Captain Aubray Hill stood at the starboard railing of his warship, the Spear of the Rock. There was no moon in the sky, and the faint reflections of the stars bounced from the gentle circular course to the north of King's Landing, part of the northern squadron of the Royal Fleet. The other squadron guarded Blackwater Bay. To the south sailed part of the Redwyne Fleet, though nothing would be coming in their direction from Dragonstone and the remnants of Lord Stannis's navy.
He shuddered as he remembered the story of what had happened the Baratheon Fleet at the Blackwater and, though he would have wished it on his enemies rather than his allies, he would not have wished Wildfire on either. It was no way for a sailor to die.
Hill had worked his way from scrubbing decks twenty years ago – he had never known his father, and it was the only type of work he could find in Lannisport – to Captain of the one of the finest warships in the Lannister Fleet. Now the much-diminished Royal Fleet, of course, since Stannis had taken the bulk of the captains and ships with him when he had fled to Dragonstone, more than one hundred ships. Fully half of them were now beneath the waves of Blackwater Bay, and many of the rest were badly in need of repairs – he and his fellow Lannister captains had harried them mercilessly during their retreat from the capital. He had received ten dragons from Kevan Lannister for his efforts that terrible night, and a nod of appreciation. Somehow, the gold would have been more valuable to him had it come from Tywin. He had kept three for himself, and given the rest to his wife in Lannisport.
He sighed, closing his eyes and inhaling deeply the scent of the calm sea and the summer breeze from the south.
He was about to call to his bosun, who was at the tiller, to routinely enquire whether anything could be seen, though could see well himself that there was nothing, when he felt something gently impact the port side of the ship. It was little more than a tip but, for a man who had spent two decades at sea, it was enough to pique his curiosity.
He moved to the far side of the ship but, before he could take more than two steps, a man – something shaped like a man, but dressed in clothing blacker than night with two glowing green eyes and no face visible – vaulted the railed and clubbed him directly into the chin with something hard and metallic. He fell to the deck with a quiet groan, and felt himself immediately being roughly turned over and, before he could even shout, his arms were quickly bound, one to the other in way he could not understand.
Despite the danger, and the sound of more men mounting the rail, he shouted an incoherent warning at his bosun, who turned and reached for his dagger –
- then dropped to the deck as one of the man things levelled a club at him, from which two strings erupted silently, hitting the man dead centre. He flopped on the deck like a dying fish on a hook.
Two other men moved then, pulling their daggers – most men were below in their hammocks, but the man things levelled their clubs, and thunder erupted from them, driving both men to the ground with groans as they clutched their chests, though he could not see blood.
One of the man things made straight for the hatch, removed two cylindrical objects from its belt, ripped something from them, and threw them into the hold below where the men were mostly sleeping. As the three on the deck were secured in a similar manner as he had been, men began to stumble through a haze of fireless smoke from the hold. Each one was incapacitated as easily as the other three had been, mostly with quick blows to the side of the head, some with more roars of thunder. They were all bound to the rear and left face down on the deck, some groaning with pain, most silent.
The entire affair had lasted less than three minutes.
He struggled awkwardly to his knees, then managed to stand on shaking legs, though he could not free his arms. One of the man things turned lazily in his direction, holding its club, though pointed at the deck rather than at him, thankfully.
'What are you?' he hissed in a voice that struggled to hide his terror. The green glows where eyes should have been unnerved him, though he was more than aware that, as far as he could tell, none of his men had been seriously harmed, except maybe his bosun, who now was merely groaning in pain.
The man thing lifted its arm, and removed the mask it had been wearing, pulling down a scarf from its lower face.
It was quite human, though the man had the hard face of a soldier. 'Ne bouge pas, mec,' he said in a surprisingly soft voice, though the accent of whatever language he was speaking was guttural and unpleasant.
More men came up behind Hill then, but at least they were … normal.
Even if they were Stormlanders and Dragonstone men, one of whom he recognised with a snarl as he bucked against his unyielding restraints.
'Coffer,' he snarled at the captain who had sank his ship during one of the early skirmishes of this damned war. He was one of Stannis' loyal men, who had gone with him with his ship to Dragonstone, a veteran of the Ironborn rebellion, beside Stannis when the Baratheon had ruptured Victarion's line and drove the Ironborn against the rocks. He hated few men, but he despised the Baratheon Captain. 'You fucking traitor. You think taking my ship will make a difference to this?'
Coffer, a man in his forties with a narrow, scarred face, returned his look maliciously. 'No,' he replied smugly. 'But my Lord Stannis' fleet is perhaps an hour away to the east, and this is not the only ship we have taken. I think that might make a difference.'
It took less than forty-five minutes to seize all 37 ships of the northern squadron, disarm, restrain and then replace the crews. The drones had pinpointed the locations of the ships precisely; the ten man squads had done their jobs perfectly. Not one life had been taken.
Behind them, Stannis' fleet, from which the speedboats had launched, sailed in absolute quiet, under the cover of a moonless night. The only noise was the soft hum of the outboard motors which assisted the barges being towed by the ships, holding one hundred VAB armoured personnel carriers, and ten Tigers.
The sea remained calm and co-operative in its dark stillness.
Stannis stood at the forecastle of his flagship, Baratheon's Revenge. When he had built it, he remembered Robert wondering to him in his cups for what it was he wanted revenge.
'There is always someone against whom we can avenge ourselves, brother,' he had replied grimly, turning away from his drunk fool of a King.
He stared into the dark night, as he so often in the days following his bitter retreat from the Blackwater and the cursed Imp's trick. No, he told himself. It was not the Imp, not really, he alone could not have stopped me. I would raise a glass to Tyrion, he did his duty. It was Tywin and the damned Tyrells.
There was always someone against whom he could avenge himself.
Leclerc and DuPris stood beside him, with one of the orphans of Dragonstone who had revealed an uncanny command of language; Davos was on one of the other ships. And his daughter was with him – his beautiful, unmarred daughter. He suspected that he would never have been able to take her had she not been cured of the Greyscale – not because he would have been ashamed, for he had never been ashamed. No, it was the cure for the Greyscale which had made Melisandre leave Dragonstone, murmuring something about the flames taking her north, which left his wife in such a flood of absence-fuelled grief that she had shut herself away and barely said a word when he had informed her that he was taking Shireen with him. It was as well, he thought coldly to himself. There had never been any real affection between them, and when he looked at her it reminded him of the one time he had failed in his duty.
He would not do so again, so his heir – and translator, for she had become most proficient in the language of the foreigners – stood beside him. The wind blew in her hair, tied back from her face in a black braid, and she wore chain armour suited for her size. He had even begun, at her request, to train her in the use of a sword and, while clumsy as all beginners were, she showed promise. She was also, DuPris had informed him, very proficient with the use of these rifles.
He had been afforded the opportunity of their use and practice, too, and found them both barbaric and terrifyingly useful. To kill a man with a sword was honourable; to kill a man from a distance he could barely detect was efficient. And frightening.
Beside him, DuPris' thoughts were heading in a dozen different directions. She did not doubt the soundness of the plan, but it had been put together so quickly and with such little margin for error that so many minor things could go wrong as to derail everything. Stannis had pressed hard for a full demonstration of their power, saying that only such a thing would cow such a man as Tywin Lannister, but it had been Davos who pointed out that Tywin's power was not absolute, that it depended on a coalition of shifting interests who had little to bind themselves together save the first imperative of survival and the second of power. Prove that either could be snatched away easily, and that coalition would shatter. And the best way to prove that was not kill a man, but to persuade him that you could do much worse. Reluctantly, Stannis had acceded, though he had not understood this peculiar squeamishness on the part of these obviously hardened soldiers to take lives until Leclerc had explained it him in the simplest terms imaginable.
'Could a child, helpless in its crib, defend itself against your sword, Lord Stannis?' the colonel had asked him one morning as they were overseeing the laying of the metalled road from the portal to the road being built to the harbour at Dragonstone. 'And would you kill one?'
'Of course not,' Stannis had ground out his reply. 'What threat could a child ever be to me?'
Leclerc had smiled faintly. 'My soldiers feel the same way and, against them, your soldiers have about as much power as a baby would against you. They will kill only when they need to, and as yet we see no need.'
DuPris had known that she could easily have destroyed the ships standing watch to the north of the capital – a couple of RPGs into their hull would sink them – but it was killing pointlessly and, more, it was a waste. They needed as many of these sailing ships as they could get to ferry supplies to the mainland, for she was sure that, even with the capital taken, this would not mean the end of this war these people were fighting with such frenzied, desperate viciousness. It was war on an eighteenth century scale using thirteenth century technology, she had realised, which was not an ideal combination, though at least it had yet to reach a Napoleonic level of devastation or devotion.
Their gamble was being taken without the use of any logistical tail; they had loaded the APCs to their maximum capacity, the Tigers too, but she knew that it would only be enough for a trip to and back from the capital, that they could engage in no manoeuvre, that it was a simple show of strength which, they hoped, would be enough to cow the Lords of the city to quick and painless submission. Behind her, she knew that Stannis had gathered all his remaining infantry and cavalry, save for a small garrison he had left at Dragonstone. More than twenty thousand men were crammed into the ships behind and the hold below, placing enormous strain on the sails of the ships, which were also towing the APCs and helicopters to conserve fuel. They had also brought the fleet perilously close to the enemy fleet. She had mortars mounted on the prow of every ship in the van, and soldiers to operate them, as well as others with RPGs waiting to use them if need be, but it was not something she desired.
She prayed the squads did their jobs well, and avoided casualties, using only impact rounds and Tasers rather than live ammunition, but she also prayed that they did their jobs quickly. They could not afford the enemy squadron being able to warn the other naval detachments of an invasion being conducted in the dead of night straight through the teeth of their defensive ring.
All we have to do is land the barges and offload the ships, she repeated to herself, over and over again. Get them ashore, the job is half done.
Well, that job would be half done. The job of evacuation …
She was glad that Leclerc was looking after that, because the logistics alone would have given her a headache. 700,000 hungry people being ferried into a world for which were not prepared without any modern infrastructure for a minimum of three years … she did not envy him either his task or the abilities that fitted him so well for it.
To distract herself, she began a conversation with a man of whom she had learned turned glum taciturnity into a form of stoic art. 'Your daughter is very beautiful, Lord Stannis,' she said to him, thinking of nothing else which she could say. 'The removal of the scar tissue must be of some relief to you and to her mother.'
Stannis grunted in reply. Leclerc smirked beside her and she was about to despair of the anything even approaching the dregs of a conversation when, surprisingly, he volunteered the beginnings of one. 'I have no idea what her mother thinks, anymore,' he said harshly. 'My marriage to my wife has been less than satisfactory for either of us. As for myself, I had despaired of a marriage for my daughter to a man suitable to her station, though I no longer do.' He seemed to reach for the blushing Shireen with his right hand, then controlled himself, placing his left on the pommel of his sword.
'You do not let your children choose their own spouses?' she said curiously, though she realised that she should have known better. In a world where property was the only real form of wealth, marriage was far too serious to be left the random desire.
'Only the smallfolk in Westeros have that luxury, for they have very little to lose,' he replied. 'The Game of Thrones is built on alliances, and marriage is the best way to solidify one. Some allow their second or third sons to choose, but I would not. My brother allowed me ne choice in my marriage. Unless I die before my daughter is betrothed, she will marry the man I choose. That is how things are.' He looked at her. 'Your father will have no say in who you marry?' he asked curiously.
'My father is dead some years,' she replied softly, the grief still strong. 'My mother died more recently, of the Dead Plague. And even were they alive, no, they would have no say. Our society was very much like yours some two hundred years ago, but with the advent of industrialisation, wealth moved from being something of the land to something more nebulous. Marriages among people in my culture are made willingly between the spouses themselves.'
'What is "industrialisation"?' Shireen asked curiously. DuPris had used the French word in Westerosi, because they had no equivalent.
Leclerc smiled at her as, in the far distance, they could see the lights of the royal squadron. 'I imagine you will find out within your lifetime, my dear,' he informed her, thinking to himself. He already had qualified personnel looking for oil; none had been found on Dragonstone, though it had no shortage of coal. He smiled to himself, imagining the belching chimneys of factory towns rising from the plains of the Seven Kingdoms, St. Etienne on the Blackwater rather than the Loire. Progress has its price. He lit a cigarette.
'What is that?' Stannis demanded.
The 37 ships of the northern squadron of the Royal Fleet now flew the Baratheon banner. Prisoners had been transferred to the Baratheon ships, and the skeleton crews who had accompanied the French soldiers had been ordered the return to Dragonstone to pick up more troops, horses and supplies. Finally, we will have something on which to fall back if this goes wrong, DuPris thought as her heart beat faster upon the approach of the shore.
The ships laid anchor, and the barges were unmoored from the hulls, relying on their motors to get them ashore. They were nearly out of diesel, she knew, but it had been enough. The barges moved through the darkness and beached, the APCs starting their engines with a roar that shook the silence of the shore near the town of Rosby, though they had no plans to go anywhere near it.
One of the Tigers, the one with the recording that they had spent two hours persuading Stannis to make, took off immediately, the whir of its blades blowing sand and clay into the faces of those observed, most of whom either swallowed deeply or prayed to the Seven that such things were on their side rather than that of their enemy's. It moved rapidly in the direction of King's Landing, disappearing into the darkness which, with the night vision technology which had so disturbed the Westerosi when it had been demonstrated to them, mattered to its crew not at all. She had promised to send Tigers after the Lion; in the end, she had sent one.
Behind them, the Stormlanders and Dragonstone men climbed aboard the boats to ferry them to the shore, their horses whinnying at the uncomfortable displeasure of the chore, though as trained mounts, they obeyed their masters. It would take time, they all knew, to unload all the troops and have them mustered in formation to move behind the APCs, time they knew that they had, but that they did not want to waste. King's Landing awaited, and it was ripe.
It had been agreed that Ser Justin Massey would command the Stormlander and Dragonstone hoste, following behind the advance guard of the APCs and Tigers, who would move on ahead. Stannis, Davos and Shireen would accompany the French in their armoured cars, in the main command vehicle. Though Leclerc outranked her, it had also been agreed that DuPris would have operational command, as she had the most combat experience. Leclerc was already too invested in the logistics of moving his people, and was not an egotistical man, in any case. He was happy to defer to experience, if not rank, in a situation as unique as this one.
The APCs thundered across the plain, the nine Tigers above them. It was scarcely 90 kilometres from the landing zone to the capital, and they moved at a sedate 40 kmph, partly to conserve fuel, which they knew they might need, and partly to give the infantry and cavalry at least a small chance to keep pace. When they met the tenth Tiger, during the early hours of the morning, they stopped for some hours to allow the marching hoste behind to catch up.
They were scarcely 16km from King's Landing.
Stannis emerged from the vehicle in which he had been travelling with his Hand and his daughter, his legs shaking slightly, as a result both of the speed at which they had been travelling for the last two hours and the assurances that it was nowhere near as fast as could be travelled, either in this vehicle or others whose acquaintance he was assured that he would make. Davos was similarly stunned, though Shireen was beaming with excitement as her father helped her down, her small sword to her left side, her pistol to her right. Davos also carried one, but for the moment, Stannis refused. It was right that his daughter, his heir, should have all the protection possible, and Davos could not wield a sword, but as yet he no need for he himself to do so. He had been advised against taking his daughter, but she was his heir, the next Queen of the Seven Kingdoms; he would ram down throats if they did not open for the bitter water of necessity's truth. She needed battle experience, and she would get it.
The high walls of King's Landing, against which he had desperately, and futilely, thrown half his army, loomed in the distance, the Red Keep visible above them. There was an army at the base of the walls, flying Lannister colours, Stannis saw, and he also saw them mustering.
He was standing beside DuPris, Davos and Shireen. 'What do you see?' he asked his daughter.
She peered into the distance, though they were close enough not to need a Far-Eye, and a child's vision was superior to that of an adult. 'They are mustering, Father,' she replied clearly. 'The infantry is moving to shield the archers, and the cavalry is moving to the flanks. It is a classic offensive formation; they probably believe that, because we are outnumbered, we will retreat.' She set herself with a confidence she would not have felt mere months before. 'We will not retreat, Father. Our allies are too powerful.'
He nodded faint approval, proud in a way he could never properly express. He could see DuPris smiling slightly beside him, also in approval at the quick intelligence of the young girl.
The Lannister army began to move beneath the walls, slowly. 'What would you do now?' he asked her.
She thought to herself, listing quickly the assets at Baratheeon command, from the troops following closely behind to the untested – and so far untestable – abilities of their allies. 'I would order the aircraft to move,' she used the French word easily, 'and show the Lannisters of what they are capable.' She thought to herself again. 'If the stories we have been told are to be believed, then they can demonstrate their power against the earth without shedding blood. We may need these soldiers when we move against the Tyrells and the North. It would be senseless to massacre them.' She held to the pommel of her shortsword, very much the warrior in self-belief if not yet in experience and never in station, though her father was beginning to disagree with the last. She looked up at him. 'Send the Tigers, father. Order a volley into the ground not fifty yards in front of them. If that gives them no pause, we still have other options.'
Stannis agreed completely with his daughter, and looked to DuPris. She grinned, and gave the order in rapid French to the captain commanding the Tiger detachment. She was beginning to like these Baratheons.
The Tigers did their job, rising from behind the APCs and firing a volley of rockets into the earth in front of the Lannister line. The line bulged inwards as the men, trained though they were, pulled back from the firestorm to which they had been forced to bear witness. Yet it stabilised, and moved forward slowly. Stannis doubted that Tywin was in direct command, but he knew these men had been trained by the Old Lion, and they would not be cowed, even by such a demonstration. Their officers would not allow it. There are no bad soldiers, DuPris had told him. Only bad officers, so said the Emperor.
'Arrows next, Father,' Shireen informed him seriously, as though he had not thought of it, but he smiled inwardly if he could not externally. 'They will approach and launch a volley. This will not affect the APCs. We should retreat inside and let them bounce. Let them see the futility of their efforts.'
'I agree,' DuPris interjected, and gave the order, which was repeated by tannoy. The troops moved smoothly back inside the APCs, as the arrows which were inevitably launched bounced harmlessly from the steel and hardened glass.
They were seated in the command vehicle as they heard the impact of the volley, like rainwater against a window, for all the impact it could have made. 7.62mm NATO rounds would have made as little difference, DuPris thought as they huddled in the cramped space of the command APC. She grinned, carelessly. Stannis showed no reaction, nor would he, but his daughter was a different animal, fervent and eager. 'What next, Princess?' she asked, genuinely curious. She saw in the girl a great deal of herself, though the girl would never attend St. Cyr. We must establish an equivalent, she realised. Once we have retrieved all of our knowledge and transferred it.
Stannis was about to speak, but his daughter forestalled him. 'Give them a volley from the cannon above,' she grinned ferally. 'But don't hit the soldiers. Let them realise against what army they march.'
DuPris grinned, too, and gave the order.
The Lannister forces stopped in their tracks. For all of the urging of their officers, they would not move against a firestorm, nor could even Stannis blame them. For all his devotion to duty, even he would not insist that his men move into the teeth of such fire.
'The Stormlanders!' ' came a shout from behind as the banners advanced. Fully twenty thousand armed and armoured veterans of the Blackwater had caught up.
A white flag waved from the battlements, and Shireen grinned again as she and her father emerged from the APC.
They had won the day.