Book 4 - The Old, The True, The Brave
Olenna X
Olenna checked the face of the page delivering her refreshments and recognised him as one of the Rowan boys. Ever since Tywin Lannister's death four years ago everyone had made a point of bringing their own pages and checking who they accepted food from. It would take a long time to forget the Lion of Casterly Rock dying over weeks, surrounded by the great and occasionally even the good of all of Westeros.
"The Easterland stands are more crowded this year," noted Margaery from her seat beside her grandmother.
"Yes. It seems that more of the Stormland lords and knights are attending. Renly's marriage didn't please many of them."
"Because they wanted him to marry one of their daughters?"
"That and because they're no fonder of the Dornish than our southern lords are." Olenna sipped from her glass. The juice of fruits normally imported from the Summer Isle, although in this case they came from a glass garden near Storm's End. "Of course, now Cassana is old enough for an engagement to be discussed they have more interest in reminding him of their loyalty."
Below them more than two score knights were forming up in a circle for the melee. Colours from dozens of Houses were present, as well as the plainer colours of hedge knights and even the occasional sellsword. Two knights, wearing the colours of House Tyrell and House Tully raised their weapons in salute towards the Tyrell box.
Margaery waved back although it wasn't clear if it was to her brother or to her betrothed.
"Hmm. If he takes an injury that might set back the marriage."
The girl rolled her eyes. "Then his father and my father will make his life one of hell. King Robert might do the same, he seems quite pleased by the match."
"It's no deep love of either of our houses," Olenna told her. She hadn't spent enough time with her grand-daughter to be sure if she had more sense than her mother. Alerie Hightower wasn't notably any more sensible than her husband. "It's more a desperation to have Edmure marry someone - anyone - and continue the Tully line. Autumn isn't upon us yet but it can't be far off so he'd prefer not to have one of the most fertile kingdoms fall into civil war."
"Are the Riverlands that unstable?"
"Hoster Tully barely has heir and spare within the Tully name. The Blackfish is part of the Royal Guards and likely to remain that way, so no successors there. If Edmure doesn't put children in your belly, the next in succession to Riverrun will be the Starks. Young Robb Stark has the Tully looks but none of Catelyn's children are known in the Riverlands. Meanwhile, Walder Frey is ambitious and disliked, Tytos Blackwood remembers that his ancestors ruled the rivers and Jonos Bracken would die before he bends the knee to a Blackwood. Jason Mallister's position is rising with the western sea trade, but for that reason the Freys consider him a threat."
Margaery smiled. "It sounds just like the Reach."
"In all the bad ways. The Tullys need a strong hand as Hoster grows older. Edmure doesn't show promise in that area."
Another horn blew and the warriors in the arena shouted as they fell on each other. Foolishness, but a very common one. Olenna's eyes were no longer as sharp as they had once been but she could see that Loras and Edmure were fighting back to back. "Well, he recognises an alliance has merit. How many of those fighting alone remain, girl?"
"Few," Margaery admitted. "Oh! Ronnet Connington is down."
"Fool boy. Domeric Bolton dominated the jousts so Connington thinks he has to excel in the melee. Young Mya will have words for him on that topic."
"I like her, although she's rather blunt."
"Honesty isn't always a virtue. But she has sense, yes. Down at Griffin's Roost she'll do well. Cultivate Bella first though, she's better suited as a friend at court. Domeric Bolton would rise on his father's patronage even if he wasn't making his name in the joust. They'll be a formidable couple."
"Won't they be returning to the North?"
"There's no jousting in the North and little politics. No, I see them as staying south. The Dreadfort is a dreary place and the Boltons have few allies north of the Neck."
There was an outcry below and Olenna saw that Margaery's goodbrother had fallen to a fighter wearing the suns and crescents of Tarth. Loras had defeated his own foe but now he and the Tarth warrior were the only ones still standing. Both were weary and it showed as Loras' axe and his opponent's morning-star were swung with more abandon than art.
"Loras," hissed Margaery. "Up, Highgarden!" she called down to the two, voice lost amongt the others. "Who is he fighting? I thought Lord Tarth had no sons."
"He has a daughter," Olenna replied thoughtfully. "Little courted for all the wealth of Evenstar Hall. Another dynastic problem for His Grace, since the Tarths are significant - and loyal - bannermen."
There was a crash from below as the two knights collided and, weapons dropped either accidentally or on purpose, began to grapple with each other. Tabards tore and were rubbed in the dust until one, at last, managed to wrestle the other's visor open and...
There was a pained noise and the apparent victor rolled over, dropping the dagger he'd been about to menace his opponent with. Struggling upright, the fallen knight - the Tarth - planted a firm kick to Loras' helmet before a herald rushed out and pulled them away.
"But Loras had him! Uh, her?" Margaery said.
The arena's maester - a permanent appointment - was already heading efforts to recover and treat the other fallen but two stretcher-bearers began helping Loras off the sand.
"I'm hardly an armsmaster, Margaery. If I had to guess, I suppose some of his armour came loose in that rolling around they did." She smirked. "That might be the closest Brienne of Tarth has ever come to having a man in her bed."
Then trumpets rang out and the arena went quiet, audience all turning towards the royal box. Wearing his crown, Robert Baratheon stepped out onto the sand. It wasn't unexpected for him to do this for only three of the seven open places had been decided thus far, but the question was... who had he come for? He did not always select the victor in these contests, for martial excellence alone was not enough to catch his eye.
"Surely not?" murmured Margaery. "A woman."
"Talent," Olenna said crushingly, "Is where you find it."
The girl flushed.
Yet in the end she was somewhat vindicated, for the king had not come for one but two. Before the eyes of tens of thousands, including many of the greatest lords in Westeros, Brienne of Tarth and Loras Tyrell knelt (with a wince by Loras) and pledged themselves to seven years of service in the Royal Guards of House Baratheon.
Stannis XV
Until a few years ago, Stannis wouldn't have believed how much his chair in the Small Council chamber made his back and rear hurt. Not because it was uncomfortable - Robert had spent significant amounts of gold on having the most comfortable seats possible in Stag Tower - but because he spent so much time here in the chair.
He'd been part of the Small Council for almost half his life. But as Master of Ships, of Coins and of Law he'd had responsibilities that took him away. Now, if he wasn't meeting with the Small Council or the King, he was meeting someone else... or reading letters.
So many letters and about so little.
Why would anyone write letters about such trivialities?
It was the icing on the cake that Robert, it turned out, read faster than he did. When he was in the Crown, Robert read almost everything he did, and it took him much less time. If it wasn't for his miserable handwriting, Stannis wouldn't have believed him to be the same boy who had to be all but beaten to attend letters with the Maester.
"While the reports from the rangers indicate Wildling numbers are higher than at any point in recorded memory, there hasn't been any sign that they're massing for an attempt to storm the wall." Mance Rayder had fit into the court like a hand into a glove, which made Stannis suspicious. How did a wildling-born raised at the Wall become such a courtier? Aemma had told him that irresponsible young women were even likening his music to Rhaegar Targaryen's harp-playing.
"On some levels a lack of invasion is satisfying." Robert didn't seem to have his heart in that statement. Then again, if there was an invasion, then he'd have an excuse to run off North to his friend Ned and break heads with his hammer. "On the other, we've already had to stop an impromptu melee between the Reachmen and the Westerlanders from turning into a petty war. I think the boys are getting bored up there."
"It would not be regrettable if the Wildlings were to make an attack."
"It's almost as if they don't want to be slaughtered for your convenience," Mance told Lord Bolton.
The Master of Laws nodded in his quiet way. "Indeed."
"We don't have the information to know what's happening there." Olenna Tyrell seemed to find the disagreement amusing. "If the maps of the far north are correct then rangings have only covered a small portion of it. The forests could hide an immense army easily." She unrolled a map. "And we have almost no idea what could be happening in the Frostfangs or the lands west of them."
"No one who goes there returns."
"A suspicious fact," she replied.
"Then a new ranging is in order," Stannis noted. "Cool some of the heads on the Wall by marching them further north. The Milkwater is a considerable river. Could we send ships up it, Ser Davos?"
"I've never been there myself but smaller ships, perhaps."
"Let's take the opportunity to map the river then, decent charts could save us a lot of trouble if for any reason we ever need to send ships up there more seriously. Ask for volunteers from the wall and..." Robert looked over at Mance. "I'd like you to go with them. I'll send Lord Commander Mormont a letter asking for some rangers to act as guides. I have some ideas how we can make use of the Wildling numbers - even if they aren't going to throw themselves on the obsidian daggers I've been sending north."
Mance looked grim at the thought. Stannis could almost sympathise. Robert's description of the wall was enough to make his own blood run cold. But if Mance didn't want to spend the rest of his life there he shouldn't have taken the oath. "I have to wonder what you have in mind there. The wildlings tend to hold those south of the Wall in contempt."
Robert looked around the chamber. "This is something I'm only going to share with those who need to know. Mance will be allowed to disclose it in the course of his mission and all others only when it's absolutely necessary. And I will make that decision, not you. Even now I'm going to tell you the bare minimum."
He waited until there were nods. It wasn't the first time Robert had declared something would be shared only with those who he felt needed to know. Olenna Tyrell had supported the idea and even Stafford Lannister would grudgingly admit that it was an effective way of keeping secrets from being circulated: no one could tell what they didn't need to know.
"I suspect that the more sensible wildling leaders have realised that next winter is likely to be brutal. We could be looking at ten years before spring... and there's still no sign of autumn!" Robert sat back. "I'm therefore going to offer such leaders transport with their people to more southerly lands."
Roose Bolton blinked. "Where, precisely?"
The king smiled. "That's need to know, Lord Bolton. I assure you, I will tell you when you need to know. But this is not something that can be known ahead of time. Every lord in the North and half the lords south of the Neck would be convinced I was going to foist the Wildlings on them."
Stannis cleared his throat. "I appreciate that you may have a masterstroke in mind, but as the Hand..."
Robert nodded. "Quite right. If anything happens to me, you'll need to know enough to carry on." He looked around the table. "If there's no other business today, I'll brief my brother and Mance in private."
As Stannis watched the others leave he realised he'd condemned himself to more time sat down in a meeting. At least it wasn't a letter.
Viserys X
The Windblown were marching. Viserys could feel the sun against his back, through his cloak and through his armour. He'd loosened the ties of his wargear as far as he dared. Not that he expected attack, they marched away from war not towards it, but carelessness could kill and the Tattered Prince kept close discipline.
The Usurper would have done the same. He might have made a good sellsword captain. Viserys thought it might have been better for House Targaryen if he had done that. Better for all others...? He shrugged. Here in Essos his name was recognised for three things: dragons, Westeros and the madness of his father.
He'd been to Volantis with the Windblown and his ancestry was recognised to let him into the Inner City, where only those with the blood of Valyria were allowed... where he was mocked as scion of a fallen house. A lineage tainted by outsider blood. His Blackwood great-grandmother. His Dayne great-grandmother. His Martell great-great-grandmother.
Aerys' madness they blamed on that blood. And also the death of Aerys' grandfather at Summerhall, in fire with his elder son and many others. Impurity, they said.
House Targaryen had ruled a continent, while the Volanteans lurked in their city ward!
Ah, they had said. But what do you rule now?
If he hadn't spent years choking down his anger in the face of the Usurper, he thought he might have killed every one of them he could reach. And then he would have died and with him all hopes for House Targaryen. So he had laughed. 'Do not judge a man until all his deeds are done', he had said and walked away.
Another horse jostled against his and stirred him back to the road.
"Thinking dark thoughts?" asked Bronn. The lowborn swordsman had been with the company longer than Viserys and alone of the Tattered Prince's lieutenants he hadn't shown resentment at the swift rise of the newcomer. That might be one of the reasons that he was perhaps the only man granted more responsibility in the company than Viserys. The other reasons were his resourcefulness, his sanguine temprement and his deadly sword arm.
"Volantis."
"Ah. A very wealthy city. They paid us well."
"We served them well."
"Aye. And now we ride away, those of us who aren't walking."
"The romance of the road," Viserys said and as both men laughed, he lifted his wineskin from where it hung off his saddlebow. He offered it to Bronn first, who took a measured swig before returning it.
"Better not drink too much," the older man warned. "It's a long road up the Rhoyne to Braavos."
"Is that where we're going?" Their commander had been cagey about the new contract, although he'd paid the men in full so they were ready enough to follow him north.
"The company coffers had an infusion of fresh coin." Bronn tapped his nose. "The silver's the usual mix - coins minted everywhere from Qohor to King's Landing - but the gold... the gold has the Sealord's face. Ferrego Antaryon's face so it's been minted in the last few years. Who else has that much Braavosi gold?"
"Anyone who took a loan from the Iron Bank?" suggested Viserys. Although it was a fair point. The Iron Bank had currency from half the world and generally loaned out coin approrpriate to wherever the borrower would be spending them. It cut down arguements about the weighting and exact value of the coin loaned.
Bronn chuckled. "Well, I doubt we'll be heading across the Narrow Sea to fortify the wall, although your cousin seems to be hiring sellswords where he can to bolster the numbers there."
Viserys shook his head. "I can't see him getting much interest in that. I never went further north than the Neck and that was bad enough. The rest of the North must be worse."
"The Company of the Rose got an offer but it seems to mostly be individuals rather than entire companies taking him up on the offer."
"Don't tell me that the Company went back to the North?"
"No, they turned it down. I think Norvos made a better offer."
Viserys nodded. They'd fought alongside the Company of the Rose once and he'd gone drinking with a few of their men. It had been almost three hundred years now since their ancestors had left Westeros rather than follow Torrhen Stark's example in bending the knee to Aegon the Conquerer. Even now, some of them had been unwilling to drink with a descendant of Aegon.
"He's probably having trouble getting the lords to send their sons up north, even if it's just for a year or two. The first year or two after his Great Council it might have worked, but no Wilding invasion has appeared and now it looks more like hostage taking. Who would dare cause trouble if a good portion of their sons and sworn-swords are at the far end of Westeros and surrounded by men of the other kingdoms?"
"Aye, that's clever. Banking up trouble for another day."
"He is clever, which is why it surprises me. That and Renly's marriage. Too many of Robert's kin are wed to those he's swaying to his side and not enough to those who already supported him." Viserys realised he was still holding the wine and secured it to his saddle again.
"Well that's good for you. Remember me when you're back on your family's throne."
"My family's throne is several dozen breastplates now." He shot Bronn a tight smile. "But I promise to remember my good friend Bronn, drinker of my wine and... what else have you done for me lately?"
"Shown you where you were over-extending your sword-arm?"
Viserys glared at him and rubbed the arm in question. "Thank you for reminding me."
Barristan VII
Barristan had visited the Wall a few years ago, with the first Northern levy to reinforce the forts. He'd never looked at the Wall from this angle though.
The Milkwater flowed into the Bay of Ice through a deep gorge that anchored the western end of the Wall. The Shadow Tower, one of the few forts that hadn't been abandoned by the Night's Watch, looked down on the gorge but there was one more fort to the west, linked to the Wall by a terrifyingly high and narrow bridge.
Westwatch-by-the-Bridge was manned entirely by the King's Men and its quays were busier than they had been in years, a dozen Ironborn-styled longships gathered to carry the ranging north. The vessels' shallow keels would be an asset in the river-waters.
"You can't think that you can get a ship this size up the river," Mance remonstrated.
Tyrion Lannister, wrapped in a fine and very warm looking cloak, laughed. "I have a keen eye for heights and depths, Master Ranger. The Silence is my treasure and I don't want to wreck her. There are two longships here that belong to House Lannister and I'll be taking command of one."
Barristan tugged on his own cloak. The years had winnowed away flesh from his frame, enough that he could get another layer of stout wool beneath his armour to add to the fur lining Ashara had sewn into his cloak. "If the maps we have are right then the Milkwater reaches far into the north of the Frostfang mountains. Do you think it's navigable so far north?"
"I doubt it," Mance admitted. "But there are Wildling tribes along the east bank at least as far north as the mountains and they use coracles and canoes for fishing and hunting. I'm not sure we can get so far with longships but if we can I'll be more than satisfied."
"Are you sure about going, Ser Barristan?" The dwarf looked over at him. "Coming north has turned all your hair white, who knows what effect going beyond the Wall will have."
He gave the Lannister a grim look. "There are no whores or wine, does that deter you?"
"I think I can manage for a reasonable time without those."
Barristan smiled thinly as he saw the younger man pose dramatically in much the same way his son Duncan would when he was playing at being Aemon the Dragonknight, or Duncan the Tall... or much to his and Ashara's amusement, Barristan the Bold. It wasn't clear to them if their son knew that the last knight was the same man he called father.
"Then I'll ask you to trust me not to collapse into senility for the same length of time, Ser Tyrion."
"It's a bargain!" Tyrion offered up his hand and Barristan accepted it.
"I'm glad we've got that sorted," said Mance. "Ser Tyrion, please make sure your personal gear is no more than you can carry yourself. This is going to be a ranging, not a pleasure trip. If the ships have to be abandoned we'll have to walk back so we'll have to leave anything we can't carry behind. Don't take anything you can't bear to leave."
Tyrion nodded. "I have a pack for the essentials and a sea-chest for anything that would be useful but that can be left behind if the ships aren't available."
"You've done this before?"
"Not in the North, but I've been to Old Valyria and as far east as Asshai. And anyone who's been through a storm at sea knows what it's like when everything around you is trying to kill you."
"That's a good start." Mance looked him over. "Oh, and we'll raid your ship's rope-locker before we leave. A few hundred feet of rope can save more lives than all the armour in the world."
Barristan thought. "Safety lines?"
"Among other things. Dire wolves and shadow cats don't climb trees so well. Tying yourself to the upper branches of something they can't push over might save your life."
It had been a long time since he'd climbed a tree. Still, he supposed he'd be motivated. "How about more human threats?"
"There's no one rule that works for all Wildlings. I'm told the mountain clans of the Vale are the most like them but I've not met them. There are hundreds, maybe thousands of tribes and each has their own ways and customs. Some are nomadic, some have strongholds they claim to have ruled since the end of the Long Night. None of them have much time for lords or knights."
"Or for the Night's Watch?"
"Or for the Night's Watch," agreed Mance. "Our goal is to talk to them while their first reaction is likely to be attempts to kill us. We'll have to expect ambushes and possibly running battles along the riverbanks. I'll be looking to you, Lord Barristan to keep us alive and to keep the knights with us from running wild."
"I think I can manage that."
"And you, Ser Tyrion, will be helping me with any negotiations. I'm told you have a swift wit - and of course, your reputation as the Crowslayer will be of value."
"I hadn't realised my reputation stood so tall in these lands."
"The Ironborn raid the coasts north of the wall too. Euron Greyjoy has no friends here."
Tyrion paused. "So when we talk to them, what are we supposed to offer them? The Iron Islands? My brother would probably hand Pyke and Saltcliffe over but we'd have another bunch of sea-raiders for our children to fight."
Mance shrugged. "Short of exterminating them, wherever they go they'll likely be a problem for the future. His Grace, King Robert, is of the opinion that the problems of next summer can be looked at once we're sure of getting through the winter."