Chapter 27 - The 30th day of October, 298 years after Aegon's Conquest

Fifield was watching the bodycam footage live. He swore when the door opened and the crossbow bolts shot outwards. After that the footage grew jerkier as the commandos stormed the tower. They saw flashes, staircases, sword-wielding men in armor screaming and falling. Outside, the scenes were no less chaotic. An avalanche of bodies ran forward. Muzzles flashed, and the bodies fell in an incomprehensible whirlwind of steel. From a nearby open window, they soon heard the commotion in repeat. They were close enough to the Red Keep to hear the gunfire, delayed a mere five or six seconds. It was a dull roar that would carry over most of the city.

In minutes it was all over. They were listening in on the radio chatter. A quick headcount proved all the commandos had survived. They quickly winched their way back up into the Black Hawks. They strapped Eddard Stark's body back into the same harness and brought it on board as well. Even as they were rising away from the Red Keep, Fifield heard the cries of the mob outside swell in volume. Whether the sounds of the distant battle had sent them into a fresh frenzy, or it was a pre-mediated attack, he wasn't immediately sure. He heard more shots, nearby now. The gold cloaks had held for a time, then seemed to think better of it as the mob surged forward over the barrier. As they retreated down the street the American marines opened up with tear gas, and worse.

Fifield went to a south-facing window to observe. Flaming arrows were soaring down from a nearby street, impacting all over with their usual inaccuracy. In the street below he heard screams, the mob quickly obscured by the clouds of gas, but they still seemed to be pressing forward. He heard the odd shot now, an uneven crackle that reminded him disturbingly of sizzling bacon. A hundred feet from the embassy gates it grew in intensity, finally blunting the mob's momentum. It was hard to make progress tripping over the bodies of your fallen comrades. Fifield saw two American marines standing almost casually on the roof of their manse, taking turns firing their tear gas cannisters. A minute later another flight of arrows came down and one of the marines fell with an audible shout. Fuck.

Fifield turned to an aide. "Keep packing. We're definitely going at dawn." He turned back to the bloodied street, wondering how it had all gone so horribly wrong.

He didn't sleep at all that night. Few in either embassy did. They spent much of the early hours loading computers, suitcases and choice pieces of furniture into the waiting trucks. Other items of value were burned in the manses' fireplaces. Fifield, for his part, was just old enough to remember the fall of Saigon. As a boy he had seen the images of the American embassy staff lined up on the roof trying to board a waiting helicopter. The vehicles now were not quite the same, and the overall circumstances rather different, but he couldn't quite get the image out of his head.

As dawn lightened, he looked around his office one last time and then let a commando escort him down the staircase to his assigned Bushmaster. Others were boarding. Fifield saw Major Harvey, the head of the commando detachment, convene briefly with an American Marine officer just outside the gates.

"Was that man ok?" Fifield asked as the major passed. No one had told him the fate of the marine on the roof.

"I'm sorry sir, it was through the neck. He died in about ten minutes."

"What was his name?"

"Josh White, he was twenty-two."

Fifield felt his blood run cold. His first thought was a selfish one. At least it was not an Australian. Not my fuck up. But he chided himself immediately. One of us was eventually going to take a bad arrow. In the last couple of days they'd fired thousands of the fucking things. At least now we are leaving.

Down the street, the Americans were forming up as well. Simple geography dictated the Australians would be the advance guard with the Americans at the rear. Engines roared to life. In the dawn light the street was still misty from repeated barrages of tear gas met with flaming arrows. The first Bushmaster pulled out, followed by the other two, then half a dozen smaller trucks that had been parked on the embassy grounds. The Americans followed with their Strykers and Humvees. Overhead, four black hawks appeared as escort.

The trip out of the city could have been worse. Arrows would not penetrate even lightly armored vehicles, no matter how enthusiastically loosed. The commandoes again fired tear gas ahead, and even had a sort of sonic cannon on the lead vehicle to clear the streets. For the most part this seemed to work. Fifield didn't have a good view forward, though he noticed they went over several bumps which felt uncomfortably like bodies. In ten minutes they had passed through the City Gates, which at least hadn't been barred to them. Two hours later they were back at the Ring, a hundred and nineteen live men and women, and one corpse.

######

Suppertime at Winterfell had grown significantly more interesting in the days since Sansa and Arya's return. There were only eight of the flying men, the two in black and the six in green. Half the green ones stayed beside their 'flying machine' at all times. Those not seeing to this guard duty stayed at Winterfell. Robb had given them quarters in the Great Keep, just a floor down from his own.

They had done tours of the castle, Robb, Theon and Maester Luwin leading Mr. 'Patrick Huysing' and his companions around themselves. The did a complete circuit of the walls, then showed off the Godswood with its ancient heart tree, the Great Hall, the armory, the stables and every other area of the castle. They toured the Wintertown and once rode almost to the edge of the Wolfswood. The Flying Men mounted horses on this occasion. They did not seem practiced riders, though they trotted along ably. Huysing asked his questions and Robb answered them politely. Breaking their fast one morning he asked about Osha.

"I am curious, my lord, about that woman. The one in chains."

"She is a wildling, from North of the wall" Robb replied.

"I must ask - is she not a slave? We were told that slavery was not permitted in Westeros."

"Aye, you were told it true. We do not practice slavery here. She is chained because she is our prisoner. She and her companions threatened my brother in the Wolfswood, not a moon past. She was the only one to be spared."

"Aye, she still lives only by the mercy of our Lord" Theon Greyjoy added, glancing at Robb. "In the Iron Islands she would not be pardoned for such a crime. She would have been torn apart, and slowly at that."

Huysing nodded at this, his face neutral.

As curious as the visitors were about Winterfell however, it was a fraction of the fascination with which the Northerners beheld the Flying Men and the devices they had brought with them. Huysing had brought something called a 'laptop' along with a 'battery pack', 'hand crank generator', 'speakers' and a 'projector'. He set it all up in the Great Hall on their first night. Scarce a soul in Winterfell was absent, along with a significant number of attendees from the Wintertown. They crammed together in the hall until it was well over its five hundred persons capacity. The projector screen was only eight feet across, a touch too small for the room's size, but that scarcely mattered.

Robb stared in shock as images came up on the 'screen'. He had seen portraits and paintings before of course. Winterfell had a number scattered throughout its finer buildings, not to mention illustrations in books, but he had never seen artistry with such skill as this. The first image was so strange he could make little sense of it. Huysing explained that it was an image of Melbourne and started pointing out its features. Robb soon found himself struggling with the scale of the great towers of steel and glass. Without Sansa's assertion that the city was in fact real, Robb might not have believed it so.

Other images came on the screen, of flying machines and other devices, of Australia, of the Maidenring, of America and China and the other lands beyond it. Huysing held up a large banner, a red and white cross with stars on a blue background and explained it as the Australian's sigil. Robb gave his blessing for it to be hung in the Great Hall alongside the scores of Northern banners. Huysing then mentioned that Australia had a national song and asked if he could play it for them. Robb gave his approval. Then the 'speakers' started playing music. Trumpet and drums and wind instruments started up. The Australian representatives were all men but, bizarrely, a woman's voice could be heard, so loud and clear it was startling.

"Australians all let us rejoice, for we are young and free…"

There were shocked cries from the gathered Northerners, followed by applause. The song continued, emanating from the black, boxy-like devices. Servants and lords alike sat there, completely raptured as the woman sung about a land across the seas, renowned of wealth and beauty. When it ended, Robb felt breathless and giddy. He looked at Bran and Theon, who were staring back with equal amazement. Occasionally bards called as far north as Winterfell, but Robb didn't think even in the south or the free cities they had bards the equal of this, this music box with its queer magic.

Huysing started playing more songs, now accompanied by images on the projector screen. Most were about Australia, with lyrics like 'we are Australian' and 'I still call Australia home'. They showed images of the land, of vast deserts and plains, mountains and oceans and cities. They showed other 'images' and 'videos', Huysing explaining about their world. Robb started asking his own questions. Others took his lead. Maester Luwin in particular asked for every detail about how their devices worked. Before long they had strained the limits of Huysing's knowledge. He apologized, saying they would have to talk to other, more learned men, or visit Australia themselves. Robb vowed to do so.

It was on the fourth night of this routine that one of the green men came up to Huysing and whispered something in his ear. Huysing's smile died at once. While another video was playing, he shuffled over through the crowd and begged a moment alone with Robb. Without asking for an invitation, Maester Luwin and Theon Greyjoy came as well. They walked into the dimly lit gallery at the hall's end. Huysing turned to face the young lord. Robb Stark, he reflected, was all of fifteen years old.

"I'm afraid I have very bad news, from King's Landing" Huysing said cautiously.

"What news?" Robb asked. Despite his youth, he could see that the flying man's face was absolutely stricken. Already he was fearing the worst.

"Your father went to confront the Lannisters at the Red Keep, where we believe his household was still being held hostage. A group of our soldiers were present but…the Lannisters ambushed your father. He died before we could help him."

Robb did not reply immediately. "Lord Stark is dead?" Theon piped up, as if such a notion was impossible.

"How?" was all Robb asked.

Huysing explained about the operation to retrieve the Stark household at the Red Keep, of the ambush and the aftermath. "I know this must be a shock to you. You father always dealt with us honorably. He tried to defend the embassies from a mob, so we tried to return the favor in rescuing his household. I must confess, things went badly wrong."

"So…this is your fault?" Theon said accusingly. "Its your fault that Lord Stark is dead."

"Theon…" Maester Luwin cautioned.

"It seems, at every turn, we have underestimated this queen" Huysing said diplomatically. "She has proven more treacherous than we would have thought possible. We tried to deal with her reasonably, but time and again she is choosing to make an enemy of us."

"Lord Stark died, in this ambush" Maester Luwin said cautiously. "How many others died?"

"There were twenty of our men present. Some were hit by arrows, but they all lived."

"So none of them?"

"Our soldiers have very powerful weapons. When they saw what happened to your father, they fought back at once. The Lannister soldiers who did the deed were killed almost immediately."

"How many?" Theon asked.

"We didn't stay to do a full count. They tried to ambush us from all sides. We estimated at least a hundred."

Huysing saw Theon's eyes go wide. Robb blinked. Maester Luwin looked like he'd been slapped. This statement seemed almost as shocking to the Westerosi as the death of their liege lord.

"They killed my father…then your men killed a hundred Lannisters…without losing a man?" Robb said slowly.

"Yes" said Huysing earnestly. "Our people have very powerful weapons when we are provoked. We are only sorry we could not react in time to save your father. You have my deepest sympathies. If it's any consolation, he was avenged immediately."

"Oh, was he?" Robb asked, his voice suddenly like iron. It matched the look in his eyes. "The queen is dead then is she?"

"No, not as far as I'm aware."

Robb turned around. "Then as of yet, he has not been avenged" he declared as he stomped back into the hall.

######

June 7th 2019

"Mr. Prime Minister! Over here! Mr. Prime Minister!"

"Judy, yes."

"Can you go into more detail on the injuries to the dead marine and the wounded commando?"

"Both were hit by stray arrows, one of them proved to be lethal. That's all I'll say on the matter until we have had a chance to inform the families."

"Will you be releasing the bodycam footage?"

"Not at this time no."

"Why not sir?"

"We don't routinely release that information. We are not in the habit of compromising field operations."

"What about Westerosi casualties?"

"We're still compiling figures. We believe they are significantly higher."

"Mr. Prime Minister! Here! Why do the Westerosi hate us now?"

"Now I want to be clear. It was never our intention to engage in any sort of violence in Westeros. This seems to be more of an internal conflict in which some of our men were unfortunately caught in the crossfire. Thankfully, due to their superior training, none of our men were seriously harmed. I am sorry I cannot provide a great deal more detail at this time. Thank you."

The Prime Minister ignored the chorus of voices now, figuring he'd thrown them enough meat for the day. Aides closed ranks around him as he walked back down the halls of Parliament House to his office. Shortly after, he walked over into the nearby conference room where the Planetos Taskforce had once again gathered. It was all Australians this time. The Americans and Chinese could poke their heads in later. The PM sat with a grim expression. He couldn't quite pinpoint when the whole Westeros experience had gone from fascinating to bothersome, but they were well past it now.

"So where are we?" he asked the room at large.

"Fifield reports a successful withdrawal by the embassies with no further casualties, at least to our own" Dutton reported.

"So how many personnel are left in Westeros?"

"Six with Renly at Storm's End. Eight at Winterfell with the Starks. Everyone else has been pulled back in through the Ring."

"With Eddard Stark's death, his son Robb takes over leadership of the North, yes?"

"Yes, though the boy is just fifteen. We asked about some sort of regency arrangement but…apparently that's old enough to rule over there."

"We must send our condolences more directly" the PM said. "At least out of this whole mess…one dead and a handful injured. It could have been much worse I suppose…Do we have any idea of the Westerosi casualties from this whole thing?"

Dutton and General Campbell shared a glance. "Maybe two hundred" the General said after a moment. "Perhaps as many again injured." There was a moment's pause at this statement.

"If anything" the foreign minister started up. "I'm more worried at the moment about events on our side of the Ring. The Chinese and Russians are moving another resolution in the Security Council. They're proposing that access to the Ring be guaranteed for all nations, like the Suez Canal."

"The Americans could block it" Dutton pointed out.

"Of course, but will they? Its been more than two months now. The Ring hasn't vanished. The initial shock I'd say has worn off. Even if we're withdrawing for the moment, other countries still want a crack. The Russian ambassador tries to corner me at least twice a week. Says if they'd been permitted to set up an embassy by now they wouldn't have withdrawn it so easily. They don't particularly care if Robert is the legal king or not either. They'd happily deal with Cersei just the same."

"Perhaps we should wish them good luck" the PM said icily.

"The Chinese would take things even further" the foreign minister went on. "They keep asking why we even bother with the aristocracy at all. The ambassador referred to Westeros as a society in the, and I quote, 'feudal mode of production with a nascent capitalist class'. He says we should ignore the high lords, who are just well-dressed thugs anyway, and deal directly with the common people instead."

"He wants a communist revolution in Westeros?"

"He seems to think it is inevitable."

"Well it couldn't be as bad as when the Communists took over China" Dutton commented. "Mao killed forty million people. There's probably not even that many in Westeros."

The PM frowned at him. "How is King Robert's condition?"

"Still bedridden, but with a few more months we do expect him to make a full recovery."

"And then what?

"By then Renly should have his army gathered and be marching on King's Landing. We could fly him there to join them. Robert and Renly together can retake the capital, restore a legitimate government and reopen the continent. The plan hasn't changed, even with Eddard Stark's death."

"How did Robert take the news?"

There was a moment's silence.

"You haven't told him yet?" the PM asked, incredulous.

"I'll do it myself" Dutton replied.

"Alright. Assuming Westeros is closed to us for the time being, what about the rest of this world? The next best prospect was…the city of Braavos, was it not?"

"Yes. From what we see its one of the few cities in Essos not to practice slavery. Just them and Pentos really."

"How far is it from the Ring?"

"Base on our aerial reconnaissance, about twelve hundred kilometers. That's within Chinook range."

"Then in the meantime, we should organize a new diplomatic mission and hope this one doesn't go so badly wrong."

"We could invite the Chinese, maybe even some UN representatives. It might get them off our backs" Dutton suggested.

The PM nodded. "Alright, lets try not to screw this one up."