole mess?" I asked as Brandon helped me pick a horse.
"A month ago there was a Tourney in Harrenhal," Brandon started.
"That big arse ruin in the Riverlands that gives most intact keeps a run for their money?" I ask.
"Quite, the Crown Prince, Rhaegar Targaryen, won the joust and named the older of my two sisters, Alysa, the Queen of Love and Beauty," Brandon explained."
"Bet his wife didn't like that," I mutter.
I just catch the corner of Brandon's mouth twitching, "three days after the Tourney they disappeared on the road to Riverrun to attend my wedding to Catelyn Tully, My Father, Lord Stark, and I believed Rhaegar was responsible."
"By what reasoning?" I ask curiously, turning away from the horse I was examining, a crossbreed between a Dornish sand stead and a Northern Garron, "could it not be someone looking to start a war between dragon and wolf, in order to profit from the chaos?"
"A mistake in hindsight," Brandon admitted, "but I'm not as cool headed as my brothers, Eddard and Benjen, so I hared off after the one I thought responsible with my Father following a day later."
"And that's all she wrote," I finished for him, "think these'll do?"
"Not fit for a Lancer but they have greater stamina," Brandon noted, "better for distance riding or ranging."
"We'll take these two," I called out, but as the stable owner came over Brandon took over the haggling, after he finished he showed me how to saddle a horse.
We mounted after I finished and Brandon looked me over critically, "have you ever ridden a horse?"
"Not in over ten years," I admitted, "my people developed machines that made horses obsolete for most day to day work so most are kept for racing or sport, I'd never seen one in person until my grandmother took me to the small holding she grew up on and one of the neighbouring holdings bred some for shows, while I rode a few times over three or four summer visits I wasn't able to properly learn. And where I come from you have all seasons in a year, not stretched out like here."
"You'd better learn fast," Brandon said as he set his horse walking, "as those machines aren't here."
"I'll need to learn to use a sword too," I added as I set off after him, "my people use powerful ranged weapons capable of killing a knight in full plate at half a mile, if you get close enough to need a melee weapon a knife is usually more practical."
"You did well against that White Cloak?" Brandon pointed out.
"I fought dirty," I reminded him, "I fully believed I would die there, but I surprised him, only a fool relies on luck like that. Speaking of which, I have an idea to get past the Watch at the gate."
'This isn't going to work.'
Somehow I keep a straight face as I drink the pisswater these fools call wine, I'm an ale and spirit man myself but seriously this is taking the piss, actually I think someone pissed in the vat.
"Hold!"
"Whazza matter ladz?" Brandon, or Callan as he'd be known for this escape attempt, asked while slurring slightly.
"Ye-hic-ah?" I agreed, "Iz Littl-fingur paying you to ruin people's Hic! Days?"
"Not exactly, that Traitor Stark was busted outta the Red Keep mid court and we're to keep an eye out for him," the Goldcloak explained, "so we gotta search everyone leaving the city and you two look too well armed for common sellswords."
"Not bleeding surprising, mun," I laughed loudly, "me 'n Callan 'ere were at one't taverns on the docks when we spotted some milk drinker with a bad dye job skulking round."
The Goldcloaks look at me oddly but I pass off the Lancashire accent well enough.
"S'true," Callan agreed, "e waz asking 'bout ships ta White arbour, so we follows him after he leaves the place, clobbers him, Hic! Then takes him to t'keep's gates, got thirty silver each for 'im, we did."
"Enough for decent gear fer, Hic, once, wine, an't rest I'm savin fer a pillow bosom'd blonde in Duskendale wit curves that'd sink a Dromon," I finished with a leer that had the Goldcloaks smirking.
"Alright, get on with ya," the sergeant says, waving us through.
"On t' house, lads!" I shouted, tossing them a pair of wineskins.
"Much obliged, safe travels!"
Neither of us speak again until we're in the Kingswood, Brandon looked back then laughed, "I can't believe they bought it?"
"I can't believe they call this pisswater wine," I retorted, taking a swig of ale to dull the taste as Brandon laughs at my reaction, "what's the plan from here? In two days they'll be sending men along the roads to Dale?"
"We ride to Rosby then turn north for Harrenhal and on to Riverrun," Brandon decides, "my betrothed is the daughter of the Lord Paramount of the Trident, with luck he may help us."
"War over one woman," I muttered aloud after a while, earning a fierce glare from Brandon, "doesn't make sense to me. Still, not like it's unprecedented to my people."
"Really, how so?" Brandon asked curiously.
"Over two thousand years ago was the Trojan War," I started, "back before any real countries existed but a mess of city states."
"Like the Hundred Kingdoms in the Crownlands," Brandon mused.
"Similar," I agreed, "now one of these cities was Troy, famous for its walls, similar myth to Harrenhal in its heyday. The Prince, Paris, fell for the wife, or maybe betrothed not quite sure, of a rival Prince, the official history is he kidnapped her but I don't think we'll ever know for certain, you'll find out why in a minute, once the suitor heard he summoned an army made up of forces from several cities and set off after her, leading her to be later known as 'The Face that launched a Thousand ships', but the army was stopped at the gates of Troy. For nearly a decade the Greek army laid siege but the walls held, presumably there was a land route or port protected by sea walls as I know of no other siege lasting that long without some form of resupply."
I took another swig of ale and continued, "one day the Trojans awoke to find the Greek army and fleet gone but a massive wooden horse left at the gates, a single Greek was discovered, an archer with a lame leg, who told the Trojans the majority of the Greek commanders had grown weary of the war and deposed Helen's suitor and turned for home after building the horse as a tribute to the bravery and strength of the Trojans. The Trojans, for some reason, dragged it into the city, demolishing the gatehouse in the process as the 'Tribute' was too large to fit through."
"Asking for trouble, that," Brandon commented.
I give him a knowing smirk, "so the Trojans go on and celebrate, drinking and whoring into a stupor. Once the city was quiet, the Greek archer took a fallen spear and knocked on the underside of the horse's body, and a hatch opened."
Brandon looks at me in a mix of horror and wonder, "one hundred of the finest Greek soldiers left the Horse and secured both the palace and the walls, leaving the way open for the rest of the Greek army and safely rescuing Helen, what followed could have inspired the Slaughter of Castamere."
"Gods," Brandon exclaimed softly, "I pray it does not come to that."
"No one'd want to risk a long war," I pointed out, "not with how long your winters last."
"True, come on we've got a long road ahead and little time."
"This is what they call an army?" I wonder aloud as I pass about five hundred farmers with pitchforks, threshers, sharpened poles and only the clothes on their backs, on my right is a force of two hundred armed with mattocks and wearing padded coats with faded Tully arms on them. Not much better but a solid hit'd down a knight in plate and at least they're uniformly armed and somewhat armoured.
It took three months to reach Riverrun between my lessons and using backroads to dodge Loyalist patrols and ambushes on said patrols, and in that time The Vale and North under Lords Jon Arryn and Eddard Stark had rallied and gone to a war footing and bargained with Lord Tully for his forces.
I get that steel is expensive, however Iron isn't not in any of these three Kingdoms, the sheer disparity between the few knights, Lords and nobles and the many smallfolk in arms, armour, training and discipline is a horrific weakness that someone like me, Tywin Lannister or Randyll Tarly will ruthlessly exploit.
"Any semi trained professional or citizen army'll wipe the bleeding floor with them," I mutter as I take in more details. The majority of the army is made up of full time or part time guards and men-at-arms of the bannermen, but the peasants make for a large minority, meaning a massive number of ill equipped, poorly disciplined men with little, if any, training make up the bulk of the battle line.
Granted most of these people are conscripts but there's no way in hell these Lords don't know about standing armies and the benefits of a trained and equipped pool of men ready to match in as little as a week. By all accounts most wars in Westeros took so long, with relatively few set piece battles because the armies take so long to move into position.
"My Lord?"
I turn round to see a young lad in a Tully surcoat looking expectantly at me, "I'm no lord, lad, and you are?"
"Edmure Tully, Heir to Riverrun," he's one fellow I didn't expect to see, interesting.
"I take it your Lord father and the others want me?" I surmise.
"Yes ser," he replied smiling, "They await you in the main pavilion."
"I don't know my way around so lead on," I say and follow as he starts off.
"I heard you killed one of the Kingsguard?" Edmure asks, his eyes bright.
"Don't get your hopes up," I warn him, "I got lucky that day, not gonna deny it, if he'd attacked me I'd be rotting in a ditch somewhere, as it was I tricked him into moving into my counterattack. If you're going to take anything from that day learn this and learn it well; study your enemy, his strengths, his weaknesses and at the same time be mindful of your own, fight them on your terms, not theirs. Fight him where his strengths fail him, trick him into overreaching and exposing himself, never stay still long enough for him to land a strong blow, always move, always watch and always be ready to strike in that one moment of weakness. But most of all, watch them, look for patterns, that way if something seems too good to be true, like a strong right flank and centre but a weak left, then it is, know your enemy and you'll be able to tell if he's trying to trick you, and if you're clever you can turn their own trick against them."
"Wise words, Ser," I look up to see a knight in Tully colours smiling at me, then look sternly at Edmure, "take heed nephew, he is right."
"Yes uncle," the teen replied, "may I be excused?"
"Go, back to your duties," the lad hurried off, "so you're the brave sod that saved Brandon Stark's arse? Brynden Tully."
"Just call me Talion," I replied, shaking his hand, "any idea why they want me?"
"Probably to reward you with a title and a big bag of shiny gold," Brynden said, leading me to a massive tent with four different banners outside it, "that and ask for your help, I heard Brandon say you were pretty talented with a sword."
"I have a good teacher," I shrugged.
"Modest too, that'll endear you to the Northmen and Riverlanders," Brynden observed, "he also mentioned you said your people could down a knight at a hundred yards?"
"Can't help there," I argue, "I know the basics but it'll be a few hundred years before you could make the kind of weapons my people use, neither your steel nor tools are good enough."
"Pity," he looked visibly disappointed.
"Doesn't mean I don't have a few ideas, I can easily whip up something that'll make a mess of damn near anything if you find an alchemist and a man good at casting hollow balls of iron," I pointed out, "now, what usually happens when a company of armoured knights clashes with peasant conscripts?"
"The knights win," Brynden replied sarcastically.
"Why?"
"Pardon?"
"Why do the knights win?" I repeat, "what makes them better?"
"Their training," Brynden stated, "their armour and weapons, too."
"You take the time you can train a hundred farmers to hold a spearwall against anything but dragons," I pointed out, "give them decent spears and mail their chances go up further, do that to an entire army you eliminate the weakness in the ranks any competent commander would exploit…"
"By pitting his knights against an ill-trained, ill-disciplined and poorly armed rabble," Brynden mused in realisation.
"Expensive but so is raising an army in the first place, might as well invest in improving the quality of your own men," I added, "while quantity has a quality of its own, a medium quantity of mid-level troops backed by seasoned professionals would easily triumph over a larger army of poor quality troops."
"True," Brynden mused, "very true. And here we are."
I'll admit I'm slightly intimidated, up close this tent is bigger than a Norman church.
"Ser Brynden Tully and Ser Talion!" a squire at the tent flap announced.
"I'm neither a Ser nor Lord," I corrected him, "Just a man with a sense of right a wrong."
"For which House Stark is Grateful," I looked round at the voice and took in the line of Lords.
"Well I certainly agree with him," one lord piped up snootily, "couldn't you at least have made yourself presentable?"
"You can polish a turd but it's still a turd," I retorted, provoking a round of splutters and amused coughs, "I am what I am, I won't hide my nature behind a thin trapping of pretty cloth and a false smile, you'd see through it and think I believed you all fools."
"A fair point but that false smile may well be needed in your future," an older Lord below a white falcon pointed out.
"Lord Arryn," I said, bowing respectfully.
Jon Arryn made a small bow from his chair, "rescuing Lord Brandon is no small feat, not from the King's own Hall nor escaping King's Landing, such courage must be rewarded."
"I didn't do it for a reward," I retort, "I did it because hundreds of people stood by and watched as a man was murdered in a mockery of a trial. The very soul of my people was scarred by the cruelty and insanity of Tyrants, we swore Never Again! A scholar once said, all it takes for evil to succeed is for good men to stand by and do nothing, every damn one there just stood and watched as one of their peers was murdered."
The Lords seemed to sit up a little straighter, Jon Arryn continued, "nevertheless, we cannot ignore the service you have given, therefore we have decided to grant you lands and a title…"
"Lord Brandon?" I looked to my right as Brandon stood up, walked around the table and over to me.
"Kneel," I dropped to one knee, I tried not to flinch as he drew his sword, "Do you…"
"Orys Talion," I supplied."
"Orys of House Talion, swear before the Old Gods and the New to serve House Stark, to answer any call and to defend its Heirs?" Brandon intoned.
"I, Orys of House Talion, Swear before the Old Gods and the New, to Serve House Stark, to answer any call, to aid and defend its Heirs and the North. Should I or my descendants stray from our Sworn Duty, may the Gods strike us down, So I Swear," I said.
"Rise Lord Talion," Brandon said, smiling broadly, "normally a Keep and Lands would be awarded as well…"
"But it is as yet uncertain anyone will be in a position to keep that promise," I deduced.
"We have to win first, yes," Brandon agreed.
"Or do what Dorne did and make anything but negotiated peace too costly," I pointed out.
"True," Brandon conceded, "we were about to feast in celebration of our return, join us."
"You want me to dine with you?" I asked in surprise, "but such an event is for Family, close friends and allies, I am none of these, m'lord?"
"Everyone started somewhere," Brandon replied, "come, sit next to Brynden."
I walked over to the indicated seat but stopped to look at the two men on either side, both nodded.
"Not what you were expecting?" Brynden asked with a smile.
"The title or being invited to eat?" I replied, "I expected the title, or rather A title, but not the invitation, I'm a nobody." I looked to my left, "I'm sorry, I don't believe we were introduced
"Doing the impossible has made you somebody," the well-built but slightly pot-bellied man replied, "Lord Wyman Manderly."
"The Master of White Harbour," I said smiling, "a pleasure," I added holding out my hand to shake his.
"The pleasure is all mine, Lord Talion," Lord Manderly replied, shaking my hand, "we've all heard you rescued Lord Brandon but how did you do it, and escape King's Landing?"
"I don't know how I got to King's Landing, but I awoke in the tunnels under the Red Keep feeling like I'd split my head open, luckily I found a rain barrel in the courtyard I emerged next to and drank enough to clear my head," I began, "I eventually found myself in the Throne room shortly before Lord Brandon arrived, apparently my apparel was of sufficient quality for me to be accepted or at least ignored, Lord Brandon stepped in and was arrested for his challenge, Lord Rickard was summoned and, judging by how soon he arrived, was already in the city, you know what happened once he arrived."
I took a deep breath and an even deeper draught of ale from a tankard picked off a servant's platter, "I won't lie, I nearly didn't act. I was terrified, this madman was making a mockery of their executions, drawing out their deaths, there were hundreds of armed people in the room and not one was trying to stop this madness, instead they watched."
"I was fidgeting, going through my pockets when I found it, a Flashbang," I continued, "a Flashbang grenade is a non-lethal weapon designed to disorient people by creating a flash bright enough to temporarily blind and a bang that'll deafen temporarily, a perfect distraction."
"So you used this device to disorient the guards?" Wyman deduced.
"Long enough to get Lord Brandon's sword and cut him free," I confirmed, "there were a dozen soldiers too far away to be affected but only one tried to stop us leaving, a White Cloak by the doors."
"And you killed him," Brynden stated.
"I wasn't a swordsman," I told them, "I'd never even held one before them, but I'd done manual labour with a sledgehammer and pickaxe the past four months and had watched tournaments before, so I had the strength and knew a few tricks, I got lucky when he fell for one, I felt the edge cut to the bone in his neck, Brandon was kind enough to properly instruct me on the trip back, seems to think I have a talent for it but I don't see it myself."
"That explains the Red Keep, but not how you escaped the city," Wyman pointed out.
I smiled broadly, "you'll love it, I talked Brandon into buying arms and armour to pass ourselves off as sellswords…"