Varys XV

The bridge over the Last River wasn't defended by wights. To Varys' mind that suggested that either the wights hadn't advanced south this far or they had already marched well beyond that point. Either seemed possible but both assumed that the Others directing them thought as men did.

"You're overcomplicating this," Viserys told him. "We want to go south. The way isn't blocked which is good."

"When things go too well, it's probably a trap."

"You're just a regular ray of sunshine," Bronn grumbled as he followed Viserys past Varys. It was their turn to carry King Robert's hammer, a crude sack of their food supplies, crammed between helmet and two breastplates, hung from the haft of the hammer between them.

Varys shrugged and followed them. Perhaps he was being over-cautious but it seemed to him that with menace all around, some forethought was in order. His hand brushed against the hilt of Dark Sister and he smiled. For all he carried a sword now, he would not consider himself a warrior. Perhaps that was one of the deepest differences between he and the others. Viserys didn't have the build to wield Robert's hammer and seemed to have no inclination to retain Dawn. Would he ask for Dark Sister one day? Would Varys render it up?

He smiled to himself. Would Viserys pay his price? That was a more interesting question.

As the little group reached the far end of the bridge there was a call from behind. Varys turned sharply and saw a mass of fur and fangs emerging from the forest on the northern shore. Direwolves! he thought in horror. A half-dozen of them - each as large or larger than he.

Viserys and Bronn dropped their burdens and rushed back to join Varys and Thoros. "Form a line," Viserys ordered, taking charge. "Don't let them get behind us or we're all dead."

The direwolves didn't charge however and soon a handful of men emerged from the trees before them. One small and slightly built, one a near-giant and the third leaning against the second.

"What men travel with wolves?" asked Thoros in surprise.

"A Stark," Varys replied, recognising one face at least. It had been more than sixteen years since he'd seen Eddard Stark but the long face and dour expression had changed less since the first days of Robert's reign than those of many others. Probably including his own, although he blamed the North more than the years. He stepped forwards and raised his hand. "Prince Stark, we had not thought to see you come to welcome us yourself."

"Varys." Closer and the lines on Stark's face were easier to see. So was the empty sleeve tucked through the prince's belt. "Were you not banished?"

"I had no intention of straying south of the Wall, your highness. Yet I fear I have yet to lay eyes upon it."

Stark grunted and looked at the others. "Ser Viserys." Then he looked at the sword in the Targaryen's hand and back at the man who carried it.

Viserys coloured. "I'm returning it to Ser Arthur's family. By a somewhat indirect route I suppose."

"I hadn't heard he was dead. Was he north of the Wall too?"

"He died in Pentos." Viserys looked as if he would say more and then shrugged. "You seem to be in strange company."

"You've not met Lord Reed then," he pointed at the smaller man. "And Walder is a loyal retainer of my house."

"I haven't previously had the pleasure."

Varys glanced at the direwolves. They, in turn, were watching him. "Perhaps we could discuss on the walk. We have some food still but it's likely several days before we reach the next villages, if our map is of any accuracy."

"There are forts perhaps five days to our south." Howland's voice was quiet. "Three if we forced the pace but..."

"I'm not made of glass, Howland."

"If you'll pardon me for saying so, Prince Stark, you don't appear entirely robust." Varys gave the man a sympathetic smile. "Pray don't place us in the position of explaining to your sister why you collapsed almost within sight of her lands."

Stark's shoulders slumped. "Aye, but we must make the best time we can. There's an army to the east and we must alert the Karstarks and Boltons."

Varys spread a map of the North before his mind's eye. "The Umbers at Last Hearth?"

"They should already be aware." Ned grimaced. "And the army's on the moors not in the forests near the Umber Lands."

"You are remarkably well informed, Prince Stark." Varys bowed. What was going on here. "We shall make such pace as we can then."

By unspoken accord they crossed the bridge and Viserys lifted the hammer, this time sharing the load with Thoros. Stark gave the weapon a second glance and then shook his head. "You seem to be collecting other men's weapons."

"Should I have left it for the wights?"

"No. Robert would have wanted his son to have it. I take it that he's..."

Thoros grunted as he took up the weight. "The prince burned King Robert's body."

Stark's eyebrows arched at that title.

Viserys sighed. "In the interests of keeping the peace, Prince Stark -" There was more than a hair of emphasis on the northerner's title. "- I dispute only whether your foster brother - my foster father - was the rightful king. I freely admit that he was a fairly good king."

Varys almost stumbled, which would have been tragic since everyone except Stark's retainer had expressions he would treasure as memories.

"On balance," the Targaryen added with a wicked grin, "It was a very unfortunate time for him to die. No one would expect me to do more than grudgingly acquiesce to his leadership against the Others. Eddard's my foster-brother and I actually like him. I'm sure he only died to spite me."

"Is he always like this?"

"He's been in a very strange mood since we met our mutual great-uncle," Varys told him.

Stark sighed. "You're a hidden member of House Dayne?"

"Not a bad guess. Blackfyre, actually."

That got another magnificent flinch. Really, revealing secrets was so satisfying. The man looked over at Bronn resignedly. "I suppose you're the Emperor of Yi Ti in diguise?"

"He's been chosen by R'hllor," asserted Thoros.

The lord of Winterfell gave the Red Priest a sour look and then turned to walk alongside Lord Reed. Knowing when one had been bested wasn't the worst thing for a prince to know, Varys supposed.

Olenna XII

The wheelhouse bumped its way over the bridge across the Mander, the last real obstacle before they reached Highgarden. Despite Robert's improvements to the Roseroad and the expensive metal framework that was intended to absorb the worst of the shaking, Olenna found the journey harder than she had before. One reason she hadn't returned often to Highgarden in the last fifteen years.

Perhaps if I had made the journey more often, I could have stopped Mace from being so foolish. Or at least taught my grandchildren some sense.

"Lady Olenna?" Cassana had ridden a horse for much of the way and Olenna didn't blame her. The beast had to be a more comfortable seat than the padded bench inside the wheelhouse. The gown and other finery appropriate to the arrival at Highgarden made that impractical today however. "I've been trying to think how Uncle Jon would have handled this."

"An unproductive course of action," Olenna replied with a sniff. "No one is likely to mistake you for him."

"I would hope not. But it occurred to me that Lord Tyrell may mourn Ser Loras death."

"I would think so."

"Fogive me for the insenstivity, but the Lord Regent appears to little mourn Uncle Jon."

"Your uncle is not the best example for how my son will respond." Olenna studied the rings on her fingers, particularly the one most securely upon her left hand - that given to her by Luthor when he was courting her. "Stannis was never close to Jon Arryn - I think he saw the man as having stolen Robert away from Storm's End and interposing himself as a father figure to his brother after Steffon Baratheon died. And duty is his god, before the Seven. He would first consider how the Hand's death would affect the Realm and only later - much later - the lives of those around the prince."

Cassana pursed her lips, looking much like her mother for a moment. "The realm is made up of people."

"You cannot please all of the people all of the time." She glanced out the window at the field that flanked the road. "Appealing to Mace as a grieving daughter to a mourning father is not the worst of plans if you feel it best to butter him up."

The girl nodded and looked out of the window. Highgarden was one of the most beautiful keeps in all of Westeros but unlike many there was no city around it. Or rather, there was usually none there. The gathering of fighting men and their ladies had drawn smallfolk to support them and Olenna thought as they reached the first tents and temporary huts that Highgarden had for more more than a year hosted a population to rival Oldtown.

There were craftsmen at work, merchants to sell their workmanship and hundreds of wagons bringing in fresh food to feed them. It was a staggering assemblage of wealth... all being squandered by feeding an army that had no business being there.

The wheelhouse and their escorts passed by an open stretch of land where archery butts were set up. A company of archers was honing their skills and when Olenna looked the other way she saw a second field where the spear-levy marched and turned to the command of horns.

"Father said that these camps were the best of war. Dirty, unhealthy and yet full of youthful pride and the camaraderie of warriors."

"Yes, the stuff of glory. Not the cavalry charge?"

Cassana smiled. "No, he said nothing of those. I don't get the impression he approved much of them."

"He was a clever man."

There were more tents and banners as they closed towards Highgarden. There were also more tents providing various services to knights and squires with more coin to spend. Olenna noted that Cassana didn't look too closely at some tents that were evidently doing a brisk trade in the services of young (and not so young) women but did watch Lord Tarly's son's reactions to them. She wouldn't have thought that Samwell Tarly was the sort to draw the eye of a girl but there was no accounting for taste and he at least seemed to have half of a wit since he paid the tents no mind at all.

The wheelhouse drew up outside the gates of Highgarden proper and the riders of their escort intermingled with men in Tyrell livery. There were some of those in Olenna's company of course, mixed with Dornishmen and Easterners, but they were outnumbered just by Highgarden's guards, much less the army around them.

That didn't matter. This wasn't their battlefield.

Olenna took her stick and smacked the tip against the door. Her servants opened it and Cassana took her arm, helping her down to the men who lifted her out and set her on her feet.

A tiny woman, aged to the point it took a girl of fifteen and two grown men to get her out of a wheelhouse. Weakness, weakness... and in its own way that was strength.

"Olenna," greeted the Seneschal, one of her late husband's brothers. Garth Tyrell. Garth the Gross - she could look at him and see Mace after another few hundred feasts. Then again, Mace at least visited his bannermen. Garth hadn't left Highgarden in years.

"Garth." She wrapped both her hands around her cane. "Where is he?"

"My nephew is in the war room."

Olenna gave him a sceptical look but before she could respond there was a loud exclaimation from the gatehouse.

"What are you doing here, boy!" shouted Randyll Tarly, stalking towards his son. "Were you not with the King in the north?"

"F-father." The squire straightened. "I'm escorting Princess Cassana."

"You ran away you mean. You're a disgrace to the Tarly name."

A shadow fell across Samwell's face. He remained respectful in tone but there was a distinct edge to his voice. "I carried out every order my king gave me. Including bringing his last despatches to his heir. Your instructions from King Robert were to bring the levies of the Reach north?" He gave a pointed look at the camp.

Olenna had to admit she was impressed by the pudgy boy's composure as he delivered that verbal backslap. Lord Tarly seemed less impressed. "You listen to me, boy."

Samwell nodded towards Olenna. "No, you listen to Lady Tyrell. To Prince Martell. And to Princess Baratheon."

The lord of Hornhill looked at his son and then at the two ladies. "The Red Viper?"

"Lord Tarly," Oberyn said silkily from behind him. "Lady Tyrell is here to speak to her son. Perhaps you can accompany us to him."

"Conferring with Gormon again."

"He's left Oldtown?"

"He's been providing advice on our preparations to face the wights."

"I wasn't aware he was an expert."

"He was in the Citadel when they examined the one sent south from Lord Selmy's ranging." Garth glanced at Tarly. "Once we receive the shipments of dragonglass from Essos, we'll be fully equipped to face them in battle."

"Your father said something once to me," Oberyn leant over towards Cassana. "I forget the exact words but the sense of it was that the ideal solution was less important than one that was sufficient."

"The perfect is the enemy of the good enough."

"Yes, that was it."

Garth cleared his throat. "I'm sure you miss your father very much but in matters of war... had he prepared better then he and my great-nephew might well be with us today."

The war-room was at the top of a tower. Cassana bristled at the assertion as they climbed the stairs. Olenna got the impression as she was carried by her servants that any thoughts the girl had of showing sympathy towards Mace had been thrown out of the window. "If the Reach's levies had been in the North as they were ordered to be, my father wouldn't have needed to divide his forces and he would have won the battle."

"I'm sure it's tempting to think that, but matters are not always so clear in war."

"Actually, I find it very clear. My father's letters make it clear that he intended the Reach's levies to fortify the areas east and west of the Wolfswood. Without them, he left twenty thousand men at Long Lake and he was outnumbered at the final battle." Her eyes held all the fury of House Baratheon. "The fault for the death of my father, and Ser Loras, and so many others... is Lord Tyrell's."

"I will not be lectured by a woman on war." Garth paused at the door to the war room. "I hope you are more informed as to the vagaries of warfare, Prince Martell."

The prince made a dismissive gesture. "No one can ever know who would have lived and died in such a battle."

"Indeed." Garth dipped his head and opened the door.

Oberyn entered breezily. "Ah, Lord Tyrell... just the man."

"Oberyn Martell." Mace looked older than Olenna had expected. Willas and Garlan stood by their father's side. The elder was very much his father's son but Garlan reminded Olenna more of Mace's father - in some ways at least. "I had heard you were in my mother's company." The lord of Highgarden stepped forwards and gripped Oberyn's hand before looking past him. "Mother... and this must be Princess Cassana."

Olenna allowed her son to kiss her cheek and Cassana stiffly lifted her skirts as she curtsied.

"I'd heard you were coming, as I said, but no one mentioned why. I suppose Prince Stannis doesn't wish to send ravens this far with so much on his hands." Mace's joviality seemed more forced than usual.

"Ah well, I am appointed Master of Laws you understand."

"Indeed my congratulations."

"I'm here on a point of law, to settle the matter in a public court." Butter would not have melted in the Red Viper's mouth. "With so many of the lords of the Reach here, surely it should not be hard to summon them all to meet in your great hall?"

"Why no, of course not." Mace shook his head. "It's perhaps late in the day but I will send word summoning them all to gather tomorrow. We shall have a feast to welcome you."

"Your hospitality is as high as the honour of House Arryn."

Willas stepped forward, suspicion in his eyes. Perhaps not so much of Mace in him as it appeared. "May I ask what this point of law is?"

"There have been certain... allegations." Oberyn glanced over at Lord Tarly. "Best to deal with them publically. Settle them once and for all."

"What allegations?"

He must surely know. He wasn't so foolish. "Willas," his grandmother told him carefully. "Your father countermanded the orders of the Warden of the South. Some might call that treason."

Alliser V

Waymar Royce rode with his kinsmen and for that reason the other Night's Watchmen with the eastern armies were made welcome among the Valesmen. That was a relief to Alliser Thorne whose alternative was to ride among the Easterlanders. There were those who would have remembered him as a Targaryen loyalist - particularly Rosby and Stokeworth men and there were many of those in the tail of Domeric Bolton.

He still saw quite a bit of the young Lord Bolton, because he visited the Redfort men every few days. Bolton had been fostered with Lord Redfort so it was understandable. Alliser found it more manageable to be at one remove from men he'd known before he entered the Night's Watch.

Robb Stark had been well taught or he had good advice - perhaps both. The various contingents of the army were rotated through the positions of vanguard - with the greatest honour - and rearguard where they marched through the mud left by everyone ahead of them. And every day, without fail, riders were sent out in all directions.

If this talent ran in his family, it was no wonder Eddard Stark had won every battle he fought in the rebellion against Aerys.

Today it was the Vale's troops at the head of the army, so Alliser was among the first to see one of the riders rushing back. "What news!" called Waymar.

"There's an army on the far side of the ford!"

Alliser swore. If the enemy had reached the Last River then the Karstark lands were cut off. And if that army pushed the easterners back then the Others could sweep south as far as the Dreadfort on the Weeping River, less than a hundred miles to the south. Beyond that were lowlands... one of the richest and most populated regions of the North.

"The ford is narrow." Bolton's crimson cloak - the men of the North called him Red Knight and with more respect than they usually brought to that title - flared behind him as he turned and the wind caught it. "It'll take them time to cross. If we move quickly we can catch their army divided."

"We should send word to the Young Wolf."

The young man shook his head. "I know Prince Robb's mind on this. Send riders to him so he can bring the rest of the army after us."

Lord Royce had been appointed by Prince Arryn to lead the Valemen. He looked at Alliser. "The Vale will try to hold the ford. The Night's Watch?"

"We're with you."

Under brisk orders from Lord Royce, two dozen riders - squires and pages save for one knight who looked as if he might not be old enough to shave - scattered in all directions to spread the word. The footmen continued to march northwards, unable to hasten their pace without exhausting themselves before the battle to come. Knights and squires paused to don any armour that hadn't been worth wearing on the march and to mount whichever of their destriers seemed best.

The Night's Watch were richer in honour than horses so they kept marching. Alliser moved their column slightly to the right of the main force. As the road - little more than a track - reached the river at an angle this would leave them anchoring the flank and also as the first to receive reinforcements as the rest of the army arrived.

Before the river came into view, the knights were remounted and they cantered past, not wasting their horse's energy at a gallop but pushing the pace to resume the lead. They made for a proud sight.

Then Alliser crested the rise above the river and saw the army that was crossing. They seemed to go on forever. He made a quick estimate that there were ten thousand on this side of the river and at least three times that many on the far side - possibly more as they stretched back up to and over the next ridge of the moors that the river cut through.

There had been a village by the ford. Alliser hoped the smallfolk had had the chance to flee, but a few score more dead would matter little at this time.

Waymer sucked on his teeth. "Oh. The rest of the army had better catch up soon."

"If we don't stop them at the river, it may not matter." Alliser drew his sword. "Men of the Watch, the enemy we've prepared for is before us. We may not have a Wall any more but we have our duty. We march."

He started down the slope and for a moment had a crawling hollow sensation that none of them would follow him. Then he heard their boots and was relieved to know that he wasn't charging alone.

The wights responded aggressively and broke into their own charge up the hill towards the oncoming Valemen and Night's Watch. They had no cavalry however and the knights had spread into a line abreast. When they hit the wights it was like one of the great battles of the past. The front ranks of the enemy were trampled beneath horse hooves, smashed backwards on lance-heads or felled with sword, axe and mace strikes to their heads.

The first ranks... but they slowed the knights and wights were hard to kill. As the mounted charge finally came to a halt, almost half the bodies behind them were rising to their feet once more. Surrounded on all sides, the knights of the Vale faced what might be their doom.

Then Alliser lost his overview of the battle as he closed in on the footmen. His sword hacked the arm off a wight that had been a wilding and he thrust his dagger of obsdian into the corpse's chest. The next man behind them wore the black of the Night's Watch. Alliser hesitated, trying to place the face, trying to be sure that he wasn't fighting a living man.

Since the man in black swung a sword at him, forcing him back a step, the decision was clear. Alliser hammered his former brother in the face with the hilt of his sword, kicked forward with one boot - useless as the wight seemed to feel no pain and he'd missed the knee - and grunted as the sword struck his side. The chainmail beneath his furs held but he'd be feeling that for a few days if he lived so long.

A spear topped with dragonglass thrust past Alliser and brought the wight down. He grunted thanks to the man behind him and they pressed on, through the living horses and over those that were dead to let the knights pull back and regroup.

Slowed by fatigue - everything took more effort in the sapping cold - Alliser had the first line of his men pull back a step and let the second line carry the weight for a few moments. He looked around and saw that thousands more wights were splashing into the ford.

Then from behind came more war cries and banners crossing the ridge. Easterland knights along with the handful from Manderly lands rode down behind the direwolf banner of the Young Wolf. Unlike those of the Vale they didn't throw themselves into the fight as one body. Instead squadrons split off in accordance with some signal from their lords.

"The foot can't be far behind!" called out Alliser. "Press them back."

The black line pressed forward. Stabbing and hacking. Men fell and the line behind gave the dead and the hopelessly wounded swift strikes with their daggers. Dragonglass daggers they at least had in decent numbers.

Bringing down the wights was harder - getting past their defenses to inflict fatal blows was hard and the daggers lacked the reach. Only the limited number of spears worked and it was all too easy to snap a blade off if it got caught.

There was a whistle of arrows overhead and Alliser saw the wights behind the frontline begin to fall. Openings began to form and Alliser led a wedge of men into the nearest, outflanking the wights. Under attack from two sides, the dead began to fall.

"We're doing this!" he called out. Despite the continued flow of the wights into the ford, the army was pushing them back, more and more of them falling to wounds caused by obsidian. The pocket of wights was being ground away and the ground was so littered with corpses that Alliser had to watch his footing.

"Lord Commander, behind us!"

Alliser turned as Waymar grabbed his shoulder and pulled him back. It took him a moment to look past the rear ranks, many of whom were already trying to turn around. What he saw set his guts churning.

Wights. Hundreds of them and the number growing as more of them waded up out of the water. "What in the hells? Lord Bolton said the ford is narrow!"

"I don't think they need the ford."

"The bastards don't need to breathe," Alliser realised. "Damn them! Rear ranks, about face. We're outflanked!"

Outflanked and outnumbered. There had only been around five hundred Night Watchmen before the battle and with their momentum broken the wights pushed back and drove a wedge, cutting off the pocket of men along the shore - the Night's Watch and perhaps a hundred Valemen.

Alliser's sword tore through the knee of a wight and as it fell he reversed his stroke and smashed its head. The deadman - wearing Reach colours - pulled a dagger and buried it in his calf. With an oath, he fell to one knee and drove his dagger into the wight's eye. It fell like a puppet whose strings had been cut and Alliser felt like doing the same.

Instead he levered himself up, sparing his wounded leg. Someone had stepped into the gap he left and he looked around. Banners showed him that the rest of the initial force was still fighting despite the right flank being cut off. Knights were moving around the edge, still operating in groups and trying not to get too heavily engaged. Stabbing with lances or making slashing attacks to trample outlying wights.

What there wasn't was any push to break through to his men. Stark either didn't have reserves left to help them or he was sending those reserves somewhere else. He didn't think a Stark would ignore the plight of the Night's Watch but the Young Wolf wasn't his father.

Right now, with the battle breaking down into a hundred knots of men and wights struggling for survival, Alliser wouldn't have said no to Eddard Stark appearing with reinforcements. For that matter, he'd have welcomed Robert Baratheon arriving with or without reinforcements. The man was one hell of a fighter and men followed him.

As if summoned by that thought there was a howling of wolves from the west. Alliser's head turned towards them, the ridge upriver was all he could see above the struggling mass of the two armies fighting over the ford. New banners arose above the line - the banners of the Starks, the Cerwyns, the Marbrands and Westerlings.

And then those banners were joined by rank after rank of pikes. With wolves howling in the distance the pikes began to file slowly down towards the battle.

"Reinforcements!" Alliser called out, seeking to hearten the Night's Watch. "Northern and Westerlander pikes march from the west. Just hold, men! Just hold and we will win this yet!"

His cry was drowned out as a large wight charged into the line. He'd been a northerner by his look and better armoured than most. The man before him fell before a furious swordstroke but two spears stabbed into the man. His arm fell slack but the wight kept coming, body pushed by those behind him - intentionally or not using it as a shield as they pushed into the middle of the Night's Watch.

Men turned aside and rushed to try to close the gap. Alliser did his best to ignore his leg and hobbled to join them but it was too little, too late. With the reserve of men committed to try to deal with this, another man fell, twenty yards from Alliser and there was no one to plug the gap.

He saw it happening, he screamed what he hoped were coherent orders but their lines dissolved into tiny groups, backs pressed against each other and anyone who wasn't stood by an ally was dragged down as the wights cut them down.

Alliser moved to cover Waymar Royce's back as the valeborn Watchman held off two wights with his sword whirling back and forth. He was too late - a third wight hacked at the Royce's shoulder, maybe breaking it and maybe not but it threw his sword arm out of line and one of the other wights slashed the man's throat.

A smashing blow caught Alliser from behind and he fell to his knees, sword flying from his hands. He managed to cling to his dagger and rolled aside before a second strike could finish him. A spear drove into his side, piercing his ringmail below the ribs. Alliser lashed out wildly with his dagger, driving it into an ankle. The wight fell forwards, on top of him, driving the spear deeper.

A boot crashed against Alliser's head, intentional or not he couldn't tell and he saw stars...

He would have sworn later that it was only a moment later that he tried to remove the body pinning him. The wight felt too heavy and he wrestled it around, realising a second body had fallen across it. The noise of the battle was gone and what replaced it was the sound of the aftermath - boys weeping for their mothers, harsh voiced serjeants assessing the wounded, dead men's armour being stripped from them. The air was thick with blood and other foul odors. Hopefully his gut wasn't contributing or he'd be dead soon.

The spear was still in him, broken off about midway along the shaft. Alliser didn't dare remove it but he sawed at the shaft behind the spearhead with his dagger and once he'd carved far enough into it he snapped what was left off. Now all he needed to do was stand.

To stand...

With a grunt he fell on his side, barely avoiding driving the spearhead deeper.

"Careful there." A northern accent, a gauntlet that caught his hand. "I'll pull, you get your feet under you."

Once he was upright he thought for a moment he saw a long face, light eyes and brown hair bound back. Across the youth's back was a long, heavy greatsword but he had an axe at his belt and from the blood on it that was what he'd fought with.

The riverside was heaped with the dead. All around Alliser were the Night's Watch. Black cloaks marked by blood that would darken soon. Men and women moved among them, scraping each corpse with a dragonglass edge before shifting them.

"My thanks," he said at last.

The youth shrugged and released his hand. "Is it always like this... after a battle."

Alliser thought. "Only if you win."

"Gods..." The boy sighed. "Brandon Longstark."

"Ser Alliser Thorne." He grimaced. "I lead the Night's Watch with your cousin's army. Led, perhaps."

"Bran! Brandon!" A horse closed in, picking its way through the bodies with more care than he'd have thought possible. Then again, Robb Stark was the best horseman in the army. Men joked he had Dothraki blood from somewhere although those in the North knew that the young man walked only if he couldn't avoid it. He'd broken his legs as a boy and still limped afoot. Astride a horse he was the equal of any and better than almost all.

Brandon raised his free hand to his cousin. "Robb."

"Ser Addam told me you were here." Robb looked down at him, something chill in his eyes. "You have Ice? Is father..."

Releasing Alliser, the Longstark unbuckled the strap holding the greatsword across his back. "He lives, Robb. Last I saw he was heading to mother and then Winterfell. He had me bring this for you."

Robb Stark accepted the heavy sword and drew it a few inches, baring valyrian steel. "Why? Bran, you're not telling me much."

"I've hardly had the chance." Brandon Longstark shook his head. "Your father's short a hand, Robb. He's half-starved and has frostbite on both feet although the Maesters say they won't need to amputate. He can't use the sword so he sent it to you."

The Young Wolf nodded and then strapped the sword across his back. "Ser Alliser, we're setting up camp behind the ridge. If you don't think you can walk that far, I'll gladly lend you my mount."

"That won't be necessary," Alliser grated. Then: "But I thank you for the offer," he added grudgingly. "I've had worse wounds. I'll see to my men while the Maesters handle the worst wounded."

Robb looked at him and then down at the floor.

"My men," Alliser said again. "The Night's Watch. If you would direct me..."

"Ser Alliser, you're the only man of the Night's Watch I've seen alive so far," Robb told him starkly.

Cassana VI

The great hall at Highgarden was magnificent. Cassana had grown up around the vast domed centre of the Crown of Westeros, which had once been home to dragons - but while that was soaring and vast this hall was graceful with intricate archs to support the ceiling and the entire area was painted with scenes of the long history of the Gardener Kings and their Tyrell Stewards who now ruled in their place.

Not least among the decorations were the ladies on the arms of almost every knight and lord in the place. Attired in silks and velvets, the beauties of the Reach were here to mount their own campaigns for the hands of the unwed or to show off their conquests in the form of husbands of substance and reputation. A part of Cassana resented them - House Baratheon sired handsome men but what was admired in a son was not beauty in a daughter. She was too tall, too broad. Not immensely so but enough that she would never be among the great beauties of the land.

Then again, she was daughter and sister of kings. What jewels could compare?

The feast had been extensive, underscoring the immense wealth of the Reach. Despite the season fresh fruits and meats were brought to the tables and manservants brought forth bottles of wine from the Arbor and Dorne for the most lordly, though most knights settled for the Reach's vintages. Cassana only sipped at her own goblet. She wanted a clear head.

"My lords and ladies of the Reach," Oberyn stood at the high table. "I must thank Lord Tyrell for his hospitality, but there is another reason that we have called you all here today. You may be aware that battles are being fought in the North. After thousands of years, the Others have returned. Men of all the Seven Kingdoms fought and died together on the Wall. Our good King Robert turned back an army of the dead at the cost of his own life. Even now the fighting men of Dorne and the Riverlands, the North, East, West and Vale are assembled to stand and fight for life itself against this foe."

He lifted his goblet in toast. "To the valiant men who have marched to war." He waited until others had joined him in raising their goblets and then paused. "But where is the Reach?"

"Loras Tyrell died alongside King Robert, true to his oaths. But where were his brothers?"

"Lord Tarly's son Samwell rode to war and brought back news of the battles..." The prince turned and swept his eyes across the lords of the Reach. "How many of your sons have seen war as he has?"

"Lady Brienne, heiress of Tarth, took up sword and shield... does that not shame the men of the Arbor?"

"Jaime Lannister rode north with twenty men in search of his beloved sister, do the ladies of the Mander lands expect such chivalry of their brothers?"

"Eddard Stark, Beric Dondarrion, Addam Marband... these names will live forever in the songs bards shall one day sing of this winter's war... but what songs will be sung by the bards in Oldtown?"

"Lord Tyrell, the question I have been asked so often, by so many and the question I must as Master of Laws is this: where stands the Reach? Lord Tarly is Warden of the South, he has summoned men in the name of your King yet only a tithe of the Reach's strength march to war. I know well the manhood and valor of the Reach's knights... so I ask of you: why do they camp a thousand leagues from the war they are called to?"

Colour was rising in Mace Tyrell's face but it was Willas Tyrell that spoke first in reply, thumping both fists against the table. "Don't call my father a coward, Dornishman!"

"It is you who said that word, Ser Willas, not I." Oberyn arched his brow. "Though you are not alone, I think."

Cassana looked over at Olenna who seemed to have shrunk in upon herself. The aged woman's personality had always seemed to outweigh her lack of height but now... "Perhaps my son can answer for himself," the Mistress of Whispers said, voice still loud enough to be heard along the table.

The portly lord of Highgarden rose. "That I can. My lords it has been ten years and more since we have marched to war and this is a war unlike any other. Many of us have sons and brothers who were of no age to fight in Robert's Rebellion or against the Greyjoys. There are those who would say that much of our army are summer knights."

There was a rumble of discontent and he held up his hands. "Aye, some would say it as an insult, but for what else do we fight? This is a war against winter itself. A war where most of our levies had been told by their septons that they would face nothing but wildlings in another guise and that any talk of the Others was heresy. It is an unparalleled challenge and one I know - I know! - that we can and must rise to."

"Those of you who have seen war must have seen how it can consume those inexperienced and ill-prepared. King Robert's army, in its first clash with the wights lost a quarter of their men." He paused and then looked at Cassana. "Had it not been for his great personal sacrifice in leading the rearguard, it could have been far more."

Mace pointed to the hall's doors. "A year ago this army contained thousands of inexperienced and ill-equipped men. Today they're trained and hardened, equipped with arms, armour and winter clothes. The septons here have corrected the errors preached by those who deny the true nature of the threat and shortly we will have all the dragonglass needed. With that we can march north not merely to hold back the Others but also to defeat them once and for all."

Cassana considered Mace's words and how he said them. For all her anger at him, she didn't see any signs of insincerity. Perhaps there was no malice involved. His arguments seemed convincing to the lords and knights at the lower tables... and while they had received bread and salt from Lord Tyrell, they were also badly outnumbered in any quarrel. Confining her 'for her safety' might be argued to be no breach of the laws of hospitality.

"Your highness." Oberyn Martell bowed slightly towards Cassana. "I had the privilege of seeing your father at work against the Greyjoys and he had a rare talent for war. Did he have any wisdom that would apply to Lord Tyrell's words."

"Does Dorne take counsel in war from some slip of a girl?" jeered Garth.

Maester Gormon, another of Mace Tyrell's uncles, gripped his brother's shoulder in warning. "Prince Oberyn's mother was a sagacious ruler, brother." He looked over to Cassana. "Your father is mourned all across Westeros, your highness and I know you travelled to the North with him, years ago. If you know his mind on this, I would heed your words."

Cassana thought a moment. "My father told me that while I might never command warriors myself, it might fall to me one day as a wife and as a mother to choose those who would lead bannermen on behalf of my eventual husband and sons. For this reason he did not shield me from councils of war."

She rose to her feet and stepped towards Mace Tyrell. "King Robert looked for two qualities in the men he entrusted with command. He did not look for courage, for the manhood of Westeros he had no doubt of. The first quality he looked for was of attention to the men being led. He desired that his warriors be led by men who would concern themselves with the preparation and wellbeing of their warriors. Only by respecting and understanding their force can a commander bring forth from them their best." She smiled at Mace Tyrell, knowing that it did not reach her eyes. "I have no doubt from your words, Lord Tyrell, that you have this quality in full measure."

Mace half-bowed but she raised her hand.

"The second quality my father called for was of resolve. A commander must not only love his army... he must have the will to destroy the thing he loves. For in battle many of those men that have been fed, trained and prepared will die. No one can change that thing and only by bringing violence with deliberate, calculated and decisive force can victory be had. The price of that must be paid unflinchingly and it is here where you have failed your King and the Reach."

"It may be, Lord Tyrell, that your army is superbly prepared to win battles but if it never reaches that battle for your cosseting then it is no army but merely a festival."

Tyrell sat down so sharply that it felt to Cassana almost as if she'd slapped him. Olenna closed her eyes but nodded quietly. Both Willas and Garth opened their mouths only to be restrained firmly by their respective brothers. "What would you have of us here," Garlan Tyrell said quietly, meeting Cassana's eyes over Willas' shoulder.

"Prince Oberyn, as Master of Laws, shall pass judgement."

Oberyn leant insouciantly upon the table. "Lord Tarly," he said - not even looking at Lord Tyrell as he pulled a fistful of parchments from his belt. "I have here the pledges of a score of lords and knights that are now in the North. They have confided to me their confidence in you as Warden of the South and would have you as their Lord. I ask you now, will you place your hands between those of Cassana Baratheon, who speaks for our king, her brother, and pledge before this hall your fealty as Lord Paramount of the Dornish Marches."

Lords began to look around the hall, calculating who was absent in the North. While the Marches were in theory as far east as Summerhall in the Stormlands, the lands of the Reach that they encompassed stretched far east and west of the Tarly stronghold at Hornhill - which itself lay only a little more than thirty leagues south of Highgarden.

Randyll Tarly stood. "Prince Martell, I am."

Space was made for him, the Tyrells shrinking back together as the Warden dropped to one knee before Cassana. She took his callused hand between her smaller ones. "Randyll Tarly, lord of Horn Hill and Warden of the South, do you on behalf of the lords and knights of the Dornish Marches, renounce all fealty and allegiance to the House of Tyrell."

"By the Seven, I do."

Mace had been reaching for the wine. At those words his fingers fumbled and the goblet went spinning to the floor. Cassana ignored him. "Do you swear to uphold the laws of the realm, to govern wisely and justly, to come as you are called and go as you are sent, to be steadfast and loyal to King Eddard Baratheon, First of his Name and to his House, His Heirs and his officials."

"By the Seven, I swear most solemnly that I shall do this."

"Then on the behalf and at the behest of my most gracious brother, I bestow upon you the duties, honours and responsibilities of Lord Paramount of the Dornish Marches, Defender of the Marches and Marshal of the Reach."

"My lady, in the name of King Eddard I accept these duties, honours and responsibilities. May the Father judge me and the Stranger take me if I fail."

Cassana closed her hands upon his fingers and then released them. "So it is, so shall it be." She waved him back to his feet.

The new domain carved from the Reach was small and it was not the richest lands, mostly abutting the Red Mountains. But it was a dagger drawn upon the Tyrell lands around Highgarden.

"Lord Florent."

A deadly silence fell as the Reachmen realised that Oberyn wasn't done. Alerie Tyrell fainted in her seat and Willas and Garlan rose to lift their mother and carry her aside, directing poisonous glares at the Master of Laws.

The grey-haired Alester Florent walked along the table, pausing to nod to Samwell Tarly. Cassana remembered that her father's squire was son of Lord Florent's elder daughter. "Princess Cassana. Prince Oberyn."

"Lord Alester, your king through the person of his sister calls on you to renounce House Tyrell and pledge yourself to the crown as our loyal Lord Paramount of the Mandermouth."

Florent didn't waste a second glance upon Mace Tyrell as he placed his hands between Cassana and swore his oaths. Unlike Randyll Tarly, who had received the allegiance of his neighbours by proxy, Florent stood beside Prince Oberyn as lords and knights were called forwards to renounce their previous lord and bend the knee to House Florent. Some were more eager than others, Lord Alester's friends and allies of old. The worst of rivalries were avoided however and the Mandermouth's boundaries - stretching south to encompass the headwaters of the River Honeywine and north along the Ocean Road - for the most part made up of their new lord's partisans.

It was also a domain that met with the Dornish March, cutting off the exceptionally rich south-western corner of the Reach. Lord Leyton Hightower's wife (his fourth) was Lord Florent's daughter but he was also the father of Alerie Tyrell by one of his earlier brides. Perhaps fortunately he wasn't in the position of having to make a choice: no one had seen him outside of the mighty tower from which his House took its name since the Great Council years before.

Instead it was his handsome heir, Ser Baelor, who was called forwards. He favoured Cassana with a bright smile as he joined them on the dais. Taking her hand he bowed and kissed it gallantly. Cassana refrained from flushing - he was married and she thought that his wife was among those at the tables.

"Princess, I ask clemency for my goodbrother," Baelor said solemnly. "Mace is no traitor to your house."

She nodded. "There is a traditional remedy for one who has tarnished his honour with failure. If Lord Tyrell accepts the responsibility then House Tyrell will not be deprived of the Highgarden."

"If I may counsel him..."

Cassana gestured for him to continue and looked out along the tables. "Lord Rowan, if you would."

Mathis Rowan, Lord of Goldengrove and goodfather of Baelor, was a stout and cleanshaven lord. He had a reputation for good sense and he saw which side the tide was turning. Lords and knights of the northern Reach followed him forward and Cassana felt something unclench inside her. This was going to work.

"Your highness." Rowan dropped to one knee before her. "How may I serve the king?"

"As the Lord Paramount of the Northmarch." She paused and considered that he was popular enough that lords chose to join him of their own will. "And to lead your bannermen northwards. Reinforcements for the North are gathering at Darry in the Riverlands. It will be a long march for your men, though I hope my company will enliven the road."

He caught the meaning immediately. "It would be my great delight to escort a Princess of House Baratheon."

His own oaths and Baelor's were deferred however as Mace Tyrell announced his decision to take the black. His heir, Lord Willas, succeeded to the rule of Highgarden and of plains long the Mander as far west as the Fossoway's lands bordering on Stannis Baratheon's demesnes. It was a bare tithe compared to the entire kingdom that had been his birthright in the morning.

We've divided the Reach, she thought. And in consequence, Eddard still rules them. But the Tyrells remain a problem. It's definitely wise to leave with the armies and not trust in their hospitality longer than we must.