The Hand - Year 305
"Is this how you want to be remembered by, Tarly? Ruling through hostages, terrorizing this country with lies and betrayals?"
"Betrayals?" The Hand and Regent Protector to King Baelor II Targaryen forced himself to laugh, an unnatural act given both his nature and his setting. "House Frey rallied to their king, that's true. But they did nothing different than what the Swanns did for your niece, except it was a King they betrayed, not just a liege lord."
He did not want to gloat before the scornful and prostrate form of Edmure Tully, though a part of him fought his own restraint, because he'd just won in war, and however he'd won, it was a feeling he'd missed, having not tasted its sweet fruits since facing Robert Baratheon at Ashford, a carefully built reputation now dwindling after two losses, one his fault, one not his fault.
"You're a good man Tully," Randyll said, patting his prisoner on his shoulder, trying futilely to establish some kind of kinship with a vanquished yet noble enemy. For what, Tarly wondered? He'd never been the soft kind before, he'd never needed friends, nor had he any veneration for so-called Great Lords, having known and worked well enough with Mace Tyrell for much of his life. "You're diligent, you're loyal, you're faithful. It's a shame you had no choice in the matter, what with your blood ties to Queen Sansa. War's war, things happen. They'll treat you well in the Keep, I assure you of that. Afterwards...well, Riverrun's the Frey's now, a promise is a promise. But there's other lands, other castles..."
"Aye, my goodson," the ancient form of Walder Frey interrupted from the far side of the camp, "surely you see the foolishness of your dear little Queen. Heh, I've more daughters than sons, I tells ye that, countin' the bastards. Ev'ry one of them start thinkin' they're worth a castle for themselves each...not even a man like Lord Tarly would have enough kingdoms t' offer me."
Perhaps that was why he felt so ill at ease, having to work with the likes of the feeble Lord of the Crossing at the expense of admittedly decent men such as Edmure Tully. Rather than advance directly towards Acorn Hall, Randyll had ordered his men to march along the River Road directly towards Riverrun, a more northerly track which put their armies closer to the advancing Greyjoy forces, protecting their crossing of the Red Fork if and when they arrived. Obviously it made perfect sense for Lord Edmure and Tytos Blackwood, another unfortunate casualty, though necessary for Jonos's comfort, to steer his men north to meet the threat, especially before King Euron arrived in mass. The river anchored to their right flank was not an auspicious reminder, not after his last campaign and battle. Then he turned his men to face south, giving them no possibility of retreat, leaving a river lying to their rear, a risky proposition for most. A simple charge was all he'd ordered, cavalry at the front, but it didn't matter anyway, content in the knowledge that the Freys would abandon the battlefield at worst, turn actively their swords upon their liege lord at best.
Then old Walder arrived, obviously the day after the battle, no earlier, not to see to its victory, but to only to claim Riverrun, his prize. The way Edmure stared at the old man, Randyll thought he'd inflict his goodfather a worse death than what they'd said befallen Rhaegar at the Queen's hands.
Is it worth it, he couldn't help but wonder. Good men like Bronze Royce dead, good men like Edmure Tully disinherited, just so the likes of Walder Frey and his ill-gotten brood could thrive in the new world to come?
Stop it, he chided himself. It's not your fault, not Tully's, not Walder's. It's the girl, who's gotten it in her head to overturn everything that's held this realm in place for thousands and thousands of years. It's the fault of fools like Hoster Tully and Jon Arryn, for putting such dangerous notions in her head in the first place, a Great Council of two believing themselves arrogant enough as to force the girl upon all Seven Kingdoms.
The following war council he let Dickon lead. His son had proven himself beyond a doubt in this last battle. Randyll had assigned him their right, to the opposite end from the Frey banners, leaving him to fare through the thickest of the fighting, so as to show no favoritism. Dickon fought admirably, leading his charge so ferociously that Randyll thought they could have indeed won the battle on their own, without even any need for the Frey betrayal.
"Any word of the Northmen?"
"They should be past Moat Cailin by now," Raymun Darry replied grimly. "Still would be close to a fortnight before they'd reach the Trident though."
And Castle Darry, Randyll thought. None of them had any illusions at what the northern wildmen would inflict upon an abandoned castle, but such was the price of their war, because the toll of defeat rang a hundredfold heavier, just ask Rhaegar or the Hightowers, or the burnt shell of his home and castle kingdoms away.
"We expect the Iron Born to arrive tomorrow," Dickon continued. "We should march then. The Queen and most of her men are scattered through the Westerlands now, word is anywhere between Casterly Rock to the Banefort."
"The terrain favors neither numbers nor skill," Kevan Lannister said next to him, like himself and Mace, three regents with not a home to return to, not occupied or burnt anyhow. "Terrain favors only terrain, it's as simple as that. My men know it. So do they, I'd assume."
It took all he had to not think about Horn Hill, though he supposed he should be thankful that the Queen's rather extreme affinities towards her own sex extended to his wife and daughter. As to the disturbing rumors that his own Samwell had betrayed his vows and family...with the possible complicity of Tywin Lannister...well, he could only deal with each problem of each day on its own. Randyll had no doubts as to the difficulties even an unlikely victory and peace could offer him...pacifying and rebuilding a broken realm, dealing with a rebellious Queen he couldn't exactly execute without being called a Queen-Regnant slayer, was that a word? Then, the thought of having to march a month through a frozen and hostile North to punish the most worrying of any Lord Commander who might be tempted ever further in discarding his sacred vows into dust.
Fool was I to think old Tywin actually meant to take his vows seriously, but then who else could've thought differently, that he alone out of men through thousands of years would remain ever untouched by honor?
"Get our men in marching order," Randyll ordered, "ready to go as soon as Euron Greyjoy arrives. Lord Frey," he said to Stevron, addressing Walder's eldest, "you'll accompany them along with the Riverland banners, proceed as you would down the Gold Road, I'd expect the enemy to gather at the Golden Tooth."
"Aye, the Golden Tooth's a strong fortress, give us the difficult ones, fer comin' late to the cause."
"No," Randyll countered, "because the road's easier to follow. I don't expect them to remain at the Golden Tooth, not for long."
He looked to the Westerland lords standing beside Kevan, who'd escaped before the Queen claimed their kingdom. "My men will follow Lord Kevan's lead. Andros Brax knows the mountains south of the River Road, the passes and valleys. We'll follow the Red Fork down past Wendish Town, cut through the gap here, north of Hornvale, and cut off the enemy's retreat west, away from the Golden Tooth."
"The mountains are passable," Kevan continued, "but they're not conducive to war. Our armies will be split, but it shouldn't matter. So long as our swords and our fighting will are unyielding, we can hold them off, beat them back until we're in a position to surround them."
A chill ran down his back, their tents far from sturdy enough material to hold back the winds of winter when they chose to rage. He exchanged a knowing look with Kevan, both of them thinking the same thing, fearing the same enemy. Snow. Winter, an enemy not even the hardest of men could defeat. It could be easy enough to speak of marches as they were child's play, perhaps some of the remaining men who'd survived the battles in the Reach may not know better, but most of the other lords and soldiers who gathered with them now, for whom the lands north of the Blackwater were their native lands, perhaps they were the ones who thought him a fool, to believe that an elegant plan which looked so simple upon the surface of the map could be anything but that if, or when, the season turned on them.
Yet, wolf's blood she might have, neither the Stark girl nor her lover lord held the fealty of the clouds and storms themselves, did they? The weather blind them, so would the enemy be blinded too, the weather strand them, so would the enemy be similarly trapped. Were they to be rendered lame, perched perilously upon a narrow mountain pass, it wasn't impossible that they could emerge after the thaw to find that their enemies frozen to death first.
"The roads meet at Sarsfield," Randyll looked to conclude. Across the table, he looked Dickon in the eyes, and wondered if he'd ever see his son again. The Iron Born were untested, untrusted, the Freys barely any better, so Dickon would lead the main march down the River Road, Randyll would have to trust that his son could keep in line their less reliable allies. "But I'd expect the enemy to attack somewhere close by the Golden Tooth. It's a race, to see who takes it first."
"We get there first," Dickon said, nodding to Leo Lefford, the lord of the manor in question, "we take the castle. Wait for them to besiege us, and hold out long enough for my father to catch up to their rear. Should they arrive and take the castle, Lord Leo assures me his defenses are spare, but will hold for at least several days...so we should march slowly. Let them waste men and blood wresting the castle away first, then surround them after they think they've gained the advantage"
"We won't know where the others will be for some time," Kevan continued. "This is no terrain for ravens or riders, the mountains will blind us, same as them." There was a fright in his eye that Randyll had never seen before. Perhaps the man pitied him, though the Lord of Casterly Rock stood cast out of his home for the time being, at least his walls still stood, the Queen unlikely to loot and burn down the castle of her one Targaryen ally.
Apprehension grew amongst the other lords too, as understanding dawned of what was to be expected of them. Splitting his army was a strategy Randyll would abhor in most circumstances, as it often gave the enemy the advantage in picking them off one by one, more often than not. He would not pursue it here, if it wasn't his son who led the other half of the march.
"We have to be careful," he said, trying his best to sound confident, so as to pass the feeling down to his commanders, "but we have to be quick."
And we have to be damned lucky, he did not say, though the more battle-tested of the lords knew it well. Damned lucky indeed.
Edric
Though he'd trust the Marbrands for the time being, Edric chose to position their encampment outside of the castle. He and Sansa slept in the open with their men, having ventured inside Ashemark only long enough for a customary feast upon their arrival. There was nothing to offer evidence to his discomfort, both Lord Damon and his son Addam seemed straightforward enough fellows, soldiers, the son an especially capable one, Edric thought. Which meant if their loyalties lay truly with Kevan Lannister, they would be honorable enough men to resist and fight fruitlessly unto death, rather than accept them in subterfuge, because indeed there was little to gain here in Ashemark beside the castle itself, many of the Marbrand banners having accompanied Kevan Lannister years ago to King's Landing, now marching back to attack their own lord on behalf of their liege lord, against their Queen.
Oh, loyalty, how useless is the word.
Perhaps that was why he remained uneasy, because some of the men he'd meet in the upcoming battles would be Marbrand men, and though Lord Addam assured them that he could convince them to switch allegiances once it was made clear whom their lords declared for, Edric would not rely upon that in battle, nor would a honed soldier like Addam expect him to. Though, if he were honest with himself, it was truly the ghosts of Arianne and Quentyn Martell who whispered to him to him now, taking refuge as the guest of another for the first time inside a keep which was not conquered, or did not belong to a someone trusted to himself or Daenerys Targaryen.
If the Gods live, and they're just, there's no better place to give us justice for the Martells than here.
So when he'd received the bad news the night before they were to march east through the mountains down into the valley of the Tumblestone River, Edric was not surprised. If anything, he found himself relieved, that the divine judgment delivered was so mild indeed.
"Another uncle, another hostage," Sansa muttered to herself, reading the letter from Riverrun. Taking from the map the carving of the trout, she flung it against the tent wall, the wooden piece falling harmlessly onto the ground. "Damn the Gods, I warned him, watch the Freys! Don't trust the Freys, but do they listen, do they ever listen?!"
In hindsight, he should have brought her some wine first, damn what the maesters said.
"We'll get him back," he said, though he believed little his words. Freeing a hostage like Edmure Tully would be more politics and battle, especially once they'd sent him inside the walls of the Red Keep. Much as he hated to burden his wife, politics were her battlefield, he'd be lucky if he could concentrate and get them both through this last campaign alive and victorious on the other end. "They won't wait for your uncle's northmen, they'll attack us now, fast, if they know what they're doing."
"Where," Sansa asked, barely deigning to look at the map at this point. There was little need anyway, she'd had all the roads and towns memorized by now, perhaps even more than he, though Edric still perferred to look. Next day their war councils would consist of more than two, but ever since Goatshorn Bend he preferred to consult with Sansa first, the two of them plotting their war beforehand, if they had the time and opportunity, so they could speak of like mind before their lords and ladies and Princesses.
"I don't know," he admitted. "They could be moving west on the River Road through the Golden Tooth, they could take the southerly route through Deep Den, though that'd take longer. Hells, they could be a few days march away from here now, coming down the Tumblestone. Or all three, it's really a guessing game at this point."
"What's your guess then," she asked him meanly, truculently, as if all the fault in this latest setback lay solely upon his shoulders. An unspoken accusation, Edric knew, that was not entirely untrue. And though his wife could sniff out his every emotion, including that of guilt, he could hope too that it was only their child inside her that was driving her moods at the moment. Or attributed to whatever had transpired between she and the old Lion, she'd seemed gloomier the moment she'd emerged from the ruins of Castamere, and her mood had not improved since, he realized now.
"We don't guess," he replied firmly, wanting to touch her, hold her, comfort her, but afraid to. "We don't play their games. They expect to lure us into attacking them while they're split, we don't bite. We retreat south at once, in the morning, all of us."
"Retreat?" Her tone changed, his unexpected announcement breaking her out of her sullen tantrum. "Retreat where? Back to Highgarden, back to Dorne?"
"Just Casterly Rock, we call every loyal man to come south with us. We gather there. Wherever they march from, however they split and form their armies, they'll try to be whole by the time they come out of the mountains, especially if they're expecting a long siege."
"Seems like a sound plan," Sansa muttered, looking away, almost as if she were disinterested in this vital last battle, or so he'd hope.
It was a passable plan, but it was anything but sound. Because the sound thing to do was to march into the Riverlands immediately, they were close enough already. If Tarly's there, defeat him. If the enemy likely has already trod west into the mountains, then move directly south against King's Landing. Send riders to catch up and find Edmure's train, if possible. Wait and combine with the Northmen, if they're far enough south.
But hopefully before then, their movements ought be enough to induce Tarly and his allies to abandon their plans and beat a swift retreat. Edric was sure Randyll Tarly would be either pressured to relieve the capital, or enough tempted into ending the war with one last open battle, rather than dragging it out, giving more time for Benjen Stark to arrive. So battle it would be, and a frantic chase by an enemy playing catchup meant Edric had a better chance of finding a place to give battle on his terms, rather than Tarly's.
But what held him back now was the same reason he'd dallied too long in the Westerlands in the first place. Of course there had been castles to secure, there were the Baneforts to rout, there was Castamere for Sansa to meet with Tywin Lannister. But none of that had been...necessary, had it? His rearguard never stood much risk anyway, the meeting with Tywin could have occurred here in Ashemark another night, prior to their invasion of the Riverlands. Yet he'd held back all the same.
"You should stay in Casterly Rock. The mountains ahead, they'll be treacherous even if we have all the passes to ourselves. One bad storm, one unlucky ambush..."
"No," Sansa refused, fervently shaking her head almost like a little girl throwing a tantrum. "I will not sit here and wait and not know, Edric. I can't bear it...if...if the worst happens...I'd rather stand by your side, than see a raven come bearing dark words days later. Where you go, I go."
And their child. Into battle. Into war, a war whose end he had little control over. So he'd held back, hoping, foolishly, yet foolishly hoping that Edmure Tully could inflict the last defeat onto Randyll Tarly, or at least hold long enough for the Northmen to make it to the Trident, changing the nature of their war. That coin landed badly, so what now? An even longer march into hostile lands? A siege without end below the walls of King's Landing? His wife giving birth in a tent such as the one which sheltered them now, nary a decent maester to watch over her life and that of their child?
"We retreat to Casterly Rock," Edric heard himself repeating the words. With all its maesters, all their medicines and potions and cures. "Make them think it's to be a siege. Then when we've firm word that they've left the mountains, we move swiftly against them." His fingers rang upon the map, tapping the surface of the table loud enough to catch Sansa's attention.
"Oxcross," she read.
"That's the place. That's where we'll give battle. I scouted the lands there on our march north, I'll see it again on our way back to Casterly Rock. There's a hill there, northeast of the village, just before the road drops down into Oxcross. Tarly will seek to take it, I'm sure of it."
The plan sounded good enough in his head that he could almost believe in it. Sansa smiled at him, placing her hand over his, both their palms cupped at the spot which was to determine their fates. Edric thought the smile looked false, meant for his sake only.
The Hand
This is all wrong.
"This is all wrong."
"It's strange, isn't it," Kevan Lannister said with a bitter laugh next to him. "Everything's gone so right since we left the Riverlands...surely that could only bode for disaster ahead."
Indeed, these last steps of their campaign had been...strange, indeed. The River Road had been abandoned, Dickon hadn't heard word of the enemy anywhere even close to the Golden Tooth. Still he'd waited, as he was instructed to, until Randyll and the southern half of their army reached Sarsfield without any complications. Scouts were sent up the length of the road to Golden Tooth, then down to Oxcross...nothing, they'd all seemingly retreated to Casterly Rock.
It was a trap, Randyll knew. But his choices were little, with the Northmen moving further and further south, there were rumors that they'd even reached the Riverrun by now. Not possible, he knew, but certainly the Neck, with the Crannogment joining there, then onto the Trident. So he would not spring the trap, but he would test it all the same.
Riders were sent to Dickon, who would bring the other half of his army to Sarsfield. They'd marched immediately the next morning, arriving at a hill overlooking a small village of Oxcross below. But then, this was not then open road to Casterly Rock he'd been told of by the scouts days before. Thousands upon thousands of men were gathered in formation below, in a small semicircle at the foot of the hill, guarding the only open space between their position and the village not encumbered by woods. The forest grew thick on either side of the River Road, lining the terrain all the way into the valley below, affording himself, and his enemies, little room for maneuvering.
But it was not just the enemy which concerned him, their numbers were, again, close to even, and he did hold the high ground. It was their entrenchments, freshly dug, with hundreds of sharp pikes sticking in their direction which gave him pause. Three full rows of deadly defenses, nearly half the enemy's manpower gathered to defend each line.
"It's late," Dickon said. "We can't give battle now, the sun will set in a few hours, then we'd be charging blind."
Yet even as he spoke, his men continued lining up, arranging their rows and columns in formation almost as if his army, well over then thousand in number, was acting in unison, one living creature with its own independent will, lashing out reflexively at the sight of the enemy.
"No word for parley," he asked Stevron Frey, who'd just joined them. Lord Walder's eldest shook his head, nor did Randyll expect parley, the Queen wasn't exactly settling for anything less than the complete annihilation of her enemies these days. "We shouldn't give battle at all here. It'd be foolhardy."
"What are you sniveling about," Euron Greyjoy snarled next to him. He'd had an upsetting amount of spit hurled upon his face from this so called king in recent days, the price he bore for this troublesome yet necessary alliance. The pirate king pointed towards the banners of the Kraken arrayed at the bottom of the hill lining the outer flanks of the enemy's right. "I see those traitorous welps there! I say we charge, give them all we have, impale them against ther' own pikes."
"No," Randyll ordered as firmly as he could. The man could call himself a king, but this was his army, his war. He rode back to the front of his lines. "Beat the drums! Sound the horns! But we wait! We don't charge foolhardy into the enemy's trap! Let them abandon their defenses, let them attack us, then we'll destroy them!"
So they waited. And the sun continued to creep towards the western edges of the sky. Then nothing, and they continued to wait, the enemy as patient as he.
"Yer overthinkin' it," Euron snarled unhappily next to him. "It's a boy out there, aye, he got yer bit once, you gonna keep cowering ev'ry time ye meet him in battle again?"
"He's right," Andros Brax spat on his other side, an old man who, though in his sixties by now, still hulked more warrior than lord, more muscle than man. "Aye, it'll be painful, but that's war, isn't it? If they don't attack, we're not going to win this thing by hiding or running."
A younger knight rode up to them. It was Ser Melwyn Sarsfield. Though his uncle had capitulated to the Queen upon her arrival in the Westerlands, the young man had been able to induce at least a third of the family's bannermen in riding east to join Dickon just past the Golden Tooth.
"I know these lands," he said, "I used to hunt every inch of these hills. There's another way. We passed a small herd path nearly a league back of us now, where we crossed Oxcross Creek. The path follows it, shepherds and miners coming from the north use as a shortcut to the River Road. The woods are thick, but not as thick as here, aye, if they can fit a herd of sheep, then we can get men through it."
This was interesting. Why had not the man not spoken now? "It leads down to the village?"
Ser Melwyn shook his head. "Not quite. It follows the foot of the hills below us. We won't be able to cut them off, but we should be able to outflank them from the north."
"A league," Randyll muttered, looking into the eyes of the men standing at the front of his lines, eyes trembling, ready to fight and charge and die in agony at a moment's notice.
They didn't have time for it now, the sun was to set soon. But a night's march, that was a possibility, surprise the enemy in camp while they were sleeping, that was the best he could hope for. There was little to lose, if he left even a third of his men along the lines atop the brow of the hill, all the archers, those who remained could hold off an uphill enemy charge, especially since the barricades the Queen's men posted at their front would severely impede any offensive they'd wish to make themselves.
No, they never intended to charge us at all. Yet, what if the boy knows of this pass too, could it be a trap?
Before he could finish his thoughts, screams rang in their direction from below the hill.
"Uncle," came the voice of a young man. "Traitor! Usurper. Come and die, or are you afraid?"
"Aye, I'm not afraid," Euron screamed back, before Randyll could stop him. To his horror, at the sound of their king's barking, he saw the Iron Born raising their spears, bending their backs as if ready to charge.
"Stop it..."
"Coward! You're not a King, a King doesn't hide, a king fights, he pays the iron price!"
"I'll show ye a king!"
Fearing what was to happen, Randyll grabbed Euron violently by his shoulder, only to be thrown back, falling off his horse and colliding against the ground. Quickly Dickon ran towards him to help him up.
"Not me, boy, him," he pointed at Euron, but it was too late. Raising his sword, the insane man jumped off his horse and ran wildly down the hill, followed by all three thousand of his men, leaving a gaping hole at the center of his lines. Seeing the charge, Andros Brax screamed, and began riding downhill as well, another two thousand abandoning their positions, as Randyll tried to desperately tally the count in his head.
"Stop, hold the line! We do not advance. We stay!" Immediately, Dickon rose too, repeating the same orders, Kevan, Melwyn, all of them, commanding their reserves to fill in the gaps even as the fools were already halfway down the hill. A few more hundred here and there, caught up in the fervor, joined their compatriots, but most of the rest obeyed, eyes watching in disbelief and horror at the massacre now enfolding at the base of the hill.
The moment the charge began, the enemy soldiers at the front of the trenches immediately withdrew in order, each shift through the thin gaps connecting the trenches, five wide, maybe seven at the most, Randyll saw, with their rearguard clearing way for the newest arrivals. Then tens of thousands of arrows blanketed the sky, falling upon the fools who found themselves fighting not men, but themselves, soldiers grappling at each other now, falling by the dozens into the deadly trenches as they tried to crowd their way through the lines, before even the storm of arrows came and induced even more panic, turning what had never been an orderly offensive in the first place into a chaotic, bloody mess. Most of his men were dying before they even reached the reformed front line of the enemy, and by then, charging only in columns of a few at a time, he watched as they were cut down one by one, the Queen's army barely suffering any losses.
To his left, he saw Euron Greyjoy leading a small band of his most loyal followers through a small gap between the furthest right of the enemy trenches, many of his men running through the trees, meeting their fellow Iron Born adversaries in a more typical sort of open battle. But they stood no chance either, not without support. He turned his head. "You see those fools! They'll die to the last men, they just wasted their lives, and ours with their stupidity!"
Few replied, though Randyll wondered whether they feared more his voice, or the spectacle of slaughter below.
"At least we didn't all charge head first into that trap," Kevan said, trying to assure him. "Good thinking."
There was no time for recriminations, they couldn't afford it. With no other choices afforded them either, so they continued to wait, the last of fools surrendered or slaughtered to the last man before the sun had set.
"Start digging trenches," he ordered, once satisfied that night had come, and there was no further possibility of battle until the following morning. He turned to Kevan. "I'll have the Freys and Darry's standing sentry through the night. Keep the fires going, so the enemy won't think to charge us, not yet, anyhow. The rest of us will retreat, follow Oxcross Creek, the Knights of the Vale will form our rear. Get us down the hill before dawn, and we still have a chance to surprise them while they're sleeping."
A chance, that's what it came down to. A chance growing slimmer by the day, even as each day grew longer.
Edric
"Any word on the Marcher men?"
"They haven't seen any signs of the enemy along the Gold Road," Brienne answered. "I've ordered them to return north the moment we'd heard the enemy was within a day's march of Oxcross, ride through the night if need be."
Edric breathed a sigh of relief, then cursed, wishing he had more men. He'd had to leave the Crakehall banners in Oldtown to keep the peace for Myrcella Stark, then nearly another hundred Stormlanders in Highgarden along with most of the Unsullied for Lady Jeyne. The soldiers were no longer slaves, yet it was pointless to give them lands near Horn Hill, which had been their original plan, given that none of them could have children to pass it down to. Nevertheless they seemed happy to be fed well, to be paid coin and the such, so he supposed a replenishment of Highgarden Bannermen would serve good use for the former slaves.
Except he'd rather have them here. With the arrival of the Greyjoys and other houses through the kingdoms who'd turned after Goatshorn Bend, it posed already too near an even trade. Except he'd also sent home the most exhausted of his Dornishmen, the wounded and tired, along with some Dondarrion and Tarth banners, those who'd born the brunt of both their battles thus far. They would prove little useful in this battle anyway, but yet...in hindsight, he'd still rather have them here.
He had enough, he thought. The enemy's foolish charge had dwindled Tarly's numbers somewhat, enough to give him confidence in a victory tomorrow even if Caron and the marcher men were late in arriving. The pirate Queen Yara had died in the fighting, unfortunate, Edric thought, but then Sansa had meant to have her killed after the war anyway, so it mattered little. If anything, judging by the furious look in Theon Greyjoy's eyes when they impaled his uncle onto one of the pikes, wounded but still alive, the Iron Born would be more than ready to do their part in the battle to come.
What next, he'd wondered, watching the pirates cutting a crown of blood through flesh around the brow of Euron Greyjoy, do we invite King Theon to Starfall? Bid him dine at my table, then cut his throat while he eats? Or do I stab him with Ice while he sleeps?
He saw Sansa approaching him, her steps nearly slowed to a crawl by her burden.
"Shh, you should sleep," he said, cradling his arm around her gently.
"I don't think I'll be able to sleep tonight."
Not good, the maesters wouldn't like that. But at least she was close enough to Casterly Rock. If the Queen had to ride out with her soldiers for one last battle, better that his wife had spent the last days resting in bed beforehand, doing nothing except cursing all the Gods that she could not have her wine.
"Me either."
Though he held her, Edric could not help but keep his eyes, and his mind, to trees enshrouded beyond. Somewhere out there was that little path by the creek he'd discovered, which led all the way up to the Rose Road above them. He was sure Tarly would find it, filled as his retinue was of Westerlands knights from the area. Their timing had worked perfectly, actually, the enemy's arrival to the hill in the evening ensured that they could not retreat and advance down that path that same day. A night attack, surely then, to hit what had been his left flank today, his center tomorrow. But they were prepared. A man such as Tarly would beat a sensible retreat here on most occasions, but Edric knew that was not an option here, not with so many losses weighing upon is reputation already, not with the northern threat in his rear. Surprise would the one advantage Tarly would think remained in his grasp, and Edric knew already to deny it.
His lines would be turned and ready to meet the advance before dawn. The head of the enemy charge would be thinned, both by the nature of the terrain they'd have to traverse through, as well as the lines they'd been obliged to leave atop the hill to maintain the subterfuge. The men who'd attacked prematurely earlier that evening...well, that had surely been an added gift from the Gods, Edric supposed.
Surprisingly, he slept nearly an hour or two that night, dreaming of blood as he sat upright in his cot, his wife's legs settled across his lap while she slumbered. It was quiet when he woke, but Edric was sure that was not to last, it was almost as if his body could feel the rhythm of the battle already proceeding invisibly around him now. Leaving his wife wordlessly, he donned his armor and rode out, where Brienne was already waiting.
Given the terrain and the darkness, the enemy would not know their lines were already changed and formed until they rode within sight. With the first sentries riding back and giving word of what Randyll Tarly still probably thought the most cunning ambush, Edric gave the order for the Iron Born to charge from their position at what had been the extreme right of their lines, now their rear. Thus the true battle began, the pirate warriors screaming and running up the hill along with the Dornish battalions who'd remained, striving to decimate the separated enemy front before they could mount a counterattack against his trenches to distract his well protected right flank, however feebly, from of the brunt of the main attack coming from their north.
He thought he saw some hesitation in the distant masses, presumably the precise moment they'd discerned through the earliest morning light that their surprise was to be for naught. Yet they came nevertheless, through the onslaught of arrows he'd then ordered launched.
"They're spreading out," Edric realized, screaming his orders. "That means they're thinning. Maintain our formations, and we'll hold."
Riding to the rear, he found Addam Marbrand, ordering his cavalry to try and outflank the enemy's right, his left, on the opposite end of the hill facing Oxcross, and Casterly Rock beyond. And just as he was about to ride forward and join them, came the good news he'd been awaiting. First a scout carrying a Caron banner, then Lord Bryce accompanied by the Swann brothers. With little need of horses with their trenched defense, he'd sent the bulk of his cavalry to scout the Gold Road. Now, they'd returned just when they were most needed, all the better for having lured Tarly down at the illusion of having to face a smaller army than what opposed him now.
Looking back up the hill, Edric gripped the reins of his horse in satisfaction, watching the Iron Born sweeping furiously against the enemy's exposed left flank, pursuing them as they fled in every which direction.
"Sweep their right," Balon Swann asked with a smirk upon his face.
"Sweep their right," Edric agreed, nodding, as the first clang of swords against shield rang out to his front. "Let's fucking end this thing."
Sansa
A lone rider approached her on a chilly, sunny morning. The battle was already over, thousands of enemy dead scattering the field upon the modest farmlands lying outside the village, thousands more surrendered in what was clearly a fruitless cause now.
"We found him," Edric said.
"Lannister?"
"He's wounded pretty badly. Won't make it through the day. I'll have him brought to the front."
The Queen nodded, and beckoned for her wheelhouse. Riding a horse was impossible for her now, even her soldiers understood that, and did not begrudge her for her current fragile state. At the edge of the battlefield and the masses of corpses, Edric awaited her. She'd told him to inform her of the fates of all her worst traitors. Tarly they'd captured alive. He would've probably fought to his death, he would've been smart to, but then all the hundreds of men around him had already dropped their swords in surrender, so the frustrated and defeated so-called Hand had little choice of his own when it was all said and done. His son Dickon had died in the battle, and that was a shame. Given that, unlike the Hightowers or Tyrells, he had no home and thus, no inheritance of Myrcella's or Jeyne's to threaten, Sansa had planned a great, grand gesture for sparing his life, taking only his hands, for the crime of raising his arms against her.
Gerold Grafton was dead. Raymun Darry captured, Jonos Bracken too. The Hardyng boy from the Vale had run, though she was certain their men would catch up to him somewhere along the Rose Road within days. Walder Frey had never made the journey, holing up in her uncle's castle at Riverrun instead, but Sansa also had little doubt his own stewards would turn him in the moment they heard of the battle. "Bring them alive," she would write that night. "Bring them all alive to me."
Edric pointed to the ground. Kevan Lannister was alive, but barely. Blood ran through his armor in several spots, from one armpit, and his opposite hip. Recognition dawned in the traitors eyes, barely gazing up at the Queen who stood tall and proud before his inert and defeated form. Lips moved, but no sound emerged from his mouth.
"We should probably make sure he suffers what he can." She pointed to a nearby corpse. Drawing upon what strength she had remaining, she bent down and lifted at the feet of the body. Seeing her meaning, Edric dragged upwards the corpse's shoulders, then Arya, who'd joined still fresh from the battlefield, helping her with the other leg. Together, they carried the body over and dropped it onto the dying form of Kevan Lannister. Then another, then another, husband, wife, and sister working silently and grimly together to ensure that this worst of the traitors would die covered and surrounded by the stench and most vivid drippings of death.
"She's beautiful."
The neatly trimmed fingernails of the Targaryen princess brushed lightly against the skin of the babe cradled within the Queen's arms.
"She has Edric's nose," Sansa said, winking at the most unlikely friend she'd ever made in her life. "I like his nose." When she laughed, it was one of relief, the very emergence of breath giving her almost a sensation of pleasure.
"She'll be a great Queen one day," Daenerys said, lounging back into her chaise, both women content to enjoy their wine in peace and luxury for the moment. "Queen Minisa of House Stark...First of Her Name."
If Minisa's nose was Edric, most of her daughter was all Stark. Or Tully. Or Whent, even. Perhaps her grandpapa knew, that this child would be the one, and waited long enough to bless her with the features of Sansa's grandmother, carried down to its fourth generation since. Light auburn hair, lighter than her own. Blue eyes, though closer to Edric's shade of azure than her's, but her cheeks were hers, like her father's. And if the child had less Dayne in him, her husband did not mind, he'd fallen in love with their daughter immediately, same as she. He'd left them this morning, almost in tears, saying farewell for the day before leaving to inspect and drill his men, mere hours parted feeling more like a fortnight to him, he'd confided to her.
Outside the sun shone behind the walls to the castle, the cliffs overlooking the Sunset Sea still concealed within shadows on their side of Casterly Rock. Setting her wine down for the moment, Daenerys looked to her left, away from the window, and rocked the small crib where her son slept peacefully. It was the servants who'd brought the makeshift bed here, where Sansa resided now, the very same chambers where Daenerys had slept and given birth to Lyonel in, and rocked him in her arms their very first days together. Lancel's chambers remained empty, Sansa feeling little urge to sleep in a bed which had once carried that...that man. The Princess's former chambers were more than comfortable enough for her and Edric, Dany long having moved into the Lord's chambers. A practical risk for the Princess, considering Kevan Lannister was certain to never try and reclaim it again.
"I haven't felt this way for some time now," Sansa said, feeling drowsy herself. Soon she'd sleep, with her child next to her. Occasionally Edric could join them for their little naps, taken blissfully as a family. "So relaxed...peaceful..."
"I suppose I'd felt the same way after Lyonel's birth," the Princess remarked, "so long as my lord husband didn't bother us." Taking another sip of her wine, she leaned forward, placing her small, bare elbows against her knees, eyes cast conspiratorially in Sansa's direction. "Can I confide in you a secret?"
"Should I worry," she asked with a smile.
Daenerys looked again to her son. "I love Lyonel. He is my everything. Yet, when I...when I think of being relaxed, being at peace somewhere..."
"It's not here?"
"No," she answered guiltily, looking away.
"The mummer's theatre in Braavos?"
"Maybe," Daenerys whispered softly, thoughtfully. "Or the Summer Isles. Or maybe, just maybe...I think...it's...it's not any one place. It's...I can't put my fingers on it...do you know...those last days before you're about to leave for another? The excitement in your bones, your very breath quicker, more eager? I remember feeling it, about to sneak away from my brothers and take a boat to Westeros for the first time. Or travelling on that journey to Braavos. Or the Summer Isles...beautiful as they were...I feel like I savored the boat ride there better. My eyes had never seen the place before...yet I could imagine it, oh I could imagine all of it, the wonderful waterfalls, the colorful butterflies, clear waters as light as...well, as your eyes...all this I could see in my mind..."
"You had your toy sellsword with you too."
"I did," the Princess reminisced fondly, rubbing her glass between her thumb and forefinger. Then, her eyes grew concerned. "I'm sorry Your Grace. I didn't mean to brag...you haven't had the chance to travel as I have, have you? Not out of war, or for your life even, but...but for pleasure, I suppose."
"No, I haven't," Sansa said, her eyes mesmerized by the rhythms of the waves below, the first glints of the afternoon sun falling against the further horizon. Soon, the day would be warm enough where Sansa could sit by her window and almost imagine that it was spring. "I do envy you though, Daenerys. If what you say is true, then...I think your happiest days lie still in your future."
"You don't think the same for yourself," she replied, curiously.
"I think I'll be sitting on my throne again soon." A sip of her wine. "I don't imagine that'll be peaceful, not by any means, every lord and girl and boy eyeing you, imagining with greedy minds how they'd carve off a piece of you for themselves."
Tarly and all the surviving lords sat securely in their dungeons below. The letters were sent, all she had to do was wait now, for the time being. Wait. Drink. Eat. Love Edric. Love her child. Not dread in her mind with anticipation of what was to come.
"No," Daenerys chuckled mirthfully, "I don't imagine I envy you at all there."
"I think about my happiest moments," Sansa said, twirling the wine in her hand, watching the thick, crimson liquid twist in turn, trapped inside its own private storm. "My family, my father, my mother. Winterfell. Playing with Robb and Jon in the fields. Listening to my grandpapa tell his stories."
"All of this before they named you a Queen," Daenerys asked knowingly.
Sansa nodded knowingly. "Nary a happy moment since. But then...there's one exception. Those first days after I'd...when I'd first come to Starfall. Edric and I rode through the hills for days on end, Arya too, we'd go and meet arriving armies, or just study at the land, ready ourselves for the war to come. Except, sometimes, I think, we rode, just to ride. Just to feel free, just to...to go, because we can. I don't think I'd ever left a castle before that, or the roads in between. Then here we are, bathing in hidden springs and sleeping, making love in lush coves where I could imagine...imagine that no other man has stepped foot in before. Places whose secrets were hidden from all except those who stood atop a dragon, until we'd discovered them."
"It was the calm before the storm," Daenerys agreed, reading her.
"It was," Sansa affirmed. "It's where Edric and I first started to fall for each other, I think. To truly know the other...know ourselves. And I told myself to savor it, Dany, I really did even then, because I knew...that, come the war, that this could be the last happy moment I'd have in my life."
"You'll return there one day then," she replied, her voice carrying as much authority as Sansa had heard from her. "I'm sure of it. The storm's over now."
"I hope so."
But for one reason or another, she was less sure of it than Daenerys. Because the storm wasn't yet over. Because the storm was yet to come, because the storm never ended, not for a Queen.
Margaery
"The Gods have cursed me, to give me a Crown, then force me to win it by war, through blood, when so many who've come before my reign did not so as much as lift a finger from their coronation to their grave. Yet the Gods bless me too, because they have decided with undeniable firmness the righteousness of my reign, my Throne, with each battle seen before my very eyes. Surely the judgment of the Gods has been laid bare for all the realms to witness, surely not one word can be said without heresy to deny it.
Yet the war continues. Yet my enemies persist. They hold as hostage my son Baelor, then dare to claim him a King in captivity. Not only do they defy their rightful Queen, they force a mother to continue making war against her son, war against him in name.
So be it. I've had enough of this war without end. I've won the war. King's Landing will fall, sooner or later. But perhaps my enemies know my weakness, they know the pain which inflicts itself upon a mother's heart to continue waging war upon her son, in the grief and agony a Queen feels for her people when they might still die by the thousands in her name, though the war is won and the verdict moot. I know the fate the Gods have chosen for me, my destiny. I've no need to further prove my cause, my inheritance.
So the Gods decided in war, let them decide the peace afterwards. Let us lay down our swords, our shields. Let us forge ahead in this new spring, a fresh new beginning for these seven ancient and hallowed kingdoms. I thus invite all the lords of the realm, be they friend or foe, whether they've bloodied their swords or stood by their hearths through this War of Ice and Fire. So as the Great Councils of men have decided the fate of the Crown and the Seven Kingdoms before me, let the Greatest of Councils meet one last time upon the banks of the Blackwater, let us speak, and argue, and reason, so that the good people of this realm do not have to suffer more our grievances.
The Queen is satisfied with her war. She is also satisfied that the enemies who'd committed the grossest crimes against King Eddard the Just and his family have been justly punished. She remains certain that the Gods will decide in her favor here, as they did in war. She remains confident in this statement, that Sansa I Stark is the rightful and undisputed Queen Regnant of the Andals, Rhoynar, and the First Men, that her trueborn daughter, the Princess Minisa Stark, her first and indisputable heir.
But let all the lords submit their choice to rule the Seven Kingdoms. Let the claims of Baelor Stark be considered, or Joffrey Martell, legitimate son of Prince Robb Stark. Let even the claims of the vanquished dragons be put forth too, that of Prince Viserys and his blood, or the Princess Daenerys, if only so as to affirm through all seven kingdoms the peaceful conclusion to the dynasty of the dragons. Let the lords debate the merits of Princess Arya, or Benjen Stark, or his children, or Jon Stark, son of Lyanna. Or if it's the will of the lords, and thus the Gods, that a new dynasty be chosen, Arryn, Dayne, Lannister or Poole, let the new world reign without controversy, without dispute, as agreed to by the men and women who'd represent every great corner of our proud realm.
As a gesture of goodwill for the peace to come, I release those lords who did not choose their treason, who felt but compelled in following their lords into it, among them Mathis Rowan, Warryn Beesbury, Tanton & Edwyd Fossoway, Orton Merryweather, etc. So I also pardon all those who do not remain in my captivity as of this day, except for the vile beast who murdered the Princes Bran & Rickon Stark in cold blood.
Sansa I Stark
Queen Regnant
The Most Faithful"
"What do you think?"
"I don't think we have much of a choice, do we?"
Thought the thought brought her to tears, Margaery Tyrell had long come to the conclusion by now that her father Mace may not live to see the peace which would follow what the Queen referred to as the War of Ice and Fire. Her father knew this too, she thought, his face seemed thinner these days, his frame gaunter, his breath weaker with each subsequent scroll from the south, the death of one son after another, the awarding of Highgarden to the girl Jeyne who, if Margaery had to be honest with herself, was something of a bitch. To her, at least, and the former handmaiden's exile to Horn Hill had been one of the least troublesome aspects to this whole wretched business ever since the destruction of the Great Sept.
Not that Margaery expected herself to live either. The siege was what they'd expected, especially once they heard about Horn Hill and the prospect of twenty thousand northmen, give or take a few ten thousand, marching south. King's Landing's walls would fall sooner or later, so the poison was readied, painless, they'd told her. Her father would take it, she'd take it...but little Aegon...she couldn't imagine her hands actually pouring the clear drops from the vial into her son's mouth, barely a few months old. So what was the difference then, truly, between suffering such a fate inside a crumbling castle, or half a fortnight's ride up the Blackwater where the Queen had called this council, where the Gold Road made the upper of its two crossings along the Blackwater Rush, should the invitation prove a trap.
"I don't know which woman wrote this," she said. "The girl I knew as a dear friend, Robb's little sister. Or the woman who ordered the deaths of my brothers and all the Hightowers."
And what of the in between, when we made her who she is? Not that she had much of a choice in the matter, or even her father. It all seemed a blur then, everything swirled and scrambled out of their control from the very day the Great Sept had been destroyed, by whom, only the Gods knew. Of course Margaery pitied the girl, it had been for the best, hadn't it? To keep the peace in the realm, pacify the country, prevent an all out rebellion from men who'd suspect poor Sansa of the worst concerning the Sept, who'd do far worse things to her than merely marrying her to a Targaryen King. It was a shame, really, for the arrival of just one stray but admittedly handsome Dornish Kingsguard to have ruined everything for everyone.
Their own Small Council was reduced to three, herself, her father, and Lord Renly. Margaery had to admire the latter's choice, knowing his gamble might well lose, yet choosing the same course anyway. He'd always been a friend to their family, so would it not be perfectly appropriate for him to share their tragic fate, though he could have easily chosen otherwise.
Oh Loras, if only you could see us now. You'd be sad. But you'd be proud too, of your beloved Renly, for his faithfulness.
"Wishful thinking isn't going to help us," Renly grumbled. "We need a solid plan of action here."
"We have Baelor," her father said, his face worn with guilt, that they would need to use the life of a child to save their own. "We have her uncle Lord Tully."
"And it's his claim we continue to champion," Renly said clearly, Margaery could tell that he was taking charge of their small group. "We wait it out, until we know that indeed it's the whole of the realm that she's summoned to the Blackwater. We don't leave the capital until we know that all the lords have arrived, ones who may not have fought in the war, ones whose names still carry respect and repute, who don't continue to bear grievances from all the wars of the last ten years. So that if anything happens to us, if the Queen goes back onto her word, the entire country is watching. I don't expect many lords to champion Viserys's or Aegon's claims, so we state openly that their claims are forfeit forever. Then, we become King Baelor's strongest supporters at the Council, so they'll see we're not attending it for our own selfish reasons."
Is it selfish, to just want to live, to want your child and your father, the last you have of your family, to live?
"We give them Viserys, don't we?" She felt no sadness in saying the words. If anything, there was glee, the only silver lining to end this rotten business, that her husband would die, preferably before them, and suffer far worse than they.
Nor did she care about Aegon's claim, because he had none, really, and Margaery thought it ironic that this one secret which had protected her from Viserys so far may well be the same one to save her son's life. Highgarden was out of the question, her father had acknowledged this too. Margaery would give all she had to be allowed to settle in a small, friendly castle, live out the rest of her life as a mother, as a daughter. Ashford, perhaps, she was friendly with their daughter, and they'd declared for Sansa after Goatshorn Bend, so if anyone could call in a favor...
"We bring him to the Council in chains," Renly agreed. "Give him to the Queen's mercy, hope that it's enough to satisfy her bloodlust, well-deserved in his case, I might add."
But likely, she'd die. Her father would die. And she reconciled with that truth in her heart, if only Aegon could live, if only Renly could somehow survive this mess and see to that. If not, maybe it would have to be Renly who'd pry the poison from her cold hands, then offer her son one last mercy.
