Chapter 32 – The Siege of the Garden the 18th day of August, 299 years after Aegon's Conquest
The Green Tower was the highest in all of Highgarden. Despite its name, it was made from the same white marble as most of the castle. It was a slender spear that rose some two hundred feet above the castle grounds, themselves built on the ancient hill Garth the Gardener had chosen for his seat. For Willas Tyrell, it afforded an excellent view of their peril.
"It is still not too late" maester Lomys said, for what must have been the tenth time that week. He removed the 'headphones' so they settled around his neck, turning away from the radio. "Your grace" he added reverently.
"I told you not to call me that" Willas said, tearing his eyes away briefly from the slowly marshalling armies. "I am not yet even a lord, in truth."
Lomys gave a weak sort of smile in return. He was a small figure, bald as a plucked chicken. He had shuffled about, hunched over, since as long as Willas could remember. He had come to Highgarden when Mace was but a boy, and the last good Targaryen king had sat the throne. He was still hunched over, seated beside the old wooden table on which they had placed the flying men's device, beneath a flap of canvas to keep off the wind and rain. A preposterous arrangement of metal tubes and spires, it crackled away with the voices of other, distant men. A much queerer thing than even a glass candle Willas thought privately though decidedly easier to use.
"Forgive me, my lord" Lomys corrected. "Only, you are betrothed to the crown princess. Someday you will sit the Iron Throne, though I shall not live to see it." He hunched over a touch further, if that was even possible.
Willas turned away again. He had never met Shireen Baratheon, though no account of her had filled him with much anticipation. He felt Luthor's claws sinking into his shoulder. The hawk was agitated with all the unfamiliar smells. Willas scratched his chin idly. "A girl of ten" he replied eventually.
Lomys seemed to consider the young lordling a moment. "Girls flower into women. Did we not cover that in a lesson at some point?"
Willas did not laugh. The maester listened for a moment longer, then seemed to decide he would miss nothing of importance. He removed and headphones entirely and shuffled over, looking out over the scene between two stout merlon. The Mander flowed lazily over the plains, as it had since the time of the Greenhand. Everything else about the morning was quite wrong however. Smoke still rose from the western bank, where the Lannisters had made their camps amid freshly burnt villages. To the south, a great dark mass signaled the arrival of the Hightower host. Before it was a long crescent of ditches, banners, tents, glints of steel and other paraphernalia that made up Lord Tarly's army, already arranged for battle.
Lomys nodded down at the scene. "Do not tell me her scars are what bothers you?"
Willas did not reply. He glanced down as his bad leg. Useless, even in the brace Lomys had once made for him. He supposed it was what he deserved. Of course, one cripple should marry another.
"You will be king" the maester persisted. "With the queen you must simply father children. If you have a man's urges otherwise, get yourself a mistress or two. Robert must have had a hundred, more than Aegon the Fourth…But together, you can unite these divided kingdoms" he said, gesturing at the massing armies.
Willas scoffed at this. "I doubt anyone could unite the kingdoms at this point, maester."
"It is still not too late" Lomys repeated. "The Flying men…" he looked up at the sky, as if they might still be listening. " The king has order-"
"No man will fight for a king who runs. How often must we have this argument?" Willas snapped, finally losing his patience.
Lomys finally fell silent. Immediately Willas felt remorseful, but not quite to the point of apologising. The maester gave a slight bow (a proper one would result in him tumbling over) and retreated back to the radio table. Willas remained where he was, looking south. A handful of green and gold-clad guards stood around, watching from their own battlements, while an acolyte made use of the maester's old bronze spyglass. Watching. Waiting.
Willas had said his farewells to his brother and lord Tarly just the previous night. The two had ridden off, with the greatest knights of the Reach in tow, after a lavish supper. Willas suspected it would be the last good meal they would have for some time.
Publicly, the army's commanders had been in high spirits, confident of success, but in private Willas knew their plans were in tatters. Lady Oakheart's treachery had taken them completely unawares. Lord Tarly had almost been through gathering more men, set to crush the Hightower host in the south, when they had word of the Kingslayer's army marching unimpeded past Old Oak. They had no choice but to turn around and fortify the riverbank, or else be cut off from the rear. Trapped in a pincer Willas reflected, precisely what my father feared.
Lord Tarly had even gone so far as to advise a further withdrawal, all the way to Cider Hall or even Bitterbridge, and leave Highgarden to fend for itself, but Garlan would not have it. We cannot abandon Highgarden unfought, my lord! Near all the knights of the Reach had agreed, and Lord Tarly had relented.
Now, two thousand men would remain to defend Highgarden. A few thousand more were still patrolling the river, protecting every ford and ferry crossing for a dozen leagues upstream. The Mander was broad here, a quarter of a mile across in places. They had seized everything that could float to prevent the Kingslayer from crossing, even felling a great number of trees on the far bank, but enough had evaded their efforts for the Lannisters to start cutting down the survivors and lashing them together into crude rafts. Through the maester's spyglass, Willas had watched this shambling armada growing day by day.
The rest were now gathering a league south of the castle, at a position difficult to bypass. The Roseroad here sloped down rolling hills. One flank was anchored on the river, while off to the east were dense hedges and groves that went for miles.
The two of them watched as the armies came together at about noon. Occasionally they caught the blast of a trumpet, or the thumping of drums when the wind blew the right way, but for the most part it was a silent dance. Aside from the wind, they were quite alone up here. A voice came on the radio in the early afternoon however, and Willas heard quite clearly his great uncle Gormon, now the king's Grand Maester. He turned to the north, and soon saw the familiar green-white speck that was the Knight of Flowers.
The plane droned almost lazily overhead, following the Mander. From below, Willas heard scattered cheers as the garrison spotted the flying machine. No doubt, on the opposite bank, the Faith Militant would be praying to the Seven. Luthor stretched his broad wings and screeched at the intruder. He had never taken well to the idea of sharing the sky. Willas reached out a hand to sooth him, wondering for the hundredth time if they were serving the wrong master. Have we forsaken our gods, truly? And chosen to worship instead this new, winged stranger? But he put these doubts to rest also.
The plane headed down the river, flying over the fighting armies. It returned some minutes later, heading back north. When it was once again reduced to a mere speck, Willas watched it circle awhile. Lomys had the headphones on again, nodding.
"My lord, the Kingslayer is crossing...two leagues north" he relayed.
"Send a rider" Willas commanded.
"Yes m'lord".
He plodded over to the spyglass and tried to see the move for himself, but whatever attempt the Lannisters were making was lost from view behind the next bend in the river. Despite himself, he silently cursed the flying men and their devices. No wonder they are feared and hated. They are too clever by half. At this rate, they would be running the Seven Kingdoms by next spring. And even the king will be their servant.
The guard took his leave. Willas did not query whether the order was obeyed. A few minutes later, he spied the messenger pounding down the Roseroad on horseback, heading south.
They resumed their observations. Another hour passed. The Knight of Flowers flew by twice more, then retired as day turned to dusk. Lion banners had been seen on the east bank for a while, but the defenders quickly pulled them down, driving the attackers back to their rafts. At nightfall they received their own rider, admitted briefly through the River Gate. He pounded down the only straight path in the briar labyrinth. It took some time for a messenger to relay the news for Willas, racing up three hundred steps. The boy couldn't have been older then ten. He took a knee, panting heavily.
"The Lannisters are on rafts, m'lord…but Ser Tanton says they will not cross…not today."
Willas dismissed the boy, hoping this was true.
To the south the armies had retired to their camps. At night the fires were lit again. A string of glowing pearls shone on the east bank. A line of watchful camps, placed every few hundred yards. Another rider came an hour later. The same boy ran to Willas.
"Lord Tarly reports the army holding strong, m'lord…The Hightowers cannot pass."
Willas thanked the boy and dismissed him again. The guards looked hopeful, but he knew they were young fools. They could not hold the Roseroad and the Riverbank forever.
The next day was more of the same, and the next, but on the fourth day the news turned dire. Willas watched as hundreds of rafts attempted to cross a league north of the castle. They did not even need the Knight of Flowers to tell them, the spyglass was enough. Willas watched with his guards, hiding his anxiety. A future king should never be uncertain. The rider reached them just after noon.
"M'lord" the boy reported, shaking slightly, although it could have been the exertions of climbing the stairs. "Ser Tanton has fallen. Hundreds of lions are crossing."
Willas frowned. He glanced at the maester.
"It is still not too late, your grace" he repeated.
Now it is a lie Willas thought glumly, but he was beyond caring at this point. He turned back to the messenger. "Tell Lord Tarly it is time. He must head north. The Kingslayer threatens his rear."
"Yes, m'lord." The boy ran off.
Now it is done.
It took until nightfall for his words to translate into actions. To the south, he saw the armies disengage once more, though a long green and gold column was soon heading up the Roseroad, past their camp. A squadron of cavalry led the way. Spears glinted, unbloodied. They had been left in reserve for just this purpose. Willas watched them trot past the castle. The defenders cheered them. The Knight of Flowers flew back and forth, waggling its wings, then returned to circle over the riverbank where the lions had made their crossing. An unmistakable signal. Willas did not witness most of the fighting that followed as day turned to night. He knew his brother must be down there somewhere. A rider would surely have come if he fell.
By dawn the next day his brother's army was gone. Where roses and huntsmen, apples and golden trees had flown however, there were new banners. A sea of brindled boars and roosters, burning tree and white badger, bull's skull and hightower.
And everywhere, a golden lion on red.
They were surrounded.
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The Siege of the Rock (that same day)
Lannisport was burning.
Even up on a high ledge of the Rock, Tyrion could smell the smoke, as if sitting right before a cookfire. The Great Sept where Myrcella had been crowned had collapsed that morning. At least his father had time to remove the statues of the seven, and its other treasures. Anyone with the means to do so had likely long fled, but he knew a few hundred thousand smallfolk must still be down there, at the mercy of the king's soldiers. The flaming stag flew everywhere, from the city's walls and the freshly built camps that had sprung up around the Rock on all sides.
Now none will say it is a misleading sigil Tyrion thought. At least not all the banners were of the enemy. Looking past the burning city to the sea beyond, he could see only a score of vessels flying the kraken today. A week earlier there had been a hundred, but the Greyjoys were still hunting the remnants of the royal fleet somewhere south. He couldn't help but smile whenever he pictured Stannis, down there somewhere, no doubt grinding his teeth endlessly, watching as the Ironborn delivered fresh food and supplies to the besieged. Already the king's men had set up half a dozen mangonels to fling stones at the lower entrances, and they were building more, but they would be even more useless here then they had been at Deep Den. Nor could they bury under the fortress and hope to collapse it. They would find nothing but miles of solid rock. There was a reason it had never fallen by storm or siege.
Even the sight of the Fury itself could not dampen his spirits. It may have been able to fly, but Tyrion knew it could do them no harm. Truly it was no scarier then a trading carrack out of the free cities. The flying men must have retrieved it from the Ironborn for him, but still would not let Stannis use it as a…what was the term again? Bomber? He knew what had happened to Harrenhal. He recalled Fifield telling him once that the flying men could crack even Casterly Rock open like an egg.
But you won't Tyrion knew. You still haven't quite decided on Stannis, have you? You're waiting to see if he can starve us out the old fashioned way. His eyes went down to the Ironborn fleet again. Fat chance of that now. We won't crack, at least not before Highgarden…and then the road to King's Landing would be open to Jaime.
"What now?" Bronn asked, as if discussing a change in the weather. The mercenary was picking at his teeth with a dagger.
"We wait" Tyrion replied, trying to hide his agitation. "Stannis has forty thousand men down there. He cannot keep them mobilised forever, especially now it is autumn. We must wait for the winter, and his army will fall apart. Heed the Northern advice."
Bronn considered this a moment. "And if it doesn't fall apart?"
Tyrion gave an evil grin.
"Then we will have to break it apart for him." He hopped off the ledge and waddled over to the nearby crevice. "Come Bronn, we have more work to do."
They squeezed their way through a series of narrow crevices in the rock (considerably easier for Tyrion) and edged their way back to the nearby entrance. Guards stood watch, even here, a thousand feet above the plains. Three of them pulled open the heavy oak door for Tyrion. Inside, the sound and smell of the thousands of occupants was immediately evident. He had never seen the Rock so crowded. He felt pity for the poor sod in charge of the drains these days. They had never been designed for such a load…
It took them half an hour to make their way down crowded passages to Maester Creylen's quarters, where they had set up all their apparatus. Two acolytes were grinding away with mortar and pestle. The room was colder here, for Tyrion had permitted no open flames. Piles of charcoal, nitre and sulfur lined one end of the room, while at the far end a slowly growing pile of jars held all the precious black powder they had produced.
Even following his instructions, it had taken them some time to perfect the recipe. For weeks all they had produced were some decent fires, until two nights earlier, when they had attempted to light the latest batch. As usual they had taken it down to Clerion at the forge, where the smith had tapped the substance with the end of a hot poker. This time, the sound produced shook dust from the rafters, and left all present quite deaf for a good while. Despite this, Tyrion had soon led them in cheers. Even the smith had joined in, though he had come near to losing a few fingers, if not for the thick gloves and heavy gauntlet Tyrion insisted he wear. He had immediately instructed him on producing a number of thick iron cylinders, as wide and long as a man's torso, sealed at one end. Melt down a hundred suits of armor if you have to. Clerion had examined the plans for a while, then started barking at his apprentices to get to work.
They would need more of each substance however, especially the sulfur. The first two were easy enough to make right here in the Rock. Even with rationed supplies of wood, they would never run out of charcoal. The nitre was trickier. If they couldn't scrape more of it off the caves, Tyrion had read up on the process of making it from scratch, even if it was slower. Rather then disposing of them in the usual manner, he had acolytes quietly stealing the contents of chamber pots throughout the castle, and even visiting the stables to scoop up the leavings there. These had been emptied into larger pots in turn, with small holes poked into the bottom and a crude filter made from rope. If they had set the apparatus up properly, pure nitre would eventually result. Tyrion had even made his own donations to this cause, and was quite sure his father had too. A Lannister may not shit gold, but who knew any common man could defecate sorcery such as this? He wondered yet again which flying man had stumbled across such a thing.
The sulfur was trickier. Despite its many caves and crevices, Casterly Rock had not hosted the fires beneath the earth in the memory of man. At Tywin's specific request, the Ironborn had already delivered two shipments from the hot springs of the Pendric Hills, via the Banefort. It was the trickiest part of the whole operation. They would need boatloads for Tyrion's plans to come to fruition. And Gods help us if our foe should discover our efforts before then.
Tyrion looked around the room. Yes, on the whole, he found the situation quite to his satisfaction. Looking up, he saw Bronn still did not share his optimistic appraisal.
"We're going to break Stannis with this?" he waved a hand around the dank workshop. "With powders and jars of pig shit?"
Tyrion smiled his mischievous little grin. He patted Bronn on the arm (the highest part of him he could reach) and stepped forward to pick up his own mortar and pestle. "That, my loyal friend, is precisely what we are going to do."