Prologue 4
Predator, Prey
"The war between the West and the North continues in the forests of Bridge's Edge." Anonymous Bolton soldier's report.
"During four long months, the survivors of the 3rd and 5th Lannisport armies fought for their survival in the lands claimed by House Frey centuries ago. Bereft of any aerial support and heavy weapons, the Westerners ruthlessly adapted...or died. The officers unable to recognise the rules had changed were purged by the Northern vibro-blades or their own subordinates. Hundreds of regulations were broken on a day-per-day basis. Young men who had never left their city blocks in Lannisport faced a hostile environment with little ammunition and food. Starvation, diseases, murders and savage fighting at close-quarters became the norm.
Little wonder then, that all the survivors having not capitulated would be put in half-pay or definitely dismissed from the Western armies when they came back home. The high authorities of Casterly Rock put large censorship efforts to ensure the rare witnesses were not able to disseminate the truth on a global scale. As far Lord Tywin Lannister and his main bannersmen were concerned, the skirmishes and ambushes taking place after the disaster of Operation Lightning Lion were a terrible symbol of failure, one the billions of Western smallfolk had no need to hear. In the end, those who valued the most the Western resistance were the Northern troops involved in this campaign. The men sworn to Lord Eddard Stark were deeply impressed by the sheer courage of the red-gold lone warriors to continue the fight outgunned, separated and leaderless.
The results of this Western short-sighted policy were going to prove controversial when the Greyjoy Rebellion erupted several years later down the line..."
From To the Last by Yzabel Tendao, 312AAC.
"Any ideas what they were trying to achieve?" Lord Jason Mallister after the failed Ironborn assault on Seagard, 283AAC.
"I serve the realm. Always." Lord Varys Tivario to King Rhaegar Targaryen, 283AAC.
"King Rhaegar should have exiled in disgrace all the councillors of his father...but only Lord Manly Stokeworth and Lord Jon Connington paid the price of Operation Downfall. In my opinion, their deep incompetence was worth a short death sentence." Anonymous Crownlander knight, 283AAC.
"House Targaryen stands triumphant...woe to any opponent who dares challenge their rule." Lord Jon Connington, 284AAC.
"This is not a peace. This is a truce of twenty years at best." Lord Eddard Stark, 283AAC.
"Victory? They speak of victory when all that had been achieved was waking up the direwolf? No this conflict was a lot of things but not a victory." Lord Antario Jast, 285AAC.
"There is always a constant in war. You can count on the Ironborn to do the stupidest thing of the decade." Anonymous Westerosi veteran, 290AAC.
The Lone Lieutenant, 04.09.283AAC, Binary Twins System
The detonation resonated loudly in the woods, like the thunder itself. There was no large cloud of smoke or shockwave to signal its emplacement, but a lot of animals and insects went silent. Despite the presence of a timid sun, a dark atmosphere started to permeate the woods.
Ayric Sarring cursed profusely under his breath, finishing the pitiful piece of bread which had constituted his main lunch of the day. Around him eight other Western soldiers made several noises of disgust and pronounced various obscenities. Rising from their rudimentary seats-in reality fallen tree trunks- the warriors sworn to House Lannister looked at the woods surrounding the small clearing where they had paused their march hours before.
"Well. It looks like we haven't been able to escape the Northerners after all." Ayric affirmed, grimacing as his stomach growled to protest how little it had been filled in the last days.
"Why can't the wolves leave us in peace?" Asked Corporal Jobolt Westerwyck in a tone that made evident he wasn't expecting an answer from the other members of the improvised squad.
Ayric thought about a moment answering that the Northerners abandoning a hunt before the target was killed was simply not in their nature, but ultimately didn't. After all, whether he personally was right or not was irrelevant at the moment. The Northerners were here and closing. Everything else could wait until the battle was over.
And then if we're still alive we will be free to debate the motivations of our enemies...though I'm curious why they've decided to make that much noise. It doesn't sound like the Bolton scouts to be that sloppy.
"Disperse." Ordered the sole officer of the surviving rag-tag band of Westerners survivors. "Don't use your rifles. We don't know how many of them there are."
"The radios?" The expression on Soldier 2nd class Rolandor Hill's face was full of hope, and Ayric wondered for a moment how the eighteen name-days young man had survived all these days on Bridge's Edge before Preslan rescued him. Pure luck and discovering a crippled shuttle full of supplies explained many things, but still...
"No. There's always a chance our pursuers are in squad-strength. If they are, we can defeat them without alerting their friends in orbit."
"Yeah, let's keep the orbital strikes away from our positions." Soldier 1st class Lamion Fartorne." I've seen enough of their sky lights for a lifetime."
Like Ayric, Lamion had grabbed equipment on the corpses of his Northern victims. Unlike the Lieutenant who had commanded the 201 665th squad however, the experienced soldier had removed his red battle-amour and replaced it with a Northern model. This was to say the least a risky move, because while the Western flag officers tended to close their eyes when a soldier or an officer used an enemy weapon, abandoning your battle-armour was often regarded as outright treason. Not that it perturbed Fartorne. Armed with a vibro-blade and a vibro-axe, the Lannisport man seemed to believe the regulations were made to be broken.
In other circumstances, Ayric Sarring would have had not to force himself to send this gallows bird to his court-martial. Lamion Fartorne was a former gang member of the Lannisport worst slums and had no redeeming qualities the Lieutenant had been able to discover in the nine days they had passed together. But the closest general officers of the Western army were in prisoner camps, making an official trial a bit difficult to organise. And with Northerners in pursuit, summarily executing him would make the numerical disadvantages on Bridge's Edge worse, not better.
"Take position in a crescent formation behind the trees." Ordered Ayric, drawing his borrowed Bolton vibro-blade, the emblem of the flayed man on the guard being now thoroughly scratched.
"At my command, we attack and we kill them. Quickly and then we run."
"Kill for the living of Lannisport." Whispered Rock Corporal Quenten Moreden, doing his best to move under a stump.
"Kill for the dead." Answered in a low rumble the eight Westerners. Dissimulated in a bush, Ayric smiled regretfully. 'Hear me Roar', 'For the Rock', 'For Lord Tywin Lannister and many other battle cries had been completely discarded as the scope of the defeat became all too evident and no rescue happened to save them from the Northerners. Live or die what the only choice the infantry of Lannisport had left; their battle cry had evolved in that direction as a consequence.
Shouting the battle cry was also becoming strictly forbidden if you had a few brain cells. Northern trackers' hearing was formidable, and screaming war imprecations was the best way to attract an army on your position.
The colours of the Mark 2 'Sword' armours had also changed. Where red-gold battle-armours would have made hiding attempts futile, the equipment was now covered in dust, leaves and various taints of green, grey and brown. From his position in the vegetation, Ayric was almost missing the positions of the men he and Preslan had gathered in the last weeks, and he knew where they had crouched.
Good. Perhaps we will be able to take the Northern bastards completely by surprise this time.
Sounds of men running neared the positions of Ayric's command. By the noises they were making, there was no subtlety whatsoever...and what that a laser shot?
Several flashes of light could be seen in the distance and mere moments later a soldier of the Western soldier appeared. Gasping and out of breath, the red-armoured figure entered in the clearing nine men had occupied minutes before, laser rifle in hand doing an awful din sufficient to wake up dead men.
A look at him was enough for the veteran Lieutenant to see the man-bearing the marks of a Corporal- had not long to live. To begin with, he had no more helmet and a broken nose pissing blood, revealing his juvenile features and infected scars. There were deep slashes all over his battle-armour; so many that parts of it had to be completely useless right now. About half of them were bleeding. It was like seeing the result of a man having tried to handle a wild bear solely with his fists.
Except of course that bears are no-match for a man in battle-armour...the ones on this planet anyway.
Bent on one knee in the centre of the clearing, the newcomer spit blood and screamed in pain. Ayric winced. Whoever had maimed the soldier, this party was now on its way. And effectively as the hurt Westerner tried to bandage his most serious wounds, Ayric saw large shadows arrive from the east where the Lannister soldier had himself come.
They were five of them, and they were huge. That was the first thought which entered the mind of Ayric Sarring and it was not one which came often to him. Amongst his eight men he had Sergeant Raff Preslan, who was a big hulking beast of a man if there ever was one. However, the five Northerners present surpassed Ayric's second-in-command in mass, height and width. Even more worrying, there was no pink or red above their heart, but a few buckets on blue.
These are not Bolton troops. Where do the rebels find men that big?
Surprisingly or not, the Northerners pursuing force made no real effort of hiding their moves as they gathered like a pack of wolves about to pounce on their prey. Finally they were all in the clearing, and the one who had the markings of a sergeant or an equivalent rank advanced with a formidable vibro-axe in his right hand, one Ayric felt confident he would never wield gracefully, even with both hands. The five battle-armours the Northerners wore were of a model that he had never seen before, bulky and built for pure aggression.
Hopefully these are not Terminator armours...else we are screwed.
Ayric debated giving the signal...and hesitated. The lone soldier was not going to survive, no matter what the group of nine attempted. Worse, they had no idea how skilled these five Northerners were, and none appeared to have any food or supplies packages with them. Attacking was going to result in many losses, for no particular benefit. Regretfully, Ayric decided not to attack. The Corporal sworn to the Lannister cause had seen enough bloodshed anyway and decided it was time to cut the losses. Throwing his laser rifle away, the red-armoured youngster rose his hand in the air in the universal sign of surrender and began to beg.
"Mercy! Mercy! Please! Mercy! Oath to the-"
In the years to come, Ayric would often ask himself if the defeated Westerner had wanted to finish by 'Oath to the Faith' or 'Oath to the Night's Watch'. The latter might have spared him, considering the Northern Sector was always the one most involved with the black guardians of the Wall. Or maybe not. With their large beards and their hirsute grins, these men had the looks of wildlings having found at the nearest bush a pack of military equipment.
"FOR THE DIREWOLF LORD!" Blared the huge Northerner, decapitating the unfortunate Lannister young man in a precise strike of his vibro-axe. The head thus detached rose in the air only to fall at the base of an ancient tree in an arc of blood. Around the body just slain, a pool of blood began to form under the sadistic eyes of the Northern warrior.
"NOOOOOO! VENGEANCE! VENGEANCE! VENGEANCE FOR MY FAMILY!" Shouted Soldier 1st class Lamion Fartorne, letting himself fall from the branch of the tree where he had been perched and then rushing towards the Northerners vibro-axe brandished.
The imbecile...
There was no time to hesitate. There was no time for the insults, recriminations or the other accusations. Perhaps later, if they survived the battle, Ayric would kill Lamion Fartorne slowly and with great pleasure. But right now they had to launch the assault. By intervening, the idiot had made sure the North was going to search this area until they were absolutely sure no one was lying in wait for them.
"ATTACK!"
Disdaining his own orders, with his left arm the Lieutenant shot a salvo of his laser rifle before letting it fall on the ground and running into the clearing, vibro-blade in hand. Ayric was not the first of his group to arrive. Wise or not, everyone had understood what Lamion's choice had imposed them. Raff Preslan appeared seemingly out of nowhere before engaging a Northerner armed with a sort of chain-wielded warhammer. From the cover of the trees on his right, Corporal Jobolt Westerwyck and Soldier 2nd class Tion Magellan were racing, their own blades pointed in the direction of the enemy. The ruffle behind the bushes, trees and rocks made clear the five other Lannister troopers were arriving.
"FOR THE DIREWOLF LORD! KILL THEM ALL!"
But the Northerners weren't impressed. Emitting growls able to frighten half of Seven Stellar Sectors in submission, the grey battle-armours charged to fight Ayric and his group. The clash was more violent than all the ambushes the recent united group had participated until that moment. The Northerner who had just murdered the Lannister corporal went directly at him. The vibro-axe red of blood came into his field of vision, and the Lieutenant parried only with great effort, the shock between the axe and the blade dolorously impacting in his muscles and bones.
By the Seven Hells, how strong is this man?
Not distressed at all to see his initial attack fail, the bear-like opponent growled and unleashed a series of strikes, forcing Ayric on the defensive. The Westerner officer knew from the start he was the better duellist; alas it wasn't that much an advantage right now. His opponent was fresh, well-fed and reposed; Ayric had been weakened by long weeks of pursuit and harassment, not to mention the lack of food. In normal conditions on a training ground of Lannisport, the duel would have been over in a matter of seconds. Here? As Ayric was forced to jump and lengthen the distance when the brute tried to kick him with his massive head, he realised the chances were not good. It was like a nightmare, as everything around seemed to slow and the clearing took red and black colours. Men screamed in the background, the screams of their agony mounting in the air. The vibro-blade he handled was slowing and reacting too slowly. His opponent parried too easily and counter-attacked with each move more powerful than the last.
How humiliating to be defeated by a guy who picked an axe in the armoury and decided to swing it with as little technique as possible.
The Northerner launched another series of circular strikes, adding his fist and legs to the moves. Ayric managed to bear the impacts, but the pain in the arms and the legs was becoming more and more insistent. There were holes in the Northerner defence but Ayric was too slow to exploit them. And then with no warning Carlos Marner fell between the two fighters, a bloody mess forming where organs like the lungs and other vital things were located.
The big Northerner, surprised, finally overextended himself...and Ayric plunged him directly the vibro-sword in a joint of the forearm.
He had expected a lot of screaming. At least an acknowledgement of pain. But if anything, this only seemed to amuse the rebel. Ayric had to withdraw quickly his blade and put himself in guard to evade again the vibro-axe again.
But this time fate's favour had changed sides. While the large-bearded man was doing no outwards sign of pain, his strikes were growing less rapid. The blood flowing profusely from this wound was maybe for something in that. His technique, already leaving nothing to finesse and grace, was more and more jerky and full of flaws. Ayric feinted and plunged the sword into the warrior's left leg. This time the Northerner groaned in pain and almost lost equilibrium...a delay sufficient for Ayric to inflict him another wound in the other arm. Disarming the enormous warrior was the affair of one more stab, which removed cleanly the axe's arm.
The two fighters looked at each other...and against all logic the Northerner widely smiled. His eyes were calm and relaxed, like someone who had at last found peace.
"I am one with the Old Gods and the Old Gods are with me. For the Direwolf Lord..."
Ayric raised his vibro-sword in respect and separated his enemy's head from the shoulders.
There must be after all something like justice...
His opponent eliminated, Ayric rapidly looked around the clearing, where most of the fighting was over. Unfortunately, the good news did not jump to the eyes, because what he contemplated was a true carnage. Corpses and human parts littered the ground, with intestines dangling around trunks and small bushes. There was only one Northerner left standing on his legs, yes...but this lone rebel was only fighting two Westerners, one being easily recognisable as Raff Preslan due to his body size. None of the bodies on the ground were doing more than spasm in their death throes...and at the other extremity, the second Lannister soldier named Tion Magellan weakened under a forceful return of a warhammer crackling with energy.
Running over the bodies of Rock Corporal Quenten Moreden and Assault Corporal Waldos Westerster, Ayric tried to reach the other duel, cursing himself not to have been more aware of the general situation.
He was too slow. One or two seconds before being able to engage the last member of the Northern party, Tion Magellan was blasted on the ground, half of his sword arm mangled by the pulverizing power of the warhammer and the rest of his body not in a better state.
Fortunately, the opponent had also been caught in the fog of war like Ayric had been, and only parried in catastrophe the attack of his new enemy. This allowed Preslan to plunge his own weapon in the back...and then it was the end. The warhammer fell on the ground, its source of power waning. Agonising, the Northerner could only oppose little resistance as the two Lannister soldiers plunged their vibro-swords in the weaknesses of the battle-armour and butchered him.
"You could have come to the rescue sooner...Sir." Managed to articulate Preslan as Ayric stabbed his vibro-sword into the Northerner's gut and approached Tion.
"Apologies, Sergeant. But my opponent was a bit more dangerous than I believed..."
The sarcasm was dark, and the situation of Soldier 2nd class Tion Magellan was darker. One look at his subordinate was limpid to observe the wounded Westerner needed a lot of medical help. Help a well-supplied military hospital had about fifty-fifty chance to provide if he was delivered in time.
The few bandages and the antiseptic the nine men had managed to save before the battle were grossly inadequate. The left leg, the arms, the chest...everything was so mangled, so full of blood. Stitches and other improvised field medicine were useless in such cases. Perhaps if help was on its way, some gestures could have helped. If their short formations before being catapulted to the frontlines had included them, of course. But they hadn't and help wasn't on its way. There was no salvation in a circle of hundreds of kilometres. The navy, the army...they were all dead or in prisoner camps.
"This is...the end?"
The voice of Tion was weak. The words were blurred and tired. With dread in his heart, Ayric for the first time fully realised they were the same age.
Eighteen years old. He should be too young to die like this...
"Yes. Tion..." Ayric grabbed the most undamaged hand with his hand, covering his armoured fist in blood. Alas the Western soldier did not appear to hear the voices of the living or his gesture anymore...
"I'm sorry. My family..."
And these were his last words. The light in the green eyes faded. The movements rarefied and the breath inspirations became shorter. And then it was the silence. Ayric closed at last the eyelids of his brother-in-arms.
"Lie in peace. Son of Lannisport." Raff Preslan muttered similar words on his right. Both surviving soldiers looked at each other, then watched the clearing which had just been turned into a battlefield.
Now that the clash of combat had ended, it was even more nauseating. In the fury of the battle, both Westerners and Northerners had torn apart each other. There was so much blood and parts on the ground...the light of the sun close to its zenith transformed it into a pool of blood.
Thank goodness we haven't a god of murder and carnage in the Western Sector. Some madman might start to shout 'Blood for the Blood God' or such other nonsense after seeing this...
"Have we the time to bury them?" Grumbled Raff Preslan. The huge Sergeant was as disturbed as him by this butchery, by the looks of things.
"Yes. Probably." Ayric's voice lacked a lot of certainty. After what had happened..." I mean, by the racket we did, if there were other Northern troops in the area, they would be already there and gunning us down. We haven't exactly been the shining knights of discretion..."
"That way our dead won't be eaten by the crows." The remark of the Sergeant was timed to perfection: just as he had finished uttering this sentence, a black bird descended from the skies and went to perch on the corpse of Lamion Fartorne.
"All right. But we leave the corpse of Fartorne to them. It's thanks to him we're down to two again."
"No skin off my- wait a second, why are they so many bloody crows?"
Ayric brusquely turned his attention towards the trees and realised they were full of said bad-augury birds, with more arriving at each instant. There had to be already scores of them at a quick estimation. And they appeared to be fixing the two men left standing with what seemed malevolent glares.
I know many follow the armies to feed on the corpses after a battle, but that much...
"Back to back." Ordered the Lieutenant 3rd class of the Western army, grabbing his vibro-sword and taking position against the back of the much taller Preslan. "Protect your head and-"
The flow of birds did not let him finish the warning. Like a single being, they plunged in a dark night cloud on one of the Northerner corpses. But instead of eating it, which was the infamous and repulsive act the crows were renowned for, the scavenger birds melted with the deceased follower of the Old Gods.
And then impossibly, frighteningly, it rose.
No! Not this crap again!
Ayric had still haunting memories of this nightmarish fight against the dead Bolton soldier-not to mention the ones against alive and tenacious trackers- and it had been when Preslan and he were still in relatively good shape. If this thing was as dangerous, they were dead men, simple as that.
Taking the laser rifle of Quenten Moreden lying on the ground, Ayric tried to shoot the creature forming but the result was a pathetic showing. The figure forming was absorbing hundreds of crows and each laser shot only killed one bird.
Ultimately the rifle was empties of its capacity. Under the two men's angered eyes, there were no more carrion feeders to absorb, and a two-meter tall entity stood in the middle of the ferociously-fought clearing. Its appearance was of a hooded, humanoid figure. Humanoid, not man. The hood was just for show, and did not dissimulate the face of the thing. Because there was no way it was a man. The colour was a livid-sickly white which was sometimes found on the trees, but never in men or animals. The traits were ones which could have been seen if a sculptor carved a human visage on a tree with a modest realism. But the real problem was the eyes. Where humans had pupils, iris and everything else, there were instead inhuman, terrifying red globes promising fiery death. Three shining red eyes, partially hidden under a veil of darkness. The two Westerners shivered as a cold wind flew in the Frey woods.
Suddenly the sun was clouded and not providing the warmth it delivered moments before. The breath of the two Lannister-sworn troopers formed clouds. Transpiration ran cold in their armours. The vibro-swords were in position, ready to attack at the slightest hint of aggression. And then the figure spoke in a perfect Westerosi.
"Salutations, warriors."
For a moment, the two Westerners stayed there gob-smacked. After a long moment of silence Ayric asked.
"What are you?"
"What are you? How rude." The hooded figure made a click with an appendage that was certainly not a human tongue. "You may call me...the three-eyed crow. I came to deliver important information to you, Ayric Sarring, Raff Preslan."
"You know our names?" Weeks later, the disconcerted Lieutenant would remember it as a particular stupid question, but in the present astonishment dominated.
"I know many things." Replied enigmatically the strange being. "I know you two are destined for great and terrible things."
"I'm sorry; you must have confounded us for Lord Tywin Lannister and his brother."
Unfortunately, the humour went straight over the so-called three-eyed crow. A very furious glare was sent at the two men covered in blood, who took a step back faced with this menacing attitude.
"There is no mistake. The Great Enemy has returned. The Chosen Heroes must unite or we all fall in the cold embrace of the Long Night."
The light of the three red eyes was persuasive and intimidating, there was no doubt about it. Despite being relatively safe in his battle-armour, Ayric felt his very body freeze at this prospect. The atmosphere was getting simply horrific. The Long Night...it was just a dark legend of the First Men, right? Something the Northerners and those ancient Houses used to frighten their children and curb their wildling tendencies. Right?
Yes, and the corpse which tried to kill you last time was a legend too? Whispered a little voice in his head.
"Assuming you're right...what exactly do you expect us to do? We aren't lords! We aren't knights! We have no armies, no fleet of warships to command! We are just simple soldiers, cut off from our lines. We may make a difference in a battle or two, but it's not us who are going to muster millions of guns to war. Sorry, but that's the truth."
By the Seven Heavens Ayric didn't know why he tried to excuse himself to this nightmarish mix of crow and man...ah, yes, he had tried to shoot it.
"Completely agree with the Lieutenant here, crow-thing!" Drawled Raff Preslan, retrenched in his big-bad 'Sergeant persona'. "Why don't you go bother those who have the real power? These silver-haired pimples on their ugly throne have all the armies you want!"
The last remark hit home, apparently. A sort of grimace deformed the wooden-shaped face, like if the thing had tried once to attract the attention of the royalty and been firmly denied.
"The Great Enemy is coming." Repeated the 'three-eyed crow'. "His forces are massing. Already, the Call of Power has sounded. This was the first sign of seven."
This corpse...it was just part of the first warning?
Seeing their confusion and the tension in their muscles, the being shook his head.
"I see you doubt me. Very well. When the Blackstone Fortresses will fall, you will know the rightfulness of my predictions. And this time you will listen, or our galaxy will pay the price."
And on this last sentence, the figure dissolved into an endless swarm of dark birds, croaking mockingly at the humans. The temperatures rose back to their normal levels. The dark clouds disappeared. The sun warmed up the atmosphere. The traces of frost melted as if they had never existed.
In less than a minute, it was like what Ayric and Raff had lived was nothing more than a bad dream. Unfortunately, the two Westerners could not accuse ghostly hallucinations to be the cause of this phenomenon. All the corpses in the clearing had disappeared, leaving only their identification chips and the traces of blood behind.
"That takes care of the burials, I suppose."
At the same time Ayric was trying very hard not to think about what the three-crow eyes was going to do with all these bodies. Nothing good, in all probability.
"No respect for the bodies of our men." The affirmation of Preslan was delivered in a very threatening rumble. His superior could not disagree.
"What are we going to do?" Demanded the big Sergeant as the metallic plaques of the deceased Westerners were taken and put in their packs.
"Well, the long war continues."
Fatalistic approach, but the situation was not joyous. They had gone back to the strength they were three months ago, two men in the wilderness, trying to evade the rebels and somehow survive. At least their good luck had held: there were no supersonic booms or loud reactor roars announcing the presence of enemy reinforcements. For now.
Thus Ayric and his -in theory- loyal companion left the blood-soaked clearing behind forever after having erased on their armours the biggest part of the human remains in a nearby river. They marched in silence for several hours, and it was only at the next break Raff grilled him the burning question that had no doubt trotted in his head for the last hours.
"What are the Blackstone Fortresses?"
"I am not absolutely sure...I think I heard in a history manual at the academy there are the name given to the orbital stations orbiting the Ironborn world in the Pyke System. Thousands of years old, they generate...breaker fields of black matter? Or another technologic non-sense like that. According to the rumours, only the dragons had the firepower to make these space citadels surrender."
"But the dragons are dead. These fortresses will never fall."
"For our sake, I hope so. I have no wish to see again this damned three-eyed crow."
The sun commenced his descent on the horizon, bathing the two lone survivors in the reddish light many associated with House Lannister.
"If the Others truly return, what will we have to stop them?"
"Hope? I heard rebellions are built on it after all..."
Ser Valeron Rambton, 05.09.283AAC, Somewhere in the Narrow Void
The void was really void. It was a really depressing realisation every spacer arrived from time to time, but here looking from the bay of a spaceship, it was taking all its sense. There were no planets, no comets, no asteroid belts, no gas giants. There was simply nothing. Even the light of the nearby stars was distant and muted, as if the blackness had devoured everything between the celestial bodies.
"Well we have found our target." Whispered someone on the bridge of the Swift Argent, interrupting these morose contemplations.
Small whistles and snickers accompanied it in the astrogation, tactical and communication sections. From the corner of his eye, Ser Valeron saw a Warrant Officer giggling as he taped on his console!
This remark is not helping at all, but try to explain that to my crew. Men will always be men I suppose.
The report of the Swift Argent's executive officer was more detailed and professional. It was not terribly surprising. Commander Aurys Blackwaters was a man having nearly no humour in him. A trait that did a lot of disservice to the black-and-white-haired man, given that he was still at this lowly officer rank while his retreat was at best a couple of years away. On the other hand, you could count on him to stay on duty while the rest of the men were already drunk or had charged for the whorehouses of whatever planet they were currently orbiting.
"Ser Captain, we have the transport we search in range of our sensors."
"Are we sure this time it's the true one and not a Lysene hull or a false contact like last time?"
It would be clearly unprofessional to say 'like the last hundred merchants we caught up with', and thus the commanding officer of the battlecruiser did not say it.
"Yes, Ser Captain. I triple-checked the information before bringing it to you."
"Good, good." Affirmed Senior Captain Valeron, ignoring the way the 'Ser' had been pronounced. He knew very well Aurys Blackwaters disapproved the means of how his knighthood had been earned, and this was neither the first time nor the tenth his second made insinuations in that direction. As long as the man continued to do impeccably his job-unlike some others officers aboard this warship- the Rambton knight was ready to pass on minor quibbles.
Ser Valeron looked at the tiny icon representing his target on his three-dimensional tactical display that was growing as the minutes passed and the distance between it and his warship closed. The Blue Labyrinth. In itself, the ship represented on the display and the various screens of the diamond-shaped bridge had nothing remarkable. It was an ordinary transport of half a million tons, like hundreds of others making the travel each day in the darkness of the Narrow Void between the Westerosi Systems and the Essossi Free Planets. It had no armament. It had no engines able to outdistance warships. It had no furtive system able to dissimulate itself to military sensors. It was not brand-new; according to the information duly collected by the authorities of Dragonstone at his last passage near the Gullet, this starship was close to twelve years old.
No, there were only two important things about the Blue Labyrinth. It was a Lorathi ship...and it transported Princess Rhaenys Targaryen, Prince-no, King Rhaegar's eldest child.
It is a good thing it had nothing to hide with because we spent over three weeks hunting it! Why, one or more to day and the Blue Talon would have reached the endless asteroid belts of the Stepstones...and good luck finding a transport in that!
This monumental delay was not the fault of one Valeron Rambton, of course. Only an idiot would have given the order to search the entirety of the Blackwater Rift, the gigantic amount of space between the Capital System and the Dragonstone one with only one warship! Sadly, when the idiot was named Lord Jon Connington acting in the name of Crown-no, King Rhaegar, you obeyed.
I should have sent Connington's envoy packing like the other Dragonstone skippers, regretted Valeron. The Crown Prince hadn't yet been crowned; I could have ignored his orders.
The promise of promotion, power and riches had been too strong, sadly. Being placed on the short list for Junior Rear Admiral, a jump of no less than three ranks, was not something an officer could afford to refuse!
"There is a problem, however." Continued Commander Aurys, studying attentively the display constantly updated in front of him.
"There always is." Sighed the Captain of the Battlecruiser sworn to the Iron Throne. The last weeks had seen them accumulate at an alarming rate, by the way. "Tell me."
"We are still a bit too far to have a complete holo-picture of the situation, but I think the Blue Labyrinth has a military escort. The void engines equipping it are quite distinctive."
The Master of the Swift Argent watched with redoubled scrutiny the data handed by his second, but did not manage to see anything conclusive. That said, if his second was affirming there was another ship, the probability was high there was at least something there.
"Marvellous. Simply marvellous!" Growled the Driftmark noble.
"Lieutenant Saeryon, please go inform the Special Delegate Tarkien we have an issue which concern our orders."
A blonde-haired young man who had been busy snickering in the Communications section briefly saluted and left the bridge.
It's not like if he has been doing anything useful lately...
"Are you sure, Ser Captain?" The voice of Aurys was transpiring with distaste. From the moment Tarkien had come aboard the Swift Argent, the two of them had not stopped butting heads.
Usually I would take my second's side...usually. Fact is, our good-old commander is really bad at seeing the way the political winds flow at this period of the year.
By millennia-old traditions so ancient no one truly remembered who had established it, a captain was sole master below the Gods on his warship. Thus Ser Rambton in theory should not have to demand the advice of everyone aboard his spatial command. The theory unfortunately often caught up with reality, and Ser Valeron was no stranger to the backstabbing and betrayals agitating from time to time the Fleet of the Crown Sector. Stopping a Lorathi warship could be considered by certain an act of war, and if heads had to roll, Valeron Rambton would defend his with all the weapons at his disposition. Tarkien was going to make the decision, and with it take the greatest part of the glory...or the blame when the politics decided to intervene.
If House Rambton had been more influential in the Great Game between Houses...but the Rambton lords and knights allegiance went to House Velaryon-like House Sunglass and the other minor households living in the Driftmark System. Accepting the Special Delegate aboard was already a calculated gamble, because if the High Admiral decided to court-martial him...
The distance closed between the Westerosi battlecruiser and the Lorathi transport. Five million kilometres. Three million kilometres. And as slowly but surely the Swift Argent came closer from the edge of its weapon maximal range, Ser Valeron could only assess the fact Commander Blackwaters had indeed been right on the mark. The Blue Labyrinth had a warship escorting it.
Using the dead angles provided by the merchant, the energy expulsed by the void engines the much smaller warship had almost remained undetected, but now the distance was too close for military sensors to be fooled.
"Commander?"
"A Lorathi warship, definitely confirmed, Ser Captain. We are still a bit too far to have more than its tonnage and a basic energy signature, but Tactical has compared it with our copious data base, and Lieutenant Aleron estimate there's a 75 per-cent probability this is a Fisher-class scout cruiser."
Valeron looked at the information on one of his personal screens and did not refrain a sneer. Calling this...thing a scout cruiser was greatly stretching the truth, in his opinion. Eighty thousand tons, this hull was not a scout cruiser, it was a frigate! The Dornish navy scout cruisers, which were the smallest of all the Seven Sectors, were nonetheless weighting ten thousand more tons than this 'Fisher-class'. A true scout cruiser was supposed to weight one hundred to one hundred and thirty thousand tons, not a paltry eighty thousand!
"Look at their armament!" Valeron didn't bother letting his contempt down as he read the multiple files amassed by the intelligence services. "Four missile tubes for things that are conceived to kill starfighters, four small lasers and two ridiculous plasma guns! And their design..."
The Lorathi warship was resembling to none the other scout cruisers in service among the Westerosi or Essossi navies. A huge ring circled the prow, maybe for propulsion purposes, another ring circled the middle of the ship, and there was a sort of rectangular module at the rear. How by the Seven this hull could move, never mind fight, the commanding officer reluctantly admitted inside his brain his ignorance.
"They wouldn't be able to scratch our paint, no matter how far we close!" Laughed an unknown officer in the Engineering section of the bridge. Similar jokes and playful remarks followed in every section controlling the systems of the Swift Argent.
"May I suggest a careful approach, Ser Captain?" The advice provided by Commander Blackwaters was courteous, but there was a hint of frost barely dissimulated under it. "The scout cruiser is currently positioning itself to delay us while the transport will rush towards the Stepstones. If the Blue Labyrinth is able to hide in an asteroid belt, we may never find it again."
"What exactly do you suggest, Commander?"
The joyous atmosphere on the bridge disappeared and most of the men tried urgently to find something to do least they attract the attention of the new arrival.
'Special Delegate of King Rhaegar' Willem Tarkien had arrived, and his first words translated clearly his arrogant mood. By all rights, Tarkien was on the bridge only at Valeron's invitation, but seeing the youngster face-to-face, an impartial observer would have found no clues to validate this assumption. Unlike all the crew who were wearing the gold uniform of the Crown Navy with diverse sigils to show their patron or House's allegiance, Willem Tarkien wore a red and black uniform, with the so-famous three-headed dragon of House Targaryen on his chest. His hairs were blonde-silver, confirming his blood-relationship to one of House Targaryen distant cousin lines. And three or four of his own men followed him, weapons in their holsters and in their backs. A sneer appeared on a face that could not be older than thirty years.
"You fear we won't be able to destroy this pitiful excuse of a warship?"
Aurys Blackwaters answer was measured, but for someone who knew him the frustration was visible under the surface.
"Of course not. We have a battlecruiser of one million and two hundred thousand tonnes, they have a scout cruiser with weapons unable to pierce our hull. In a straight fight, there's no way they can fight us." The executive officer paused before developing his point. "What I truly fear is that the Lorathi warship is going to run home and tell what happened here."
Tarkien did evidently not share the same view.
"So? By the time he starts to cry on his miserable planet, we will have brought the Princess at King's Landing!"
"Yes, we will have the Princess back in her father's arms..." Blackwaters' expression showed how 'safe' he thought someone was to be in presence of a Targaryen King by 283AAC. And with a non-feigned repulsion the second looked at his younger interlocutor and spoke. "We will have also committed an act of war in non-controlled Westerosi space."
"And this is supposed to frighten me?" Tarkien's voice looked astonished, as if someone in the Crown Navy could be fearful of that. "I have given a mission to accomplish. Unlike you, I will not shy from my duty. My King has commanded me to bring his child home, and I-WILL-NOT-FAIL!"
Commander Aurys made a vigorous negative sign with his head.
"Don't be stupid. Lorath is nothing more than a client of Braavos, and you know it! Perhaps you're content to just wash your hands of the bloodshed, but the Braavosi Navy is not going to stay idle if one of their allies' ships is attacked! We could have one of their super-carriers squadrons annihilating the Dragonstone fleet next month!"
The man sworn to House Targaryen and whose exact place in the Crown ranks was somewhat a mystery did not share that particular view.
"The Braavosi Navy is formidable in deep space, but the combined might of our more conventional fleets is far enough to placate them."
"Really? Unless you have not noticed, our fleet has been utterly destroyed at the Trident! We haven't anything-"
"Coward and defeatist!" Screamed the Special Delegate named by King Rhaegar Targaryen, before making a sign to his red-and-black armoured men behind him.
To his credit, Aurys didn't try to resist. The guards put the manacles on him, and then two of them escorted him out of the bridge, his status as a prisoner unmistakeable.
"Send him to the ship's cells." The satisfaction in Tarkien's voice was perceptible, and with a slight delay Valeron realised the Royal envoy had wanted to remove the executive officer from the start...and if he was prepared to remove the second of a warship, he could very well decide to remove others.
Like me.
"There he will have all the time to prepare his defence for the court-martial awaiting him at the capital." The warning had been told high and loud to the entire bridge. Willem Tarkien turned his attention towards Valeron Rambton.
"Destroy this scout cruiser, Captain, then neutralise the transport." The lips of the noble opened what a bard would have considered a parody of smile.
"Once the Princess is safely aboard the Swift Argent, leave no survivors on the transport or the scout cruiser."
"As you wish." The reply tore the gut of Valeron, but there was simply no alternate reply to give. If he refused and Tarkien was as connected with the King as he feared, then his career, his honour, his fortune, everything would crash down. If some upstart Lorathi had to pay the price, then so be it.
"Nothing can stop us now." Gloated Tarkien.
You could almost believe with this man we're doing something proud and noble. I just wish his last sentence is not going to jinx us...
The volume of space between the battlecruiser of the Dragonstone Fleet and the Lorathi escort sensibly diminished in the next minutes, the latter obviously slowing its acceleration and relative speed. Despite its capacity to outdistance the Swift Argent, the lighter Lorathi vessel was doing nothing of the sort. The transport Blue Labyrinth was coming closer too, but slower than predicted and it left its escort behind. Now the civilian hull was red-lining gravity compensators, reactors and all its engineering parts, giving it a meteorically increase of fifteen per-cent over the maximum acceleration it should theoretically be capable of.
It was not going to be enough for a successful escape.
"We have just passed the four hundred thousand kilometres mark, Ser Captain." Announced Lieutenant Commander Maekar Voron, acting both as Tactical Officer and interim-Executive Officer since Blackwaters removal. There was a large smile on his face...the man was genuinely content at the idea of massacring an enemy which could not reply effectively.
"In that case, Lieutenant, open fire."
"By your orders!"
The Swift Argent slightly shuddered as a significant wave of missiles erupted from its trident-shaped edge. Lieutenant Voron had made his choice for a straight and devastating approach: twelve missiles, the maximum amount a battlecruiser of the Crepuscular class could launch and control, were activated and launched on its small Essossi opponent.
Thousands of kilometres away, the Lorathi warship did not retaliate with a wave of missiles on its own, for the simple reason it could not. The range of escorts was generally inferior to their bigger counterparts, having none of the massive capital ship-killer missiles in their armouries.
Which means they won't be able to shoot back until we have finished our first attack. Game over.
"In eight minutes and ten seconds, this Lorathi ship is going to be nothing but a memory." The manner Tarkien announced the news could have been presented for a very bothersome chore you were forced to do once in a while.
And then all the tactical displays sounded strident alarms and flashed red, yellow or black messages of alert. The spacemen of the Crown fleet were all professional and had practised these scenarios in training...maybe once a year? As a result, Tactical and the other sections of the bridge reacted...in controlled panic?
"MISSILES! MISSILES INCOMING!"
"STAND BY MISSILE DEFENCE! STAND BY MISSILE DEFENCE!"
"LAUNCH ANTI-MISSILES IN TUBE ONE AND TWO! NOW!
Valeron screamed a series of orders to the helmsman, they had to evaluate the new threat, they had to maximise their position in order to use the maximum of anti-missiles available, they had-
A quick look at the global tactical display informed him it wasn't going to matter. From the bridge's bay and its surface of supraglass, brilliant comets of fire came and struck the Swift Argent in the rear. The battlecruiser shook like a gigantic warhammer had struck it. Several consoles of the bridge shut down while sparks appeared from several electrical joints. Secondary explosions below their feet sent quite a few officers on their butts or their knees, although the majority had managed to grab something unmovable and use it to stay on their two legs. But as the explosions calmed down and the Swift Argent dramatically slowed down, the first screams and calls came from every part of the bridge.
If the seconds before had been controlled chaos or chaotic order depending on the perspective, now it was just chaos. Damage control specialists of every post sent their reports with the same level of priority and torrent of orders and counter-orders were spoken into the different speakers connecting the officers with the rest of the warship.
"Tubes one and two destroyed. Five dead, eight wounded."
"Compartment six and seven are opened on space! Do something!"
"We have lost the void engines! We have lost-"
"Seal the compartments, you can do nothing-"
"Oh, by the Mother, we have suffered a direct strike here, the entire battery is dead! Please-"
"Fusion one restored to full power in ten seconds, but the controls are all grilled for Fusion two-"
"No survivors in Compartment Nineteen. I repeat, no survivors in Compartment Nineteen-"
Valeron tried his best to coordinate the answer to this disaster, but the magnitude of the destruction was overwhelming. Many compartments supposed to resist the impact of heavy warheads had utterly been pulverised by this honourless and traitorous attack! The infirmary was overcrowded, the maesters and the female healers working there were completely overworked: there were hundreds of heavily wounded spacemen being directed in their direction and they had had no more warning than Valeron had to prepare.
But as Tactical sensors were finally redeployed to present a coherent view of the battlefield, a new silhouette was revealed from the shadows of the void allowing the Swift Argent's crew to see its tormentor.
"Impossible!" Gasped a Lieutenant, pausing momentarily giving orders before realising the search and rescues efforts took priority near the missile tube four. Similar exclamations of incredulity echoed thorough the bridge.
Valeron didn't blame them. Contrary to the Lorathi Fisher-class, nearly everyone knew the name of this one.
So the things which shot us were Rogue starfighters?
"Northern escort carrier Vigilance-class behind us!" Spit venomously Maekar Voron.
"A Northerner? Here in the Narrow Void? How is it supposed to be possible!" Special Delegate Tarkien had been staying alone against the tactical display, and his face was now completely livid. "How in the Seven Hells could Northerners have found us so close to the Stepstones! There is a major breach in our intelligence services!"
"They didn't find us. They have followed us from the moment we left Dragonstone!" Exclaimed a Warrant Officer trying to make makeshift repairs on his terminal, and failing if the odour of burnt components was anything to judge by.
"Ridiculous! Northern technology is completely obsolete! We would have seen them millions of kilometres away!"
"Can we still execute our mission?" Asked Valeron Rambton.
"Of course we can! Or are you-" The expression of Willem Tarkien went from astonishment to deep outrage.
"Be silent!" Snapped the commanding officer of the damaged warship. Tarkien looked around, seemingly searching for his guards, and realising they had all gone within the entrails of the ship doing rescue operations. Apparently bereft of any argument not including the threat of pure violence, the King's delegate stared with his mouth wide open.
"Better. Lieutenant Roventon, can we still accomplish our mission?"
The last engineer of formation left on the bridge, a brown-haired young man who was five seconds ago rapidly speaking in his com to diverse officers busy to restart the critical systems of a fusion reactor, raised his head over the console and commenced to speak in a rapid rhythm of elocution.
"I don't see how, Ser Captain. The void engines are completely crippled, we are going to need a long stay in a military shipyard to repair them. Without them, we will be limited to our conventional reactors, and by definition they weren't conceived for long travels outside a gravity dwell. We can't catch the Blue Labyrinth in our state, not to mention we won't be able to manoeuvre-"
"Thank you, Lieutenant."
The Swift Argent's captain had no wish to hear what he knew in his heart: his beloved warship in this state wasn't going to survive the fight with a Northern escort carrier. The new opponent had only the size of a light cruiser and twenty starfighters of the 'Rogue' type, but the preliminary reports showed the Swift Argent's durasteel hull was torn apart on the rear and the entirety of the right side. One more missile at the wrong place would be enough to finish it...and twenty starfighters meant twenty chances to do it.
"Actually, Ser Captain, I wasn't finished."
One more time, Valeron wondered at the inability of the engineers to recognise when they got near a political minefield. This lack of self-preservation was simply extraordinary.
"Your Captain gave you-" Tried to intervene Tarkien, but this time the Senior Captain's rebuke arrived in time.
"That will be all, Lieutenant!"
"We are receiving a transmission from the Lorathi warship, Ser Captain!" Announced Lieutenant Caveryon in the Communications.
"They're still alive?"
In hindsight, this was not the most intelligent comment Valeron could ever have made in the presence of his senior subordinates but shame would have to wait for its hour. Studying the last minutes of fighting, the knight belonging to House Rambton realised they had completely forgotten in all these eight minutes to activate the attack profiles of the twelve missiles targeting the Lorathi destroyer!
What a catastrophe, thought the Crown officer. Twelve missiles, all wasted because I left no one at Tactical to keep an eye on them.
With such a predictable attack, the scout cruiser had had no difficulties shooting the offensive warheads one by one, a task facilitated further by the fact three had completely went off-course due to technical problems and detonated harmlessly half a million kilometres away. One missile seemed to have exploded relatively close, but the damage had been only superficial, nothing to compare to the thrashing the Swift Argent had just received.
And now we face two enemies instead of one. Fantastic.
Valeron taped a code on his screen, and accepted the communication.
The image of a Lorathi with half his face painted blue and the other painted grey appeared less than three seconds later. The Essossi commander had the expression of a man who had just seen his wildest dreams be accepted...and went right to the problem's core.
"A man advises this man to surrender immediately."
"I still have far enough firepower to destroy you and your minable warship, Lorathi!"
"A man acknowledges what this man says. But a man also knows this man's warship is going to be destroyed. And this man's surrender will not be accepted by this man's other enemies."
In Valeron's back, the voice of Lieutenant Commander Maekar Voron spoke, the panic and the fear overriding the military training.
"Captain, the Northern fighters have been rearmed! They are re-launching..."
The Lorathi officer continued with a thin smile.
"What is the choice of this man?"
Ser Valeron Rambton, Senior Captain of the Crown Sector's fleet opened his mouth to answer...and then there was a bang. There was pain...and everything went dark.
Lord Varys, 20.09.283AAC, King's Landing System
The Master of Whisperers could honestly affirm inwardly that after a life as long and adventurous as his, he had seen plenty of disturbing events happening around him.
But watching the recording of the holo-video where a man sworn to House Targaryen shot repeatedly in cold blood the Captain of a Crown battlecruiser while he had his back turned...that was a dire reminder he had not seen everything.
And I think there will be far more awful things to see when the dust of this civil war settles...
"I suppose this is all over by the Free Planets by now?" Varys demanded to Illyrio, as the holo-video continued and the officers on the bridge of the Swift Argent looked bewilderingly at each other, before half a score drew their personal laser pistols and ended the life of Special Delegate Tarkien. A few seconds later, a formal demand of surrender was transmitted to the Lorathi Captain and accepted. The recording ended there.
"It is." Answered his friend, sipping tranquilly one of the finest liquors which were exported from his Pentoshi holdings. "For people with a such curious grammar, the Lorathi still understand very well the notions of public opinion and propaganda."
"No one has ever said 'a man' had to be stupid."
A small laugh came out of the lips of his brother-in-law. Two glasses were raised in the direction of the King's Landing metropolis spreading in the distance. From this luxurious apartment at the 57th floor of the Mopatis Tower, the panorama offered by the chief city of Westeros was almost peaceful.
Almost.
Varys sometimes thought the idiots dumb enough to fall for it were the luckiest men on the planet...because the King's Landing System was certainly a lot of things, but peaceful was not one of them.
The smoke produced by the diverse ordnances fired during the coup was gone, but several skyscrapers on the horizon were missing some pieces. Riots at night were bloodying the back-alleys as gangs fought for scraps of pillaged military equipment. Septons who had taken the cause of their highest authority were persecuted or assassinated following the assassination of their leader.
"True, true. It goes without saying this is a disaster...for House Targaryen."
"Oh, absolutely."
In fact disaster was a very...conservative word for the situation. Quite frankly, Varys was completely amazed by the bad news coming with this really short butchery. Shooting a missile salvo towards the warship of a neutral nation, check. Princess Rhaenys having safely arrived to Dorne, check. Losing a battlecruiser and having the surviving crew prisoners of the Lorathi, check. A rebel escort carrier managing to sneak up on a Crown warship, check. Having the next best thing to a collapse of military authority in the middle of a battle, check.
Assuming someone would have asked him to engineer a catastrophe of this magnitude, Varys honestly admitted he would not have done better.
"Unfortunately we are not able to profit from this fiasco and we probably never will."
The atmosphere grew darker. Serra had been so happy to have a child of her own after everything the two of them had been forced to endure...and now this future was gone.
The son the last descendents of the Blackfyre dynasty had prayed in their dreams had been still-born. His sweet little sister would never be able to bear a child again, consequence of a disease badly treated and centuries of genetic disorders. Varys himself was a eunuch and thus unable to sire anyone. The Blackfyre name, forged in the flames of rebellion, was going to die at last, not in a great glorious battle but in a whimper.
"There...may be a solution." Varys ceased the long contemplation of the red wine in his glass and looked at his Pentoshi partner-in-crime. Illyrio's expression was far, far removed than his usual 'innocent and affable' one.
Varys understood immediately however what his accomplice referred to. After all, he had helped engineering the scheme and trained the agents involved himself.
Too bad I had to send them to Pentos after that. One or two would have been really useful when Downfall was launched...
"The girl?"
"The girl."
"Has Serra...is Serra fine with this? I know we considered it as a plan of last recourse but-"
"It was her idea actually." Illyrio laughed at Varys' apparent discomfiture. "Oh, don't be so shocked, my friend. Your sister is quite wilful when she puts her mind into something."
Wilful. Yes, Varys had to recognise it characterised his sister perfectly.
"That still leave us with several problems." Plenty of lengthy machinations were estimated and then discarded in the Chief of the Crown Intelligence Agency's head. "A woman always comes after a man in the succession to the Iron Throne."
"I would have thought assassinating...there's three male Targaryens alive, no?" Varys nodded. "Thank you. As I said, assassinating three persons of the Royal Family is not beyond your legendary assassins' skills."
"It's not." During Downfall, fleeing from his demolished headquarters had demanded four times that many killings by his own hand.
Jon Connington's debt to me grew considerably heavier that day...once the fighting starts anew, I will make sure his demise is slow and awful.
"But I'm worried that when we will be in position to pull the trigger, there won't be only three of them anymore. And there are other daughters of Targaryen blood."
"Ah, yes...the King is going to be married again...to the Lord of Casterly Rock's daughter, isn't it?"
"And in all likelihood, the new Prince of Dragonstone will be officially betrothed to Mace Tyrell's only daughter when the two are of age."
Varys was not betraying any secrets here; for the last weeks this move had been known to all the players in the Red Keep.
"This is not good." The two senior leader of the Blackfyre conspiracy looked at each other gravely...before bursting in a full-blown laughter. It was not good...for the Targaryens. It would take some years, but Varys was sure that at the end, House Lannister and House Tyrell were going to be at each other's throat.
And if not I will make sure they are. Not that I think they will need a lot of help on that front...
The Pentoshi magister handed a data chip to the Master of Whisperers. "Some of the ideas we had for the future."
"And your 'daughter', I suppose?"
"Yes." Illyrio smiled in a proud manner before adding:
"Serra decided to name her Rhaenyra, by the way."
"Rhaenyra."
Rhaenyra Blackfyre. Well at least my 'niece' will have a name ready to give the Targaryens huge nightmares. Few have forgotten what the first Rhaenyra did...the Dance of Dragons was not the kind of thing one forgets. Moreover, there would be an ironic justice in the fact a namesake restored the rights of the women the last true queen lost.
"How fares the war by the way?"
Varys face was grim, thinking about the rising mountain of casualties.
At least the civilian ones have been limited to this point...
"For the moment, the conflict is at a stalemate. The Targaryens are trying to take the Crossroads and the Fairmarket Systems, and monumentally failing. The Northerners were in an increasing difficult position at the Maidenpool talks, especially after this attack on Seagard, but the arrival of the Braavosi on scene will break the existing balance."
Varys was in the presence of one of the rare persons he trusted, and thus instead of staying impassive, his visage contorted in an ugly grimace.
The Ironborn attack was a sore subject for his little birds in the Crown Intelligence Agency, for the main reason he had been totally unable to predict it. A fact that no one in the highest spheres of King's Landing had had the reluctance to not speak about, though the critics had been even more ignorant of the matter than him. Oh, and they routinely told the King and whoever was around victory was around if they sent one more fleet jumping in a rebel-held system.
So far, it had translated into scores of warships becoming scrap material and thousands trained spacemen dead.
Sometimes, I wonder how Westeros has survived as a sole kingdom with such idiots at its head...truly the imbecility and the corruption have infiltrated everything.
"Any idea what Lord Quellon Greyjoy was thinking?"
"I suppose the rumours he suffered from a debilitating disease were closer from the truth than I thought."
This time the Pentoshi and the Blackfyre exchanged disgusted looks. Both had spent the last five years to cultivate friendships and allies of circumstances in the vast shipyards-also known as hives of villainy- the Ironborn reavers frequented. In less than one month, all this investment had been wiped out.
Deathly ill or not, there was no question Lord Quellon Greyjoy had launched what was certainly a suicide attack on Seagard. The System was nicknamed 'the shield of the river sector' for a reason, and would have required no less than a total mustering of the Iron Fleet and all the Greyjoy bannersmen to have a chance of victory.
As a consequence, when about twenty-five warships of the 'longship' variety threw themselves in the core of the Mallister orbital defences while the defending fleet was left free to catch them in the rear, either the attacking commander was an idiot...or he simply didn't want to live. After less than two hours of furious fighting, three longships had managed to escape, bringing back to Pyke with them the corpse of Lord Quellon. Hundreds of Ironborn Illyrio and Varys had planned to use for their own purposes had remained behind, floating endlessly in the domain of their Void God.
"Would Quellon's eldest son Balon be agreeable to the sort of plans we proposed his father?"
"No."
Varys had had the displeasure of meeting the Heir of Pyke once. To say the Master of Whisperers had not been impressed was the understatement of the century.
"Ah, regrettable." Touching his chin, Illyrio wasn't finished. "But his brothers?"
Ah yes, them.
"They are even less suitable than him. The cadet has...a dark reputation shadowing him like a plague. The rumours surrounding him would make a Dothraki pale in shame. Rapes, human sacrifices, free slaughter of merchant ships...this Greyjoy is perhaps one of the few men in Westeros able to defeat the defunct Aerys the Mad in a challenge of insanity. The third is an idiot with a vibro-axe and a heavy battle-armour, the fourth and the fifth pass the majority of their time drowning themselves in alcohol...Quellon was a good lord, but he didn't manage to pass his qualities to his son."
"You're not joking..."
"The Targaryens are not the only ones suffering from mental problems in this decade." Declared the master spy.
Not that it is that surprising. The Ironborn have bred very few geniuses in the last three hundred years. Sometimes I think the intelligent ones got roasted with Harren the Black at Harrenhal...
"What is the King going to do?"
"Dealing with the miserable reality his plans have landed us in?" Proposed Varys, who rolled his shoulders in amusement before adopting a more serious expression.
"Rhaegar has named two new Kingsguards to replace the ones lost in the civil war he has done so much to start. Ser Rufus Staunton and Ser Buford Bulwer have sworn their vows and taken the white."
"Never heard of them before."
"Normal. These two knights were virtually no-names when the hostilities commenced. I think Rhaegar was in a hurry to fill the losses before the Tyrells and the Lannisters proposed their own candidates."
"Logical." Commented Illyrio.
Nevertheless, that it was logical did not mean it was a very wise move. There were plenty of Houses with second or third-born sons who had distinguished themselves in the Rebellion. Those ones were not going to be amused by this pre-attempt to enter the Kingsguard.
"The Great Council has been more complicated. I kept my post as the Master of Whisperers of course..."
"Of course."
"I think we all know who was the most likely candidate for Hand of the King, but Lord Connington managed to screw things in nuclear fire. Literally. So the King is going to name Lord Walter Whent at the post, maybe hoping that with the nomination of Lord Darry as the new Lord Paramount of the River Sector, some support and influence will return to the area for House Targaryen."
"A day-dream or a possibility?"
"I would tend towards the latter." The man who should have answered to the name Vaelor Blackfyre replied. "Tywin Lannister has been very busy meeting the Brackens and a few other planetary lords, and there are plenty of veterans willing to continue the fight for the Tullys and the Starks."
Varys gulped half of the wine in his glass before continuing his report.
"Unless there are new changes, the new Master of Coin will be a Lannister, probably one of the gold-haired scions of Casterly Rock who are deep in Lord Tywin's pocket. The Master of Laws replacement is Lord Tommen Costayne, to reward the Reach of their disinterested loyalty. I don't know who the new Master of Assassins is. The only moniker I have is 'Lord of the Seven Deaths'."
"And the new Master of Propaganda will be?"
"The new Master of Information" Varys particularly stressed the last word in mockery, "will be Garth 'the Gross' Tyrell."
Under the joke, the Lysene and the Pentoshi understood how vital the position had become in the last decades. In every education establishment of the Seven Sectors, it was this Master and the tens of thousands administrators and bureaucrats who drafted the programs. The bards of all sorts, the information network, the different channels, the digital newspapers...there was an amazing influence which could be deployed at a click of finger.
And the Targaryens had used it in the last years to lie from top to bottom on every single political, economical or military deed. It was not absolute outside the Crown Sector, but even regions like the Marches felt the dark tendrils of King's Landing injunctions. Which was why the Blackfyre conspirators were so eager to return the gigantic propaganda machine against its creators...alas Garth Tyrell was an aristocrat not likely to go bankrupt or betray the entire system which had raised him to the Small Council.
"Apart his family ties, does this man had any real qualifications for the Council position?"
"It entirely depends if you consider 'Lord Seneschal of Highgarden' to be a critical job."
"By your words, I am going to take a minor risk and bet on the contrary."
"Judicious choice." The Master of Whisperers acknowledged. " To be fair, I have not a large file on him. Garth is Lord Mace Tyrell's uncle, he's flatulent, he stinks, he has recognised two bastard sons and has five others living in the good quarters of Oldtown. I believe two of them are students in the Citadel. Two or three decades ago Garth organised a travelling tour in Lys and elsewhere, with the nights ending in debauchery with many, many genetic slaves."
And people wonder why the Braavosi think we're not taking the Noros Convention seriously.
"Let's try to work around him for the moment." Decided the magister. "If he becomes a hindrance to our plans, this lord won't be very hard to remove from the game."
On this, the Master of Whisperers was forced to agree. A pig would be more difficult to eliminate than Garth Tyrell.
"Are there any other developments I should be made aware of?"
"None who come to my mind. A new Master of Armies and Lord Commander of the Goldcloaks haven't yet been named. The other former members of the Great Council have all been reconfirmed at their positions. Lucerys Velaryon, Pycelle, Lord Commander Hightower, Alliser Thorne like me have been judged too important to be fired. Or executed. I'm afraid the great decisions and the policies will begin after peace has been signed at Maidenpool. And it will be soon, Rhaegar has finally woken up to the fact he can't win a war against the rebels, Braavos and Dorne at the same time."
"Well," affirmed philosophically Illyrio, "the moral of one fable is that a broken clock is right twice a day, no?"
Lord Wyman Manderly, 31.11.283AAC, Moat Cailin System
The messenger ship made its jump at the lowest velocity possible to arrive into the Moat Cailin System.
As it reintegrated reality, the reasons for this careful move became very obvious.
An extremely dense spatial minefield was surrounding its point of emergence. Should the spaceship had come faster, the mines would have activated and destroyed without contrition the trespasser.
These were not the only first-line defences. Not even close.
In missile range of the jump point, three gigantic asteroids had been tugged. Each of these rocks had been transformed by the Northern engineers into orbital forts...really huge orbital forts. The smallest of the asteroids was five times the size of a ship of the line. And it had a proportional firepower corresponding to its volume. Plasma, laser and missile batteries had been emplaced behind vast shielded doors. Entire starfighter wings waited in sizeable bays one signal to launch and annihilate any incoming enemy. Immense stocks of mines were ready to replace the holes that any intruder would make in the emplaced killing fields.
From the passenger room of the transport he used, Lord Wyman watched with a certain amount of pride this formidable defensive system. Due to the lack of external bays on Northern warships, watching the stars and the beauty of a planet was an opportunity which rarely came. Besides, his duties thorough the war had made him far too busy to pass hours contemplating the incredible spectacle of nebula, stars and other celestial bodies accomplishing their eternal dances.
The fast transport remained immobile several minutes, the time to exchange identity protocols, expedite security details and deliver priority messages plus other coded transmissions to the High Command.
At last, the comfortable vessel gained speed anew, although a non-Northerner observer would have remained extremely unimpressed by the tortoise's pace the Northern civilian vessel was carrying its crew and passengers. In an ordinary stellar system, they would have been right.
That said, Moat Cailin was anything but ordinary. Past the jump point, the only way forwards for any type of starship was through a large asteroid belt. Any ship wanting to race in that kind of spatial environment was promised a very rapid destruction...and not just because slamming into a floating debris outweighing your ship by tens of thousands tonnes was always a lethal experience. Unseen to the human eye, Lord Wyman knew several of the asteroids in the hundreds present were in reality armed with the most versatile array of weaponry available to the Northern military forces. Supply depots, field hospitals, repair dockyards, ammunition production...technically anything valuable for an heavy-assault fleet could be found in these asteroids...assuming of course you knew where to find them among the thousand similar ones on the sensors.
"And then the first layer of Moat Cailin is passed..." Whispered the Lord of White Harbor, remembering the words of his defunct father Wybor when he had come in this system for the first time.
In appearance, what an enemy strategist would see as he contemplated the same view Wyman did was not that terrible. A single inhabitable planet showing a very green colour, a moderate-sized circle of forts and orbital shipyards...nothing very threatening especially as the Northern navy under Lord Rickard had been very busy expanding civilian facilities orbiting the planet of Moat Cailin but not modernising the orbital fortifications.
Said strategist however should concentrate on the three other asteroid belts in the system, each having somewhere in their chaotic formations the same asteroid bases the first belt did. Unknown to anyone who did not have the need-to know, it was there that the damaged warships, including many built by House Manderly were at the moment repaired. The real forts and mines depots were hidden there too. And if the Moat Cailin System came under attack, there were murmurs that the sum of the space available in the secret installations was more than sufficient to hide the trader fleet and the mobile dockyards which could be watched as the planet nicknamed the 'Gate of the Neck Sub-Sector' grew to the human's eye.
Given the obviously neglected forts and the purely limited merchant dockyards, Moat Cailin as a planet evidently did not have any significant orbital potential...and an intelligent enemy instantly recognised why. It lied with the colour.
Green.
The planet sharing the name with the entire System had no ocean. Or rather, it was more accurate to say the ocean and the planet were one and the same.
Green.
In reality, Moat Cailin was just a gigantic swamp like so many planets of the Neck sub-sector. The Head of House Manderly honestly didn't know if the Green Men were really right about the Children of the Forest sinking the continental landscape of every planet under the sea level; what Wyman knew was that this characteristic made the task of any invader an impossible one.
Assuming an enemy managed to gain control of the Stark fortresses hailing the messenger ship he was in, the attacking fleet would not be able to replenish there. There were extensive self-destruct protocols in place for the forts and the shipyards...and the planet itself was generating gravitic disturbances. Thanks to the information an Admiral of his seniority and rank was privy to, Wyman knew there was no natural celestial explanation, there were millennia-old machines generating these effects. Machines which may or may not be still constructed by the Starks at Winterfell. A mind-boggling and ultra-secret technology which completely cancelled the advantage of an opponent circling hundreds of kilometres above your head.
As a consequence, the sole and only option a victorious enemy had in regard to Moat Cailin was to debark the troops and charge the ten main fortresses built by House Stark. Good luck with that. Despite having not been well-maintained as part of the treaties between King Jaehaerys the Conciliator and House Stark, the agreements aiming to make the North a less warmongering society -or more civilised, the point of view largely differed here- the citadels were a true nightmare to assault.
To make matter worse, the fauna and flora of Moat Cailin were something like a horror holo-movie. Lizard-lions, swamp crocodiles, yellow alligators, fifty-six species of venomous snakes able to kill you in less than a minute, two hundred and nineteen plants dispersing pollen which was synonym of death for a human not wearing chemical breathers. There were man-eating plants and the number of diseases you could contract in this type environment was virtually endless. Writing the definition of a death world in a Westerosi dictionary could have been resumed in the name Moat Cailin.
Two thousand years before the Conquest, a Stark monarch had deliberately goaded the Faith Militant in doing exactly this type of assault. Abandoning the planet and hiding his fleet in the asteroids, King Theon 'the Hungry Wolf' Stark had let the Crusaders set foot in the swamp. Close to two hundred and fifty thousand Faith fanatics in their rainbow armours had pushed to storm the bastions...and then the trap had been closed, the warships crashing on the planet when the gravitic anomalies destroyed their reactors and rolled them like children toys in the middle of a storm.
A quarter of a million men had initially been deposed on Moat Cailin's soil. In less than a month, futile attacks on the fortresses and the rigors of the swamp had murdered this army. The hundreds of survivors were starved and deathly ill, prey for the carnivorous beasts reigning over the planet-sized swamp and the elite crannogmen training themselves in this inhospitable terrain. When the Starks had descended to finish the massacre, it had not been a battle, but a butchery. The fearsome berserkers of the North had offered no quarter, and no man part of the Faith Crusade had ever gone back to the South announcing the disaster. There was just silence. Silence declaring another costly failure to defeat the system-fortress...
Now that I think about it, is the Faith not trying ever since to convince the Northerners to give back the holy relics they lost that day? Hmm...yes, yes they do.
Shrugging these amused thoughts no good worshipper of the Seven should ever have in his head, Lord Wyman observed calmly the ship he was currently aboard positioning itself in upper orbit of the planet, just over an image looking like a big whirlwind on the planet below.
"Your shuttle is ready, Admiral." Saluted the second of the messenger ship. "Message has come Lord Stark demands your presence at the Despair Fortress."
"Thank you, Lieutenant." Saluted in return the big-boned Admiral. "Lead the way."
Manderly and his party engulfed the shuttle and started seconds after their descent in the putrid atmosphere of Moat Cailin. Courtesy of his exalted rank and the name of the man summoning him, because for a soldier freshly out of the ranks, the waiting list here could take months. The bases built on Moat Cailin were refurbished here since the hostilities had been declared with the Iron Throne...and the rumour mill had spread extremely fantasist rumours about treasures and artefacts found in the renovations. Thus the secrecy and the intensive security measures.
I wonder if there's a finger or two of truth in these rumours...bah, I suppose I will know soon enough if there's something interesting.
Fort Despair was nearing in the shuttle's window from a tiny point to a mountain, and then as the gigantic edifice it truly was. Of a grey-black colour and decorated by a ten-meter tall direwolf head, this citadel built while House Manderly was still living in the fertile plains of the Reach was emanating an aura of darkness and intimidation. This was a fortress which had been built for the sole purpose of war, on a planet where every living thing was born to kill and slaughter in agonising pain.
The shuttle slowed down as a vast hangar bay opened and the atmospheric transport entered it to find itself in an entirely closed hangar, where decontamination procedures commenced. After near ten minutes of wait, the shuttle flew into a second hangar, this time one fully lightened and where two lines of Northern troops positioned themselves into a parade formation.
Apart from the regulars, the entire space was painted into a dull gray, with only a white emblem of the direwolf painted against the left wall.
Sometimes, I should give Lord Eddard some advice in decoration, thought the Lord of White Harbor. Not sinking to the over-decoration of the Reach is good, but a little colour is not that bad!
The one hundred plus Northerners all raised their weapons in salute when Wyman and the men and women walked down the shuttle's ramp. Noticing the men had all amused looks when they watched him, the most powerful bannersman of his sub-sector thought he should perhaps come out in a threatening black battle-armour these days to surprise the audience. The fugitive thought was banished seconds after it came, as at the other extremity of the honour guard Wyman's liege lord came. And to his right side came a hooded figure wearing a large forest-coloured robe.
Is it a Green Man? I thought the laws of the Iron Throne had petitioned for their banishment of all war affairs...my, my. Times are changing too fast for a big man like me.
Lord Eddard Stark had not changed much since the last general meeting, although perhaps the Lord of Winterfell was a bit calmer than in the last months. Then again the information transmitted by the diplomatic couriers had maybe played a part in this. Finishing his walk, Lord Wyman stopped and bent the knee in front of the eldest living Stark.
"Rise, Lord Wyman." The voice of Lord Eddard echoed in a thunderous manner in the shuttle landing area. "You have done well."
"Thank you my Lord." Affirmed the noble ruling over the most populated system of the Northern Sector, grimacing a bit as he rose, his wounds from the Trident deciding to remind themselves to him at the worst moment. A sign of his hand let two women come out of the ranks of his party. A second sign commanded the first to approach.
"Your daughter, my Lord. Joanna." Said Wyman, as the nurse gave the young girl to her father almost-paralysed by emotion.
After much reflexion during the travel, the Master of White Harbor had decided to forego in his presentation the usual 'Snow' or 'Sand' which would have come for the illegitimate union of a Northerner Lord and a Dornish Lady. First, because the babe with the curled Stark hairs and the Dayne eyes could only have been conceived at one place, namely Harrenhal. At this moment the second son of Lord Rickard had not been betrothed, and it was entirely possible his father would have granted his cadet the right to marry Lady Ashara if war had not erupted. Secondly, because the death of the aforementioned Lady was so suspicious and shrouded in mystery no good Northerner could in good conscience insult her only daughter. And third...third had been the rather vigorous propaganda campaign recently launched by the Minister of Information in the South. The one vilifying Lord Eddard for jumping in bed with every Lady of importance, a proof the bards and news said that the Bloody Wolf was thirsty of women to rape and kingdoms to plunder.
Like if their King and his lackeys are models of moderation on that regard.
"Joanna." Repeated the young Lord Paramount of the North, visibly struggling to stay dignified in all circumstances, a task easier said than done when you held one of your children in your arms. Wyman spoke from experience here. "My daughter..."
Nearly two minutes passed before Lord Eddard gave back Joanna to her nurse, a decision perhaps anticipated by the issue of the baby demanding her food. A second sign was made and the second woman advanced, revealing a younger babe with silver hairs and grey eyes.
"Your niece, my Lord. Baela."
This time, the expression was better controlled, but the pain in the eyes was even more present. Part of it, Wyman was sure, resided in the fact Lord Eddard contemplated the last inheritance of his beloved sister in the realm of the living. Another part could also lie in the fact that of the children Lady Lyanna had given birth, there was only one out of two who was back in Northern possessions today.
The Northern diplomats at the Maidenpool had really tried. Using every dirty trick in the book they had tried! Oh, yes they had tried to bring back Visenya Targaryen as obscure talks of conflict-ending clauses and hostages ransoms were negotiated. In pure loss.
Wyman had been part of the committee directing the efforts at distance - after Aerys had showed how little value his parole had, no Northern highborn was going to take Targaryen hospitality as face-value - and he had known how the other side had been adamant not to give them the custody of Lady Lyanna's eldest daughter. Which was kind of ridiculous! The Iron Throne had agreed to release Baela Targaryen after two days, and in a concerted effort Braavos had been granted the 'honour' to foster a child of the royal line. And everyone knew it was a polite manner not to pronounce the word 'hostage'.
It was utterly incomprehensible. But it had happened, and there was nothing any Northern Lord, no matter his rank, could do against it. Save reopening the hostilities, but that would create far more dangerous issues in the bargain. The scum-lickers of King's Landing had already delivered plenty of killing intent in the room when they had announced the two girls would carry the name Targaryen. Apparently, Lady Lyanna had agreed before the New Gods to marry the then-Crown Prince, thus making her his second legitimate wife. Apart from the legitimate religious issues -Princess Elia Martell had certainly been very well alive when this supposed marriage happened- the fact only two Kingsguards had been willing to write this lie was certainly telling.
It goes without saying that if Oswell Whent and Arthur Dayne are in range of our weapons, they're dead men...
"Westeros is again at peace. My daughter and my niece are back."
"Yes, my Lord."
The wood-coloured figure advanced one step to contemplate the two babes, and Wyman saw a wooden pendant around his neck, picturing the infamous carved figure of a weirwood struck by thunder.
And a Knight of Taranos, to boot. The Great Sept and the Starry Sept are going to scream...I don't think they've ever forgiven them the entrails-in-the-branches sacrifices...
"We have much to discuss."
The Great Council of Maidenpool, holding the peace talks between the rebel forces of the North, the River Sector and the Vale on one side, and the united loyalist coalition of the Reach, the Western Sector, the River Sector and the Crown on the other, was perhaps the best example of modern times how not to conduct a global negotiation.
While Galactic Targaryen News was rapid to trumpet the final peace treaty as a great success, in reality it was anything but that. The Targaryen loyalist diplomats arrived with multiple agendas at the conference, a drawback they never managed to put an end on. Under orders from their new sovereign, the Crown representatives had to do their best to recover the worlds of the River Sector under enemy occupation and abandon the idea of ransoming the highborn prisoners of war.
The Lannister diplomats had rather different objectives: as far as they were concerned, the Northerners could keep the systems-with the exception of the Twins-, but they wanted their captured armies back...and unlike the Targaryen counterparts the Westerners were prompt to respond positively when the idea of hostages and taxes increases were discussed as punitive terms for the Arryns and the Starks.
The River loyalist aristocracy wanted their systems back in a single unified sector. Not having this outcome would result in the disintegration of their personal power. The Reach changed their posture depending on Lord Mace Tyrell and his main bannersmen's whims. Little recognition was given to the Florent, Tarly and minor knights having died at the Trident System.
The Council did not wait for the arrival of Braavosi law experts to become a maze of intrigue and disputes, symbolizing everything which had turned wrong with the Kingdom of Westeros. The raid on Seagard augmented the greed of the loyalist policy-makers; the Lorathi affair in the Narrow Void saw the Iron Throne forced to swallow their ambitions in a painful manner.
Ultimately, King Rhaegar Targaryen and his allies obtained what they wanted...in appearance and at a cost they were going to discover over the next two decades. Lord Emmon Frey, Ser Leslyn Haigh, Lord Ambrose Charlton and Lord Duncan Erenford were restored in their legitimate claims. It was too bad the existing fortifications protecting their worlds had been destroyed...and that the entire economy of their systems had been infiltrated by Northern agents.
The prisoners taken in two years of civil war were returned, but the price in gold dragons was terribly heavy, the Targaryens having murdered their most valuable prisoners and the rebels being in no mood for a discount. Furthermore, official 'shortages in transport capacity' of the rebellion forced the Crown to repatriate at their own expenses the tens of thousands prisoners of war of their own armies. This process would not be completed until mid-284AAC.
The ephemeral 'marriage' between Rhaegar Targaryen and Lady Lyanna Stark was recognised, legitimizing their two daughters Baela and Visenya. To say the Stark emissaries were furious at the idea of recognising this barely-dissimulated rape was widely underestimating the truth, and it did not get better when the rebel diplomats realised they would have only the guardianship of one Princess at any time, not two. By the age of five Baela Targaryen was supposed to pass two-thirds of a year in the North and one third at King's Landing. In reverse, Visenya Targaryen would pass eight months in the capital system and four at Winterfell. Needless to say, one party chose never to respect its word...
The Braavosi increased significantly their taxes for goods coming from Targaryen-loyalist systems. Embargoes in certain critical military technologies were put in place, and Princess Daenerys Targaryen was to be fostered at Braavos.
In definitive, Maidenpool represented an absolute failure of the Targaryen dynasty to recognise their debilitating internal issues and deal with them in an efficient fashion. By the end of 283AAC, the man sitting on the Iron Throne had successfully alienated the North, Dorne, the great Lords of the Vale, over half of the River Sector, major planets of the Storm Sector and his reputation was plummeting in the abyss where the Essossi were concerned.
The Storm Sector and the River Systems having already capitulated were not proposed the relatively generous terms of Maidenpool, and the economic consequences would pursue every Westerosi House long after their current lords' demise.
If the Greyjoy Rebellion hadn't happened, it was likely Westeros would not have survived ten years. As it was, the kingdom stayed in one piece, but the short-term future would show very little reasons to rejoice...
From The Night is coming by Samwell Tarly, 340AAC.
Lord Rodrik Harlaw, 01.01.284AAC, Pyke System
They had called him the Reader, like it was an insult and a motive of scorn. How little intelligence they had. By despising knowledge, they revelled in their colossal stupidity. Those after all who fail to learn from the past are condemned to repeat it over and over again, and in this area no one was more iron-headed than a reaver of the Iron Sector.
Lord Rodrik saw the crowd of warriors massing at the base of the Pyke citadel under a dark sky. There was no order in this mob. Some of the men had come in their civilian clothes, other in battle-armours Mark 15 while a minority wore the regular dark blue uniform of the Iron Sector navy. A Lannister or any other Noble House's formal ceremony would have been in ordered lines, neat columns. Not so much here.
In the shadows of the dark and ancient fortress, the Ironborn were an unruly mass, which was further emphasized by their screams and shouts. There was no city watch or any order service. After this afternoon, no doubt there would be plenty of looted stores and raided buildings.
See, Quellon. See how long your reforms lasted after your death.
Knowing what he knew now, Rodrik figured that his father allowing his sister to marry Quellon's son had been one of the biggest mistakes House Harlaw had ever made.
The screams mounted higher when the new Lord of Pyke came on a balcony overseeing the ecstatic crowd. The captains, officers and reavers of all kind celebrated the ascension of their new warlord with all the fury and joy in their dark hearts.
"BALON! BALON! BALON!"
"THE TIME OF THE OLD WAY HAS COME AGAIN!" Screamed Rodrik's brother-in-law in a shout momentarily covering the sounds of his audience. "THE ONLY PRICE AN IRONBORN WILL EVER PAY A GREENLANDER IS THE IRON PRICE!"
"BALON! BALON!"
"THE DRAGONS HAVE BECOME WEAK! WE WILL REARM AND THEN WE WILL TEACH THEM THE FEAR OF THE VOID GOD!"
"IN THE VOID GOD NAME!" Replied the frenzied mass of reavers and pirates.
"WHAT IS DEAD-" Started the eldest son of Quellon.
"MAY NEVER DIE, BUT RISES AGAIN HARDER AND STRONGER!" The tirade was so powerful that coupled with the heavy slamming of the boots on the ground, it sounded like a mini-earthquake.
No, though the Lord and Master of Harlaw. If you are ejected in the void, you die. If someone cuts your head and desecrate your corpse, you die. But try to convince this band of morons of that...
The recent death of Quellon was an unfortunate event in the great game.
The Game of Thrones. Best not to forget that.
With the obvious weakness shown in the Rebellion when four Great Houses rose against them, the Targaryens were going to be desperate to maintain some aspect of strength and unity. The Iron Throne was going to search for something to rally the banners. To prove one single realm was better than eight or nine disparate ones.
And Balon Greyjoy was going to give Westeros a very powerful reason indeed to be united.
May the Seven have mercy on us, because the Void God won't.
