Land of the King

Chapter 66: The Noose Tightens

Braavos burned throughout the day, the following night, and into the next day. It was only in the afternoon of that second day that the fires had at last gone out. In its wake only ruin and destruction were left, that and a steady stream of refugees.

Despite their wanton destruction, the Valyrians had not destroyed the aqueduct, which countless fleeing refugees had used to make their way to their position. In time the area had been filled with refugees with the group they had formed being just one among many.

Jaenara had suspected and told Turin the aqueduct staying intact had been deliberate as the Valyrians wanted to occupy Braavos and thus needed a source of freshwater. And her suspicions had proven true exactly one day after the fires had been put out, when a Valyrian armada had sailed into the city and taken it with hardly any resistance. After that, the refugee trickle had stopped.

Now, a few days later, they watched the Valyrians through the far-eye, and they grew more and more concerned at the size of the army in Braavos and of course the dozens if not hundreds of dragons.

"They would not have needed a force nearly this large if they were only here to subjugate Braavos," he said as he turned to Jaenara.

"No," Jaenara said. "No doubt they mean to press their victory here elsewhere. Most likely they will push through here, down South. With Braavos taken they can outflank the Rammas. Alternatively, it is possible they're only moving to take Lorath, but we shouldn't get our hopes high."

"We must do something to warn them!" Turin said.

"What? There's nothing we can do. They're too far away, we have no means of communication and barely enough food and water to survive as it is," she said with a sigh.

"You think they're alright?" he suddenly blurted out, unable to help himself.

"They should be," she answered. "Nimloth is as far away from this as possible. The only way she'd be further from this conflict is if she was in Annuminas."

"Let's hope she never has to see it," he said, grabbing Jaenara's hand and squeezing it.

"Aye, let's hope so," she said, squeezing back.

After that, neither of them said a thing, after all, what was there to say? Wordlessly, they made their way back to where their group was located, huddled around a makeshift fireplace, where whatever they could catch was being roasted. Today, it seemed to be a few birds. It likely wasn't enough, but they just had to make do with it.

All told, their group was a rather pitiful thing, even if a few called it a resistance. Jaenara and Túrin were some of the few with any military training and they had to turn this ragtag rabble into an organised resistance if they had any chance of survival. Though first they would have to get more food.

As they returned to their campsite, they were greeted by their followers.

"What's happening in the city?" Bellegere, a former Braavosi city watchman asked.

"Not much. The dragons are still stalking the whole place and every day more and more Valyrian ships and soldiers arrive. They also seem to be rebuilding the harbour and the Arsenal for their own uses," Túrin informed him.

Bellegere was concerned to hear that, "Do you think they mean to push inland?"

"We don't know, but yes, no doubt that's the most likely possibility, we have to be prepared to flee further south at any moment."

Bellegere stopped in his tracks and they both turned to him with questioning looks.

"South is no less treacherous. Orthello finally returned." At that, Túrin's interest was peaked. Orthello had been the most trustworthy man they could find, whom they had sent with the one horse they had been able to find at a nearby farm. "His horse was half dead, but he returned nonetheless. It seems Ghoyan Drohe is a smoking ruin. What's worse, some of the people he met said that the Rammas Rómen has fallen."

Túrin felt his heart sink. It couldn't be. Surely the Rammas Rómen, the greatest fortification Arnor had ever built, could not have fallen? What of his brother Ciryaher? He had just spoken with him barely a week ago, he could not be dead, right? Túrin refused to believe it, to even think it until proof was delivered to him, but deep down in his heart, he knew Ciryaher was likely dead.

"What do you mean the Rammas Rómen fell? There were 500,000 Arnorian soldiers in East Arnor, surely the Valyrians could not have defeated them all so quickly?" Jaenara was alarmed.

Bellegere grimaced, "That's what the people he met said."

Jaenara and Túrin looked at each other, before turning back to Bellegere, "We need to see Allaqen and his fellows."

A while later, Allaqen and his fellow acolytes, the last survivors of the Guild of the Faceless Men came to see them as requested, even if technically the order was dead, as apparently all the members had gathered at the House of Black and White to discuss striking against the Valyrians.

It had also been the first place the Valyrians had destroyed, the dragonlords obviously not taking any chances with the assassin order. Now, all that was left was the few acolytes that had been dispersed through the city, most of them having gathered in their group.

"You have all heard the rumours from the south I am sure?" Jaenara asked.

"That is correct," they all replied rather creepily at the same time.

Unnerved slightly, Túrin continued, "Our situation has become much more dire. Previously we had hoped to establish communications with Ghoyan Drohe and Pentos, but if the former is gone and the latter beset by the Valyrians, we are alone and vulnerable here in the hills of Andalos. We need you, all of you, to sneak back into Braavos and steal some glass candles. We need to re-establish communication with Arnor, and fast."

"Your wishes shall be done Prince Túrin, may I inquire how many glass candles you will be needing?" Allaqen asked, his face unnervingly passive.. The man had told Turin they no longer intended to go through the Faceless Man necessity of losing their identity, effectively ending the order, and yet they still seemed eerily impersonal.

Turin hid his grimace to maintain a calm expression. The Faceless Men had a rather disturbing though not wholly wrong view of the Gift of Men.

"As many as you can get me."

Only three days after that conversation, a far shorter time than he had expected and dared to hope, the Faceless Men returned with a dozen glass candles.

"I am impressed, Allaqen," Túrin praised, glad to finally be able to do something, and above all else, glad to talk to his daughter and tell her they were alive. What must she be thinking? Turin wondered.

"My apologies Prince Túrin, but I am afraid that we were so successful less due to our inherent skill, which as mere acolytes, is lacking when compared to our former masters, but rather due to lack of security in the city now."

"Wait, why is the city any less secure than it was when we were there?" Jaenara asked, confused.

"It seems that the day we left, the greater part of the garrison, the fleet, and the dragons, all moved out in the night."

Túrin and Jaenara's expressions were grim.

"Did any of the townspeople have an idea of where the Valyrians went?"

"Oh they certainly had ideas, several, and they just couldn't agree on them. Some said they're moving for Pentos, others for Lorath, while some think they simply overextended their forces and need to pull some back or risk starvation. Already food in the city is becoming scarce. A few even suggested that they're moving to invade Westeros." Hearing the last line, Jaenara and Turin exchanged a glance, both silently hoping it wasn't true. If the Valyrians were moving for Westeros, then the Vale would be the first target, and then, Osgiliath...

"We will warn them Jaenara, Nimloth and her children will be safe," Túrin said. "And what are the chances they are actually heading for Westeros?"

"I learned long ago not to leave things to chance, unlikely is not impossible, and in this war, no one is truly safe," Jaenara replied, a dark expression on her face.


"I should be staying with you. I can fight, Father," his son Arahad pleaded with him, upset at being sent away. Aravorn looked at him with a mix of both bemusement and sadness. When had he grown up so fast? He found himself wondering. His and Nimloth's son was barely twenty, and yet he was by now almost as tall as Aravorn himself. In any other land save Arnor, he would already be considered a man, yet in the eyes of their people he was still just a boy. Aravorn suspected he would always be his little boy in some way in his eyes.

So instead, Aravorn placed a comforting hand on his shoulder and looked him in the eye.

"It is no mark against you or your valour that you are being sent away my son. You are the future of Arnor, when your great-grandfather, grandfather, and I have all passed, the rule of our people will pass to you. You must not throw away your life foolishly for a fight that is not yours."

"You say this fight is not mine, but as the future king is it not my duty to fight to defend Arnor?" Arahad asked.

"Not yet, not now," Aravorn replied. "This war, this conflict, was begun by my grandfather. Often, future generations pay the price for what their forefathers did. I must fight alongside your grandfather and mine to end this war, once and for all, so you need not have to do it. If I can, I would spare you the horrors of war, would that I could spare myself them. And if not, at least I can spare you the horrors of this war.

Your duties lie elsewhere in Annúminas, where our people will look to you for leadership. I need you there, safe, but able to send aid if I need. You want to do your duty as a future king? Learn to rule while you're there. It is not your time to fight a war, and I pray you will never need to."

"I… I understand Father." Arahad looked hesitant still, but less mutinous.

Aravorn smiled at his son, "Good. Look after your mother and sister."

"I will."

"Father…," a soft high-pitched voice called and Aravorn looked to see his daughter clinging to her mother's dress. If Arahad was his pride, then Ancalimë was his joy.

Aravorn knelt before his daughter, putting his hands in hers.

"Do we really have to go?" she asked tearfully.

"I'm afraid so, my dear."

"What about you? If Mother, Arahad and I are all going, you have to as well," she commanded with all the imperiousness of a six-year old.

"I can't," he replied simply.

Ancalimë grew distraught and began to cry, "Why, why not?"

"As I told your brother, duty calls. But fear not, I will call every day with the glass candles, you're a bit too young to use them, but your mother can mediate between us, and, as soon as I can, I will come to see you in Annúminas."

"You will?" she asked, wide-eyed, innocent, and hopeful, the tears drying. Osgiliath was all she had ever known. His grandfather had given him and Nimloth the Citadel of Stars to rule not long after they had been married, to make them learn all they had to know about rulling as the future King and Queen of Arnor. The idea had been to give them a central located place where no crisis would happen. Aravost felt the need to laugh at that memory, bitter humor passing through him thinking of the crisis on their doorstep.

"Of course I will," he said with a smile he didn't truly feel.

"Promise?" his daughter asked.

"Promise," he replied, coming to one knee and hugging his daughter.

As he stood back up his wife suddenly gave him a bone crushing hug. Despite being over a hundred years old, his wife looked like she was still twenty, the same incredible beauty of Valyria with the height and grey eyes of Numenor with which he had fallen in love with. And evidently the same energy and strength, he thought to himself.

"Nim, I can't breathe," he said with a small chuckle into her ear.

At that, his wife gave a small musical laugh of her own into his ear, but did release her vice like hold on his torso. He was only grateful his wife could still laugh. It had been the news of her parents being still alive and well that had brought life back to his wife, and he couldn't be more glad for it.

"I know I can't hold you to that promise, but do promise me to do your best to come back to us, and most importantly, not to do anything rash or foolish."

"Rash or foolish?" he asked as they came apart a bit, their noses almost touching each other. "I'll have you know I wasn't the one to jump off from the bridge of Morlond into the river just out of a dare."

"If you forgot, you followed me," she said, mock indignation in her voice, before she closed the last piece of distance and kissed him. Even now their kiss felt like one of the most wonderful things in the world.

"Ew, Mother, Father!" Ancalimë said, forcing them to break off, her little nose perched up at the sight of them kissing. Meanwhile Arahad was just looking amused at all of them.

"Well, I guess we'll have to continue this once you return," Nimloth said with a very suggestive wink.

Well, if that's not motivation to stay alive, I don't know what is, Aravorn thought to himself.

"I guess we shall," he said with a long suffering sigh. "Stay safe."

"We can't be any safer than in Annuminas. Its you who needs to watch out. Promise me you'll be careful."

"I promise," he replied solemnly. And he would. Whatever it took, he'd fight for them, and come back for them. "I love you," he added.

"I love you," his wife replied.

And with that, Nimloth and their children turned and walked up on the gangplanks in the harbour of Osgiliath, getting on the ship bound West. As they made their way and the ship departed they waved at each other all the while, until finally his family went out of view.

Almost immediately however, his peace and melancholy at seeing his family go, possibly for the last time, were disturbed by the arrival of Aravorn's aide and lieutenant Cirion. Cirion was the son of the Steward Boromir and would one day be Steward himself.

"Aravorn, we just received grave news," the man said, addressing him by his name as both the future steward and his friend.

"All news is grave nowadays, Cirion. What exactly happened?"

"First, the Valyrians have surrounded and started besieging the Gates of the Moon."

"We knew that was inevitable after the battle of Ironwood," he said with a sigh. After the Valyrians had surprised them all by taking Gulltown before they could even begin to mobilize, the forces of the Eyrie had tried to face the forward Valyrian elements in battle, thinking it would be only a few dragons. Almost none had been left alive to tell the tale of the carnage that had insured. "However, if there's any place that can hold the dragons, it will be the Eyrie. They do have enough artillery, yes?" he asked to be sure.

"They do. The Bloody Gate is likewise reinforced."

"So, with any luck, the forces in the Vale should be contained there, at least for a while," he said, even if he didn't believe it. The Valyrians will find some way to attack them.

"The forces in the Vale, yes. There's more however. Blackstone, Driftmark and Claw Isle also fell to the Valyrians."

Where was the Navy? He felt the need to scream at that, but he knew where. The Northern Narrow sea fleet had been in Gulltown, and the Southern was busy defending the Stepstoens and Tyrosh. In the long run, he knew they could produce more than enough ships to recover from the losses and overwhelm the Valyrians, but for now the Northern Narrow sea was theirs.

"What's worse," his friend continued after a pause, "Pentos has fallen as well."

"How?"

"It would seem the combination of lack of food, almost all the Arnorian forces being destroyed on the Rammas and the Valyrians having naval supremacy made Pentos unable to put up a fight, despite their Black Walls."

"What of my cousins?"

"No word has come of them yet, but they are believed to be either dead or captured."

Aravorn wept a little inside at the possibility his cousins could all be dead or as good as but he kept his expression stone-faced, with a calmness he did not really have.

"So it begins. Now a good deal of the forces in Essos will be free to be ferried here, and with Blackstone lost, Morlond will be threatened as well. I suspect we won't be getting any reinforcements from them in that case, will we?"

"Most probably not," Cirion replied with a sigh.

"The noose is tightening, and I'm afraid of what will happen if we can't slip out of it. If Osgiliath and Morlond fall…"

"We'll be looking at the fall of all of Arnor," Cirion replied solemnly.

"Well, best make sure that doesn't happen. Send all the reinforcements we have not needed here, few as they are to Maidenpool and the Bloody Gate.. Has any word come from the Starks?"

"Yes, their army is mustering at Moat Cailin and is almost ready to march."

"Good, we will need the valour of the Northmen soon. The Battle for Essos is over, the Battle for Westeros has only just begun."


Author's Note: Many, many thanks to my amazing Beta for basically redoing this chapter from the original 'very bad' draft.

Now onto other matters. Despite technically being part of the province of Nammatil due to geographic closeness, the three islands are often separate and are called the Isles of Morfalas.

And our POV Aravorn has delivered a badass quote that was totally not ripped off from WWII.

Btw, Cirion here is Steward Cirion from canon who was the guy that gave Calenardhon to the Rohirrim. His father Steward Boromir I (not Boromir II from the War of the Ring) was a chad in his own right as well.

Chapter 67 is available for early reading on a certain site for those interested! For those who aren't sure what site that is (it's the usual one) PM me for details!