Chapter 16 – The 5th day of June, 299 years after Aegon's Conquest
Ser Davos stood by the King's pavilion, watching as the stonethrowers hurled their contents at the gates of Deep Den once more.
The seat of house Lydden wasn't a typical castle. Like many great holdfasts in the Westerlands, it was half a fortress and half a mine, one of the oldest of its kind in Westeros. Gold and silver and copper had been quarried here since before the Andals crossed the Narrow Sea.
From outside, the fortress looked almost modest. A small wall enclosing a village and a few outbuildings, clinging to a few acres of anonymous hillside. The wall had fallen in the first days of the siege and the village and its sept long since burnt, but behind it all the gates of the inner castle held strong. Davos had never visited before, but the interior had been described to him. Behind the gates was a labyrinth of halls, corridors and barracks, kitchens, storerooms and even stables. The older mineshafts had been converted into habitable living space, while the newer shafts plunged ever further into the earth. From the prisoners they had taken and questioned, sometimes very sharply, there were over four hundred men holed up inside.
His grace's host numbered close to forty thousand, but even such numbers counted for little with the gates unbreached. Nor could they merely bypass the castle. It dominated the Goldroad in the valley below, leading the sixty leagues west to Casterly Rock, and even besieged the garrison had proven itself dangerous. They couldn't get into Deep Den, but the Lyddens could certainly sortie out. The hills were said to be honeycombed with tunnels dug over the centuries. Three times in the last fortnight small parties had slipped out from hidden entrances, shooting fire arrows at the tents and panicking the horses, before vanishing back into the ground like moles.
A few had suggested finding a nearby stream to dam and simply flooding the whole place, as Lord Tywin had so infamously done to Castamere, but Deep Den was halfway up a hill and there were no suitable streams nearby. There were only the gates. The wood was oak planks two feet thick, and then reinforced with a veritable mountain of debris. Inside, a long corridor snaked into the interior, guarded by several more gates and portcullis, and then a dozen murder holes. A quick road to a slow death Davos frowned. It seemed they would simply have to starve the Westermen out.
The camp sprawled over the hills and valleys around Deep Den. His grace's pavilion was half a mile away, on the slope opposite, giving him an excellent view of the proceedings. With every distant crunch of stone against wood, it seemed the king's teeth ground in unison. Davos was honored with a tent right beside the royal pavilion, though he shared it with three other knights, Ser Gerald Gower, Ser Corliss Penny and Ser Ormund Wylde, as well as two squires. His Devan slept in the king's own tent along with his other squire Bryen Farring, the five kingsguard, and a handful of other trusted servants.
It was a war camp, of the sort Davos had seen many a time now. Still, other things were new. Thousands of bicycles were scattered about its extent, dropped where they lay like autumn leaves. Donated by the flying men, the strange contraptions seemed to come in every color of the rainbow. At first the Westerosi had been distrustful of such things. How could any carriage possibly remain upright, with only two wheels? But many of the younger ones had quickly learned the tricks of their use, and soon a mad rush had begun. The king's men had seized near every one in King's Landing before their departure, until even the meanest footman could count on their possession.
From some knights there had been grumbling. Why should common soldiers have the right to such devices, that so often outran their expensively bred horses? But the king had ignored their protests. They had made good time, shaving many days off the march from the capital, but as the siege dragged on this advantage seemed to count for little.
The other great anomaly was the Fury itself. The great plane acted as ferry between them and the capital, flying the hundred leagues there and back often more than once a day. When it landed it brought fresh fruit, greens and other provisions, while sometimes evacuating the sick and wounded. One plane could hardly feed an entire army, but given the Lannisters had burned everything within a dozen leagues it had proved a welcome addition to their supplies. Not all those evacuated had been struck down by enemy action. A week earlier an ambitious nephew of Lord Buckler had attempted to drink some of the potion the plane used to fly, perhaps hoping to gain that power for himself. After prizing open one of the black barrels to take a drink the boy had nearly died for his trouble. Only at his uncle's pleading had Stannis allowed him to return to King's Landing for treatment, though he had imposed a stiff fine of twenty gold dragons for the attempted theft and use of the royal plane.
The stonethrowers had not long ceased their efforts for the day when Davos heard a faint buzzing sound carrying over the hills. For a moment he thought it was the Fury returning for the second time that afternoon, but the pitch was a touch too high. The king's entourage turned as a smaller plane appeared from the north, its body silver, its wings green. One did not need to guess its identify. There were only five such machines in all of Westeros. They watched a while as the Eddard Stark circled the camp, before disappearing off to the east to land in the nearest available field.
It was over an hour before their new guests arrived, answering the king's summons. It was not Robb Stark himself who had come, but Davos couldn't fail to recognize Lady Catelyn. Stannis soon retreated into his tent, to be surrounded by a score of his loyal bannermen and knights. No flying men were present that day. A small number of pilots, engineers and guards, from the United States Air Force, tended to the Fury, but they typically stayed close by the craft. The king had provided them with a hundred guards while the army was on campaign, but an unspoken understanding seemed to have developed. They would call upon the king when needed, but otherwise did not typically share his meals or sit on his counsels. This had not completely silenced the whispers over who was the servant and who the master, but it had quelled them somewhat.
Davos took up his usual position behind the king, between Ser Mandon Moore and Ser Damon Paege. Lord Caron greeted the guests, escorting them inside. Catelyn Stark held herself with all the poise of a highborn widow. She curtsied slowly before the king, her face betraying no emotion.
"Your grace."
"Lady Stark. I thank you for coming."
"House Stark serves at your pleasure, your grace."
"I apologise our reception is not warmer. An army on the march lacks for certain comforts. How fares your son?"
"No need to apologise, your grace. My son leads five and twenty thousand men against the Golden Tooth" she said proudly, and there were approving murmurs around the tent. "We marched as soon as Lord Bolton could join us with his strength. The castle has been invested for a week, your grace, but Lord Lefford's castellan is a stubborn man and refuses to yield. Gods willing, it will fall swiftly."
"Indeed. The Lyddens have proven just as stubborn, my lady. It seems the race is on as to which of us will reach Casterly Rock first." There was laughter among the gathered knights.
There was some further discussion of the campaign against the Westerlands, before Lady Catelyn turned and motioned two of her companions forward. Davos recognized one as Theon Greyjoy. The woman next to him did not bear close resemblance, but from the kraken surcoat he assumed her to be his sister, the lady Asha. They both took a knee before the king.
"Theon Greyjoy" Stannis spoke. "You have served my cause well so far. At Riverrun, and on the Gold Road. Tell me, why does your father ignore my calls for fealty?"
"I cannot say your grace. I would say he is afraid…but fear is not in the nature of the ironborn" Theon said graciously. "Most like he is stubborn, your grace. He does not wish to bend the knee to the man who once smashed his ships…and did so so completely."
"I understand your father is not fond of me. Rest assured, lacking the close affection of Balon Greyjoy does not greatly trouble my sleep at night." More laughter. "Nonetheless, I would appreciate his ships. The Royal Fleet is sailing around Dorne as we speak. We can siege the Rock ourselves, from both land and sea, but there are many rich holdfasts along the coast ripe for plundering." He turned to Asha. "Tell me, why does your father refuse my offer? The pickings are rich."
Asha seemed uncertain. She was not quite defiant of the king, but her tone was cautious. "My father distrusts all news we have received from the green lands as of late, your grace. Talk of a magic Ring, of a hidden city on the far side…he has banned all talk of such in our hall and forbidden any to leave."
"Then why are you here?" the king asked. "I assume you came to lay your sword at my feet…such as it is."
Asha looked more defiant now. "I am afraid I will have to disappoint you, your grace. I am sworn to my father. It is him that must be convinced, to bring the Ironborn to your cause. I came to find the truth of these stories."
As if on cue, angry mutterings spread through the tent now. Davos heard Ser Donnel Locke murmur something about treason but the king ignored them. Eyes switched between him and the Ironborn.
"You do not look a fool, lady Asha. Tell me, you have seen these flying men, you have seen my army and the tools they have gifted to us, you know of Tywin's defeat in King's Landing, what sense is there in refusing to join our cause?"
"None, your grace" she said after a moment. "Your cause is like to be victorious. You grant us a great gift in allowing us to raid the Westerlands, before they fall completely. It honors the Ironborn tradition. My father should swear to you and provide you with his ships."
Stannis stared at her for a good ten seconds. "Then you will convince him of such." It was a command, not a question.
"Yes, your grace" Asha said. "I intend to sail back to Pyke and convince him of just that."
"Your grace" Theon spoke up "I seek your leave to join her. To convince him, I am sure the two of us together…"
"No" the king said, in no tone to brook argument. "You will remain here, as my guest."
Theon's eyes widened. "Your grace, I have ridden with Robb Stark, all the way from Winterfell…"
"And fought well, yes, for which reason I do you no harm, despite your father's inaction" Stannis said. "Your father rebelled once before. You were taken as insurance against this in future. Until he has proven his loyalty, you will remain here, and should he by some misfortune take up Tywin's cause…" The king left the sentence hanging. He turned back to Asha. "Be sure to remind him of this as well."
"Yes, your grace" Asha replied. Beside her, Theon had gone quite white. The king gave them a stern gaze, before turning back to Catelyn Stark.
"Lady Catelyn, you will dine with me tonight. Your companions too. You can return to the Golden Tooth on the morrow."
"Thank you, your grace." Lady Catelyn seemed to hesitate a moment. "Pardon, your grace. There is one other I brought today from the…Lord's Ring, who seeks audience with you." Lady Catelyn turned and gestured to a grey-haired Northern knight who had remained by the entrance. He nodded and ushered another man into the tent. This one was big and fleshy, though with a slightly pointed face that reminded Davos of Ser Stevron Frey. His suspicions were quickly confirmed.
"Your grace, this is Merrett Frey" Lady Catelyn said by way of introduction "ninth trueborn son of Lord Walder, his fourth by Lady Amarei Crakehall."
Merrett immediately took a knee before the king. "Your grace, I am most humbled to be in your presence."
"You have returned from Melbourne?" the king asked. "How did you fare beyond the Ring?"
"I fared most well, your grace" Merrett said, bobbing up and down as if straining to hold in his excitement. "The flying men granted me a great gift. They have healed me of my ailment."
"What ailment may that be?"
"Why, my head, your grace" Merrett said, apparently surprised by the question. He reached up a hand to touch it. "As a boy I squired with Lord Crakehall. King Aerys sent us to bring justice to Simon Toyne and his Kingswood Brotherhood. I fought alongside Ser Arthur Dayne, and Ser Barristan, you can ask him yourself, your grace, and even the Kingslayer…"
"I am sure you fought bravely" the king interrupted. "What did they heal you of?"
"My…apologies your grace, my head. I received a blow from a mace that smashed my helm. I slept for a fortnight, and many thought I would surely die, but the lord must have spared me. I survived, though always since I have been stricken with terrible headaches. I returned to the Twins, and there married and had five children. One of them is now a ward at Winterfell, your grace." He glanced at Lady Catelyn, who nodded. Merrett turned back to the king. "But I always wondered, your grace, why had I been spared? To live, but only to suffer?" His eyes cast downwards. "I admit, I ran from my suffering, I attempted to drown my sorrows for so long…but since my healing, my head no longer aches, and I have not touched a drop of alcohol." He looked up at them all and tapped the side of his head more vigorously, as if to proof this fact.
"That is good to see. The flying men continue to work their miracles" Stannis said. "Their healers have saved the lives of hundreds of my brave knights and men-at-arms. Robb Stark would be able to say the same. Dine with us tonight, Merrett Frey, tell us of your healing."
In short order squires came out carrying tables and chairs, and soon bottles of wine and plates of food. His Devan poured for the king and the widow of Winterfell personally. The fare was modest, for a royal dinner, but they were an army on campaign. Lady Catelyn was given the place of honor beside his grace. The Greyjoys were some way down, between Lord Mathis Rowan and Ser Arthor Oakheart. Merrett Frey was near the far end, beside Ser Donnel Swann. Lord Buckler led a prayer to the Lord of Light, and soon the tent was merry with talk, or as merry as it was like to get within the immediate presence of King Stannis.
Davos retained his spot by the king's shoulder. A place of great honor, he knew, coveted by many, but at times he could only think of the aches in his knees and joints. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other as the high lords talked. Stannis tore up a fresh chicken with his knife, serving it to Lady Catelyn personally. The king's voice was low, and only Davos and a few others could hear.
"You son has fought bravely for my cause, my lady. You have already sacrificed much, more than any other of the great houses at this point, I believe."
"You are kind to say so, your grace."
"Great sacrifice, true loyalty, this is deserving of its own reward" Stannis said. He fixed Lady Catelyn with a look. "Any learned man can tell you, when Aegon took Westeros, only the Dornish successfully resisted him. Rhaenys was shot from the sky at Hellholt, and the conqueror's hosts withered in the sands, but it could have been otherwise. The North could have done much the same, if Torrhen had not the sense to march south and bend the knee. He could have stayed in the North and resisted to the bitter end. Winterfell would have burned of course, and every other holdfast in his kingdom, but eventually Aegon's hosts would have perished in the snows, and some lucky archer might have slain another dragon. The North could have done the same as Dorne."
"Your grace may speak the truth. The North could have resisted…" Catelyn hesitated a moment. "But I think it was their heart trees that prevented such defiance. They feared them burning more than their holdfasts. Aegon would have destroyed them all, as the Andals cut them down in ages past."
Stannis nodded. "Aye, that is true. Nonetheless, the North would have been hard to invade, all the more after the death of the dragons. My brother's friendship with your late husband maintained that alliance, but now both are gone. I did not always agree with my brother's ideas, but tying the Starks into the crown was one of his better notions. A pity that plan went astray."
Lady Catelyn blinked. "Yes your grace. I know…Sansa was very hopeful when her betrothal was announced. She wanted dearly to be queen."
"And would have served the realm well, if it had come to pass, I am sure. I have not met your daughters my lady, but all I have asked assure me Sansa is most fair, taking after her mother. I am sure she is strong and kind as well. Even had he been trueborn, she was better than Joffrey would have deserved."
"Thank you again, your grace. You flatter me."
"I know you are a loyal subject, which is why I broach with you a difficult topic. I have heard whispers from Riverrun. It has not escaped my notice that some of the Northern lords question their fealty to me" Stannis said, his voice so low Davos struggled to hear. "They hate the Lannisters, and so they march under my banner, but once they have their vengeance many may wonder, why pay further homage to the Iron Throne at all?"
"I do not know what you have heard, your grace. Any talk…it could not be serious talk. Winterfell holds true to the Iron Throne, I assure you."
"And I hope that is true, my lady. I will not name names…I daresay, I even have a measure of sympathy, when I consider it from your son's perspective. His grandfather and uncle marched south, and the mad king burned them alive. His father marched south, and the mad queen killed him. Now he risks his life here. The Northerners are sick of dealing with the South."
"The mad king is gone, your grace" Catelyn objected. "The Targaryens are gone, and Cersei rots in a dungeon."
"All true, yet there are still rumblings. Some may even embrace the lies of the Lannisters, that I am a puppet to the flying men, or dark forces unknown." He held up a hand to stop her. "Foolish talk, I know. Nonetheless, I wish to find another way to ensure Winterfell does not waver. The best way is with marriage."
"What does your grace propose?" she asked.
"I now sit the Iron Throne. I have granted Dragonstone to Shireen, as the heir, a fitting tradition, but there is still the issue of Storm's End."
"Would your grace be prepared to divulge who you would grant it to?"
"The only real choice. My nephew by blood, Edric Storm."
"I have seen him, your grace" Lady Catelyn conceded. She had attended the king's coronation, Davos recalled.
"A bastard true, but he is nobly born. Taught by maester and trained by master-at-arms. He is tall and strong for his age. Ladies tell me he is handsome, though perhaps that is idle flattery."
"Not entirely idle, your grace" Catelyn conceded. "He has his father's look, most certainly."
"It is my intention to legitimize him, when the time is right" Stannis said. "He will be the Lord of Storm's End, and should I perchance fall in battle, and Shireen has not yet married, he will become heir to the Iron Throne as well. He will have no shortage of suitors."
"Your grace proposes to marry him to Sansa?"
"It would be a fine match. They are within a year of each other in age, I believe? Your daughter may never be queen, but she could become the Lady of Storm's End, and it is much closer to the capital than Winterfell."
"I will have to broach the subject with her" Lady Catelyn said slowly.
"Of course. Unlike many other matters, in this there is no great haste. They are both young, and Casterly Rock beckons, but I broach the subject now for your benefit."
"That is most kind of you, your grace. I concede they could make a good match."
"Your other daughter, she is promised to a Frey boy, is she not?" the king asked, moving on.
"Elmar Frey, your grace. Lord Walder's youngest son."
"Perhaps the greatest toll a Frey has ever collected, for crossing that bridge."
Lady Catelyn frowned. "As you say, your grace."
Stannis paused a moment, carving off another slice of chicken. "If I may be so bold then, I broach another proposal. Others will have to give their approval, but the thought does occur."
"Yes, your grace?"
"Your own son is not yet promised to anyone, unless I am much mistaken?"
"No your grace, he is unpromised."
"As is the Lady Margaery Tyrell. Some have urged me they would make a fine match."
Lady Stark blinked.
"She is certainly fair, your grace…Would Lord Tyrell be welcoming of such a match?"
"That would be an issue for you to broach with him. With the Targaryens gone, it is imperative we tie the Great Houses together, or else the realm may splinter further. Jon Arryn tried to make union between Storm's End and Casterly Rock. This was not successful, but still we must try again. Baratheon, Tyrell, Stark…I have been wondering who might make a suitable match for your brother, or your nephew in the Eyrie."
"I cannot know my sister's thoughts, your grace. She does not deign to return my letters. As for Edmure…Lord Walder might help us again there, your grace. He has many fertile daughters. He wished dearly to marry one to my son, before I persuaded him that a flying machine was worth even more…"
The night wore on. The plates were soon being cleared; the cups emptied. Stannis seemed close to dismissing them, but Merrett Frey rose from his place. He came over by the king to take a knee.
"Your grace, forgive me. May I be so bold as to ask a boon of you?"
Stannis looked down on him, a frown back on his face. "And what would that be?"
Merrett bowed his head, kneeling a little deeper before the king. "I am but six and thirty, your grace. Old for a squire, it is true, but not so old that my strength has abandoned me. I wish to serve your grace, to give you my sword to do with as you will." Merrett looked around the gathered lords and kingsguard. "If a knight in your service would take me as his squire again, so that I may achieve now what was denied to me before, I would be most grateful, and become your most loyal subject."
There was something of a shuffling amongst the gathered lords. Stannis looked over as his kingsguard. None of them looked ready to jump at the opportunity. "I believe my kingsguard are already overwhelmed by squires, Ser Merrett, but there are many knights in my service." His eyes wandered over the gathering, and Ser Davos soon found them landing back on himself.
"Ser Davos, I believe you lack a squire?"
Davos blinked. "Yes, your grace."
"Merrett seems keen to prove himself. Would you be willing to accept his service?"
All eyes were on him. Davos looked back at Merrett Frey. He looked big and strong enough, a few inches taller than him, and perhaps twice Davos' weight. What will I do with a squire? He couldn't help but wonder. He was used to shining his own boots and cleaning his own linens, and had not done any real fighting since the unfortunate incident with Ser Balon Swann. I am a smuggler, no knight, truly but the words that came out of his mouth were. "Certainly, your grace."
"Very well, that is settled then" Stannis rose from his seat. His bannermen rose with him. "Perhaps the Lord of Light has spared him for some great purpose."
"The Lord of Light, your grace?" Merrett repeated, his brow furrowed in confusion. He looked around at the king's retinue, as if only just noticing the deep red robes half of them wore. For a moment the tent seemed to freeze.
"What other lord?" Ser Richard Horpe challenged.
"Why…" Merrett fidgeted a moment. One hand grasped at a small object on a necklace, until then unnoticed by Davos. Through Merrett's fingers, he spied what looked like a little wooden cross.
"I do not know of the Lord of Light, your grace" Merrett stammered. "But I know I have been touched by another…The man who healed me, the doctor…ah, surgeon…he took me to his sept…ah, I mean his church your grace. Where they worship…" he suddenly dug into his robes, from which he produced a small blue book. Tentatively, he held it out for the king. Stannis did not move to take it. Davos, standing by his side, took this as his cue to reach forward and grasp the gift from his new squire himself. He looked at the title curiously. He had been taking reading lessons in the last few months, when his duties permitted. He slowly mouthed the bright gold letters on the cover, printed in that supremely neat style unique to the flying men.
"The Book of…Mormon" he said, uncertainty. "Another…testament of…Jesus Christ?"