Wolf House, as Lord and Lady Stark's manse in Myr city was known, was cheerful enough as official residences went. It was sparsely decorated, thanks to Lord Eddard's spartan tastes and Lady Amarya's frugality, but it made up for the lack of ornament with a reputation for hospitality; the two parties that the Starks had officially hosted, one for the Northmen that had followed Maege Mormont back to Essos and another for the officers of the local companies of the Iron Legion, had been great successes, and the rumors had spread in the telling.
Today however the cheerfulness had vanished. The army was assembling to march for the border, and the King's Fist was in the final stages of preparing to take leave of his wife. The whole house seemed to have caught the grim mood, but nowhere more so than in the solar where Lord Stark was arming.
Saul tightened the last strap on Eddard's armor, ran a buffing cloth over the surface of the metal to remove any smudges from his fingers, swiped a minute flake of dust from one of the linked steel plates of Eddard's sword belt, and stepped back. "All well, my lord?" he asked.
Eddard slowly swung his arms in exaggerated circles, raised his knees up towards his chest, and twisted and bent at the waist, the plates of his armor sliding over each other with a metallic rustling. "Very well indeed," he replied. "Thank you, Saul."
Saul, already armored in brigandine, plate arm and leg harness, and a gorget, bowed his head and reached for Eddard's arming cap; Eddard forestalled him with a gesture. "The rest can wait," he said, "we'll not be fighting today." Saul nodded and tucked Eddard's arming cap and gauntlets into his bascinet, snatched up his own half-helm and gauntlets, and bowed his way out of the room. As he did so, Amarya rose from her chair by the window and joined Eddard in the center of the room, where she drew a brown lace out of her pocket and began to wrap it around Eddard's left rerebrace.
"Remember when we first met?" she asked with a slight smile as she tied off the knot that would hold it in place.
Eddard nodded. "As one who was walking in darkness remembers first seeing the light," he said, taking his wife's hands. "I thought it made me a better warrior, to have nothing to live for beyond vengeance," he went on, running his thumb over Amarya's wedding ring. "But if that is so, then why is my arm stronger and my sword swifter at the thought of never seeing you again?"
Amarya's eyes searched Eddard's face. "Perhaps because now you have a reason not only to not die, but to live," she replied. "And with it, the hope that there may be a life for you after the death of the Targaryens."
"Or perhaps the songs are right in this much, that love makes a man better than he was before," Eddard said, meeting Amarya's gaze. "The gods know that I have slept better in your arms than I ever did before, since the rebellion." He drew his wife into a careful embrace; the strength of his arms and the rigidity of his breastplate meant that it would not be difficult for him to accidentally crack Amarya's ribs. It was one of the downsides of knightly training that the strength to wield sword and lance through a long day of fighting was also the sort of strength that made it easy to break things if you weren't careful.
"I will return," he said when he finally broke the embrace. "And if any damned slavers try to stop me, they will not live to regret it."
Amarya smiled. "Oh, I am sure that they will regret it," she said, a slight edge of humor in her voice. "Briefly, perhaps, but no less deeply." After she and Eddard had stopped chuckling, she raised a hand to her husband's face, her expression turning grave. "Safe into battle, safe out of battle," she intoned softly, "and safe return from the strife. Come back to me, love."
"Though all the hells bar the way," Eddard replied, raising Amarya's hand to his lips and kissing her wedding ring.
XXX
Daario Naharis blew his lips out in a sigh of relief. He had been assured that the fleet could fight off any attempt by the Ironborn to interdict the passage of the soldiers stationed on Tyrosh isle to the mainland, but he had still spent the short voyage in a state of nervousness. He had been a sellsword for twelve years now, and one of the lessons that had been engraved on his heart in letters of steel in those years was to never take an assurance at face value. Only fellow members of the company were exempted from that mandate of skepticism.
Fortunately, the fleet had kept its word, and the passage from Tyrosh isle to Aesica had been unmolested by the Myrish navy. The need to keep a substantial garrison on the isle had reduced the number of reinforcements that could be sent to the mainland, but even with that limitation Daario had three thousand infantry under his hand, half of them newly landed from Tyrosh isle, along with a thousand cavalry. Those had already been waiting for him on the fields outside Aesica; cavalry needed space and grazing, neither of which was possible to find on the island of Tyrosh, covered from shore to shore as it was by the city.
Daario tore his eyes away from the organized chaos of the encamped army and turned his gaze inland. Five days to raise, organize, and transport the forces from the isle, he mused, remembering the haste and tumult of those days; he had not slept more than three or four hours a night in all that time. A day or two to land those forces and integrate them with the ones already here. Eight or nine days to march from Aesica to Alalia, picking up militia and regular companies along the way and meeting the Ragged Standard at Alalia. And then six or seven days to the border. Barring unforeseen setbacks, he spat aside and touched the wood of his saddle's pommel reflexively, we should be over the border on the thirty-third day of the war at the latest. Not bad. Hard luck on the border estates, who would have no defense against any invaders for at least two or three days according to the most favorable calculations of the Archon's logisticians, but the interior, with its broad-acred farms that fed the city, the mines that fueled its workshops, and the seaport towns that funneled the raw materials of the mainland to Tyrosh isle, would be protected.
And that was the overarching impulse behind Daario's orders as Captain-General of the Army of Tyrosh. Protect the interior. If you can trap the Myrish army and destroy it, then by all means, but hold them at bay if it is the last thing you do. The Archon and his Council had decided to adopt a conservative strategy against the Kingdom of Myr. The political situation of the Kingdom of Myr, it had been explained to Daario, was such that in order to maintain internal stability it had to push ever further outwards to conquer new territories in the name of abolition. If that impulse to foreign conquest was successfully stymied, then it was entirely possible that the Kingdom of Myr could fall apart in fratricidal recriminations over King Robert's failure to uphold his coronation oath to destroy slavery. If that came to pass, then steps could be taken to exploit the divisions, but in order to bring those divisions about the Kingdom of Myr had to be defeated, the more resoundingly the better.
Daario pursed his lips, remembering the ferocity of the combat at Tara, where all his old notions about combat had been stood on their heads. A fine thing to say, 'defeat the enemy', he thought to himself. But no one ever seems to consider that the enemy gets a say in the matter. He would do his utmost, of course, that went without saying. And not simply out of professional pride, either; he had forsworn his allegiance to Tyrosh when he took up the life of a sellsword, but the past several months had rekindled his fondness for his homeland. He had a respectable army to do that utmost with, he had a moderately formidable ally in the Lyseni who were supposed to draw off forces from any invading army by harrying the southern frontier of the Kingdom of Myr, and he had a decent strategic position to work with. But for all that, he couldn't help but feel a trickle of foreboding from worming into his guts.
Especially since he had never played for stakes this high before, with his own money or anyone else's. In the Stormcrows he had been only a lieutenant, if a senior and influential lieutenant; he had never commanded more than a hundred men at once. Now he was set to command anywhere from ten to fifteen thousand men, with a kingdom for the stakes. Victory would propel him to heights he had never dreamed of ascending, but if he lost . . . there were plenty of men in Tyrosh, powerful and influential men, who would happily see him disemboweled for being promoted over the heads of men who had never wavered in their loyalty to the city. Councilor Varoros, for one, had publicly averred that nothing good could come of entrusting the defense of the city to an upjumped sellsword who had only lately rediscovered his loyalty to the city that had birthed him.
Daario spat aside again. Fuck you too, councilor, he thought viciously. As if I didn't have enough problems with the enemy.
Of course, if he won then Varoros would have to eat his words, without salt. If he lost, however, he would be the man who had pissed away the main army of the city and almost certainly lost it the war. Tyrosh had other forces than the ones under Daario's command, but very few that could actually take the field. The towns required substantial garrisons in order to be able to hold the walls against a siege and the streets against the slaves, while every estate owner on the mainland howled as long and as loud as he could for frequent and strong patrols across their lands to keep their slaves in line. For all practical purposes, Daario's army was the only one Tyrosh had and if he lost it there would not be another one for at least a year, if not two or three years.
Daario shook his head forcefully, trying to drive the thoughts out of his head. Just do all you can and let Lady Fortune handle the rest, old son, he reminded himself. But he still couldn't make the hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach go away.
XXX
The following is an excerpt from Flash for the Faith! by George Dand
The voyage to Myr went well enough, largely thanks to the fact that I've never been prone to seasickness and the captain kept a reasonably good table. Lord Estermont was a decent sort, one of your bluff, hearty fellows who get more expansive in physique and manner as they age; Lord Estermont being fifty years old, he was a barrel-chested ogre of a man with a booming laugh and a handshake like a vise. Septon Martyn I found less congenial; he was the sort of person who knows that he is the smartest person in any given room on his particular subject and can't help but demonstrate it when given occasion. If he hadn't been such a decent fellow, and if he hadn't had such a good sense of humor, I'd have been sorely tempted to kick him overboard. Not that I would have anyway; I didn't know what his history was, but any man with the credentials to get sent on a mission like this was sure to have friends in high places who would take a very sharply pointed interest if he came to an unexplained end.
In any case we landed in Myr city only to find that Robert and Septon Jonothor had both gone. It seemed that in the time we had been crossing the Narrow Sea war had broken out between the Kingdom of Myr on one side and Tyrosh on the other, with Lys supposedly set to join the Tyroshi due to their treaty. Robert was marching south-east to muster an army at the town of Sirmium, and Jonothor had gone with him to minister to the Seven-worshippers among the troops. Ser Gerion Lannister, who as Hand of the King had been left in command in Robert's absence, invited us to take up lodging in the Palace of Justice, but Lord Estermont wouldn't hear it. "What," he had bellowed, "loll at my ease while my grandson faces the enemy?! Be damned if I will! Follow me, sers!" Not three hours later we had acquired horses (of indifferent quality it must be said; all the good ones had gone with the army) and were clattering out of the gates onto the road.
Say what you like about Lord Estermont, he could shift when he had a mind to; we must have covered twenty miles that day alone, and for each of the nine days afterward we averaged fifteen or twenty miles, riding at the trot for an hour and then walking for an hour to give our horses a breather. By the time we reached Sirmium I was worn almost to a nub from fatigue; how Septon Martyn endured it I can't imagine, unless the gods had decided to give one of their own a helping hand. Even Lord Estermont was looking a little grey around the gills. Even so, he still had enough energy to roar introductions at the sentries who challenged our approach and demand to be taken to see Robert immediately. I suppose going to fat around the middle gives you some reserves to draw on.
The sentries were a suspicious lot, infantry in heavy spearman's kit and evidently keenly aware of their responsibilities. Only their corporal was able to read Common Tongue and that slowly, but he managed to puzzle through the letter from King Stannis establishing our bonafides and told off a pair of his men to escort us; as we left some wag among the sentries shouted "Enjoy the show!" to which Lord Estermont asked him what the devil he meant only to be waved off with a "You'll see!" And by the gods we didn't have to wait long to see what he meant, though we heard it long before we saw it. First it was a sporadic braying of trumpets and lowing of horns, then a thunder of hooves and a rumble of marching feet, and then we topped the rise to see one of the most fearsome spectacles of our time, the drawn sword of abolition and the terror of the slaver cities: the Iron Legion.
Now in my time, I've had to become something of a connoisseur of armies (not by choice, mark you; if I had my way, I'd never have left the Crownlands), and I've never succumbed to the belief that some breeds of men make naturally better soldiers. As Stannis himself once put it, there are no bad soldiers, only bad captains. So when I say that the Grand Army of Volantis was bigger, the Great Armament more awe-inspiring in its way, and that there's a special place in my nightmares for the sight of thirty thousand Dothraki screamers at the charge, you can take it as the sober and considered opinion of an (unwilling) expert. But for sheer military power I've seen nothing outside Westeros or Braavos and damned little in them to match the Iron Legion. It wasn't a question of numbers; as far as I know, the Iron Legion never mustered more than thirty thousand foot and ten thousand horse in one place. Nor was it a matter of visual splendor; the Iron Legion was one of the drabbest armies I have ever seen. What really took my breath away was the discipline and the systematic order of them; every man wore near enough to the same equipment, depending on what class of soldier they were, as made no difference, they stood in close-ordered ranks and marched in step, and every mess group of every company moved in almost perfect unison at the word of command, like bees in a swarm or swallows in a flock. The Iron Legion wasn't a collection of lordly retinues, urban militias, and sellsword bands, each with their own allegiances, rivalries, and agendas, like most armies in the world, they were something entirely different. What we were looking at was more than a hundred mechanisms bound in nigh-perfect obedience into a single machine, obedient to a single brain and driven by a single force. This, we would come to realize, was an army.
The first thing I thought when I made sense of what I was seeing was 'Thank all the gods we don't have slavery in Westeros, because we'd never be able to beat this lot.' Even after more than forty years there are a score of images in my head from that field as fresh as if I saw them yesterday: a company of lances wheeling at the canter with not a single horse more than an inch out of alignment that I could see; a hundred or so longbowmen shooting cheap clay saucers out of the air like ducks for the pot before turning on the butts and loosing a scorcher of a volley that turned every bulls-eye into a hedgehog; a banda of light horse transitioning from loose scouting order to close ranks at a single trumpet call; and most terrifying of all, a heavy infantry company deploying from column of march to line of battle without missing a step, the spearmen crouching down and shuffling forward as the crossbows loosed over their advancing heads into a double row of wooden dummies, and then at the shriek of a whistle the spearmen rearing up and plunging forward with a roar of "Free or dead!" to overrun the dummies with spears flashing and damn me if their ranks weren't as straight as a carpenter's rule even at the charge, the shields a perfect wall of iron-rimmed wood tipped with a hedge of spear-points.
Next to me Lord Estermont was signing himself with the seven-pointed star with a dumbstruck expression on his face, while Septon Martyn's jaw was gaping open as he stared. I don't know what they were thinking, but I was thinking that I wouldn't give a single clipped penny for Tyrosh's chances if they tried to fight this crowd. If the companies I was seeing at drill here were representative of the whole army and if they worked together as well as they did alone, then the Tyroshi would get eaten alive. The second thing I thought was that it didn't matter what Septon Martyn found regarding Jonothor's heresy, we'd never be able to try him for it unless Robert let us. So long as Robert protected him, and had this army to back him up, Jonothor was as safe as any man in the world.
I should have remembered that naming calls; no sooner had I had that thought than the man himself came cantering up. Well, I suppose if you see your grandfather's banner unexpectedly you tend to drop whatever you're doing and find out what brought him this far east. As Robert and Lord Estermont shook hands and roared jovial greetings at each other I couldn't help but be struck by Robert's appearance. Handsome he undoubtedly was, a proper maiden's fantasy, but I never saw a king so plainly dressed. If it weren't for the gold circlet around his head, the surcoat over his half-armor with the black crowned stag on yellow, and the two coins strung around his neck, you'd have thought he was a well-to-do landed knight, not a king. At the time I figured that the plainness of Robert's wardrobe was due to spending all his money on his army, but later I learned that it was part of his legend and theory of kingship. A king, he was of the opinion, only needed the full fig of royal regalia if he couldn't command the respect and admiration of his people with his deeds. Load of rot, you ask me, but it seemed to work for him; I suppose it's easy to command people's respect when you're Robert Baratheon.
After the rest of the introductions were made, Septon Martyn and I were sent off to find a place in the encampment where our party could bed down while Lord Estermont joined Robert in reviewing the Legion at drill. Personally, I was glad to be sent forth from the royal presence; it had been a long ride from Myr city and my arse was declaring its readiness to kill me unless I got out of the saddle. If I had known how much riding awaited us over the next few months I would have found some way to come down with a debilitating but not too dangerous illness, but I'm a knight, not a fortune teller.