Tyrion
Mounted on his great black stallion, Oberyn Martell towered high above him, his paramour beside him. A baseborn woman she was, still she looked like a lady in a ruddy brown gown that shimmered like bronze. "Prince Oberyn," he called out to Oberyn Martell. "Seems like I have caught you leaving somewhere this morning."
"Dwarf." Oberyn Martell smiled sharply that cut like a knife. "You look quite well this morning. Taking a ride?" Tyrion had worn his riding clothes that morning, a crimson jerkin with ornate scrollwork done on the front with golden thread. Prince Oberyn was not so different as well. He had worn a soft robe of Martell orange, pinned up by a bronze pin shaped in the likeness of a spear. His retinue sat their mounts behind him: All of them dornishmen. Tyrion knew some of them from the time spent with Oberyn. Lord Wyl, wearing his armour and his favorite scowl; Archibald Yronwood, hammer slung from his gold-inlay saddle; Lord Dagos Manwoody, his sons Mors and Dickon; Ser Arron Qorgyle of Sandstone; and the most dangerous of them all, the Ullers. Lord Harmen Uller, the father of Ellaria Sand sat proudly upon his horse, his face hard and hostile. His brother Ser Ulwyck was ever by his side. Twenty guardsmen rode escort with them.
"Where are you bound this day, Prince Oberyn?" Tyrion asked.
"I'm making a round of the gates to inspect the new scorpions and spitfires. And also to take a look at these newest reinforcements from the east who has come to the city's defense at the call of our King." Oberyn fixed him with those burning black eyes of his, always hiding something from everyone around him, never recoiling, daring and challenging. "I am informed that the rebels have marched from Riverrun. Andrew Stark is making his down the Riverlands, with all his strength behind him."
"I heard the same reports as well."
"He could be here by the full moon, the people of King's Landing say."
Aye, to feed hope to their children and to themselves, telling stories of how the brave King Andrew was riding to King's Landing even now just to save them from the cruelty of the Targaryens. It was hardly the truth though. At least they could find peace in that, believing that someone was coming to save them. "The people of King's Landing say a lot of things," Tyrion told him. "Not all of them are true."
Oberyn Martell chuckled. "You seem rather unfazed of the Dragonslayer, dwarf," he said. "Perhaps we should send you to fight the rebel in our King's name. Would you fancy that? Fighting in a struggle against a rebel for your King? High commander of the royal armies. It ought to make the enemies of the King shake in their boots."
"Andrew Stark is nothing to me," Tyrion said. "I would sooner struggle with his mother in my bed. She was said to be a beautiful queen, the poor woman. Gods rest her soul."
"Careful dwarf," Oberyn warned. "You talk too much."
"Why that's the reason the gods have given me my tongue?" Tyrion smiled as Bronn helped him get on his horse. "Well, that and to please a woman. I hope you don't mind the both of us tagging along with your party, Prince Oberyn. I can promise you that you won't even feel our presence at all."
Oberyn Martell looked at him curiosly for a short moment and then nodded. "If you must."
As they rode out through the gates of the Red Keep, Tyrion nudged his mount forward over to Oberyn Martell. Even mounted on a warhorse he made a far less impressive sight beside the Red Viper. "So what news have you heard of the war?"
"I have already told you that," Oberyn Martell said.
"All you gave me was rumours and fishwives tales," Tyrion said. "I want to know the truth."
"Why?" Oberyn asked.
"Look at me," Tyrion said. "I am already short and as ugly as it is. I am not so keen on losing my head as well added to that. Have you seen a dward short of a head? They are hideous."
Oberyn Martell smirked. "Clever dwarf." He looked around the streets, vastly empty except for their party riding down Aegon's Hill. Tyrion spied a woman holding a child once, but that was the only one he could see. The streets were abandoned but for them. It seemed as if the sight of the slavers and sellswords had sent them into hiding.
"Andrew Stark has taken your niece Argella for his wife," Prince Oberyn said as the rode down the hill. Argella married to the King... That managed to surprise him. He couldn't help but laugh at that. He could only imagine what his niece thought of becoming a Queen. It would no doubt gladden her mother or Lord Tywin, but Tyrion knew his niece enough to know that she wouldn't be so thrilled to wear a crown.
"He has the power of Lords Arryn, Baratheon and Tully behind him along with all their bannermen," Oberyn continued. "Thanks to Prince Aegon and his dragon, half of the Riverlands from the Crossroads to the Stoney Sept is in ruins. The Riverlords who are afraid to face the wrath of the dragon is staying away from Riverrun and counts themselves fortunate to be out of it."
"A pity they won't be able to do that for long. The slavers are not like to distinguish between those who fight in the war or those who doesn't." Tyrion had seen their like the day they had come to King's Landing. Sellswords and cutthroats and their like. Of all those who had come answering Rhaegar Targaryen's calls only the unsullied made up for a proper army, loyal to a fault and staunchly obedient to their masters.
"Aye. And with their arrival Andrew Stark has other concerns besides us. Prince Aegon at Harrenhal, the slavers marching towards Riverrun . . . he has a lot to worry about before making it to King's Landing. For now Stark is sitting on Riverrun, flaunting his power for the realm to see, watching and waiting to see where the hammer strike will fall. If Stark defeats Prince Aegon in the field, the western Riverlands will fall into the slavers' hands like a windfall from the gods including Riverrun and possibly his wife and Queen, and if he stays in Riverrun for too long he is just delaying the inevitable."
Tyrion was not appeased with that. The arrival of the Essosi did more harm than good though. It was something he had not accounted for. "Good. That was just what I wanted to hear right now."
Oberyn Martell laughed. "You see imp, you don't seem so happy with all that. "Did you know that your father's forces have taken part in fighting as well? He may not be as open with it as Stark is, but he isn't overly fond of the King as well."
"Are you trying to totally kill all the hopes I have?" Tyrion asked. Bronn scoffed from beside him. He knew that Lord Tywin had sent an army to Stoney Sept which fought Prince Aegon and the royalists in the Battle of the Burning Sept. The battle had ended with a victory for the Targaryens though. Tyrion never knew what his father did after that. Neither Varys nor Prince Oberyn had been able to get him an answer apart from that the westermen had not fought in anymore battles. He could not see his father pulling back his forces into the West where it will serve no purpose but to protect his lands. He had rolled the dice whether he liked it or not and now there was no taking it back. What are you planning to do father?
He was not like to stay away from the fighting to safe Tyrion's life. No more that he would ride for King's Landing to get him back from the clutches of the Targaryens.
Oberyn ignored the question. "With your father the rebel forces would number about a hundred thousand men. Truly a force to be reckoned with."
Tyrion raised his eyebrows suspiciously. "That seems rather high."
"Do the numbers if you question that," Oberyn said and set his stallion at a brisk trot. Tyrion didn't have to work on the numbers to know that it was likely not true. Unless by some chance that no one had died in the battles that had been fought there was no way that was true.
Tyrion followed. They made their way down to the Hill of Rhaenys past the Dragonpit which lay in ruin from the time of the Dance where the people of King's Landing had risen up against Rhaenyra Targaryen and her dragons. Tyrion wondered if they would do the same to Rhaegar Targaryen now. It wouldn't be hard to take control of the city. The slaver army was encamped outside the city walls and almost half of its strength had already left to fight against Andrew Stark. There were no dragons. Only the city watch stood at the defense of the city. Yet, despite all that he thought not.
Rhaegar Targaryen might not have as many dragons as Rhaenyra had, but the people feared him in a way they had never feared Rhaenyra or the Rouge Prince. In truth, even his father did not frighten Tyrion half so much as the King did. What Tywin Lannister had done to his unruly vassals, Rhaegar Targaryen had done to a rival King, one who was as great as any a King had been. And that red wizard who silently stood by his side managed to unnerve him more so than the King did. Those who were brave enough to stand up against the Targaryens were never seen again, and those who had the gall to voice their complaints were ominously silenced.
From the base of the hill he could see the fleet of the Essosi anchored at the port of King's Landing; striped hulls of Lysene war galleys, Pentoshi cogs and galleases, warships out of Volantis and carracks and whalers and others. It made for an impressive sight, berthed at the docks together. Though it wasn't as powerful as the old one, the new fleet of the Essosi made up for the proud royal fleet that Rhaegar Targaryen had lost in Oldtown. Had they not come the city would be left defenseless from both the sea and the land. An attack from both the sea and the land would very well mean that city was done for. Worse, his head will be put up on a spike as a final act of the Dragons before they are slain for good. A depressing thought. No doubt Rhaegar should think that it ought to hurt his father by cutting off his head. He would find no joy with that decision though when no one misses him or his huge ungainly head, least of all his lord father. He ought to make plans to get safely out of the city, should the worst seem likely.
The Essosi had made camp encircling the walls of King's Landing so as to form a defensive line outside of the castle walls. The men from the Seven Kingdoms were encamped closer to the walls, with the sellswords and free companies next to them and the Essosi further away at the front. They found Aurane Waters in the camp of the Westerosi.
The master of ships was standing in the midst of two groups of sellswords, one flying the banners of a broken sword and the others displaying the black goat with bloody bending horns, languid and elegant in a plush silver doublet and a green satin cape, one gloved hand resting on his knee and a sword at his hip. "Prince Oberyn, Tyrion, my lord, the captains Mero and Vargo Hoat are fighting hares with a crossbow," he said. "Mero is winning and earning me much coins. Come see."
Tyrion had to stand on his sitrrups to look at the competition. A few dead hares lay on the ground below; another got hit by a quarrel just as he leaned up, long ears twitching and about to expire from the bolt in his side. Spent quarrels lay strewn across the hard-packed earth like straws scattered by a storm. The bolts that had found most of the hares were fletched with white feathers and the rest were all black. Tyrion thought that the white fletched ones should belong to the Titan's Bastard who led the Second Sons. "Now!" A company man shouted. The gamesman released the hare he was holding, and he went bounding off. Hoat jerked the trigger on the crossbow. The bolt missed by two feet. Cursing, the sellsword spun the wheel to winch back his string, but the animal was gone before he was loaded. Mero got his chance next, he missed as well. "Another!" he shouted. The gamesman reached into the hutch. This one made a brown streak against the stones, that one escaped as well while Hoat's hurried shot almost took the gamesman in the groin.
Aurane Waters turned away, laughing. He was so handsome that he might have passed for a Targaryen himself, with his long silver hair and the rare purple eyes that gleamed with mischief and mirth. "Are you fond of potted hare, Lord Tyrion?" he asked.
"I will be once there are no mutton or ham to eat," Tyrion said.
"You should invest in pots," Aurane advised. "Make some more gold to fill the coffers of Casterly Rock. Hares will soon overrun the city. We'll be eating hare thrice a day."
"Better than rats on a skewer," said Oberyn Martell. "Stay and watch the festivities if you like, imp. I have seen enough of killing hares. I have other things to attend to."
Ah, yes, the look at the defences. "Thank you, Prince Oberyn." Tyrion told him and stayed with Aurane Waters. He might find something useful here, that he won't find by looking at some walls or makeshift palisades and lines of stakes.
He hopped down from the back of the saddle and landed on his hands and feet. Tyrion stood up and dusted his hands on the front of his breeches. "You look very elegant today, Lord Aurane," he told the bastard of Driftmark.
"I'm wounded. I strive to look elegant every day."
"Is the doublet new?"
"It is. You're most observant."
Green and silver. The colours of House Velaryon. He wondered what the man was playing at here. He was not simply here to see men play with the hares and he certainly didn't want to do it himself. The master of ships of Rhaegar Targaryen had no reason to be here in this camp.
He came to the court barely an year ago, rightly so when word of Viserys Targaryen's demise had reached from Braavos. Rhaegar Targaryen had given him the post of his brother to honour Lord Aurane's lord father who had served well to King Aerys, where he had soon distinguished himself by building new ships in mere days to show the splendor of House Targaryen. A true Velaryon of Driftmark, Princess Daenerys was heard to speak of him for he was as skilled at sailing and seafaring as the Velaryons were said to be, even better than the Seasnake himself.
He would make for a valuable ally, Tyrion thought. Between Littefinger and Aurane Waters the building of a new fleet had already been commissioned and approved by the Lord Hand Jon Connington. But do I dare trust him? Tyrion wondered. Of all those in King's Landing he trusted Littlefinger the least and Aurane Waters though. . . He could not say where or how his allegiances lay.
A shout rang up from the gaming ground. "Ah, Mero has killed another hare," Lord Aurane observed.
"That ought to get you enough gold for commissioning new doublets," Tyrion said. "I am surprised to see you here, my lord. What business does the King's Master of ships have out here?"
Aurane Waters smiled. "It is not my place to discuss the King's plans with you, Lannister," he said. "Though if you must know, his grace had asked me to join hands with his Essosi friends in the building of a new fleet. The masters and magisters doesn't lack for gold or trading ships which can be tore down and better built into warships, ready for water."
The man was clever, Tyrion though. Though the fleet which set sail from The east was great in numbers only half of them were ships fit to make battle. The others were cogs and carracks and galleases which would stand no chance against the war galleys or dromonds of Westeros or the longships of the Ironborn. With the great cogs and carracks which had brought men turned into ships ready for battle they would be too strong a fleet, able to match the one Rhaegar had lost in Oldtown.
"No doubt that's an important duty," Tyrion said.
Aurane Waters looked back at the game. "Yes, it is," he said. "These good men from the Second Sons and the Brave Companions have offered me some of their men to crew the new ships. A ship is only as good as those who crew it."
And you would crew all of them with sellsword, cutthroats and rapists, Tyrion thought. "I won't keep you away from that anymore, my lord," Tyrion said. "Enjoy your winnings."
"I always win." Aurane Waters laughed loudly as Mero shot down another hare.
The masters had their soldiers drilling in the nearest field. The clatter of their copper and brass armours made a harsh metallic music as they marched across the fields in lockstep and formed up with their long spears. Elsewhere teams of slaves were raising ramps of stone and sand beneath their mangonels and trebuchets and scorpions, the better to defend the camp should they face an army. It made the dwarf smile to see them cursing and grumbling as they wrestled the heavy machines onto their positions.
If anyone had thought to ask him, Tyrion could have told them not to bother. If the rebels came this close to the city, the war was likely over. Unless one of the Targaryen dragons should return back to the defence of the city. The pet monster of the Targaryens were worth more than these mustered band.
Farther on, two legions from New Ghis were facing off shield wall to shield wall whilst serjeants in iron halfhelms with horsehair crests screamed commands in their own incomprehensible dialect. To the naked eye the Ghiscari looked more formidable than the Yunkish slave soldiers, but Tyrion nursed doubts. The legionaries might be armed and organized in the same manner as Unsullied ... but the eunuchs knew no other life, whereas the Ghiscari were free citizens who served for three-year terms. The lines of their columns stretched from the riverbank to about a quarter mile and it looked as if they were getting ready for marching.
Tyrion wondered where this force was marching for. He had seen a huge host leaving for the Riverlands two fortnights before. There hasn't been any word of a battle yet to see the need of this new army.
As they moved forward further into the camp, he could hear the bells on the collars of slaves tinkled brightly from every side. Such a happy sound, he thought. Practice of slavery had long been violently resisted in the Seven Kingdoms and now they were peacefully brought into the realm by their own King, their protector. "Never before had there ever been a slave in any corners of the Seven kingdoms of Westeros," Tyrion told to Bronn as he watched them chained with gold and silver and copper and other metals. "Seems as if the Targaryens are turning back to embrace their Valyrian roots true and good."
Bronn scoffed. "I would melt the gold from those pretty fetters should anyone ever chain them upon me." The sellsword caught Tyrion by his shoulder and stopped him. "Are you sure you want to go?" Bronn asked. "He is a Prince and a Martell besides. You are a Lannister. No one is going to miss us should something befall us in the camps. Least of all the King."
And my father, Tyrion thought. He might be so happy that he would even reward the man who dealt the killing blow for his service. "Yes, I am sure of it."
There was no better place to hear the latest news and rumours than from the camp. It was why he had come here with Oberyn Martell. Perhaps he might even get to know where that new army was leaving to. "I know what I saw," an old man holding with a spear was saying, as Tyrion and Bronn moved along them, "and I saw that dragon ripping off arms and legs, tearing men in half, burning them down to ash and bones. Men and horses like started running, trying to get away and Prince Aegon had won a great victory. Dragons cannot be killed I tell you."
He didn't know whether the man was telling stories of the victory at Stoney Sept or at Harrenhal. But it was nothing that he had not heard before.
"That was not what we heard from Oldtown," another one said. "We heard word of passing sailors. The Princess and her black dragon are dead, drowned in the sea."
"You don't know what you are talking about," another one said, a short, stocky man with the drawly accent which belonged to those of the rhoynar. "The princess and her dragon flew away from the fight." He insisted.
"She didn't," said the previous one. "She took a crossbow bolt, I hear. That was when she fell. She drowned in the sea along with her dragon."
"Women shouldn't ride into battle," the old man agreed. "They are frail and gentler. They don't belong in the battlefield. They cannot bear the burden on their shoulders. Prince Aegon is an able man, proven leader who has won victories before." His companions all seemed to agree.
In this company, silence was the better part of wisdom, so Tyrion kept silent. They walked further close to the tents where the Essosi had kept their camp, where the Ghiscari legions were waiting to be departed.
The first guard appeared as they neared the horse lines, a lean spear-man whose maroon beard marked him as Tyroshi. "What do we have here? A dwarf and his handler."
Bronn chuckled behind him. The Tyroshi spoke the common tongue well which told Tyrion that he was not new to the Seven Kingdoms.
"Good day, soldier," said Tyrion. "Are you marching off to battle somewhere?"
"Why the fuck should I tell you?" he asked. "Do I look like your slave, dwarf?"
If I ever have a slave, I would have one without a bold mouth or a sword. Most likely one with breasts. "I was simply about to offer you a refreshment," Tyrion said, beckoning to Bronn. The sellsword pulled a wineskin out of Tyrion's saddlebag and handed it to him. "After all you are going to fight for our good King."
The man looked at him and then got the wineskin from his hand. He pulled out the cocker and took a deep swig of the sweet arbor gold. "Wine?" he asked, wiping his mouth with the back of the hand. "I would have preferred beer."
I didn't have an extra strong beer. Within moments and a few more sips the man started talking.
"They are going to the North," he told him.
North, that surprised Tyrion. "You are not going with them?" Tyrion asked, hiding his curiosity.
"No," he said. "We are to sit here while those shits of Essosi are about to fight."
"What is there in the North? The last I heard Andrew Stark was in Riverrun."
The guard took another big gulp. "Winterfell," he mumbled. "Winterfell and the Moat. They won't expect that."
Tyrion's eyes grew wide. He seemed to grasp the seriousness of the situation now. A host to the North and another from the south through Riverlands, Rhaegar was trying to cut Stark off. He has heard what he wanted to here.
"Bronn," he called. "We are going back to the castle. He should find a way to send word to them. He had to send word of this encirclement. He has to.