Chapter Twenty-One: The Birth of an Unlikely Saint.
Disclaimer: I own none of the material written by GRRM, or his publishing company, or HBO.
OOOO
Arya sucked the hot Essoian air into her sweaty body. Blood flowing from the cut on the top of her arm. She clutched Lament tightly in her hand and The Velvet Hills, large rolling mounds of earth, had only grown smaller the further they travelled into Norvosian territory. Consequently, the hill she now hid behind barely even had the luxury of being called as such. The woods had long ago blended into the hills, so when a twig crunched nearby she was quick to respond. Her Valyrian sword took his head clean off. The familiar uniform of the Pentoshi guard flashed in her peripheral vision as the body slumped down into the dirt.
Moments later another blade was flashing down towards her. Their blades met with a clang and she was very much trapped in a duel of strength. A duel that Arya Stark, with her lack of maculine hormones, had any chance of winning. He grinned at her, his yellow, forked beard shining in the moonlight. Arya spat a thick globule of bloody mucus upwards into his eye. The miniscule recoil was barely enough to change the dynamic. Sword whipping upwards with both hands she cut him from shoulder to hip like he was composed of butter. The next three descended before Arya could even pull her blade free. The trio of soldiers fought expertly as she danced around before them. A storm of steel clashed and clanged. Despite her battletorn, tired state the youngest daughter of House Stark could hardly believe how impeccable her footwork was under such duress.
Never had the stakes been higher. Their numbers gave them courage they did not rightly deserve. It saved her life. One of the men was gutted by Lament, the man in the middle got a smile ear-to-ear after she slipped the dagger from her boot. The final one was in a supreme position. The smack was so violent she was thrown to the ground. "We scoured these backwater lands for days, hunting you down." He purred dangerously in the Pentoshi tongue, "I want a reward for my trou-." The man froze suddenly, both of them staring at her dagger which now protruded from his neck.
"I'm not worth the trouble," She snarled up at him in his own tongue. Unarmed, she watched as his body fell to rest alongside those of his fallen comrades. Flat on her arse she observed as five more charged for her around the corner. Two horsed, one wielding a battle axe of scary proportions, and the last two likely a fine sampling of Pentos' renowned Bravos. She closed her eyes, tossing her head of silky brown hair back. Maybe there was no Weirwood tree to pray to, but Arya hoped that the Old Gods of her forefathers could be found in the stars above. That they would protect her family, scattered all around the world, and give House Stark the vengeance she simply could not.
The thunk of an arrow and screaming of the men caused her head to whip forwards. Standing atop the hill was Cynthia. Every inch of her body coated and plastered with blood and mud. Yet the bow and arrow in her grasp was cause for much sense of victory. Both of the horsemen were easy targets, and both of them fell quickly. From the shadows Myrcella erupted forth with a brutal warrior cry. She had been forced to learn warcraft quickly in the time since they left Pentos. Gangs of bandits, sellswords from every corner of the world, and the few forces the Pentoshi were still allowed to scrape together by Bravos. So many had tried to kill them not only for the bounty, but also because they could. Their efforts had only unleashed Myrcella's full wrath on the world. Recently gained arm muscles bulging Myrcella brought the remaining few down with her warhammer.
"There are more, Arya," Cynthea called down, "I see them up the path. Grab your sword." She did just that. Side-by-side with Myrcella they fought off the oncoming men as they had so many times over the course of the prior month. Arya was a fluid and dynamic force, darting outwards with her Valyrian steel. Retreating behind the defensible fortress of Myrcella's surprising might whenever necessary. From up above Cynthea picked off the numbers with deadly precision. Then finally, for the thousandth time, it was over. They had all lived together, and felt the rising sun on their brows. "That was a clever idea, Arya," Cynthea remarked as they pickpocketed the bodies of whatever they wanted. "Pinching them through and picking them off. Who would have ever thought three tired, hungry girls could slaughter forty men?"
"These hills were pinched. It made me think of the Bloody Gates of the Vale." Arya answered softly, "You two did well, securing the bow and arrow, and ambushing them on either side. Thank you for arriving when you did."
"Myrcella is already better with a war hammer than I with a sword. Thank her." Cynthea answered gruffly.
"We both should be thanking you for proving so skilled with the arrow." Myrcella piped up wisely. "We all should acknowledge that alone, none of us would have survived the journey to Norvos. But here we are, and Pentos shall dare not send more men into the territory of another Free City." That hopeful thought pushed them forth through the remaining hills, towards the mighty tributary that Norvos rested upon. "Its so beautiful," The Baratheon Princess nearly wept, yet they all nearly did to be fair.
OOOO
Robar the Red was older than Bran and, the newly named, Brienne the Blue, but the two friends were already bled more than he could dream. After all Brienne had fought pirates out Tarth for most of her life. Bran had been sent to the Wall with Robb, Jon, and Theon to assist the Order of the North in fighting Wildlings. Many even called him the Slayer of Porcupines for having bested Ser Boros Blount of the Kingsguard during the Northern Purge of King's Landing. Thus, when the handsome knight asked to spar with them in the training grounds of Bitterbridge, they hesitated. What could an untested Knight teach either of them about the neutralizing of threats? A lot, it seemed.
He was one of those rare southern specimens; A worshipper of the old Gods. Values of honor, duty, and tenacity melded beautifully with the Knightly customs of the Andals. Perhaps Ser Robar was untested, yet he got Bran into the dirt several times over, and even managed to challenge Brienne. It was an important reminder to the spare heir of House Stark that there were better knights than Blount out there. Men who actually cared for the institution and honed the codes of Knighthood until they were gleaming knives. He wanted nothing more than to become the best of them all. So skilled that when he returned to his brother's side the Lannisters would sob at the thought of facing his wrath.
Focusing on improving his combat skills, growing stronger, faster, cunning than ever before was a welcome distraction. It tugged his attention from the whispers that resounded as he submitted to Renly and manipulated him in turn. Kept him from ruminating over Loras Tyrell's mean, jealous glares. From thinking of the map that sat in Renly's tent, always there, ever present in his vision as he was fucked from behind almost every other night. The Greyjoys were laying siege to Seagard and Blackcrown. They had captured Stony Horn, and the Sea Dragon's Keep in the North. Tywin Lannister blockading Harrenhal. His sisters, brothers, mother and father.
"You've improved greatly, Bran," Robar winked as he helped the knight up to both feet. "And you, Lady Brienne, are the most ferocious warrior I have ever had the pleasure of sparring with." The kindness Robar showed to Bran's friend always made his heart simmer approvingly, in the most bizarre of ways. "I feel incredibly secure knowing that such skilled soldiers will fight alongside me at Storm's End. Stannis will eat steel for his treachery!"
"Storm's End?" Bran asked in a very, very tight tone. "I thought we were marching for King's Landing?"
"We found out yesterday that Storm's End was under siege," Red Robar answered easily enough. "We must sort out the viperous brother in our territory before we can sort the bastard. Otherwise Stannis could come up behind and pin us between himself and the Lannisters." He paused with a slight cringe, "I am sure your brother is doing a fine job though! They say he has routed half the Lannister army and captured Kevan Lannister."
"Most were sellswords," Bran muttered mutinously under his breath, "And it is obvious the Freys, Vyprens, and Greyjoys have him pinned in place. If the Lannisters raise another host they will crush him." Brienne placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder.
They entered the castle only for their attention to be drawn quickly away from the feast awaiting them. "Brandon!" Renly approached swiftly, unencumbered by armor, clad in his usual, colorful clothes. Bran felt his stomach drop as he slowly dropped his eyes to the flagstones, reluctantly falling back into the role of submissive lover again. "Brienne," He nodded kindly, only to stiffen and stare pointedly at Robar, "Ser Robar. Do you usually not train with Ser Emmon Cuy and Lord Caron?"
"Lady Brienne poses a better challenge," Robar smiled back, though it seemed a bit chilly, "And Lord Bran is quite promising. I supposed he would only benefit from extra attention. You have so many matters occupying your attention, my King." Slowly the man lifted his strong hand and brought it to rest on Bran's shoulder. Protectively, almost. The Stark had not been protected by anyone since he was with his sisters in King's Landing. He had not felt safe since he lived with his uncle Brynden as a squire. "If you may excuse us, your grace, I suspect we are all quite famished. When we fight it is in your name, and we spar it is a testament to your glory." With that they all three fled away towards the feast. Bran shook with the relief of having been spared at least one more evening in Renly's bed.
From the look in Robar's eyes he knew that fact fully well. "You will do well staying close to my side Bran," He leant slightly to whisper into the tall, young man's ear, such that Brienne could not overhear. "Whatever control you think you have over Renly is at best tenuous, at worst illusory. He will do whatever Loras, and the Tyrells, demand of him. Your reputation shattered for naught. Only you can save your family, not Renly." His smile was bright, "You are a worthy candidate for Knighthood. Always remember I would be glad to initiate you myself."
Bran could only nod, and whenever he glanced up from his food, or conversation with Brienne that evening, his Tully blue eyes caught Robar's laughing, pale pair.
OOOO
Harry Hardyng had not enjoyed his time at the Citadel, yet it had been a fruitful period of his life nonetheless. Brass for history, bronze for astronomy, iron for warcraft, and black iron for ravenry. Those had been the easier ones, after all his cousin Anya, more of an aunt to be fair, hardly neglected his education. He was likely to become Lord of the Vale once his other cousin, the sickly Robert, passed away after all. Still, such a likely prospect was not something he could easily rest upon. Not now. He had desired women before, but nothing compared to Arya Stark. She was bold, a warrior, skilled and beautiful in equal measure. Few had knocked him on his arse before, so it was an unforgettable moment when a woman did it.
At first he had felt bitter about being sent to Oldtown, about finding himself an alternative betrothal for the Lady Arya's hand. Once again a back up to frail, sickly little Sweetrobin. So he set out to impress her as his cousin Lady Anya had recommended. The chains began to fall into his hands as he applied himself mentally for the first time in his life. The links would always remain on his person, always reminding him of just what he was capable of, what exactly Arya Stark was missing. Harry had been in the much slower process of forging his chains for the medical arts and mathematics when the frantic letter from Lady Anya arrived. Coded, of course, which was a very important habit he was glad she had imparted on him.
There was a civil war bursting out in the Vale again. Arya Stark had vanished without a trace from the capitol, and the Starks were battling to free the Tullys from various sieges. So he had sailed immediately for Gulltown, a matter Harry had very little choice in considering the Hightowers and Tyrells were likely to take him hostage anyways. At every small fisher town in Dorne he practically begged for news only to learn that none of the peasants in Dorne cared particularly what happened to Arya Stark and her family. In Sunspear the young knight finally learned bits and pieces. All anyone knew of Arya Stark was that her ship, upon which Myrcella Baratheon had also been on, was captured in a vicious storm on the Narrow Sea.
He spent the day in a drunken stupor, fretful that the Blue Rose of Winterfell had been stolen by tragic circumstances very much like her aunt had. The young man was so very much out of it that he could hardly resist as a toothless old hag appeared from nowhere, and dragged him into the depths of the unnerving Shadow City. Perhaps he underestimated her unduly due to his inebriated state, though he found himself intrigued when she whispered of his fortune. They arrived at a windowless hut made of mud, wrapped in wine red silks, smoke and incense billowing outwards into the street. Inside were two women, one a young maiden, the other a stern, motherly looking woman with hair that was going silver. "A sacrifice you must make," The crone mumbled down at him after he was pushed onto a rickety stool, "If you wish to hear your fate, Harry Hardyng."
At first he was surprised, then he chuckled at his stupidity. After all, Harry was a blonde Valeman within a city full of Rhoynar. It would be surprising if they didn't know his name. "Coin?" He put it down to a mistranslation of some sort, "I have plenty of coin with m-."
"No," The young maiden cut him short. "Something must be freely given, exchanged. Something special to the seeker of truths hidden."
He snorted in response, moving to stand. "Deanna was a fair woman, of midnight hair and light blue eyes. Her very last thoughts were of you. Her sweet Smidgen." Harry stared incredulously into the eyes of the crone. There was simply no way anyone in Dorne cared enough about the distantly related, spare heir to the Vale to know his mother's name, or appearance. The back of his neck broke out momentarily at the embarrassing childhood nickname. Lips tightening, neck straining, he finally stuck a hand in his pocket, tugging loose the Maester's links and dropping them on the table. With a snap of her fingers the crone set the other two to work in the mud hut. Harry stared the whole while as she pocketed the chains with her withered old hand. Smoke filled the air in a way it had not before. He yielded his hand to the crone when she gestured for it.
Either it was the incense or all the ale and wine, but he did not flinch when she drew a dagger across the flesh. The maiden appeared from behind, gripping firmly into his golden hair. Her mother knelt before the hand held by the crone and began to lap at the welling wound. His stomach lurched. While Harry may have once expected the crone to tell him his fortune, he had not expected what came next. In turns the women spoke in shadowy tones.
"Three questions you may ask, little Lordling." The Maiden rasped from behind him, her hands tightening into his hair.
"Choose wisely Harry Hardyng," The Mother hissed from where she knelt by his wounded hand, her lips ruby red.
"Many lives might be spared should you ask the right questions," The Crone smiled mysteriously.
He breathed deeply, though this only pumped more smoke into his lungs. Coughing did nothing to dispel the whirling thoughts from his mind. What was important? What would his destiny be? Should he even dare ask questions, and risk such sorcery impacting future events? The Septon at Ironoaks, a miserable old bugger by any right, had always harped about the sordid diabolical nature of witches. They were not to be trusted. Septon Florian had also liked backhanding Harry whenever he asked too many questions. The young Knight decided Septon Florian was the worse evil at hand. "Where is Arya Stark?"
"East becomes west, west becomes east. North weds the south, and the Doom calls her name. The war she partakes of is a struggle through the Seven Hells, and it must be walked alone." The Maiden gasped out.
He clenched his jaw tightly. They would not tell him where she was, or where he needed to go apparently. His last two questions would need to be more useful. Even if Harry could not personally rescue Lady Arya, he could represent her best interests in Westeros. More specifically he could protect her distressed family. The family that would soon enough become his own. "What is the worst thing I will ever do?" He had known many men with deep regrets, things that haunted them to their dying days. Especially the ones who had fought in wars. Suffice to say, Harry Hardyng did not want to end up like that after everything was said and done.
"Many, so many, where to begin?" This time it was a sing-song prophecy that awaited his ear. "With your sickly, little beloved falcon lying broken in your arms? Or the fiery Deanna Arryn, beauty of the East, alike to her mother, but still so very far, victim to the traitorous Targaryen's heart? Though remember, Ser, how futile it is, to cry over the legions of slaughtered men."
Shivering, blinking away the confusion, he gritted his teeth momentarily. A lesser man would have asked about his children, how to attain wealth, or the beauty of his wife. Maybe even what their title would be when they died. Now the notion of boys and men, farmers forced to serve as soldiers for his cause, Valemen lying dead in fields and ditches, left him quite certain what needed to be asked. Lady Waynwood was an honorable woman, dedicated to the men and women beneath her banner. He wished deep down to follow in her example despite the wild, chaotic days of his passing adolescence. "How can I save as many lives as possible?"
"When the Direwolf is neutered. When the Daughters are scorned," The croak of the Crone grated on his last nerves, "When the depths of the east are bathed in blood. When the oceans roil with unease. When Winter takes up arms. You will see then, Lord of Diamonds, that you are the only one able to spar. The cost is the worth, the worth is the cost. Only spill blood when it matters for the lot."
There was a shaking on his shoulder. Violent and steady. He blinked, and found himself looking up into the face of one of the sailors of the merchant's ship headed for the Vale. Glancing blearily around at the empty alley and the mud puddle he was planted in. There was no sign of the witches or their bizarre little hut. "Lucky I found 'ye laddie!" The sailor chuckled. Harry patted at his pockets absentmindedly as the kindly old man helped him up.
His Maester's links were nowhere to be found.
OOOO
"Lady Royce," Ser Deddings found her on the battlements. They all liked to tell her it was no place for a Lady to be. She liked to remind them Arya Stark had taught her to wield a spear as well as any man could. The de facto Lady of Harrenhal turned from the bleak sight below, putting her spyglass back in the pocket of her dress. Nightfall was coming, but the men around her scurried frantically about as always.
Since constructing his siege weaponry days ago Tywin Lannister had begun bombarding Harrenhal at all hours. Massive rocks, arrows, sharp, metallic debris. "We cannot hold out forever. The food stores are well enough. I saw to that expertly enough." She spoke without invitation, "But he has us cornered. With no idea what is happening outside these walls."
In the time since he arrived at Harrenhal Ser Deddings had grown more tolerant of her company. Perhaps it was the fact that she was always out. Helping the men secure buildings and put out fires as hell rained down upon them over their walls. A welcome development too considering how very much Myranda enjoyed the man's handsome looks when he smiled. Rare a sight as it was considering how his entire family had been slaughtered. Though that was quite a welcome development too. Not the slaughtering of his family, but how he had mourned them where other men might have rejoiced at such an inheritance.
"Wisdom Rourke," The man nodded at her, "Is he almost done with the wildfire?"
"Yes. Or so the man claims whenever he deigns to slip out of the dungeons for fresh air. Though I want Tywin Lannister to be surprised. For his defenses to lower and for us to smash him when he thinks we have no trucks up our sleeves. That might still take some time yet." Her voice was firm. Where once had been so much laughter was naught but annoyance.
"Wait!" See Deddings gripped her by the wrist suddenly, leaning over the wall slightly. "Might I utilize your spyglass?" He queried in a cautious, horrified tone. Along the walls the men began to shuffle as well. She obliged him without any hesitation. "There are more banners. The Vyprens. The Freys. Charlton. Erenford. Haigh. Others I don't know as well."
She tugged it from him swiftly. Gasping. "The Corbrays and their allies! What are they doing at Harrenhal?" Her hand gripped tightly onto his elbow. "They cut their losses then. Abandoned the civil war in the Vale. Liberated the Twins somehow. Stopped for the Vyprens on the way. Twenty thousand men. Matched to Tywin Lannister's men." For a moment she felt so very weak. Her spyglass stuffed back into her pocket as she shook her head disbelievingly.
Ser Deddings pulled her back into the shadows of the city, down from the towering walls that protected them all. "I was a fool to think I could manage this all," She let her guard down in front of him for the first time. "That I could spare the Riverlands, and outsmart Tywin Lannister." The Noblewoman began to panic, considerable bosom heaving with her frantic breaths. "You were right. We should have marched our entire might against him. Bled his forces so Robb Stark might easily avenge us. Now its too late."
"Stop it Myranda," Ser Deddings dispensed with the formalities, placing himself in front of her, gauntlet clad hands resting against the wall. Trapping her in place. "I thought you were a silly little woman playing at war when I first arrived. Then I saw you, bandaging wounded children and firing arrows into the Lannister ranks, all while stone and metal rained upon us from above." His usually cool eyes were warmer than usual, "Tywin Lannister thinks he has won, that he has beaten you. Perhaps it is time to spring Wisdom Rourke's trap now. Maybe these reinforcements have spelled the Old Lion's doom?"
OOOO
Theon stared across the field. Hands folded behind his back, glaring at the sight of his own heraldry. "My father," He hissed out violently, "Is an idiot. The dumbest cunt to have ever sailed on the Sunset Sea." There was a pause as the Lord seethed and bristled. "Everything I have ever built here for myself, for our people, thrown away on a simple minded excursion into a kingdom he can NEVER hold."
"Sea Dragon Keep, the fortress on the Stoney Shore." Lady Val noted beside him. "A siege on Blackcrown and Seagard. Now Stallion's Brook, of the Ryswells, yes? Last my Maester told me, the Ironborn would have to send the entirety of their might here to accomplish such feats."
He nodded sullenly. It was easy to forget that the Lady Rayder did not quite know much about Westeros. The Maester sent to the Hall of Glaciers, her steadily growing settlement, had been doing a very good job. She knew much of modern battle tactics, knowledge passed to her soldiers in turn. The history of the north, arithmetic, and reading had all become part of her repertoire as well. Beyond that Theon had had to fill in gaps.
"Lord Ryswell sent his men to assist his sister, Lady Barbrey, in defending Blackcrown at the first sign of a siege. The Ryswell men are not renowned for their intelligence." He eyed the courtyard they stood in carefully. "They must have taken hostages and left. Like you said, without their full might there was no way to hold Stallion's Brook too."
A wildling soldier came up to them soon thereafter. "Lady Val," He bowed his head subserviently, the Wildlings were very dedicated to House Rayder. "Something horrible has been found in the feast hall. The servants tell us that…" He paused, a stricken, horrified look on his face. "Victarion Greyjoy took this keep. He raped Lady Jonelle in front of everyone. All hundred of his men took turns thereafter. They mutilated her while her husband lifted not a finger in her defense. Lord Rodrik fought to defend her and they gutted him for his trouble. Ser Rickard, formerly of the Northern Order, was hanged from the highest turret. They took Lord Roger, Lady Jonelle's husband with them to the fortress of Stoney Shore."
"My people never would have committed such atrocities." Val remarked in a cool, indignant tone beside Theon, "Yet your kind have been allowed to rove freely for centuries? While we were stuck behind the Wall?"
"It's an issue of poor leadership." Theon answered stiffly. He had no desire to go into the feast room after hearing what had taken place there. Only, it seemed that he had no choice in the matter. A commotion began to stir and the two leaders stormed through the keep of Stallion's Brook. In the feast room, it was discovered, the son of Jonelle Cerwyn and Roger Ryswell had been found. Miraculously alive after having hidden in an easy to miss gap between two walls.
Covered in his own mother's blood. Eyes still wide with shock after having seen almost his entire family and staff murdered. The boy was tucked into Theon's arms in a split moment. Carried from the hall in the next. "What is your name lad?" He whispered into the child's ear as he vibrated with sadness and rage. There was no answer, only silence. Until Theon felt a small finger tracing along his neck. 'Richard.'
"His name is Richard Ryswell," He told one of the shaking serving girls they had rescued, "Watch him well, girl, until I come to collect the boy myself." Then, once more, Theon and Lady Rayder stood together in the courtyard.
"My uncle Victarion was never the brightest," Theon spoke in a stiff tone. "He took Roger Ryswell hostage, but left the man's heir behind." There was a pause, "They will expect us to move to liberate Blackcrown from its siege. It is the bigger prize after all. They think they are safe at Stoney Shore with a solid hostage. We will ride at dawn, once things here are settled."
"Robb Stark sent the Order of the North to liberate Sea Dragon Keep," Val still refused to submit to the hierarchies of Westeros unless it was absolutely necessary. "We will meet them in the middle. Blackcrown is a strong port city from what I have heard. It can hold out until we are ready."
"You are something of a Queen to your people, Lady Rayder, in all but name," He did not look at her. "Would you teach your people a hard lesson if it was what they needed?"
"I have, Lord Greyjoy," She answered in a cool tone, "Many times. More importantly, I have learned those same lessons myself."
"Whenever Westeros was invaded, the Kingdoms simply took it. Except for the North. They sailed right to Andalos and pissed on foreign territory. They beat back the Vale for centuries, and once laid siege to the Eyrie itself. You know all too well yourself that with every Wildling attack, the Starks and their bannerman simply punched back harder Beyond-the-Wall." A dark smile crossed Theon's handsome face, "My people are arrogant, sadistic, and unwilling to work for success. I want them to thrive, but they need to hurt first. Horribly, badly. If they are able to survive that, then they can survive anything."
"They hurt that little boy, that woman, ripped this entire family to shreds. Just because they could," Lady Rayder's voice was a harsh, dangerous thing in that moment. "Someone must stop them. Perhaps that someone needs to be one of their own. I would not mind teaching such sea demons a lesson."
OOOO
The Stoney Sept was a ruin, and Catelyn could hardly believe it had turned into such after only one visit from Tywin Lannister. Of course, her father had told her of the Rains of Castamere when she was only a child after all. Perhaps it was simply inconceivable for her to acknowledge that the Old Lion had finally bounded free of his den. That, for the first time in her life, the Tullys truly well stood a chance of being swallowed whole. "We cannot stay here," She cracked her neck, trying to ignore the days of filth and blood that plastered her body. "If I were Gregor Clegane I would anticipate the survivors grouping in such a place."
"I can hardly disagree with that," Lady Claryssa agreed, "The people we have helped, all of them say the same thing. Those who returned to their villages, homes, settlements, and tried to rebuild were the ones that died when he returned and burned everything again." Perhaps the old Catelyn would have cursed such course of action as stupidity in her head. Now she knew what it was like to live as the smallfolk did. To worry for the lives of her husband and children. To find herself an exile, living in the wilderness, unable to go home. Forced to kill, fight, and scrounge. For the first time in her life, Catelyn understood what it was like to be a Riverlander. Not the daughter of Lord Tully, progeny of eons of Riverlord blood. Centuries upon centuries of conquest, bloodshed, and violence had marked the people who her family was supposed to protect. Was it this awful with every war?
"We have hundreds of the refugees out and about foraging or hunting, miladies," Ser Barthos Crook, as he was called, had spent most of his life as a hedge knight before retiring in a small, western Riverland village. The two noblewomen had first scurried north for Riverrun, only to hear the tale of Gregor Clegane blocking the way, gathering even more distressed they fled south for Stoney Sept. On the way Ser Crook had been found with a troop of children he had rescued from an abandoned orphanage, and Silent Sisters from a ravaged Sept near Pinkmaiden. Of all the hedge knights, men, and disenfranchised warriors to have joined them, Ser Crook was undeniably the finest. Catelyn's trust was hard earned, yet she already respected the man mightily. "I've set all of our men and mules to fixing the gates, in case we must stay put here."
"Good. It is unfortunate we are profiting here, when Tywin Lannister brutalized and slaughtered every person in this city. But at least they abandoned it, and we can sleep well here." Catelyn sighed, "We have so few horses to spare, but perhaps a rider should be sent to the Vances of Atranta. They are powerful, hopefully with enough men left over to escort us all to safety. Unless Tywin Lannister stopped to raze Atranta on his way to Harrenhal."
"No, milady," Ser Crook suddenly looked a tad bit worried, "They followed in the footsteps of the Freys, Vyprens, and Myranda Royce when your Lord brother marched for the Golden Tooth. Though certainly not for altruistic reasons as Lady Myranda did." Lady Claryssa mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like 'idiot,' under her breath, though Catelyn was hardly willing to disagree regarding Edmure's idiocy. The breaking of their first host had depleted the enviable army of the Riverlands, weakened House Tully's tenuous grip, and allowed their more rebellious bannermen to run amok.
'My father punished them after they sided with the Targaryens," Catelyn felt tired, tired to her bones. "The Whents and the Vances. Always vying for the Paramountcy of the Riverlands. After the war the Whents were already broken beyond repair. My own daughter was given that seat to call her own. The Vances had their cousins to the west, and were easily stronger than any of my father's other bannermen individually." She swallowed, the memory striking her hard as if it were yesterday. Her, holding Robb in her father's solar, the great Lord of Riverrun staring down at his neat desk with folded hands. 'Men are naturally fearful of dragons, trouts will never inspire the same fear. So you take everything from your servants. Starve them, weaken them, and then you feed them like a dragon never could.' Her father had assumed that Robert Baratheon's great peace would last far longer than it actually had, and the starving had not replaced the fear.
"Your son has smashed Kevan Lannister's host and taken many Westerland Lords hostage," Lady Claryssa sounded none too happy, yet it was an incontrovertible fact. "The Vances will send us aid,' Her tone carried firm conviction, "What is individual strength worth against a Northern King's army?"
"We have to survive by the time my son gets to us first." She felt her throat convulse, pulsate, "There are no certainties in war. Not when you are looking the worst mankind has to offer in the face. We are nothing more than rats. Hiding in a broken city with thousands of hungry victims, and the Mountain more than willing to crush us all." She paused, "Send that rider, Ser Crook, the Vances are our nearest hope. I want the few blacksmiths we have in the forge, as many assistants as they need at hand until everyone, down to the last child, is holding some sort of sharp weapon. Lady Claryssa shall lead a quarter of our foragers in preparing wooden spears and arrows. I will go and oversee the reconstruction of the gates. The Seven know I have spent my entire life behind gates after all."
OOOO
Sansa could only wail despairingly from her prisonly sleep. A Saint would be born in the city where the Seven had fallen. No matter how much she wished to interfere, to prevent the unimaginably terrible from happening, nothing could be done. She would not awaken in time, there was no hope.
Catelyn Stark would die.