Chapter 23 - The 29th day of October, 298 years after Aegon's Conquest
To Lord Royce, it seemed the streets leading up Visenya's Hill were less crowded than the day before, but that was probably just the early hour. Their party only numbered nine this time, with himself and his two sons leading the way. They managed to get within a few hundred yards of the Great Sept unchallenged, before a line of armed men sprung out of the nearby alleyways like mushrooms after a spring rain. One hand on the reins, the other firmly on his sword, Royce brought his party to a halt.
"Who seeks business with his Holiness?" demanded a man who looked like the leader. He was older, some way past middle-aged, tall and thin, but looked better armed than most. A broadsword hung from his hip, and he wore a full suit of armor complete with gorget, helm and gauntlets. He looked like a Warrior's Son. On his breastplate was embroidered a sigil Royce didn't immediately recognize, a white bend cotised on purple. Most of the dozen men around him had the look of Poor Fellows, absent armor and mostly wielding picks and scythes and other farm implements.
"Lord Yohn Royce of Runestone" he boomed, annoyed. "And who might you be to question my passing?"
"I am Ser Bonnifer of House Hasty, a humble servant of the faith."
"Then move aside Ser, I am on a mission of mercy and truth."
"What mission might that be, my lord?"
"It does not concern you Ser. I have information that must reach the eyes and ears of the High Septon."
"You have not come to spread the poison of the flying men, I trust?" Ser Bonifer asked.
"I am here to spread no poison. I come to correct falsehoods."
"What falsehoods then are these? The Father above will judge you if your tongue is false."
"By whose authority to you presume to stop me?" Royce demanded, his patience quickly wearing thin.
"Why, the High Septon himself has charged me and the Holy Hundred with protecting this sacred place."
"The Holy Hundred?" Royce asked. "What manner of order is this?"
"We are a humble order of men-at-arms, sworn to uphold the Father's justice and the Mother's mercy."
"I do not see a hundred" Lord Royce pointed out. "I see less than a score, and most look a poor excuse for a man-at-arms."
"My companions from the Stormlands will soon arrive and more are gathering at the faith's call every day" Ser Bonifer explained. "Soon we will be the Holy Thousand. With the Warrior's strength, the Holy Ten Thousand. No foes of the faith shall endure our cause."
"I have no quarrel with your cause. Shall I swear it by the Father?" Lord Royce asked. "We serve the same cause Ser, the same Gods."
Ser Bonifer seemed to consider him for a moment. "Very well my lord. I will escort you to the doors of Baelor's Great Sept, where you can seek an audience with his Holiness. I must insist that your men wait outside, however."
"Very well" Lord Royce said stiffly. "Thank you Ser."
The small party resumed their ride, shortly entering the square containing the great stone statue of Baelor himself. More armed men lingered at every entrance. Yet more were guarding the great mass of burned wreckage in front of the statue. Royce found himself wrinkling his nose at the smell of charred metal and wood and whatever else the goods of the flying men were made of. What had the other material been called? Plas-tik? He had to concede it was a queer substance. The smell of it burning left a bad taste in his mouth. He gave the square a cursory glance and made a quick estimate. At least two hundred armed men were visible, yet it was a fraction of the mob that had been in evidence yesterday. What happens when they wake up, break their fast, and return for another day's rioting?
He dismounted and bid his sons and retinue to wait at the base of the steps. Ser Bonifer led him up. He conversed briefly with more Poor Fellows guarding the door. They considered Lord Royce for a moment, then opened the doors and let the pair of them enter.
It had been some years since he had set foot in the Great Sept. There were more armed men in the interior, and more candles burning than would normally be expected. The Warrior in particular seemed popular at that moment. At least a hundred had been lit in his favor. A pair of Septons, quite high in rank, came over and greeted Lord Royce politely. He explained his purpose, pulling out the letter for their inspection. They nodded, requested that he surrender his sword and begged his patience. His Holiness was praying. With some reluctance, Lord Royce complied.
The wait went for some time. Ser Bonifer stood with his back to the wall nearby, still as an old statue. Lord Royce decided it would be beneath a lord's dignity to sit, so he remained standing as well. Septons and armed men and other devout of the Faith came and went. Some lit candles, others knelt for a time in quiet prayer. Eventually, when the sun had risen to indicate it was about mid-morning, the Septons returned and announced His Holiness was available. Royce thanked them and was allowed into the High Septon's chambers.
The man himself sat behind his desk, wearing resplendent white robes with a seven-sided crystal crown atop his head. He stood as Lord Royce entered. Royce leaned down and kissed his ring. The High Septon nodded at Ser Bonifer, who bowed deeply and exited the room without a word.
"Thank you, Loyd Royce, for the honor of your visit."
"The honor is all mine your Holiness" Royce said automatically.
"What can I do for you today?"
The Vale lord pulled the letter from his garments, placing it nearly on the desk before the High Septon. "I have come to deliver testimony your Holiness, from Ser Barristan Selmy of the Kingsguard."
"A letter?" the High Septon asked, squinting at the folded piece of paper.
"Yes, his testimony of the accident in the Kingswood that befell king Robert, and the aftermath, when he was taken by the flying men."
The High Septon was still staring at the paper cautiously, as if it might jump off the table and bite him. "I would urge to read its contents your Holiness and consider the matter seriously" Royce added after a few moment's silence.
"This letter, how did you come by it?"
"It was given to me by Lord Stark your Holiness" Royce explained. The High Septon had still not touched the paper.
"Where might Ser Barristan be now, Lord Royce?"
"I believe he remains by the king's side, in Melbourne, along with Ser Mandon Moore."
"Melbourne?" the High Septon asked. He said the word in barely a whisper, as if it was of a vulgar nature.
"Yes, your Holiness" Lord Royce said, growing more uneasy as the conversation continued. "The city that is said to lie on the other side of the…Ring. In the world of the flying men."
"Then this letter…if I do not mistake you my lord, it was written on the other side of this…Ring, and delivered here by Lord Stark and yourself?"
"Lord Stark requested I deliver it on his behalf."
"Stark did not wish to come to me himself?"
"He did attempt to, your Holiness" explained Royce, with a hint of confusion. "Yesterday, but there were great crowds around the Sept. A great mass of fearful people it seems. We hope to allay those fears."
"In what way would you allay them?"
"With truth, your holiness. The sworn testimony, unaltered, uncorrupted, of the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard."
"What testimony would this be?" the High Septon asked quietly.
"I have not read it myself your Holiness."
"But you have been told of its contents, perhaps by Lord Stark?"
"He did tell me something of what Ser Barristan said, your Holiness" Royce said cautiously.
"And what did he tell you?"
Royce paused. It seemed he was going to have to spoon-feed the answer. "Why, that any reports of the king's demise were inaccurate. His grace was seriously wounded by the boar, it is true, but survived his wounds. The flying men took him in, on a mission of mercy, and were able to heal him. He is now recovering in a…I believe it is called a hospital your Holiness, in Melbourne."
The High Septon was staring at him. The silence stretched on for a full ten seconds. Royce held the man's gaze. He was not one to be cowed, even by the head of his church. Finally, without a further word, the High Septon picked up a small bell on his desk. He gave it a gentle ring.
There was the sudden sound of footsteps, and the door behind the desk, to what was presumably the High Septon's study, burst open. A small crowd of men came through. They must have been standing right on the other side of the door, completely silent. Royce recognized Ser Preston Greenfield of the Kingsguard, along with Lancel Lannister, the King's squire, both having been members of King Robert's last hunting party. A dozen others came with them, a mix of Lannister guardsmen and more armed members of the Faith Militant. Despite his surprise at the intrusion, Lord Royce didn't so much as flinch. He stood half a head taller than anyone else in the room, frowning down at them even as they surrounded him in a loose circle. Lancel Lannister took to a knee by the High Septon's side.
"Your Holiness, we are at your service" he said, his gaze fixed at the stone floor.
"Rise, my child" the High Septon said. "It is as you feared, Ser Lancel." He raised an accusing finger at Lord Royce. "The poison of the flying men has continued to spread. Now, I fear, even southron lords have been seduced into their service."
Without further hesitation the High Septon turned and picked up one of the candles that burned at the altar behind his desk. Almost casually, he tilted it down and lowered it to the surface of the table. The unopened letter was curdling into ash in moments. He gave a final look at the gathered men, purposefully avoiding the gaze of Lord Royce.
"My children, we must act quickly."
######
Eddard had remained at the East Barracks, using it as his headquarters as he attempted to re-establish control over the city. It was just past noon when another Gold Cloak messenger arrived and took a knee.
"Lord Stark, the mob has regathered on Visenya's Hill. The High Septon himself came out to preach to them."
"What did he say?"
The Gold Cloak hesitated. "I rode back here as fast as I could milord. He denounced the flying men, called them a plague on the Seven Kingdoms. He said, by the grace of the gods and the order of the queen, that they were to be expelled from the city at once and uh…sent back through the Stranger's Ring, milord."
Eddard rose in alarm. "Is the mob still at the top of the hill?"
"I think they will have started moving by now milord."
"Ride back and see" Eddard commanded. "Keep going back and forth. I want updates as frequent as possible." He looked around, where his own men and the remainder of Lord Royce's were already standing and buckling on sword belts. "You won't find me here though. We shall ride to the embassies. Where is Humfrey Waters?"
He found the city watch commander in the courtyard outside, conversing with some of his officers. He stood to attention at Eddard's approach.
"Commander, the High Septon is fanning the flames of the mob even further. They may be marching on the embassies any minute now."
Humfrey looked suitably grim. "What are your orders, Lord Stark?"
"You have seen the cities of the flying men commander. As have I. I do not believe them to be evil. Do you?"
"I saw no evidence that they were my lord."
"Yet we both have some idea what they're capable of. Does anyone here think there's any realistic chance of fighting them, if things somehow came to that? Is there any greater possible folly at this point than trying to wage war on the flying men?"
"You are correct my lord" Humfrey replied. From the other officers, most of whom had been part of Renly's entourage through the Ring, there cam similar murmurs of assent.
"Then we are running out of time commander. How many men do we have here now?"
"In the barracks my lord? About two hundred."
"Gather everyone you can. Take men off the city gates if you need to. We must seal off the street at both ends, and every alleyway in between. Stop this madness before it escalates. We ride immediately."
"At once my lord" Humfrey agreed. He started shouting orders. Eddard and the dozen men with him went straight for the stables. He mounted his horse and led the party through the barracks gates, platoons of Gold Cloaks forming up behind them. Their starting point was closer to the embassy street, less than a mile away. The mob would have to come halfway across the city and wouldn't be on horseback.
They rode through the winding streets, ascending the shoulder of Rhaeny's Hill and skirting the edge of Flea Bottom. They crossed the thoroughfare leading from the Iron Gate. Just a few more corners and they were at the end of the embassy road. The Australian and American vehicles looming ahead like green steel elephants. The usual crowd of begging brothers and other agitators had already started to swell. The greater portion of the mob didn't seem to have arrived however, though Eddard could already hear the swelling of noise to the west that signaled their imminent arrival.
Eddard urged his men forward, forming a wedge and shouting at any loiterers to disperse. Some backed away immediately from the line of horsemen, but others had to be compelled with the butts of spears and the flats of swords. Some of the blindfolded men staggered about, and had to be half-dragged, half-carried into the nearest alleyways.
Eddard considered the layout of the streets as the Gold Cloaks arrived to continue the dispersal. He decided the south-western end, the opposite end, was the most likely axis of attack. He urged his men forward, stealing a glance at the Australian's manse as he rode past. He spotted ambassador Fifield looking out of an upstairs window. The Australian commandoes were more alert than ever, fingering their weapons and looking about constantly. The American marines down the street were much the same, pulled taunt, like a longbow about to loose its shaft. They looked on passively as Eddard's men rode past. A hundred yards further down at the next crossroads Eddard ordered a halt. The Gold Cloaks quickly reinforced them, forming a mass of about fifty mounted men.
They had some minutes to get organized. Smaller parties blocked off all the nearby alleyways and anywhere else absent a decent stone wall. Humfrey Waters stayed with another fifty-odd at the street's opposite end. Eddard rode back and forth for a time, checking the layout. He ordered some men to grab wooden tables, benches, crates and anything else substantial nearby and start arranging proper barricades. They had only been at if for a few minutes however when Eddard heard a roar of noise and turned back to the main line.
The mob was here.
Further back, the word 'mob' served appropriately. There were hundreds of head shaven begging brothers and thousands of other, ordinary folks. Millers and tailors, coopers and fishermen and farmers. Many clutched primitive weapons, wooden clubs, scythes, axes, hammers and flails. The forward ranks however saw men holding sturdier weapons, swords and spears and the odd mace or crossbow. A decent minority were clad in armor. Some had sigils imprinted on their garments. It seemed even a few highborn knights had answered the faith's call to recreate the Warrior's Sons.
They made no semblance of marching in time. There was little formation to their movements as they surged down the street, but in the narrow confines it hardly mattered. Maybe ten abreast, they closed with the line of mounted guards and Gold Cloaks, screaming and jeering. Eddard urged his horse over towards the confrontation. City watch officers were yelling orders at the crowd to disperse, but they were being paid no heed. The curses being hurled at the Gold Cloaks were as vulgar as they were angry.
"Whores! Whores of the flying men! Flying whores!"
"The Stranger's servants! The Stranger's men!"
"Go back to the Ring! Go back to the Seventh Hell!"
The spears of the Gold Cloaks were held high, a bit above the heads of the approaching crowd. A little lower and they'd be properly skewering them. Eddard urged them some restraint. He still hoped they could avoid a bloodbath. Ten feet beyond the ends of the spears the crowd halted a little. An armored knight, his face obscured by a helm, shouted for the Gold Cloaks to let the crowd past. "Why do you defend the flying men, those who practice the foulest sorcery? Are you their servants? Are you no longer men of the faith? Are you no longer men at all?" There was more jeering.
"Disperse!" Eddard shouted desperately over the din. "Clear the streets! Disperse at once, in the name of the king!"
"The king is dead!" shouted the knight. "Long live the king!" The crowd echoed his words. "Long live the Seven!" shouted another, and soon the crowd had taken up the chant. "The Seven! The Seven! The Seven!" With a cry, the knight rushed forward, sword in hand. He parried a raised spear and smashed into the horse of the city watchmen holding it. The rest of the crowd followed.
In moments the whole street was caught up in the tussle. There was more shouting. The horses cried out in alarm. Some reared. One threw his rider. A couple more Gold Cloaks were dragged from their mounts. A dozen armed faith militant went down as well however, battered with or in some cases thrust straight through with a spear. Blood began to spill, pooling on the ground in puddles. Some might have quailed from the carnage, but the crowd seemed undaunted. Hysteria had made them fearless. Despite the bloodshed, the line of men held. In the narrow street their ranks were five or six riders deep, a solid mass of horse and man and metal that did not easily budge.
Eddard was near the rear, urging them to hold steady. After a while he grabbed the reins and galloped back up the street for a quick circuit of the perimeter. There were half a dozen alleys along the embassy street where more clusters of Gold Cloaks were stationed. Finding the most direct route blocked, the mob quickly spread out, looking for another way in. In minutes they had surged up every available alleyway, surrounding the street from all sides. Eddard's men soon held a clear stretch of the street maybe two hundred years long, beyond which the mob pressed in from every direction. They were pushed back a few yards here and there, but overall the line held.
It was some time later, when Eddard was doing another circuit of the perimeter, that he saw Fifield emerge from the embassy, escorted by a pair of green men. Eddard reared up beside the Australian's vehicles.
"Good to see you Lord Stark" Fifield said, sounding almost amicable. "Thanks for your help." The ambassador looked up and down the chaotic street. "Seems it is as we feared. This is becoming a messy business."
"Aye and bound to get messier" Eddard agreed. "I don't have enough men as yet. I'm still working to gain control of the watch. The queen fights me every step of the way. I'd hoped to have a resolution by tomorrow."
"Why tomorrow?"
"I've talked with Lord Baelish. He's promised he can deliver me the watch. The price will be in gold, but if we have to pay it…"
"I would pay it readily enough, Lord Stark. But if he does not come through?"
Eddard took a turn looking up and down the street now. "I have two hundred men here. I am not sure how long we can hold out. Eventually they will need rest, relief…"
"The mob's about ten thousand strong by the look of it. We're watching from above" Fifield informed him, nodding towards the sky.
"Fifty to one?" Stark sighed, glancing back at the Gold Cloaks. "If only they were Northmen."
"Indeed Lord Stark."
"If we cannot hold, your people are in danger, but you know that already."
To his surprised, Fifield laughed, though it was of the bitter sort. "Oh I wouldn't say so my lord. My people aren't in danger. We are the danger." Fifield waved his arm vaguely at the screaming mob. "It's truly them I'm worried about. If we leave ten thousand bodies on the streets today, who in Westeros will ever forgive us come tomorrow? I suspect that's the queen's real game."
Eddard frowned, glancing at the commandos nearby. He had been shown pictures, even moving ones, of the flying men's firearms but had never seen them in action himself. From what he could tell, every green man could be the equal of a score of crossbowman. He did not doubt their ability to defend themselves. Fifield was right, the issue wasn't how to fight the mob. It was how to fight them without it becoming a complete bloodbath.
Already, there seemed little chance of that. A score or more dead bodies were scattered at either end of the street. The mob was trampling over its own fallen, leaving bloody footprints everywhere. Half a hundred had retreated with wounds or at least tried to amidst the press around them. A trickle of wounded Gold Cloaks had started to flow back as well. An impromptu triage station had sprung up by a garden wall not twenty paces from them.
"There is one other option I should mention" Fifield added.
"What is that, my lord?"
"Did I ever explain the concept of tear gas?"
Eddard shook his head. Fifield quickly launched into an explanation. When he had finished, Eddard was frowning again.
"Do you think that will work?"
"It's better than bullets. If your men can't hold it's one thing we're willing to try first. Your Westerosi riot control methods aren't too advanced."
"Sir!" one of the commandos interrupted at that moment, taking a step forward and putting an arm across the ambassador's chest as if to shield him. He was looking up, towards the west. The rest of them did the same just in time to hear a whizzing noise as an arrow flew down and lost itself in some nearby bushes. Two more landed in the street in quick succession. The angle of drop was steep. Someone must have been firing them blind from the next neighborhood over. The commandoes urged the ambassador to get back inside.
"Alright, alright. Lord Stark, just tell your men if they see smoke to stay away from it. Hold their breath and close their eyes if need be. I promise it's no foul sorcery!" Fifield glanced at his watch and turned back to the commando. "Tell Culvahouse we're going to try gas at fourteen hundred hours local, if he's agreeable" he ordered, before letting the green men escort him back inside. Eddard cantered down the street again, passing on the ambassador's message dutifully.
Not ten minutes later, Eddard saw a small group of Australian commandoes forming up at one end of the street, fifty yards back from the scuffle. A squad of US marines mirrored them at the other end. They were now clutching a different sort of device, with a thicker looking barrel. With some shouted commands, they held the weapons up at a maybe thirty-degree angle. Eddard clutched tightly at the reigns of his horse. There was a series of loud bangs, accompanied by small puffs of smoke. Eddard saw objects fly up through the air, swift as arrows.
For a few moments nothing seemed to happen. Eddard began to think the 'tear gas' anticlimactic, until he noticed the clouds of smoke emanating from deep with the mob. The volume of screaming seemed to double. The smoke grew thicker, until either end of the street seemed totally obscured. A faint wind was blowing from the east, which fortunately kept whatever noxious fumes it contained from blowing back against the defenders. The horses certainly didn't like the smell of it. A few more threw their riders and galloped madly down the street, seeking any refuge from the white clouds, but the mob caught by far the worst of it. Eddard had seen armies break before, and he recognized the moment as the crowd surged back away from them.
Slowly the screams and jeers receded to an unpleasant background hum. The mob had retreated to the surrounding streets, but at least they'd broken contact with the main lines of Gold Cloaks. The smoke cleared to a dismal scene. Eddard circled the perimeter again. He counted at least thirty bodies. The Gold Cloaks had suffered their own casualties. One man had been pierced through the neck with a spear and had quickly bled out. Another had fallen from his horse at one point and been trampled. A score more were nursing wounds. Robar Royce was bleeding from the leg where an axe had found a gap in his armor. He limped along the road, cursing, aided by his brother.
Eddard worried briefly about from where they might summon a maester, but several of the green men had already emerged from their embassies wielding bandages and other devices he did not recognize. A 'first aid post' was quickly set up in the ground floor dining room of the American manse. Several Gold Cloaks were carried in. Eddard set others to work resuming construction of barricades at either end of the street. They raided the manses nearby, ignored the protests of the occupants and informing them they were welcome to leave if they wished. Even as the mob withdrew the rain of arrows picked up. Some of them were flaming now. Eddard watched as one stuck fast in the timber roof of the Australian manse. A green man quickly walked over and doused the flames before they could spread with a bulky red-colored device. It was mid-afternoon when Fifield found him again.
"Good work Lord Stark. That seemed to put an end to things" he said, surveying the scene sadly.
"No" Eddard corrected him, equally grim. "Now it begins."