Chapter Twenty: Coalitions Clash.
Disclaimer: I own none of the material written by George R. R. Martin, or his publishing company, or HBO.
OOOO
'I warned you, Sansa, blood of Brandon. The typical, pigheaded heroics of your noble line distract you from destiny and fate. From the true battles that must be won.' She lay in the middle of boundless, snowy plains beneath a blinding, eye-achingly white sun. 'The threat marches closer to the Wall. Gains much strength. Yet you are trapped in King's Landing instead of sailing North where you belong.' The crow pecked at her hair from where it perched on her shoulder. Speaking as any human might. 'Find a Weirwood Tree you must girl. Quickly too. Forget the plight of those you think you are protecting. Without your might in the North when the time comes, they will soon be dead despite your best interests.'
'You locked Shiera away,' She sighed dreamily, 'I am intuitive enough to know who you are. Bloodraven. No wonder you wished to exploit my brother Bran. Young, yet not too young like Rickon. The blood of Kings flowing through his veins is just as true as for myself or any of my siblings.' There was a thick pause as the girl's mind struggled to think underneath the fog of her deep coma. 'I will never be controlled, or manipulated by you. Yet we both know you need me. I sent Bran to Highgarden, and Arya to Essos. Jon has no Direwolf, and Robb is fighting a war. You have been neutered, Bloodraven. The master of secrets has fallen far from grace. Outwitted by a Stark girl.' There was a listless breath exhaled from her lungs. 'Leave me to sleep. I am so very tired.'
'You have seen the threat, have you not?' The crow persisted. 'The frozen Others that march south to bury everything you love beneath a blizzard.' Bloodraven had shown her the visions, the horrific scenes throughout the course of her coma. Mythical monsters, armies of dead swarming over Wildling settlements, resurrected Giants, spider-like crabs of ice ridden by Others. 'Awake Sansa Stark, use that power which Brandon the Builder blessed you with to flee from this wretched cesspit. Rebuild King's Landing in your image after saving the world, if you must.'
'I nearly died.' Came her softened, worried response.
'After reaching across the world four different times. You will be ready soon. Then you must flee north, to the Isle of Faces.' He left her in darkness after that.
OOOO
"Why did you have to take me?" The Lefford girl was tenacious, stubborn. The further they had descended from her glorious home amidst the mountains, the more her ladylike demeanor had been chipped away, until finally, only something wild remained. Brambles and leaves clung to her golden hair, and sunkissed, clear skin was speckled with splashes of mud. The white sleeping gown she had worn when abducted by Catelyn was now torn in several places, revealing the lithe legs beneath. Clarisse Lefford was a clever little thing by turns, so Catelyn simply ignored the stupid question. Their journey had been mostly easy despite the whole element of pushing the horses as hard as possible to escape any pursuers.
Despite all her anger, Clarisse was wise enough to remain mostly quiet and not make any loud fusses. Fortunate considering that the two women were not travelling through the Riverlands of the Tullys. The south-western Riverlands were now the home of sellswords, Lannisters, bandits, and Gregor Clegane. Carefully Catelyn continued to lead her horse along through the small thicket of trees. The rope which bound Clarisse tightly to her own mare was still tight against Catelyn's waist. She had just moved to wearily wipe the sweat away from her brow when the screams became audible to her.
Carefully the noblewoman slipped from her horse. Struggling to move with a silence and stealth she had not needed for years. Soon enough, as their eyes adjusted to the light beyond the branches, Catelyn and Clarisse peered into absolute chaos. Several buildings in the small town were on fire. The lack of men due to war and death meant that the commonborn women who lived there were entirely undefended. They either screamed and ran, or were begging on both knees with the attackers for mercy that would not come. "Lady Stark!" Clarisse hissed, "There is a man here."
Indeed, a man stood nearby pissing, one hand wrapped around a jug of ale, the other on his cock. She withdrew the blade swiftly and slipped ever nearer to him. No alternative choice considering that he would likely notice them as soon as he finished with the matter at hand. For the first time in her life Catelyn Stark thrust a sword into a man's belly with as much strength as she could muster. There was no time to contemplate what had just happened. She simply blinked and listened to her captive's next words. "He had a bow! I can use it. We can help the villagers. Let me loose." There was a pause, "Please Lady Stark. At this rate we are stuck together. Surrounded by rapists and murderers. We have no choice. Unless you want the blood of your father's people on your hands!"
She watched the vicious scenes in the village for a moment. A small party of five men throwing women to the ground, mutilating them, and slaughtering their babes. "I will stay with the horses. You will not get far enough away on foot to escape without them."
With that she cut the Lefford chit free, slipped back with the horses, and watched from afar as the young Lady strung the stolen bow with an arrow. Though many paces away she released the projectile into the neck of an unaware man as he rutted against an unwilling fisherwoman. "You distract them, Lady Stark," The Lady Clarissa's voice was suddenly cold and frosty, "I will pick them off one by one." So it was that Catelyn slipped out of the treeline with a bloody sword in one hand and the tether for the horses in her other. She walked halfway to the village before waiting for the scoundrels to take notice. None did. Thus it happened accordingly that Lady Stark tossed her head back and released the highest, loudest scream she possibly could.
As they strode towards her en masse, all filled with the same obvious curiosity, the arrows began to fly free from the thicket behind her. Five targets taken down by eight shots. Catelyn wasted no time finishing the fallen men off with sharp thrusts of her blade. Part of her was repulsed by her actions. Another part, however, remembered a single word. Duty. This was her duty as a Tully to the smallfolk of the Riverlands. To leave so many women and children to a fate worse than death was unfathomable. Now that she had seen it she certainly could not ignore such atrocities. Most surprising was the fact that they had actually managed to fell so many men.
"Ye did 'em in." A woman nearby pushed the dead body off of her. It rolled to the side with a firm thunk. "Who are ye?"
Catelyn peered about at the growing mass of victimized women and children. Their village burning rapidly to ash with each passing moment. "I am Catelyn Tully," She nodded at them all, "And you all are going to head north with me for Fairmarket. For safety." The women gaggled about her with astonishing rapidity, kissing her hands and feet. Whispering words of fealty and thanks. Then they fought their way through the fire to begin loading wagons and carts with whatever could be rescued.
"I had no idea Tywin Lannister would have his soldiers commit such debaucherously brutal acts. No matter our divisions we are all men and women of Westeros." Surprisingly enough Clarissa Lefford had slipped nearer rather than running away for the Westerlands.
"You are an expert archer. Why have you not already run back to Gold Tooth?" Catelyn asked in an emotionless tone.
"I can take care of myself. My grandfather and mother taught me to hunt themselves." She admitted, "Though we are deep in the bowels of the Riverlands now. From the looks of things the soldiers here would not give me a chance to proclaim my identity before I had a belly full of bastards and a smile ear-to-ear. Much as I may loathe you, you Tully bitch, my best chance at survival is Fairmarket. We may as well help these poor womenfolk and their babes the best we can. Can you use that sword at all?"
"I birthed five warriors." Catelyn answered in a sharp tone, "Rest assured, Lady Clarissa, I have a few tricks up my sleeves."
OOOO
"I remember when we would drink together in King's Landing. Loras, you, and I. How fun you were." Renly smiled, sniffing as he straightened up. Bran's grimace was answer enough, yet still, he moved forth. Unwinding the straps and buckles. Removing the summer King's armor bit by unfortunate bit. They had spent the morning in the yards with all of Renly's sycophants watching. The King often forced Bran to accompany him everywhere. Since those first days slightly south in the lands of tents, and now in Highgarden. Solid musculature the lean, second son of House Stark could hardly begin to compete against himself was revealed to the summery light.
"War takes its toll on us all at some point, your grace," He responded carefully, yet still so very sharply, "I am weary of the horror that has already befallen my family."
A hand, strong, calloused, and so much older, grasped at the lad's own as he turned to set up the wash basin. In one of those rare instances Tully blue eyes were forced to lock onto Renly's stupid blue ones. Bran harbored no illusions that Renly was inferior due to his… Disposition. The reluctant squire was well-enough acquainted with his own desires and passions to know that he too found men attractive just as he admired women of great beauty. What repulsed him from the handsome man's countenance was the lacking mind hidden beneath. Scorn for books and learning. An unwillingness to see out the duties and responsibilities required of a man of his station. A King. Rather than hiding in Highgarden with his make-believe soldiers and pretty Roses, Renly should have been on the field like Robb was. Fighting fiercely for that which he so coveted. Alongside all of the men, women, and children bleeding in his name.
On the fields of battle where Bran himself belonged as well.
"I must admit my admiration for you, Brandon Stark." Renly had done this before, attempted to impress something of clear importance onto his new squire. Giving him a new name none had ever used before. A flimsy attempt to reinforce the notion of ownership. "My advisors and the Tyrells are unwilling to bleed unnecessarily for those who they dismiss as mere Northerners. I wish naught for your people to bleed. I must be prepared with reasons for why such an objective is of interest to them." He wanted Bran to spread his legs apart like a whore. The boy had been warned well enough by his sister that women would manipulate him sexually, and attempt to sow their own ideas in his mind. This was an open invitation to do as such by Renly himself, no less.
He had debated long and hard with naught but his own imagined counsel on this matter. Should the Stark lad play the role of a women, and give Renly what he so clearly wanted? His father would be ashamed. Not quite due to the queerness of the situation, but because one of his children would ever sell their bodies and minds to the highest bidder. To a man they were not even truly attracted to. Mother would be disappointed by the queerness of it, though she would also understand the need to protect family. Shiera would do it without a second thought. Robb's response was a mystery. Jon would never. Arya would fight her initial gut impulse to stab Renly with Lament before deciding, grudgingly, to what was best for the North.
He thought finally of Sansa's words, for he knew they would sway him in the end. They had had this very conversation in King's Landing, after all. When he first practiced his hand at manipulating both Loras Tyrell and Renly. 'A man who draws on a woman's arsenal is not a coward,' She had whispered as they hid in a corner of the Tower of the Hand together, 'But you must know the rule. Always know your value, and question if the price of the transaction is worthwhile.' He swallowed thickly at her more recent, sorcerous words. Bran was the only Stark so far south. The only Stark who could do what needed to be done.
Finally, he stepped ever closer to Renly's sweaty, stinking, nearly nude body. Focusing not on the mind, and forcing himself to only consider the impressive musculature. A man needed to be convinced. They could tell when a prospective partner was unwilling. Bran could only hope that a man of Renly's nature could be fooled with as much ease as men were by women every day. "I wish to earn my Knighthood honorably, my King." He acted a fool, normal men liked fools, fools were inclined towards fools. "If I were to show you the true depths of my gratitude, for your unending kindness and sheltering of a fugitive such as I, would it taint my endeavors towards Knighthood?"
Renly blinked, caught off guard by the sudden proximity and reminder of their unbalanced relationship. Not only was he a King, but a mentor. His silky, sweaty underthings visibly protruding in response. "Ser Loras is as good and true a knight as any in the Seven Kingdoms," The Stag King breathed down into Bran's face. "None dare question him. None will dare question you."
Truly it was a surprisingly good reassurance. Mace Tyrell was a powerful man and none would dare slander his son openly but a King. Ned Stark might have been imprisoned, but Robb was an increasingly powerful man and none would dare slander his brother but another King. Not that Bran truly cared. He simply wanted Renly to believe that such things mattered to him. That his restraint for the past fortnight had been born of self-control and honor. Starkliness. Such would make it all the easier to manipulate him. In a matter of moments, Bran lost his first kiss to the handsome Baratheon Usurper. Supple lips took charge, clearly indicating to Bran that Renly expected, demanded the lad amended as he received a nip to his pink lips, submission. The lad's own armor was clumsily unhooked and tossed aside as Renly almost frantically ripped free of his final scrap of clothing.
They soon stood naked together. Bran Stark had never felt quite so self-conscious of himself before. He had bathed with men before in streams on long journeys and prolonged hunts, but none of them had ever been interested in him, and he had been certain to hide his interest in masculine forms. Not even in the public pools of King's Landing had he felt so unguarded. Renly's lidded eyes raked over his slighter form predatorily. "Gods Brandon," He hissed in a darkly pleased tone, "You have a divine bottom." His hands reached around swiftly to cup said bottom within a vice-like grip. That, admittedly rather frightening, large cock of his protruding against Bran's thigh.
"What happens now, your grace?" He asked somewhat nervously as the older man nipped hungrily at his neck.
"Call me Renly, Brandon," The King merely purred in answer.
In all they spent nearly an hour together as 'Renly' enjoyed himself. Bran acted the most he had ever acted in his entire life. Pretending the role of the sycophantic, yet honorable, squire who had hidden a blazing infatuation from his handsome knight. It opened his eyes to the miseries that whores dealt with. He had also never quite considered the depth of erotica as developed by humankind. At the very end of it all he simply lay in the youngest Baratheon brother's strong arms as they both panted upwards at the vaulted ceiling. "I do worry for my family," Bran sighed softly, in a quiet voice. He knew the man better now. Understood quite well what made him tick.
"You are safe here, Brandon," Renly answered in a firm tone, "And we will begin marching for King's Landing within the next few days. I will save your father and sister from the bowels of the Red Keep. I'll slaughter every last Lannister in the way if I must." The foolish words were spoken by a foolish man, but still Bran felt his heart swell beneath the victory of his first manipulation. No longer, it seemed, would they be waiting another month to begin the march for King's Landing. Now they would press on for the stinking capital. Tywin Lannister would be forced to flee south due to the sheer threat alone, and his brother would have room to breathe.
'Make it worthwhile, Robb.' Bran thought to himself as he washed in the basin and dressed himself once more, 'Make the death of my honor and naivety a victory for our House.'
Though Renly repulsed him he bid the naked King farewell with a long kiss to the lips before slipping into the halls of Highgarden. The eyes of the guard's bore into his back, yet he forced himself to ignore the slew of feelings that arose from their inevitable gossiping. It was a rather tall, and impossible task to accomplish. His walk back down to the tents that surrounded Highgarden stretched longer than needed. Bran enjoyed the sight of the white walled castle against the dark blue, hot summer sky. He enjoyed walking through the mazes of brambles, stone, and thorned roses. Sometimes the Stark would visit the Three Singers and reflect in silent contemplation on his position.
Today the idea of such somber thought and isolation made his stomach twist and turn.
"-ay even a rapist in the Night's Watch would not touch you!" Crowed a Reacher Lordling as Bran stepped into the camps. He was unsurprised by the gaggle of young men that surrounded a peculiar sight. Word had it that since Brienne of Tarth had arrived at Highgarden, earlier even than Bran, she had been insulted soundly every day. The squire admired her greatly for her resilience. This Lady Brienne stood taller than most men, was ungainly in appearance, and stronger than anyone Bran had seen apart from spare few Knights and soldiers. From the looks of the tree she stood before the Lordlings had caught her as she practiced with her sword.
"Only an unwilling woman," Bran spoke loudly, resoundingly, "Or a woman your father purchased with his coin, would ever touch you, Beesbury." The blonde, skinny boy spun about with darkening features. They had all tried to befriend Bran, who was already famous for his success in the Hand's Tourney and having slain a Kingsguard, to no effect. Then had come the jibes which Renly had not tolerated. Poor Brienne was simply the only viable target remaining for their cruelty. As one the group moved towards him with menace. He stepped closer with a hand on the pommel of his sword. "What will your fathers do when King Renly berates them for the actions of their stupid sons?" This gave them pause.
"We're sorry Stark," Merrel Florent grinned in an overly appeasing manner, eyes losing their rage instantly.
"Wonderful. Now leave." He snapped shortly, "And if I catch wind of a single nasty word about Lady Brienne, or hear about so much as a pebble striking her, remember that she is my friend." Dark scowls and venomous whispers marked the departure of the unwelcome Lordlings until only Bran and Lady Brienne stood together by the mutilated tree. "You are a better fighter than any of them. Than most men I have met, my Lady."
She eyed him. Bran noticed easily how beautiful her eyes were. Big and blue like sapphires. Kind and sweet by scores. Though several years older than him, he felt that he could relate to her innocence. To the naivety that was slowly but surely being stripped away. "I am no Lady, Lord Stark. Though you may call me Brienne if you wish."
"Aye," He nodded solemnly, "Then I suppose that you must call me Bran in turn." Brienne smiled, and her eyes seemed to blaze even brighter than they had before. "Perhaps you might sup with me, Brienne?"
"I would enjoy that Bran," Her voice wobbled slightly even as she said. He wondered at how such a powerful woman could possess such a kind heart at the same time. Nevertheless, though Bran did not know it, this would not matter.
Brienne of Tarth would prove to be his closest friend in a land of mistruths and dying summers.
OOOO
"Everything has gone to shit," Trycharios groaned to Drazenko's back. He glared again at the map spread before him, the sight filling his belly with utter revulsion. "Your plans were absolute shit."
At this his brother laughed mockingly as always. Trycharios ground his teeth silently while waiting for the verbal chastising that would surely follow. "No plan worth pursuing is ever bloodless in nature. Lines that have not moved for years are being pushed, prodded, and restructured 'Chario." Drazenko finally turned away from the window of his elaborate, opulent study. "Bravos never finished us, and we learned from it. From the pain of destitution my dear brother. Now with those lessons in hand the Rogares shall finally triumph."
"What is triumph?" Tyrcharios bit back sharply, "What is worth selling our sister to the Tullys, and our souls to every pirate lord on the Stepstones?"
Those violet eyes blazed on his brother's handsome face, "I always underestimate you Trycharios. Every year you grow wiser. You learn to ask sharper questions. Now may be our last chance for me to clarify our situation before we part ways and do what must be done. If anything were to happen to me before success is guaranteed, it falls on you to succeed. Johanna is our cyvasse piece in Westeros. An agent on the ground. In addition to your other responsibilities you would have to hold your own against Bravos." He paused, "Moredo will not be able to help you. He is merely a pawn. A piece for Hanna to move about at her leisure. Only you are capable of attaining triumph in such dire circumstances." He sat now, brushing his dark hair from his handsome face. "Now, put your brain to use, tell me what you think I mean by that word. What is success?"
Trycharios thought carefully for a long moment, breathing in a deep breath as he gazed at the map. "The notion that we could defeat Bravos is utter idiocy. A favorable stalemate is what you are angling for."
"Clever, go on." Came the stiff response.
"Bravos took Pentos. They have Lorath as well. Furthermore, it is common knowledge that the Baratheon throne is deeply indebted to the Iron Bank." He did not blink, or waver. "Their power bloc is clear, as is the manner in which they hold onto their influence. Our goal is to counteract such a grip. Removing any Bravosi influence in the southern half of Essos gives us a solid barrier and far more security. We would be able to grow more powerful in peace and rival, if not surpass, the Iron Bank." He pointed to the map. "We have reclaimed control of Lys thanks to Lady Seastar's help. You have had me purging the Court of Glass of any external influence. The majority now consists of proud patriots eager to rally behind a strong, national bank." Now he became less certain as his own involvement grew more abstract.
"Clearly the need to counteract the influence of the Iron Bank in Westeros was fundamental. We lack the power and established infrastructure of Volantis, and they will never support us without swallowing Lys whole. So, you pursued the second strongest power bloc in the Seven Kingdoms. The very same union that put Robert Baratheon on the throne." His fingers worried into the leather of his seat. "The Starks have many heirs to manipulate, and Lady Seastar simply presented a good window into Winterfell. Sansa Stark was more than you ever could have hoped for. Many claim she is more proficient at the game than either of her grandfathers ever were. By pushing her and Seastar to develop the North, Riverlands, and Vale towards their maximized potential, conflict with the Iron Banks own Westeroian puppets became inevitable."
"I see," Drazenko agreed, "I'm disappointed you are only two steps ahead, and not three."
"Stop cutting me off, Drazenko," The youth snapped viciously, "And you may be impressed yet." Recollecting himself, he continued, "With the Westeroian power base, and a Stark Hand whispering in King Robert's ear, another War in the Stepstones became viable. The ensuing war in the west meant that they could not easily recall their forces when Bravos finally became the wiser of our movements." Another pause, "Now what is the use of all that land, of possessing the Stepstones if we cannot hold them? Incentivization. We can split the isles three ways between Myr, Tyrosh, and Lys. A peace offering to show the Kingdom of the Three Daughters can once again exist before a joint effort is targeted against the Disputed Lands."
Drazenko's violet eyes now sparkled approvingly. Trycharios felt himself swell. His parents had been assassinated when he was young. Moredo had always been detached, obsessed with responsibility and pragmatism. Drazenko had been a father to him and Hanna. To finally gain some approval felt quite divine indeed. He did not vocalize his realization that this would mean betraying the Starks, Tullys, and Arryns who had done all the work in securing the Stepstones. They would likely send all the men back to Westeros while the rebirthed Kingdom of the Three Daughters claimed the spoils.
"You are a man now, Trycharios." His brother smiled, warm despite the tension it set in the lad's shoulders. "Now it is time I tell you of what we both must do." The smile somehow grew even tighter, "The Kingdom of the Three Daughters fell last time due to lack of unity. Our family lost its security, everything, and only our barest survival allowed us to grow back. This time will be different. We will be Kings of Lys, of Myr, and yes, even Tyrosh. The Stepstones and Disputed Lands will be our's." This all sounded quite a bit fantastical, truly. Bankers with a bit of Targaryen blood forming a third power bloc in western Essos?
"You are set to wed the daughter of the Archon. I shall wed the daughter of an influential, if not discontent, Myrish Magister. After the unions have been sealed I will send a contingent of Myrish, Tyroshi, and Lyseni men to launch a heinous attack in Volantis." Trycharios felt a bit queasy about the prospect of earning Volantene enmity in addition to the already-present war brewing with Bravos. "Fear not brother. We will poison, assassinate, and murder every single last leader in the three Daughters. Unwilling to lose the Stepstones and Disputed Lands, uncertain as two great enemies rear their heads, the people will have no choice but to support us."
"Your face is not so pleasing when queasy. Make sure you meet the Archon's daughter with a more seductive countenance."
OOOO
"Are you quite certain you can convince Lord Velaryon to join us?" Gluncer of House Sunglass gasped as he wobbled up beside Shiera. The storm had been violent and sudden. Almost as soon as they had set out on their recruitment expedition of the Blackwater Bay, rain and wind gusted down from above, forming what seemed to be a hurricane. Lord Gluncer had given only three war galleys of his former six, and only a quarter of his soldiers to Stannis. In addition to her two-thousand Crackclaw Lords, slightly under one-thousand Sunglass men had been crammed into the three remaining. His new Queen, a Targaryen returned to the Crownlands at last, simply cradled her swollen belly and gripped onto Lady Mormont's arm for support. The steps up to Driftmark Castle were wet, water pulsing out and flooding the feet of their entire entourage.
Gluncer had not been blessed with the silver hair and exotic eyes that his brother and daughters all shared. He admired how even when fully saturated with wetness the new Lady Stark's hair possessed that lovely sheen of silver. "Tis a matter of what I am willing to offer the Lord Velaryon." She did not elaborate much further, for they had reached the depressing, shab doors of the castle at last.
"Shiera Seastar." The Maester stood in the rain. His robes wet, chains twinkling lightly in the wind. "How good of you to leave your army at the shore. The Lord Monford and his brother Aurane are with Stannis Baratheon, fighting. Only the young Monterys remains."
"War forces children to grow quickly." Shiera smiled tightly, "I will speak with a Velaryon. Today. Otherwise you will have to explain to Lord Monford and his brother why you squandered the greatest opportunity they will ever have to repair this shattered island."
"I'll have Lady Mormont and the Lord Sunglass held in the custody of these four men. Without any arms." A sharp glance was directed towards Lady Maege's heavily armed form. He nodded his head to the guards behind him. "Of course, you shall hold me as your captive, " The Maester held up his hands, "The Lady Velaryon has no interest in conflict. She is many moons pregnant, and we are trapped in the eye of a hurricane."
Shiera nodded, prompting Lady Maege to begin shucking off her weapons carefully. Lord Gluncer simply stayed put and shivered beneath the rain, ignoring the reproving glance of Lady Mormont who stood resolutely under the hostage of the Velaryon men. There they stood for so long when a servant suddenly rushed from the dingy keep, and over to the Maester. Beneath the pouring rain they both mumbled in rushed, hushed tones over a note before the servant rushed back up into Driftmark Castle. For ages Gluncer stood there, shivering half to death while fishing for information about Stannis from the grey-bearded guards behind him.
Finally it seemed that the misery of his position came to an end. Lady Shiera stepped regally outside once again, a child at her side. "Maester Florian," She announced in a ringing tone, "The Lady Velaryon has far more use for you than I do." As the man darted away to assist the pregnant Lady of Driftmark, the boy stepped forth from Shiera Stark's side.
"Recent ravens have brought important news!" The small boy called out with a surprisingly commanding presence. "Stannis Baratheon, brother of the Usurper, pretender to the Iron Throne, was lost in this storm. His ship now lies at the bottom of the Blackwater Bay. The rest of his fleet remained intact." There were cheers of joy from the men after that last bit, now that they knew the Velaryon ships had not sunk. "My father and uncle are returning here with their full might! We shall stand behind Princess Shiera Targaryen! The rightful ruler delivered to us as an act of mercy by the Seven!" More cheers exploded as the little boy turned to Shiera. He kneeled, and words of fealty were sworn from House Velaryon to House Targaryen for the first time in decades.
Lord Gluncer could scarcely pay attention to such a development, as his mind was somewhere else. The ships and men he had sent were coming back, which meant Lady Shiera now possessed thirty-three-hundred men, and six war galleys. The Velaryons had truly fallen on hard times after years of endlessly fighting wars for the Targaryens as well as failing to support the Usurper. Still, Gluncer was still familiar enough with his neighbors to acknowledge that they possessed a bit of power yet. At least ten ships, and two-thousand men. Massey and Bar Emmon would shift to Renly without a second thought, which left Celtigar and Dragonstone ripe for the picking. Old Celtigar, stingy as he was, would certainly at least yield his single war galley as well as at least five hundred men to a Targaryen. All of the Lords would give Lady Shiera more than they had to Stannis, at the very least.
Dragonstone was a trickier beast altogether though. When he had summoned Gluncer, Stannis had managed to fied one-thousand men from the volcanic island. Were they now in the bottom of the sea with their Usurper Lord, or spared by the Seven for Lady Shiera's benefit? Would they kneel to a Targaryen, or rally behind Princess Shireen, as so many on the isles had taken to calling the deformed chit? His mind was ripped away from such though by an incredibly bizarre sight. As Lady Shiera stepped elegantly down the steps, the rain ceased in its intensity. When she stood there, on the cobbles of the courtyard with all of her soldiers, old and new, the sun suddenly broke free from the dark clouds.
Her achingly wide smile filled Gluncer with something he could not quite explain, yet Lady Mormont moved to kneel, so he did the same, as did all of the soldiers around them.
OOOO
To be a King, after having not been a Prince, was a strange thing. Robb had not been born or raised with such an expectation. Yes, Winterfell was a grand seat, a seat of Kings, and such royal blood had long flown through his veins. Yet to have had his most loyal bannermen so fervently call for him rule over them was bizarre indeed. Unfortunately, it made things more complicated too. Now he had to worry over whether his actions were just and Kingly, and consider not only the welfare of the North, but his southern vassals as well. The King of the North, Rivers, and Mountains. Surely this would earn him the enmity of the Baratheons and Lannisters. With Shiera as his Queen and a half-Targaryen babe in her belly, there was simply no way for his claim to the Iron Throne to be ignored.
Sighing, the young King set aside the scroll. Bran was hostage, or ward as Renly had called it, to the youngest Baratheon brother. How his little brother had ended up in the Reach was beyond Robb's comprehension. Mother was trapped in the Westerlands somewhere, completely beyond his grasp. Father and Sansa were both hostages in King's Landing. Arya was possibly dead, as no word of her location had come back to him. He could rest with more ease now that so many Westerland Lords, and Kevan Lannister were trapped in his dungeons. Leverage had come at a time when he needed it most. Besides, the Lannisters had long believed the missing Kingslayer was hidden in Winterfell somewhere. If he had to lie to protect his family, then he would. Though that protected mother, father, and Sansa, Bran's safety certainly posed a new problem to consider.
On the bright side, tactical matters had become quite stable. Eight-thousand Tyroshi sellswords had defected to his side after the thorough trouncing of the Lannisters. Thanks to the Rogare's investments he was wealthy in his own way after all, if still slightly poorer than Tywin Lannister. He intended to keep them at arm's length considering how easily they turned on their former masters. With fifteen-thousand Rivermen at the Twins, his Uncle Edmure's eleven-thousand remaining forces, and the twenty-five-thousand Northmen and Free Folk, Robb was King to half the Riverlands, and commanded fifty-one-thousand men, in the south. He was stuck despite such great security. Walder Frey was an unignorable threat that sucked away a quarter of his forces. The twenty-thousand men trapped at Harrenhal needed liberation before Tywin Lannister crippled his chances of victory. With seventy-thousand men they would finally be able to help settle the civil war in the Vale, and win the war once and for all with the ensuing numbers.
Now, it had been revealed, trouble was brewing in the rest of the world as well. Bravos and Lys were close to trading blows, many skirmishes on the Narrow Sea had already become common knowledge in Westeros. Back at home many King's Beyond the Wall were rising and falling faster than the last. The Order of the North and the Order of the Weirwood were unable to abandon the poorly manned walls until the situation was calmed. This meant, unfortunately, that White Harbor, the Sisters, and Gulltown would remain locked under siege by pirates until the dynamic changed. Robb only hoped that the entrance to the Sunset Canal and Maidenpool would remain open and free. Otherwise trade would halt completely at a time when food and wealth were needed the most. As if those were not dire enough tidings Theon had sent word south that the Skaggy Docks had been almost entirely obliterated by the Karstarks. Lord Rickard, when summoned, had gone red in the face and blamed his dangerously ambitious younger brother. On the western side of the North, Theon went on to claim, the Wulls were being aided by external influences as they attempted to destabilize the Mountain Clans.
Clearly, none of it was any good. Perhaps Robb might have visited his grandfather for advice, yet he was very much alone as the man had recently gone completely senile. The Lords of the North could hardly be trusted for any helpful, unbiased advice either. Both Lord Hornwood and his heir had died in the battle, leaving an unwelcome power vacuum in the southwest of the North. Everyone had some sort of stake in the Hornwood lands, and all of the situations that needed to be dealt with tied directly back to who was favored to win the power struggle.
His first order of business had been to send documents of legitimization to Larence Snow, now Hornwood, with orders that the lad be moved from Deepwood Motte to Winterfell. To avoid any resentment from the Glovers, he phrased it as a condition to become a Lordly House rather than a mere Masterly one. The Tallharts were then a secondary concern to be dealt with given their own claim to Hornwood and provided with the same offer. Robb only hoped it would prove a strong enough consolation. Perhaps five years ago such a prize would have been seen as a prize, though considering economic growth it had become expected. On the other hand the Manderlys had grown quite rich and fat off of the recent success of the Starks. Thus, he ignored their interest in the Hornwood lands, deeming any trouble or rebellion unlikely. They could hardly turn on him with pirates at their doorstep either way.
The rebellious Karstarks were a matter he found far more concerning. Destabilization of the North was something that simply could not be afforded during times of war. He was nowhere close to sorting the civil war in the Vale, and one in the North would surely spread his forces too thin. To even think that they had attacked the Skaggoian port settlement at Skaggy Docks, and sent forces to aid the Wulls was infuriating. Part of Robb suspected that Roose Bolton was involved too. No Karstark cousin with a weak claim would ever act in such a manner without sufficient support. With Lord Rickard and his children so firmly beneath the control of House Stark, Bolton must have secured his own Karstark puppets. Of course this was all suspicion at best, and suspicions would not help him in quelling the growing discontent. Lord Rickard's sons needed to be protected carefully from any 'accidents,' especially now that the youngest had died in the Battle of the Camps.
Sighing wearily, he began drafting several letters destined for Winterfell, Mammoth's Den, Last Hearth, and Bear Island. Theon was absolutely right that any role he played in trying to restore stability would accomplish anything but. The mobilization of still unassimilated Free Folk warriors south would stir up the fear of his other bannermen, and the resentment of the Karstarks. Thus, the Umbers and Mormonts would take what remained between them and march to the Mountain Clans. He decided the Wulls had been given enough opportunity to rise above such disorderliness, yet a message clearly needed to be sent. Lord Wull would be arrested and held in the Winterfell dungeons until the war was finished, and his heir would be sent to ward with Lady Val. The Skaggy Docks were more important than ever considering that White Harbor, the Sisters, and Gulltown were all besieged. Thus, Theon would amass enough forces to occupy what remained of the sacked port. The Flints and Norreys likely could be persuaded to offer stone which would not burn quite so easily the next time.
"Nephew," His Uncle Edmure entered with the barest of knocks, eyes wide with worry, "The Ironborn. Word has been sent from all over the west. Blackcrown and Seagard are both under siege. Stoney Horn was taken a week ago. Balon Greyjoy calls himself King of the Iron Islands, and has dedicated the entirety of his might against your coalition. The Lannisters have sent the Fair Isle fleet to Seagard alongside them."
Robb crumpled the letters so tightly, one by one, that fresh ink bled out oozily onto his hands. He began a new one to the Order of the North.
OOOO
These chapters are always so long. Now back to studying.