Book II – Chapter 5: The Bitter Reality

Havok Unleashed

"Come on!" Garlan shouted, lance gripped in a vice, shield on his arm and reins in his hand as he beckoned the stallion beneath him faster and faster. The ground rolled beneath him, flashing past in a whirl of colour as wind heavy with the taste of salt whipped at his face. Fury thrummed within him to match the motions of the horse's breakneck pace, hooves crashing on hard-packed dirt, all other sound deafened to obscurity. There was just Garlan, the constant vibration of his steed, and the thunderous echo of a hundred horses racing in formation.

He raced under the south gate of the city, eyes locked on his prey just ahead. A group of riders galloping just as hard, desperate to be away from Bronzegate as it fell to the Queen's Men. To Jon Targaryen's men, Garlan corrected in his head.

But these were no ordinary squirters. For the dozen or so men riding ahead had bolted from the rear of Bronzegate's squat castle while Garlan and Tarly had been coordinating the capture of the three settlements below – the Dornish infantry pouring through the gate Jon had opened for them. Garlan's brother had made no appearance on the battlefield. That meant one thing and one thing only. Gods fucking damn you, Loras. For once in your life, think with your head instead of your COCK!

Renly was here.

How or why Garlan didn't know, but it certainly explained why Buckler hadn't even considered yielding. He'd been hoping the Tyrell and Martell hosts would stall or lay siege to the castle. Enough time for Renly to escape and return to Storm's End, then bring his own army around in a surprise attack.

Well, they'd put a pin in that plan, and now, they might even take Renly out of the picture altogether! An enormous victory.

Then, Garlan would pound some sense into his younger brother.

A half-dozen men galloped behind Garlan, weapons lowered and ready for a charge. They'd need to unseat the enemy, get Renly on his feet. Myrcella and Jon needed the man alive to break Storm's End without a siege. Then, they could figure out what the fuck Stannis was doing up in the Riverlands.

There! Garlan could just see a man with antlers on his helmet in the group of riders ahead. Renly. Time to end this.

"Lances ready!"

Garlan's riders raised their lances into position beneath their arms, streamers of green and gold flapping from razor-sharp steel. A rider ahead glanced behind and spotted the approaching force. He screamed in terror, and the group of riders faltered, all turning to see their death approaching fast from behind. Garlan levelled his own lance, the tip pointed straight at Renly's back.

They crashed into one another, horses squealed, men cried and gurgled blood as their lives winked out, dirt flew in all directions, and Garlan's lance hit home. Renly's plate deflecting most of the lance's power, but momentum was not something steel could defend against, and the false king was sent flying from his horse as Garlan's lance blunted against his armour.

Heart booming in his ears, Garlan brought his stallion to a halt, dropped from the saddle and discarded his lance. Around them, chaos reigned as men duelled on horseback or were thrown to the ground, soldiers attempted to flee, only to be shot down by Garlan's archers.

But he still couldn't find Loras. Where was his idiot brother?

Renly Baratheon, enamelled armour a garish green, pulled himself up from the dirt and turned hateful eyes on Garlan from beneath his helmet.

"Surrender to the Queen's justice, false king, and I will grant you mercy," Garlan declared, drawing his longsword, and pointing the tip at Renly.

Renly spat on the ground, drew his own blade and knocked Garlan's sword away. For a man who usually preferred to posture and blather, Garlan respected his choice. Still, this shouldn't take long. Garlan had seen Renly fight before. He was not very good.

Renly lunged forward, and Garlan swept around, bringing his blade into an overhand cut. Renly sidestepped and swung a backhand to stop Garlan from getting close. Garlan parried, then kicked out with his leg, aiming to catch the man's knee and end this quickly. But Renly cleared it and used Garlan's instability to sheer through the links beneath his shoulder with a perfectly timed thrust. The blade bit deep into Garlan's skin, sending sparks of pain flying through the muscle and blood spurting out down his armour.

In retaliation, Garlan brought his sword down on Renly's helm, sheering through one of the golden antlers and ringing the metal. Renly stumbled back, and Garlan clutched his side, seething through clenched teeth.

Renly Baratheon should not have been able to do that.

For fuck's sake Loras. He must have told the man exactly what to expect from Garlan if they came to blows. Well then. No more games. Time to end this.

Garlan had taught Jon and Loras everything he knew, and if Loras had warned Renly what to expect, he couldn't trust his ordinary tactics to work. But where Loras had taken Garlan's lessons and become a traitor, Jon had taught Garlan in return. One move he particularly liked was the grapple, a classic of the Northern style rarely used in the South.

So Garlan threw himself forward, ramming into Renly's chest with his shoulder. As Garlan predicted, Renly stumbled backwards, blade dropping as he tried to steady his feet. Garlan braced with his front foot and brought his sword into an overhead swing, edge hurtling for the gap between vambrace and rerebrace. He met his mark, and he could almost hear the bones in Renly's elbow shatter from the force. Then Garlan's sword cleaved through the appendage, and Renly's arm flew free of his body.

The scream that followed was so piercing, so deafening, that Garlan actually winced, sweat beading across his skin beneath his helmet. Blade soaked in blood, side burning and stinging as the mail shirt beneath his armour pressed against the wound, Garlan grabbed Renly by the collar as he continued to cry out. The echo of steel from the fighting fell silent, and Garlan ripped Renly's helmet off.

A head of curly golden-brown hair revealed itself, big brown eyes Garlan had known since he was a child staring back at him.

Loras.

A sharp stabbing agony blossomed in Garlan's chest, and he glanced down to his side. A long-bladed dagger was stuck beneath his shoulder, right through that wound, Loras' left hand clasped around the hilt.

"Fuck you," Loras hissed, the stream of blood from his severed arm turning the dirt to red.

Garlan tried to breathe, but no air came. A bitter tang filled his mouth, liquid coating his teeth. He dropped Loras, dressed in Renly's armour, to the ground, and his brother screamed again as the stump of his arm hit the dirt.

"Ser Garlan!" Somebody grabbed him from behind as he collapsed to his knees, and in the distance, Garlan caught sight of another group of riders disappearing over a bluff to the south.

Renly Baratheon.

Long gone.

War is Death, Death is War

"Ser Jon?"

Jon, who'd found himself a seat atop the wall to watch in exhaustion as the city fell before the Dornish infantry and the Tyrell cavalry, swivelled in his seat. The speaker? The prince himself. Trystane, flanked by a dozen heavily armed guards. Jon had sought out Beric and Thoros earlier, finding them both in one of the medical centres. Beric had a nasty gash on his leg, and Thoros apparently had a concussion from falling down the trap door from the tower roof. Jon handed Anguy's bow to Beric, who accepted it with a nod of thanks and promised to give it to the archer's daughter back in Blackhaven. Edric had been mostly fine, though rattled, and so joined him and Obella in grabbing a wineskin and taking a well-deserved rest.

"Aye, your Grace? Is there a count of the dead?" Jon asked, blinking through tired eyes as he pulled himself upright and bowed, Obella and Edric doing the same.

"Five-hundred sixty-seven of ours; nearly four-thousands of theirs. The city is ours. We couldn't have done it without you and your men. I know myself, the Queen, and the army is in your debt. When the Queen returns, name your boon, and we shall see it granted." Jon nodded in thanks, but he couldn't bring himself to take in the words. There was a weight in the young prince's voice that belayed more.

"What's happened?"

"I spoke to Randyll Tarly a few moments ago," Trystane said, gaze fixed on the flagstones, unwilling to look Jon in the eye. "Renly Baratheon was here in the city, attempting to marshal allies from the upper Stormlands and the outer Reach so he could form a second force and attack us from the rear. But we arrived too soon and attacked before he had a chance to organise it."

Jon's jaw fell slack.

"Renly was here? Where is he? Do we have him prisoner?!"

But Trystane was already shaking his head, and instead of elation, Jon's heart was filled with a cold and bitter dread.

"Renly escaped to the south. We have riders pursuing him, but it's unlikely they'll catch up before he reaches the safety of Storm's End. It was Lord Garlan who discovered the truth. He pursued a group he thought contained Renly out of the city. It was actually a diversion, organised by Ser Loras Tyrell, dressed in Renly's armour."

Jon's hand started to tremble, and he clenched them to fists behind his back so the prince couldn't see them.

"Is he well?" He asked, fearing in his bones that he already knew the answer.

Trystane's lips began to quiver, and he still couldn't bring himself to raise his eyes to Jon's.

"There was nothing to be done. It appears he and Loras engaged in a duel, Garlan fooled by the ruse. Garlan severed Loras's sword hand, and in response, Loras stabbed his brother through the heart. We have him in custody, but no one thinks he will live long. He lost too much blood."

Jon stood in silence for a good long while, not really thinking, just…

He didn't know what he was doing.

His mentor was dead. Killed by his brother.

Garlan, who never stopped smiling, who'd taught Jon near everything he knew. He owed near everything he had to Garlan. Without Garlan taking him on as a squire, he'd still be a bastard in Winterfell. Margaery would never have fallen in love with him.

Jon swallowed then said softly, "My prince, you must… you must send a raven to Summerhall. Lady Alerie needs to be brought here at once."

"Lord Willas had already commanded it," Trystane said awkwardly. "He also asked for you to join him. He's with his brothers' bodies, south of the city."

By the time Jon, Obella and Edric reached the battle site, two tents had already been erected nearby, Tyrell forces swarming around in defensive patterns. Jon dismounted in a daze and entered the nearest tent to find Willas sitting in a rough chair, his brother on a cot beside him.

Jon approached Garlan's side, and only then did he accept Trystane's words as truth.

Garlan was dead.

A dagger bearing an ornate opal from Norvos in the hilt protruded from Garlan's side, right through a jagged gash in his skin, the armour around it mangled and turned to red. Garlan's chest wasn't rising, blood-stained all around his mouth, throat and breastplate. At least someone had closed his eyes.

"Where's Loras?" Jon asked, clutching the hilt of his now clean sword, searching for something, anything to steady himself. The sword Garlan had given him.

"In the other tent," Willas muttered. "I haven't the heart to see him. I ordered someone to bandage his arm, but he lost a lot of blood – he is like to die as well. My little brothers. Kinslayers." The man whom Jon considered a rock of resolve and good judgement seemed a shadow of himself. His cheeks were lined with tears, and his cane had been thrown some distance away.

"What are you going to do with him?" Obella asked from the tent entrance. A decent question.

Willas gripped the arm of his chair in a vice, but he didn't stop crying. If anything, his tears fell even faster. He gave no answer.

Jon pressed a hand to Garlan's forehead and prayed softly to the Old Gods, just as his father had taught him.

"We need to get the host prepared to march on the morrow," Obella said, trying to be the voice of reason, for all that she was just fifteen, and they were both men full-grown. "We still don't know where Stannis is. He could be marching south from Kings Landing right now, ready to fall on us while we're spread out and week. And we have to reach Storm's End before Myrcella if her plan is to work. Bronzegate is exactly where we don't want to be. It's exposed on every direction, a distraction useable by all three sides in this war to stalemate the other. Leave a contingent of Marcher Lords and Dornish infantry to hold the walls and collapse the tunnels. If we knew about them, there's no reason to guess Stannis doesn't."

Jon stepped away from his old friend, the first man who'd believed Jon could be more than just a bastard, the man who'd given him his first real purpose.

Goodbye. Thank you for setting me on the path I needed to walk.

Garlan had believed in Jon every step of the way. Even after Margaery had named him a king. Especially then.

Jon would do his best to live up to Garlan's faith, just as he would live up to Ned Stark and everyone he'd lost.

He needed to be a King.

"We need to move Willas. I don't want Randyll Tarly commanding the vanguard as it marches along the peninsula. He'll make sure his troops are in pride of place and try and undermine Myrcella's authority if he can. And he won't listen to Anders or Trystane if he can get around it; the man has no love for the Dornish," Jon said, trying to keep his voice steady. He grabbed Willas' cane and leaned it against the side of his chair. "You need to move; do something. Anything to take your mind off what's happened. Leave Loras to me."

Delirium

This change seemed to pass over Obella's King as he entered the tent containing Loras Tyrell – the man who murdered his own brother. The trembling in his hands stopped, the tension in his body bled away, and all emotion in his face seemed to seal itself behind those storm grey eyes. Obella had seen it before. This was when Jon was at his most dangerous.

Loras Tyrell, sans his right arm from the elbow down, had been chained to a post. Someone had put his arm in a tourniquet, but that seemed to be about it, as the bandage had already started dripping with blood.

When Loras saw Obella, Jon and Edric enter, he started laughing. He threw his head back against the post and simply cackled. His armour had been stripped from him, leaving the man in nothing but his small clothes, and a wild look filled his eyes.

"If it isn't Ser Snow," Loras wheezed through his fit, "I knew it would be you who came to see me."

"Did you?" Jon asked, voice adopting that neutral tone he liked to fall into when angry or brooding.

"Ah, but who else? Garlan's golden protégé, Grandmother's experiment, and Margaery's boy toy. You stand at the heart of everything. If you hadn't wormed your way into my family, they would have listened to me, then Renly would have the army he needed to crush Stannis! Instead, House Tyrell throws its weight behind who? A little Lannister girl sunburnt in Dorne, who can't even bother to lead her own army?"

"And you think Renly would be a better King?" Jon asked, raising a single eyebrow at the chained man before him. Obella remembered Loras Tyrell from all the times he'd visited Highgarden during her time there. Always accompanied by crowds of giggling girls and showing off as if he were the greatest thing since sliced bread. Oh, he had been beautiful; there was no doubt about that. Alas, he didn't do much for Obella, though in his defence, no one did. It was just the way she was. Try explaining that to a family like hers.

"He already is a better King!" Loras snapped. "He's going to unite the Kingdoms just like Robert did, then he's going to throw the fucking dragon bitch back into the ocean…." Obella tuned out the man's raving and marched forward, spear in the one hand, shield in the other. She stopped right in front of the kinslayer, which shut the man up rather effectively, then scoffed and grabbed what remained of his right arm.

The instant grimace of pain was reward enough, honestly, but she ripped the tourniquet away and enjoyed the scream that followed nonetheless. Garlan had done a number on him, blade crushing the bones in his elbow to a bloody paste.

Obella knew a lot about wounds. Tyene was her sister, and Oberyn Martell was her father, after all. Amputations were difficult. Usually, it depended on where the limb was severed as to whether the person survived. Barring infection, wounds halfway through the limb were the easiest, as the arteries usually shrivelled up and stopped the blood from flowing. Knees and elbows were far more complex, as the veins would continue pumping blood to an appendage that was no longer there. Still, a maester or the Silent Sisters could sew up the damage and keep a victim alive. Hells, Obella could do it. But time was the greatest enemy, and Obella could tell simply from the pallor of Loras' skin and the faint colour in his veins that he'd lost a great deal of blood before someone had thought to give him the bandage.

"Your Grace," Obella said, pulling back from Loras. "Trust nothing he says. His blood loss is substantial; delirium will have set in."

Loras tried to lunge at her with his stump of an arm. Obella simply bashed it away with her shield.

"Fuck you and your whore sisters!" He snarled, even as his jaw clenched at the pain.

"Loras, answer my questions, and I will call the maester to tend to you," Jon said, not moving from his position by the door. Edric remained in the shadows behind him. Obella knew that Edric knew who Jon was – Allyria did, after all, of course, she'd told her nephew. There was no risk of discovery here. But there was something to be gained if Obella played her cards right.

Each of the Sand Snakes had their role to play. Obara the warrior, Nymeria the seductress, Rhaenys the spy, Tyene the alchemist, Sarella the sailor, Elia the horse mistress… and Obella, the Sentinel. Her role was to protect the king and stand by his side through the trials to come. That was the task that her father and uncle had given her. Now, her uncle was dead, and her father may as well be, yet Obella remained at her post. Not because of orders, but because she believed in Jon Snow and everything he hoped to achieve. She would shield him through everything, die for him if he asked it of her. There was nothing she wouldn't do.

She'd made a promise to the person she cared about more than anything, a person she may never see again outside her dreams. There was nothing she wouldn't do to keep Arya's brother safe.

"I'm not telling you anything. Let me die with my honour," Loras snapped, flicking his hate-filled gaze between Obella and Jon.

"You abandoned your honour when you murdered your own brother," Jon said softly, no outward sign of the furious anger she knew he hid beneath the surface.

"To protect my king. The highest and most honourable calling of all."

"And where is your king?" Jon asked, gesturing around the tent. "The only king here is me."

Loras scoffed. "You really have lost your head now. What did you do? Manage to fuck the fat king's whelp? Is she as much a slut as her mother?"

Jon took a careful step forward and drew his sword, placing it hilt down in the dirt.

"My name is Jaehaerys Targaryen, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and the Protector of the Realm. You would have learned that the same time the rest of your family did, if you hadn't betrayed everything you once believed in, and for what? The love of a vain man more than willing to send you to your death?"

Loras stared at Jon blankly for several seconds before his entire body seemed to deflate.

"Grandmother. Of course. I should have guessed." He paused, then smirked up at Jon. "No wonder my sister settled for someone so pathetic. Always good at the long game, Margaery is. At least I know my love is real and not manufactured."

"Manufactured? Maybe," Jon said, though Obella knew he didn't believe that. If there was one thing in this world she was sure of, it was just how raw and true Jon Snow and Margaery Tyrell loved each other. "But at least it's better than this infatuation you've allowed to corrupt you, Loras. I believe in building a better world for everyone I can. And I will never stop trying to achieve that impossible goal. What has your love done, Loras? Warped you into some caricature who leads on women despite knowing he doesn't share their affections. All to fuel your own ego. You care for nothing but yourself. Not your family, not any ideal. You claim Renly a great king? What great feat does he plan? Will he protect the people, or simply look down on everyone he believes beneath him, as you do?"

"You're wrong!" Loras yelled, straining against his chains, blood leaking even faster from his now exposed arm. He slumped after a few moments, heavy breathing, head rolling around his neck. "He's going to show you all! You think you can just march down to Storm's End? You can't. He'll have you outside like a cat in a trap, then he'll destroy you all! And then he'll destroy the dragon bitch and fucking Stannis and his red witch…." He trailed off, then sealed his mouth.

And that, as they say, was that.

"Thank you, Loras," Jon said, stepping forward as Obella mock bowed to the chained man.

"Delirium," she said with a smirk, watching as Loras' eyes widened in terror. "You just can't trust it."

And Obella watched as Jon slit the man's throat in a single smooth motion, sword a blur. Then he turned on his heel and left.

"Tell the host that Lord Garlan's murderer is dead. The kinslayer Loras claimed his own life; Ser Garlan's honour soars high, and the Seven Heavens welcome his soul with open arms," he told the guards outside, voice level and emotionless.

This… this was Jaehaerys Targaryen. Not Jon Snow, the boy who reached for the clouds and dreamed of a better world, but neither was he Jon of Houses Targaryen and Stark. That man was a believer, a warrior who would stop at nothing to bring those dreams to reality. This person before her now was ruthless and cunning and exuded authority. A King.

"Then send word to Lord Tarly and Lord Anders. The false king has men lying in wait to ambush us on our passage south, and a trap to spring once we arrive at Storm's End."

"Aye, Ser Jon. We'll see it done," the guard said, a self-satisfied grin spreading across his face. Jon didn't see it. He was already walking away. Only Obella and Edric, flanking him on either side, saw him cry the entire long walk back to his tent in the Tyrell encampment.

Notes: Before anyone asks, yes, Obella is ace.

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