The Sunset Starks

by SoulGamesInc

King Brandon the Shipwright sailed across the Sunset Sea, but never returned, his tomb in the crypts of Winterfell remaining empty. He made landfall on what would become the Sunset Islands and now generations later the youngest son of Brandon VII Stark attempts a return to Westeros. Winter is Coming.

58. Chapter 58: First in Battle

Copyright Disclaimer: I obviously don't own A Song of Ice and Fire by George RR Martin (very obviously, duh) none of his creations are my own nor is any profit earned on my part, this is all purely a work of Fair Use for my own enjoyment, all free of charge, usually updated on Fridays. I heavily encourage reviews as they do wonders for my writing speed + you can join my Discord via invite/XBuK6tCAB7 or visit SoulGamesInc on Youtube

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Chapter 58: First in Battle
"This road leads to your grave."
– King Rodrik the Ruthless

"I am no traitor," the Knight of Griffin's Roost declared. "I am King Tommen's man, and yours..."

A steady drip-drip-drip punctuated his words, as snowmelt ran off his cloak to puddle on the floor. The snow had been falling on King's Landing most of the night now; outside the drifts were ankle deep. Jaime Lannister pulled his cloak about himself more closely. "So you say, Ser, but words are wind."

"Then let me prove the truth of them with my sword Lord Lannister!"

The light of the torches made a fiery blaze of Ronnet Connington's long red hair and beard.

"Send me against my uncle, and I will bring you back his head, and the head of this false dragon too!

The chill in the throne room was palpable, spearmen in crimson cloaks and lion-crested halfhelms stood guard along the west wall all while green cloaks of Tyrell faced them from the opposite wall. Queen Margaery nor Cersei were amongst them, yet their absences could be felt, lingering the air like ghosts at a feast.

Behind the table where the members of the king's small council were seated, the Iron Throne crouched like some great black beast, its barbs and claws and blades half-shrouded in shadow. Jaime Lannister could feel it at his back, an itch between the shoulder blades. It was easy to remember old King Aerys perched up there, bleeding from some fresh cut, glowering down at him. Today the throne was empty though. He had seen no reason for Tommen to join them.

"Kinder to let the boy be with his mother," Jaime had thought. He might not have much longer with Cersei's trial lingering on the horizon.

Things had gone from bad to worse since Joffrey ordered Ned Stark's dead freed from his shoulders, Jaime often found himself thinking, the boy had sparked a war that could well see them ruined… or had Jaime done that by simply siring the bastard… or perhaps blame laid with his sister, for nurturing the boy's rotten heart.

He'd removed one tyrant just too sire another. The irony of it wasn't lost on him in the slightest, and now the Faith were all but in revolt…

Mace Tyrell was speaking to the Knight of Griffin's Roost, seeming unaware of Jaime's frown. "We shall deal with your uncle and his feigned boy in due time Ser."

The Fat Flower was a headache. Jaime had little choice but to stomach his incompetence though, acting as temporary Hand of the King in light of Cersei's pending trial.

And so, he was seated on an oaken throne carved in the shape of an ugly hand, an absurd vanity that Tyrell had produced as a gift the day Jaime begrudgingly agreed to grant him the office he coveted. "You will bide here until we are ready to march. Then you shall have the chance to prove your loyalty."

Jaime took no issue with that. "Escort Ser Ronnet back to his chambers," he said. And seeing that he remained there went unspoken. However loud his protestations and supposed loyalty, the Knight of Griffin's Roost remained suspect. Supposedly the sellswords who had landed in the south were being led by one of his own blood.

As the echoes of Connington's footsteps faded away, Grand Maester Pycelle gave a ponderous shake of his head.

"His uncle once stood just where the boy was standing now and told King Aerys how he would deliver him the head of Robert Baratheon."

That is how it is when a man grows as old as Pycelle. Everything you see or hear reminds you of something you saw or heard when you were young.

"How many men-at-arms accompanied Ser Ronnet to the city?" Lord Jaime asked of him, sighing in his oaken chair. How had it come to this?

"Twenty," said Lord Randyll Tarly, "and most of them Gregor Clegane's old lot. They had not been in Maidenpool a day before one killed a man and another was accused of rape. I had to hang the one and geld the other. If it were up to me, I would send them all to the Night's Watch, and Connington with them. The Wall is where scum belong."

Tarly spoke matter-of-factly, no doubt having sent enough men there in his time. The man had only recently returned from resecuring the Crownlands.

"A dog takes after its master," declared Mace Tyrell. "Black cloaks would suit them, I agree. I will not suffer such men in the city watch." A hundred of his own Highgarden men had been added to the gold cloaks, yet plainly his lordship meant to resist any balancing infusion of westermen.

"The more I give him, the more he wants," Jaime thought with a scowl. He was not cut out for ruling. He'd never wanted it, but with his sister due for trial by the very faith she'd impowered – threating to name herself Hand – he'd had little choice but to accept the position; only for so long as a trustworthy replaced couldn't be found.

Jaime was however beginning to understand why Cersei had grown so resentful of the Tyrells. This was not the moment to provoke an open quarrel though. Randyll Tarly and Mace Tyrell had both brought armies to King's Landing, whilst the best part of the strength of House Lannister remained in the Westerlands. "The Mountain's men were always fighters," Jaime said in a conciliatory tone, "and we may have need of every sword. If this truly is the Golden Company, as the whispers insist-"

"Call them what you will," said Randyll Tarly. "They are still no more than adventurers."

"Perhaps," Jaime said. "The longer we ignore them regardless, the stronger they grow. We have had a map prepared, a map of the incursions. Grand Maester?"

The map was beautiful, painted by a master's hand on a sheet of the finest vellum, so large it covered the table. "Here." Pycelle pointed with a spotted hand. Where the sleeve of his robe rode up, a flap of pale flesh could be seen dangling beneath his forearm. "Here and here. All along the coast, and on the islands. Tarth, the Stepstones, even Estermont. And now we have reports that Connington is moving on Storm's End… not to speak of Dragonstone's ill-fate and the Narrow Sea…"

"If it is Jon Connington," said Randyll Tarly, pushing aside mention of Dragonstone.

"Storm's End." Lord Mace Tyrell grunted the words. "He cannot take Storm's End. Not if he were Aegon the Conqueror. And if he does, what of it? Fools loyal to that little Baratheon girl hold it now. Let the castle pass from one pretender to another, why should that trouble us? I shall recapture it after my daughter's innocence is proved."

How could he recapture it when he'd never captured it to begin with? "I understand, my lord, but-"

Tyrell did not let him finish. "These charges against my daughter are filthy lies. I ask again, why must we play out this mummer's farce? Have King Tommen declare my daughter innocent, Lord Jaime, and put an end to the foolishness here and now."

If they did that, and the whispers will follow Margaery the rest of her life.

"No man doubts your daughter's innocence, my lord," Jaime lied, "but His High Holiness insists upon a trial..."

Lord Randyll snorted. "What have we become, when kings and high lords must dance to the twittering of sparrows?"

"We have foes on every hand, Lord Tarly," Jaime reminded him, even if he did agree with the irony of it all. "Robb Stark in the north, ironmen in the west, sellswords in the south and yet more Starks in the east as well. Defy the High Septon now, and we will have blood running in the gutters of King's Landing as well. If we are seen to be going against the gods, it will only drive the pious into the arms of one or the other of these would-be usurpers."

Mace Tyrell remained unmoved. "My sons will retake the Shields, and Robb Stark has fled home. As for Connington…"

"If it is him," Lord Randyll said, not shying away from his doubts.

"…as for Connington," Tyrell repeated, "what victories has he ever won that we should fear him? He could have ended Robert's Rebellion at Stoney Sept. He failed. Just as the Golden Company has always failed. Some may rush to join them, aye. The realm is well rid of such fools…"

Jaime wished that he could share his certainty. He'd not known Jon Connington well, but he'd been proud and headstrong among the gaggle of young nobles who had gathered around Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, competing for his royal favour. Arrogant, but able and energetic. That, and his skill at arms, was why Mad King Aerys had named him Hand. Old Lord Merryweather's inaction had allowed the rebellion to take root and spread, and Aerys wanted someone young and vigorous to match Robert's own youth and vigour. "Too soon," Tywin Lannister had declared when word of the king's choice had reached Casterly Rock. "Connington is too young, too bold, too eager…"

The Battle of the Bells had proved the truth of that. No doubt Tywin had expected that afterward Aerys would have no choice but to summon him once more… but the Mad King had turned to the Lords Chelsted and Rossart instead and paid for it with life and crown. That was all so long ago, though. If this is indeed Jon Connington, he will be a different man. Older, harder, more seasoned… more dangerous. "Connington may have more than the Golden Company. It is said he has Rhaegar's son with him..."

"A feigned boy is what he has," said Randyll Tarly.

"That may be," Jaime admitted. "Or perhaps not…"

He'd been here, in this very hall when the bodies of Rhaegar's children were laid at the foot of the Iron Throne, wrapped up in crimson cloaks. Rhaenys had been recognizable, but the boy… a faceless horror of bone and brain and gore, a few hanks of fair hair. Not a man there looked long. Tywin said that it was Prince Aegon, and everyone took him at his word. Rhaegar had once put his hand on Jaime's shoulder. "When this battle's done, I mean to call a council…."

"Changes will be made," Rhaegar had promised. "I meant to do it long ago, but… well, it does no good to speak of roads not taken." The Prince's voice haunted him of late. He could picture it now, clear as if he still lived. "We shall talk when I return," the Prince's last words echoed against Jaime's skull.

He'd wanted to join him, to fight and earn glory; only to be left behind – to guard the royal family instead. He'd failed in that too…

"We have tales coming from the east as well. A second Targaryen, and one whose blood no man can question. Daenerys Stormborn."

"As mad as her father," declared Lord Mace Tyrell with an uncaring scoff. The same father that Highgarden and House Tyrell once supported to the bitter end and well beyond. "Mad she may be," Jaime admitted, "but with so much smoke drifting west, surely there must be some fire burning in the east?"

Grand Maester Pycelle bobbed his head. "Dragons. These same stories have reached Oldtown. Too many to discount. A silver-haired queen with three dragons."

"At the far end of the world," said Mace Tyrell. "Queen of Slaver's Bay, aye. She is welcome to it. Let her keep it, I say, what concern is it of ours?"

Jaime fought the urge to roll his eyes. Tyrell's answer to every problem seems to involve ignoring it and hoping things will fix themselves. The man was hopeless.

"On that we can agree," Jaime said tactfully, "but the girl is of the blood of Aegon the Conqueror, and I do not think she will be content to remain in Meereen forever. If she should reach Westeros and join her strength to Connington and this prince, feigned or no… we must destroy Connington now, before Daenerys Stormborn can come west."

Mace Tyrell crossed his arms. "I mean to do just that, Lord Jaime. After the trials are concluded…"

Fool he may be, but the Fat Flower loved his children and would not budge on the matter. Jaime found he could not fault him for that.

"Sellswords fight for coin," declared Grand Maester Pycelle. "With enough gold, we might persuade the Golden Company to hand over Lord Connington?"

"Aye, if we had gold," Ser Harys Swyft said. "Alas, my lords, our vaults contain only rats and roaches. I have written again to the Myrish bankers in hopes of paying our debt to the Iron Bank; but they refuse to involve themselves… something about bad credit… and not being willing to make bad business against the Titan…"

That was another headache. The Iron Bank had sent a representative, under Stark banners of all things, declaring their backing of one King Rodrik to claim repayment of House Baratheon of King's Landings outstanding long overdue debts. It could not have come at a worse time… but then one supposed that was the whole point…

"The magisters of Pentos have been known to lend money as well," suggested Jaime. "Try them."

The Pentoshi were even less like to be of help than the Myrish money changers, but the effort must be made.

Unless a new source of coin could be found, or the Iron Bank relented, there would be little choice but to pay the crown's debts with Lannister gold. They dare not resort to new taxes, not with the Seven Kingdoms crawling with rebellion. Half the lords in the realm could not tell taxation from tyranny and would bolt to the nearest usurper in a heartbeat if it would save them a clipped copper. "If that fails, you may well need to go to Dragonstone, to treat with the Iron Bank yourself…"

Ser Harys quailed. "M- Must I?"

"You are the master of coin," Lord Randyll said sharply.

"I am." The puff of white hair at the end of Swyft's chin quivered in outrage. "Must I remind my lord that this trouble is none of my doing? And not all of us have had the opportunity to refill our coffers with the plunder of Maidenpool and Duskendale."

"I resent your implication, Swyft," Mace Tyrell said, bristling.

"Let us move along, my lords." Jaime groaned. "We have two queens to try for high treason, you may recall, my sister has elected trial by battle; she informs me…"

"And you will be her champion, Lord Lannister?"

Jaime glanced at the flower. "No," he declared simply. How could he? "She means to name Ser Robert Strong…"

Cersei had schemed against the Tyrell girl – to what degree he did not know – naming her a whore only for her own witnesses to break before the Faith and confess to sleeping with Cersei and not Margaery; leading his sweet sister to a trial of her own. She also stood accused of conspiring to murder King Robert… and then accused of cuckolding the man, with Jaime no less, although there was no proof to be found of it. If Jaime stood as her champion, it would only give credit to those claims

And in truth, he did not know if he even wished to defend Cersei. He loved her still, he could not deny his heart that, yet she'd laid with Kettleblack and rumour named Cousin Lancel too before the boy's untimely death during the Battle if the Blackwater. Who else had she been with? Jaime didn't want to know the answer to that.

There was a peace in ignorance, even if it meant swallowing the bile in his stomach. He could not be her champion… and she had not so much as asked…

"The silent giant." Lord Randyll grimaced at the man's name.

He was more monster that man, the creature of some strange Maester his sister had in her employ.

"Was she sleeping with the Maester too?" Jaime's thoughts taunted him. He'd never laid with another. Not once. He'd never wanted anyone but Cersei.

"Tell me, My Lord, where did this man come from?" demanded Mace Tyrell. "Why have we never heard his name before? He does not speak, he will not show his face, he is never seen without his armour. Do we know for a certainty that he is even a knight?"

Jaime did not even know if the man was even alive. Some claimed that Strong took neither food nor drink, and others went so far as to say they had never seen the man use the privy. Why should he? Dead men do not shit. Jaime had a strong suspicion of just who this Ser Robert really was beneath that gleaming white armour. A suspicion that Mace Tyrell and Randyll Tarly no doubt shared. Whatever the face hidden behind Strong's helm, it hardly mattered. Just another of Cersei's secrets…

The silent giant was his sister's only hope. Jaime, despite his doubts, prayed that the man was even half as formidably as he appeared.

Mace Tyrell could not seem to see beyond the threat to his own daughter, however. "His Grace named Ser Robert to the Kingsguard," Jaime reminded him with no small hint of annoyance, "and Qyburn vouches for the man as well. We need Ser Robert to prevail, my lords. If my sister is proved guilty of these treasons, the legitimacy of her children will be called into question. If Tommen ceases to be a king, Margaery will cease to be a queen." He let Tyrell chew on that a moment. "Whatever Cersei may have done, she is still a Lannister, my own sister. She will not die a traitor's death." He couldn't begin to think of a world without Cersei in it, despite it all…

He'd saved her the shame of her atonement walk at the last. He could not – would not – allow every baker's boy and beggar in the city to see her in her shame and every tart and tanner from Flea Bottom to Pisswater Bend to gaze upon her nakedness, their eager eyes. In gold and silk and emeralds Cersei was a queen, the next thing to a goddess; naked though, she was only human, a woman with stretch marks on her belly and teats that had begun to sag… not that that mattered to him…

It had taken the not-so-subtle threat of slaughtering every Sparrow in the city to convince the High Sparrow.

"You would risk war with the Faith for her," the man had asked of him.

"I shall," Jaime told him fiercely. "If you force my hand Sparrow, so help me, I will see you all dead…"

"For your sister," he replied, though he eyes spoke 'for your lover' all too plainly. If the man had doubts before, now he had none.

"For my family," Jaime had all but roared at the man. "I am the son of Tywin Lannister and Lord of Casterly Rock. There will be no Walk."

The threat was left near enough unsaid for it needn't be uttered aloud. The Sparrow had relented on the Walk of Atonement, but not the trial.

Tyrell gave a grudging nod. "As you say. My Margaery prefers to be tried by the Faith, so the whole realm can bear witness to her innocence."

"Soon, I hope," Jaime said, before turning to Grand Maester Pycelle. "Is there aught else?"

The Grand Maester consulted his papers. "We should address the Rosby inheritance. Six claims have been put forth-"

"We can settle Rosby at some later date. What else?"

"There is the matter of Princess Myrcella in light of Dorne refusal to hand over their Prince…"

"This is what comes of dealing with the Dornish," Mace Tyrell said. "Surely a better match can be found for the girl?"

Such as Willas Tyrell, he meant. Jaime frowned deeply. Myrcella had all of her mother's beauty and none of her hate, reportedly disfigured by some Dornishman even though Doran Martell blames some Dayne rogue for the deed – they could ill-afford to anger Dorne now. He'd already sent a raven to Sunspear, clearing Prince Oberyn's name in hopes of closing the box of snakes Cersei had opened in her grief… even if the Viper was responsible for their father…

He was never suited for ruling. Hated it, as a matter of fact, but who else was there?

"No doubt," Jaime said instead, "but we have enemies enough without offending Dorne."

If Doran Martell were to join his strength to Connington's in support of this feigned dragon, things would turn even worse for them. It would spell doom.

"Mayhaps we can persuade our Dornish friends to deal with Lord Connington," Ser Harys Swyft said with an irritating titter. "That would save a deal of blood and trouble."

"It would," Jaime said wearily. The idea was extremely unlikely. "Thank you, my lords. Let us convene again five days hence. After my sister's trial..."

"As you say, Lord Lannister, may the Warrior lend strength to Ser Robert's arms." The words were grudging, the dip of the chin Mace Tyrell gave the King's Hand the most cursory of bows. But it was something, and for that much Jaime was passingly grateful. They could not afford to lose the Tyrell's support.

Randyll Tarly left the hall with his liege lord, their green-cloaked spearmen right behind them. Tarly was the real danger; any fool would see that much. Jaime watched their departure. A narrow man, but iron-willed and shrewd, and as good a soldier as the Reach could boast. They would need generals like him in the wars to come.

"Lord Tyrell loves me not," Grand Maester Pycelle said in gloomy tones when Tyrell had departed. "This matter of the moon tea… I would never have spoken of such, but the Queen Dowager commanded me! If it please the Lord Regent, I would sleep more soundly if you could lend me some of your guards."

"Lord Tyrell might take that amiss," Jaime wagered. It would be seen as if the man had things to hide, to protect; and likely he did.

Ser Harys Swyft tugged at his chin beard. "I am in need of guards myself Lord Jaime. These are perilous times…"

Aye, thought Jaime, Tyrell had his own candidate for lord treasurer: his uncle, Lord Seneschal of Highgarden, whom men called Garth the Gross. The last thing they needed was another Tyrell on the small council. Jaime already felt outnumbered with so many Reachmen about… though they had one less without Redwyne…

He'd offered Prince Doran a seat on the council in the raven to Sunspear, though one doubted the man would accept it in truth.

Their Master of Coin was no Petyr Baelish, with his gift for conjuring dragons from the air, though that was for the best; considering it appeared Baelish had been devaluing whatever coin passed his desk all these years. His was another issue, away at the Eyrie, the man had committed his own treason and yet they could do nothing.

Ravens had been sent to the Iron Bank placing the blame on Litterfinger for the discrepancies, but it appeared the Bank was done accepting their excuses.

"Hire the Mountain's men," Jaime suggested with a shrug. "Red Ronnet will have no further use for them."

He did not think that Mace Tyrell would be so clumsy as to try to murder either Pycelle or Swyft, but if guards made them feel safer, let them have guards. The three men walked together from the throne room. Outside the snow was swirling round the outer ward, a caged beast howling to be free.

"Have you ever felt such cold?" asked Ser Harys.

"The time to speak of the cold," said Grand Maester Pycelle, "is not when we are standing out in it."

He made his slow way across the outer ward, back to his chambers. The others lingered for a moment on the throne room steps.

"I put no faith in these Myrish bankers," Jaime told Ser Swyft. "You had best prepare to go to Dragonstone."

Ser Harys did not look happy at the prospect. "If I must, but I say again, this trouble is not of my doing Lord Jaime."

"No," Jaime agreed. "It was Cersei who decided that the Iron Bank would wait for their due. Should I send her to Braavos?"

Ser Harys blinked. "Her Grace… that… that…"

Jaime rescued him. "That was a jape," he sighed in frustration. Gods he was tired. "A bad one. Go and find a warm fire Ser. I mean to do the same, it's been a long day for us all." He yanked his gloves on and set off across the yard, leaning hard into the wind as his cloak snapped and swirled behind him.

The dry moat surrounding Maegor's Holdfast was three feet deep in snow, the iron spikes that lined it glistening with frost. The only way in or out of Maegor's was across the drawbridge that spanned that moat. A knight of the Kingsguard was always posted at its far end, though precious few of them remained.

Jaime tried not to think how far the brotherhood of knights he'd once idolised and respected had fallen.

He would need to find some new swords for the Kingsguard. Tommen needed good knights about him. In the past the Kingsguard had served for life, but that had not stopped Joffrey from foolishly dismissing Ser Barristan Selmy to make a place for his dog, Sandor Clegane.

It was a precedent Jaime hated with a passion, but one he could use to fix some wrongs.

That was one perk as acting Lord Regent, he supposed; shaping the Kingsguard back to its former glory.

Jaime hung his snow-sodden cloak inside his solar, pulled off his boots, and commanded his serving man to fetch some fresh wood for his fire.

"A cup of mulled wine would go down well," he said to a servant girl as he settled by the hearth. "See to it..."

The fire soon thawed him, and the wine warmed his insides nicely. It also made him sleepy, so he dare not drink another cup.

His day was far from done. He had reports to read, letters to write, then supper with Cersei and Tommen. Not a conversation he was looking forward to in truth – he meant to have the truth from her – the nagging doubts had eaten away at too much already, and the pressures of Regency were crushing him slowly without thoughts of Cersei.

"It had to be," Jaime muttered over the last of his wine. The Faith had to be appeased. Tommen needed them behind him in the battles to come now that Cersei had given them strength. She had grown vain and greedy and selfish… but he still loved her… whatever madness that was, even as some parts whispered questions.

Outside the cold winds were rising, clawing at the shutters of his chamber. It was time to face the lioness. He'd sooner face a dragon.

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Randyll Tarly was as glad as any Reacher to be free of the capital. The moment the Tyrell girl was cleared of her charges, they were off, leaving only a portion of their strength behind to hold the city should the threat from Dragonstone attempt an approach; they were to remove the supposed Targaryen threat at the root before it could spread, then move onto the Reach to defend their homes. Tarly for one was glad to be rid of King's Landing. It was a sentiment he knew full well his men shared.

The section of sky visible above the trees of the Kingswood bore a threatening shade of grey. Rain would soon follow and with that might well come the snow, unnaturally heavy of late, it had blanketed the capital, and would no doubt slow their movements south; though seven willing conditions would improve further South.

The Stark's had been right in the end of things, however. Winter had indeed come. Although not even the Starks could've guessed it would come like this…

By late morning, Lord Tarly's practiced patience was again wearing thin. Not long after the army had left their camp along the Blackwater Rush, the wind had picked up, and banks of dark clouds had emptied themselves over the Kingswood and their slow column. Although there had been breaks in the downpour, they had been scant. The wind continued to gain in strength, delivering more clouds and cold rain from the north. While the trees to either side afforded more protection than if they had been on a plain, there was no escaping the sheets of pour which hammered down from above. All a man could do was to hunch his shoulders and ride – or walk – onward in spite of it.

Mace Tyrell had long since summoned a covered litter and taken refuge from the freezing rains, but Tarly would not cover away and be perceived as a 'soft' general who could not endure what his soldiers had to; even if his liege lord could not boast the same. Leading by example was important for any noble. He wasn't above calling for a new dry cloak when the time came, however, wool that had been soaked in lanolin could keep out the rain for a decent period, yet it became waterlogged in the end.

The rank and file of their host possessed but one cloak at best and by the day's end they would be like soaked rats. And the smell in their tents – one wrinkled their nose at the mere thought. The odour of men who'd marched twenty miles was ripe at the best of times, but the confines of a tent, and wet wool – which stank – increased tenfold.

The constant downpour and the passage of so many feet had turned the Kingswood road into near a bog of sorts, their horses splattered dirty with brown and muck.

Randyll felt his temper – and frustration – rise, yet there was nothing he could do other than to keep them moving forward despite the weather. Their dealing with the threat of the Golden Company was a necessity before they could return to the Reach. The army was like a large wagon which had gone down a narrow alleyway.

The Kingswood originated from a narrow lake in the forest that fed the Wendwater and ran north-east through the Wendwood into the Narrow Sea; with the Felwood to the far southern outskirts of the Kingswood that ultimately served as their destination where they'd call on the Northern Stormlords to join their ranks.

There were clearings here and there, and a patch or two of bog, but the forest appeared to continue on forever. It wasn't the case, but still…

Robert Baratheon had once ridden out of these very trees only to be defeated at Tarly's hands during the rebellion.

"Would that we'd killed him there," Randyll thought quietly as he rode. "The war might've been won…"

House Tarly had always been loyal. First in Battle, they were warriors, hunters, fighters first and foremost but loyal to a fault.

Randyll's thoughts threatened to sink a little further in the mud with each passing day of late. His mind was taken by worries of incompetent lieges and old loyalties coupled by the mounting pressures; none so pressing as his desire to defend the Reach. Oldtown was under threat last they'd heard, and Horn Hill was not so far from there.

What kind of a man – yet alone a lord – would stand absently by while his home was threatened? He would not. He refused to stand idle and do nothing…

His feeling were lifted up somewhat when the rain eased and stopped a short while later. The cloud broke away, allowing warm sunshine to bathe the forest, and the soaking, mud-covered host. Randyll took the opportunity to change his cloak, and to eat a share of bread. He was drier now than he had been for hours, thank the gods.

Morale was still high, as evident by the bawdy marching song that the nearest men had begun to sing. His vanguard would ensure that the column maintained a productive momentum. The desired progress had not yet been reached, and it might be late before the marching camp was built, Randyll feared, but the day would end well.

In a clearing some miles from the Wendwater they arrived and began setting up their tents, wet and stinking; but resting on a march was-

"Alarm!" A voice roared off to his left. "Alarm! Raise the alarm!"

Randyll froze; then unsheathed Heartsbane in an instant from its jewelled scabbard on his back.

The Valyrian Steel had been passed down his family for generations, great and sharp, it gleamed in the fading sun.

Men and Knights all drew their steel and surrounded their lord as officers in Tarly tunics shouted orders to form ranks, their cloaks heavy from the absorbed rain. They bunched together and formed up with practiced precision and eager hearts to form a solid line. The shouts of "Alarm!" had faded to silence now.

"Steady," Randyll practically growled, eyes scanning the wooded edges of their clearing.

There was a sense of panic in the air – the calm before the storm that every soldier knew too well.

Shouts of "form the line!" came from their east as the rest of the host prepared to fight against whatever foe lurked.

Those closest to Randyll all looked to him for leadership, steady and calmed by his mere presence.

"What can you see?" he demanded of a scout who ran over.

"Just our men m'lord," the scout said, fear in his eyes.

"I can't make out a damn thing," one Knight growled. "My lord? What can you see?"

"Nothing," Randyll admitted. He could see nothing at all, no sign, besides trees. "You there," he roared. "What's going on? Where are they!?"

There was a pause, and then the sentry he'd addressed replied, "there's no sign, m'lord. It might have been a wolf...'

Cries of disbelief and great relief met that as men rose from the defensive lines.

"A wolf? A WOLF!?" cried Randyll, as nervous laughter broke out among his own men.

"Y- Yes, m'lord," came the sheepish reply from the sentry. "I was sure it was a man I was – that's why I raised the alarm and all – but when everyone started shouting, it thundered off through the undergrowth like a rock down a hill. It couldn't have been a man, m'lord, I'm sorry for-'

"Damn fool," said Randyll, sheeting Heartsbane as laughter erupted. "Hold formation," he ordered, and stamped forward to the soldier who'd spotted the wolf. They conferred, and then Tarly advanced deeper into the trees with some fifty men, swords at the ready. Despite the likelihood that the enemy had not in fact forced marched on them with inhuman speed, their forces didn't stand down until Lord Tarly walked back and announced that it had only been a beast of some kind.

The Golden Company was by all accounts last seen at Griffin's Roost, and Lord Rowen held siege to Storm's End. It was mad to think the enemy was here.

Randyll ought to punish the fool that raised the alarm though, but that would likely only deter future alarms; best not left deterred – least they prove true.

By the next morning he was already sick of the trees. Beech trees. Hornbeam trees. Oak trees. He'd seen enough of them to last him a lifetime. And brambles – he was sick of them too. They grew everywhere, in great dense patches. Most of their levies bore red lines where they'd been caught or scratched by their thorns.

Come midday they halted briefly for a meal, as armies marched on their stomachs, the short rest was most welcome. Men squatted down on their haunches, or sat on fallen trunks, uncaring of the damp that soaked through their cloaks and tunics. Some even lay down under the trees, where the ground was a little drier. Few talked, and when they did, it was to complain about the Kingslayer, who had commanded them to march into this living hell instead of back to the Reach, where they belonged.

"What a man needs on a day like this is hot wine," complained Red Ronnet, ripping up a chunk of bread and shoving it into his mouth.

The man had served with Tarly at Duskendale and Maidenpool, brining the large towns back into the King's Peace; more sellsword than knight.

A chorus of agreement was earned by that from the rest of the men present, gathered in a circle around a flattish stone that was serving as a table.

"That would require a fire," one Knight observed, indicating the sodden earth and dripping trees. "The Smith himself might struggle to light one in this shithole…"

That raised a chuckle from some. Tarly arrived then, out of nowhere as he often seemed to do.

"Father," the young Tarly heir was up to his feet in a heartbeat.

"Peace boy," Randyll dismissed his heir easily. "Sit back down…"

The boy – a young man in truth – retook his seat at the stone table. Dickon was Heir to Horn Hill in light of his brother having gone off to the Wall and forsaking his inheritance. There was some whispers around that for a time, but the realm had long forgotten Samwell Tarly. In his place, Dickon was already a wedded man.

A young Eleanor Mooton was his wife, at only three-and-ten, as part of an agreement to bring House Mooton back to the fold.

She was young, truth be told; but Dickon was ever a dutiful son to his father.

"My Lord," one Knight moved to rise up and forgo his seat at the stone table.

"No need," Lord Tarly dismissed him. "You look too comfortable Ser."

"Aye my Lord," the Knight smiled gladly, some nameless son of Fossoway.

Randyll looked to his heir. "Staying alert are we boy?"

"Yes father," Dickon gave a nod, firm and dutiful.

"You can rely on us Lord Tarly," the Knight of Griffin's Roost declared gladly.

A stern nod was given. "Good. Forget that making a mistake with the wolf. If you see anything unusual this afternoon, you shout loud and true. There'll be no reprimand if it's a false alarm, I promise you. I'd rather know about something I don't need to worry about than the other way round…"

Dickon Tarly would wonder afterwards if his father could've timed his advice any better.

Without warning, a cloud of arrows flew out of the trees to their left, a blur of streaks; taking the life of the young Fossoway.

In a heartbeat, a similar cloud rained from the right, whizzing like so many angry bees. Caught unprepared, without their shields, the Reachmen were struck down in their dozens. Two of the stone stable slumped dead into the mud, without even the chance to cry out. A spear slammed into the tree behind Lord Tarly; another thumped into the ground by Dickon's feet. Not far off, a horse brayed. It wasn't the normal, complaining sound, but a deep, distressed cry.

Another horse joined in, and then another, mixing with the screams and cries of men that filled the air around them.

Lord Tarly was already acting, gesturing. "Up, you fools, if you want to live! Grab your fucking shields!"

Dickon's guts were churning as fresh fear coursed through him and another volley of arrows buzzed in from behind, from the trees on the other side. They swarmed in all around them, from the left, from the right, from above. Ten paces away, an Ashford Knight went down, roaring in agony for his mother.

"Pair up," bawled Randyll, who was standing, shieldless, in the middle of the track. "Back to back!" He shouted. "Protect one another! Keep your heads down! MOVE!'

Dickon shoved himself up against an Oakheart, he watched, amazed, as his Lord Father stalked up and down, ordering men to join them and form a line. He seemed oblivious to the arrows raining down around him, and his calmness transferred in some measure at least to those he confronted. Little by little, man by man, the line began to take shape. As the storm of arrows eased, it became a solid file, facing both ways towards the once gloomy, now deadly forest.

Another shower of arrows flew out of the trees, wounding one soldier and killing an injured man. No more followed…

Dickon glanced in stunned silence at the widespread carnage. Dead men were strewn everywhere: face down in the mud, staring blankly at the grey sky, propped against tree trunks, sprawled over each other. The arrows that had silenced their banter forever protruded from their flesh at jaunty angles, like so many hedgehog spines.

Randyll's voice broke the uneasy silence, shouting orders and much needed encouragement.

As the men began to obey, a fearful howling began. It rose from the edges of the dark woods, hidden, crying from the trees.

It went on and on, until every hair on the back of men's necks stood up. The sound ebbed and flowed like waves of a rising tide smashing against rocks.

The howling continued unabated for what seemed like an eternity. Until suddenly, without warning, it halted; fading into the dark and leaving them in silence.

One man three men along the line was too scared to listen, stepping out of line with naked terror on his face he muttered "they'll kill us all" and seemed to shake.

Lord Tarly was on him like a snake striking from the grass against an unsuspecting mouse. He hit the man with a CRACK as he struck the solider across his helmet, sending him stumbling with a red mark across his cheek for the trouble. "Get back in line your fucking idiot," he roared at the soldier. "Into line before I kill you myself!"

Cowed and shamed, the man retreated. Lord Tarly gave him a withering look before his eyes, deathly cold, raked across the rest of the soldiers.

Few dared meet his gaze. The howling had ceased, the arrows briefly a far away memory; only the sounds of the forest dared to show themselves.

Dickon watched as his father instilled fear and discipline into the hearts of the men.

There were mutterings of encouragement from the ranks, ranging from "Let them Come!" to "Dirty Sellswords!"

"Ready yourselves," said Lord Tarly from his new position in the centre of the line, facing to the right of the road and into the woods.

They might still charge after all…

They waited…. and waited… and waited…

Nothing happened. There was no new barrage of arrows.

The Reachmen began to share uncertain looks among themselves.

Lord Tarly only scoffed. "They've gone, for now – every second man is to remain in formation! Every other man, see to the injured! Move!"

No doubt many of his men prayed this would be the end of their misfortune. If they heard those prayers though, the seven did not care. Heavy rain began to fall once more, pouring down on their upturned faces in torrents and increasing the already deep gloom. Lightning flashed deep within the clouds, once, twice, thrice.

A few heartbeats later, there was an ominous rumble of thunder. No further attacks came in the night – yet moral plummeted – and then it began to snow.

The gods were cruel to punish them with such a winter. The heavy rains of the Stormlands had turned from a freezing cold to a frozen blanket of snow and ice. They had covered perhaps a mile in the previous hour without incident as the snows proved near as worse or arguably far worse than the rain and thunder had been.

And then without warning, their attackers reappeared, like invisible wraiths. Once again, the first indication of trouble was when volleys of arrows began. Unperturbed, the Lord of Horn Hill ordered an immediate volley of their own to one side of the road, and then the other. The first ambush was unexpected, but now he'd been prepared.

How effective it proved to be was debatably, but the screams that rose when the missiles landed was proof that they had at last inflicted casualties on the enemy.

Randyll ordered a continued march. "We keep moving," he commanded loudly. "There'll be a spot where we can build a camp!"

It had become clear these ambushes were meant to slow their advance; no doubt meant to buy time for the sellswords to prepare…

Some small forces must have slipped by Rowan's forces at Storm's End… or the man was dead, bested by the enemy? He had no means of answering that question. They left the dead where they had fallen and hauled the wounded along, ordering the men on either side to use their shields to protect those in the middle.

It didn't take the enemy long to test them yet again. This time they threw spears up in steep arcs, which sent them down into the midst of the bunched Reachmen, where they could not miss. Two such volleys had half a dozen men down, dead or injured. Tarly ordered the men in the centre to raise their shields in defence. He kept them walking, but their progress on the narrow road slowed down to snail's pace thanks to the number of casualties that they were supporting or carrying.

Ahead they made decent progress thanks to the road running straight, even as the snows drifted down on their heads and the woods threatened death.

The following night they camped on the banks of the Wendwater, with the heart of the river to their east their position was secure enough.

"We should turn back," came the complaints of his liege Mace Tyrell. The Lord of Highgarden was none too happy about what he called delays.

It was easier to stare at the man and make his displeasure known than it was to waste his breath. Mace had held them up in the capital for weeks on account on the trial for his daughter – although Tarly could understand that in part – there had been no need for so many men to protect the Tyrell Queen at all. Her trial was over in a day…

They'd not stuck around to bother with the Lannister woman's trial at all, leaving a portion of their men behind with the Lannister army to hold the capital.

"The cavalry will stay close to the centre and your lordship," Tarly explained to his liege as if he were a child that he meant to educate on simple military matters. "I want no section of the column caught out on their own should the enemy attack in force. We should assign riders as messengers as well, to ensure all of us know whats-"

"Should we not turn back?" Lord Mullendore asked, the Lord of Uplands and noble of little renown.

"Impossible," Tarly glanced at the fool. "To turn back now would spell disaster. Forward is our only path…"

"Could we not turn west," Lord Mace asked as if he weren't in charge. "Riders could be sent to call Rowan home?"

Was that an order or a question? Rowan was likely dead. Tarly merely blinked at the stupidity of it.

"Those riders would likely fail my lord," Dickon replied dutifully.

"Well," Mace stumbled, as if thinking hurt his head. "I suppose so, but we-"

"We shall press on," Randyll insisted. "If your lordship wishes to leave us however…"

"No," Mace turned rose red. "Of course not, my Lord, of course not!"

"Excellent," the Lord of Horn Hill said with poorly feigned interest. It was no small wonder that Mace ruled in name only.

"Felwood is not far ahead now," Lord Vyrwel pointed out quietly, the Lord of Darkdell, an old man with a silver wyvern on his tabard.

"And these ambushers will not strike so close to Castle Felwood," Randyll agreed with a hum.

House Fell would open its gates to them just as it had for Mace and Lord Rowan before.

"Lord Fell was most gracious," Mace added as if it was some great wisdom he had to share.

It was decided that tomorrow would be different. A better day for them all, no doubt about it. No doubt at all…

The gods once again laughed at their wishes as word quickly arrived from the rear section. The enemy at struck in the thousands, it was said, far more than they'd encountered and far more than they'd ever expected to see this far into the Felwood. The fighting was reported to have been heavy and their cavalry had been panicked by the volleys; brining disorder and allowing the enemy to attack at will before they melted away back into the trees like summer snows.

"Lord Tyrell has ordered that we continue to advance, at all costs," the sentry told Randyll. "Tis what I was told to tell you, m'lord…"

Once more Tarly found himself cursing the Fat Flower for his incompetence. What other choice was there?

"Very well," he replied instead, keeping those thoughts to himself and grinding his teeth in frustration.

More snow was coming from the heavens above them, having long covered the forest in a blank of white; it was not a thing Randyll could boast of being used to fighting in truthfully – his experience was with plains and hills and moors, of strategic positions and of discipline… not with winter and ice…

Step by step they trudged forward. Their pace was no better than a slow walk, building tension among the men. Tarly was not immune to the feelings either. When combat threatened, men hated to linger at its edges, waging a losing battle against nausea and the constant need to empty one's bowels or bladder.

"Hold steady,' he called out at regular intervals. "There's hot wine waiting in Felwood!"

It seemed to give his men solace. Their eyes were wary, fearful, and many were praying out loud.

Two hundred paces and Tarly was as shocked as anyone when another ambush was sprung. With loud shouts, scores of the enemy rose up from the snow-covered vegetation to either side of his men. "The bastards have lain there, letting thousands of us walk by," thought Randyll in alarm. They were close… so dangerously close…

They were loud too, clad in white cloaks that had hidden them so well amongst the snow, they were waving shields and swords, charging forward in a ruthless mass as dreadful howls signalled their attack, low and chilling, as if the beasts were somehow working for their enemy – though that thought was one of madness.

Fear seem to ooze from Tarly's men like sickening pus from rotting wound, and their formation wavered in sheer fright of the enemy.

Randyll's eyes shot from left to right, then behind him in rapid succession as he glanced the sights. The terror in a nearby knight's face. Another who had dropped his shield. A third had fallen to his knees and appeared to be praying. One fool had broken ranks and was running towards the enemy, weaponless and mad with fright.

It was moments such as this in which battles were won or lost. If they didn't stand ground now, they'd be butchered like livestock.

A primal rage filled Randyll's heart. "Not here," he growled. "Not now. Not today. SHIELDS UP!" he roared. "HOLD FAST! HOLD NOW!"

He heard his son yell "First in Battle!" and Randyll quickly wheeled left, shoving in against the nearest man and taking his place in the formation; hoping that his son would make it through this cursed madness. The enemy were upon them in a flash, with bared teeth, quickly a plan formed in his mind.

It was risky, but…

"SPEARS! THROW NOW!"

Not all heard his order, or responded in time, but some did.

A light shower of shafts shot out from Tarly's ranks. At such close range, every one hit something. A man, a shield, it didn't matter. The volley checked the enemy's charge a fraction, which was vital. Their momentum caught for a heartbeat, and into the silence Lord Tarly screamed. "DRAW SWORDS, AND HOLD! FOR THE REACH!"

The enemy came on with speed, and maintaining their cohesion, their snow-white cloaks fluttered behind them.

"FORWARD!" Randyll all but screamed. "CLOSE THE GAP! FOR HORN HILL!"

Roaring like angry beasts, two sellswords closed in. Stab! Stab! Their spears thrust forward in unison.

Tarly bent his knees, heard one whistle overhead, then felt the second drive into his shield. The impact rocked him back; if it hadn't been for the soldier behind, bracing him, he might have fallen. Then he drove up, looked, and shoved Heartsbane into the belly of the foe whose spear had caught in his shield. His actions were exact, precise. In, no more than a handspan, twist a little, out. The man went down, blood blossoming, crying like a baby taken off its mothers tit too soon.

Another lunged for him, sword jabbing back and forth, searching for an opening. His muscles screaming, desperate, Randyll lobbed his shield straight at his attacker.

Now, doing what he always told men never to do, he broke ranks and leapt forward at his foe; making use of their confusion. Trying to shove away Tarly's shield, the enemy didn't even see him coming as Randyll smashed his right shoulder into the foe's chest, sending him flying backwards where Heartsbane quickly took his life.

In a heartbeat Randyll took steps back to re-join the formation, shouting for a fresh shield – with no time to thank the knight who deemed to sacrifice his own.

There was no time to assess how the rest of the column was doing, as the enemy were attacking again. A third less at a glance, but advancing, nonetheless. Shouts of "First in Battle!" came from Tarly's men, quickly echoed by "Growing Strong!" and a hundred other shouts of "Highgarden!" and Ronnets men screaming "A Griffin! A Griffin!"

Randyll watched with a glint of pride as he witnessed his son take down one foe with a savage thrust to the belly against a foe who'd fallen for the age-old ruse of a feint to the face with the shield, never anticipating the precise stab to the throat in quick succession. In this chaos, there was but a heartbeat to recover and breathe.

There were no more sellswords in front of him now. They appeared to be pulling back, in fact…

Lord Tarly looked over his shoulder, but he could see no foes, just sweaty, bloody, grinning Reachmen. "Are they all dead?"

"Aye, father," replied young Dickon, with a splatter of blood across his face. The boy looked shaken but otherwise unharmed.

"Fine work," Randyll cast a look before urgency filled him. They had to keep moving. He glanced to his right, along the line. Pride swelled within his heart. He had no idea how many of his soldiers were down, but they had held and held well and true by the looks of it.

"Should we go after the bastards my Lord?"

Red Ronnet was living up to his name, bloody, his tunic was slick with crimson.

In other circumstances, other battles, he might have agreed with the Griffin Knight, but not today. Among the trees, there would be more of the enemy waiting, of that he had no doubt, and they were the ones with the advantage in such confined, awkward places. "Let them run. Check the wounded; treat them if you can…"

They would be leaving many behind, to the tender mercy of the woods and their enemy. Such was the way of battle.

"Strip the dead of any equipment you need Ser but do it fast. We move now! Onward to Felwood!"

Randyll stalked down the line, repeating his orders, assessing his losses and the men's mood. They were bloodied and battered. Some of them would never leave this place, and nearly a dozen more sported wounds of varying severity. These were grievous losses for one clash in an ongoing battle, especially if they were being repeated throughout the column. His rising sense of concern was countered, however, by the fierce grins his men gave him, and the promises that they'd be ready to march.

They'd make it through – one way or another, he decided. Randyll couldn't quite shake off his unease as they resumed their advance, however…

When the heavens opened and released a fresh blizzard of snow, it truly felt as if the gods were laughing at them. Groans of weariness and despair rippled down the line of marching soldiers. A man could only get so cold and wet, their spirits dragged lower and lower, to the point that Tarly's words began to fall on deaf ears.

"Fuck this," he'd heard one of Red Ronnet's knights mumbling as they rode. "Fuck this forest, fuck these sellswords and fuck this cold…"

The next attack was a mighty hammer blow, far worse than any of the previous assaults, the world became as a tunnel of blurry red.

Randyll lost all concept of the weather, location, how much his body hurt – anything other than the man to either side of him and the enemy before him was washed aside in the moment. Wet blood coated his forearm, its warmth almost welcoming as Heartsbane cut down man after man all while screams echoed around them.

At one point he'd shared a kill with a Knight to his left, who had stabbed his opponent at the same time.

By this stage, it was agony to breathe, and his every muscle was trembling with exhaustion. For now, though, they had won some space to recover.

Randyll lowered his sword, let his shield sag to the ground. Felt the snow, softer now, drifting down on to his face with an almost welcome chill. He breathed deep and closed his eyes. Five. Ten. In this blood-spattered place of death, sleep beckoned all the same. Randyll rallied what was left of his energy and forced his eyelids open.

"Injured?" He asked of the men beside him. One was fine; the other had a gaping wound to his left cheek but vowed that he could fight on despite it.

The snow seamed to pass for them ahead, and a rainbow formed overhead, its beauty a stark contrast to their heavy hearts. A welcome mercy, nonetheless.

As the sight of Castle Felwood came into view and the Felwood itself parted before them, spirits began to lift on the wind – the snows resting on the field before them and Felwood's battlements as well – quite a welcomed sight. The banners of Fell greeted them, with a white crescent moon on a black field and green trees.

Lord Mace had appeared at the vanguard of their column as soon as they were clear of the forest, up front and boating proudly of how they'd made it through. Out of sight of the man himself, the men looked to Lord Tarly with smiles, nods, and muttered thanks; for they knew who it was that had led them through the seven hells alive.

Felwood was a modest castle on the edge of the woods, with blackened stone walls and several strong towers; flanked by a modest village on the outskirts.

Tyrell wasted no time in heading for the castle as its gates opened and one of Fell's sons rode out to greet them with open arms and promises of warm food, feathered beds and honeyed mead to warm their souls. "My father welcomes you to Felwood," the young Fell had said, all courtesy. "Please, my Lord, if you'll follow me..."

If any man had thought to question the boy's intentions, the cold set deep in their bones was louder than such thoughts. Tyrell and his lords longed for warm safety.

Tarly rode beside his liege lord and young Dickon under the portcullis into the courtyard were Fell banners fluttered in the gentle blowing winds, coated white with the snows of winter, fires burnt in braziers across the courtyard and atop the walls; manned by squads of Fell guardsmen.

"Father has been expecting you," the Fell boy commented. "You're late though, if I might say…"

"Some trouble in the woods," Lord Mace had the nerve to chuckle.

Trouble? Damn him. They'd lost countless men and had yet more wounded…

"More than trouble," Dickon didn't have his father's patience. "We were ambushed, my Lord, harshly…"

"My condolences," Fell offered, frowning as Mace looked abashed by the young heir of Tarly.

They walked in silence through the halls of Felwood before they came to the great hall.

The door was vast, carved with runes into the dark oak; ancient and unreadable – they halted by it and waited.

"Runes of the First Men," the Fell boy explained simply. "My family trace our lineage back to before the Andal Invasion, back when we ruled as Kings of the Felwood; though we eventually bent the knee to King Durran X Durrandon as he expanded his reign to the Blackwater Rush…"

"What do they say?" Dickon asked, curious, as the great oaken doors creaked open.

Fell's smile faded. "They're spells – words of power – to ward against evil things…"

"Spells," Red Ronnet laughed. "And you can read this nonsense I suppose, Fell?"

Fell glanced at the Griffin and muttered "No" as he walked through the doors and into his father's hall.

The guards watched them like hawks as they entered the Hall of Night, as the Fell's liked to call it – they lined either side of the hall with tall shields and long swords – silent in their vigil. Randyll had hunted his share of dear in his time, but never had he felt so hunted himself, as if these guards the hunters and he the dear in the woods.

"Lord Tyrell," the Lord of Felwood greeting them from atop his throne of carved weirwood.

"My Lor-" Mace halted in his tracks. This wasn't the man he'd met before…

"You ain't Fell," Red Ronnet commented. He knew Lord Fell… this man was not him…

The guard's spears lowered in a flash and the door slammed shut behind them with a thud.

"What-" Mace grew redder. "What is the MEANING of this!? Where is Lord Harwood!? I DEMAND ANSWERS!"

"Lord Tyrell," the man on the throne leant forward on the seat of Fell Lords as if he owned it, with raven hair and silver-grey eyes, he was dressed in a fine black-and-silver cloak with furs and plate. His accent was odd, almost Essosi though far thicker and harsher. It was then that Randyll noticed the spiked crown atop his head.

His was a crown of iron swords, runed and ancient in appearance; far from any crown Tarly had seen of late.

"It is customary to kneel before a King," another man spoke from beside the imposter.

"I-" Mace bumbled. "There is no king except King Tommen!"

"Tommen Waters," the man on the Throne commented.

"Baseless slander," Mace mumbled. "Explain yourself! Who are you!?"

Randyll had a decent guess, recalling old memories. He'd seen this man's like before.

"My brother," the man beside the throne declared. "Rodrik of House Stark, the King of Winter, Titles, Titles…"

The man was near enough the spitting image of the Wild Wolf, although taller; he had near enough the same look.

"Where is Lord Fell!?"

"Quite well," Rodrik declared. "Isn't that right, young Llane?

The boy, Llane Fell, only nodded grimly.

"Traitor," Mace named him furiously.

"Do not blame the boy," King Rodrik said. "He only protects his kin, as he ought to do…"

The Fat Flower of Highgarden practically glowed red. "My army will-"

"-do very little I'm afraid. You could hear their screams I wager, were these walls not so thick."

"Our forces have your surrounded," the man beside the King declared. "You have already lost, my Lord."

"My brother," Rodrik revealed. "Prince Cregan Snow…"

"Bastards," Mace grumbled. "All of you!"

"Only the one of us," Rodrik scoffed at that.

Lord Tarly hadn't said a word throughout. They shouldn't have walked so merrily into Felwood, but the cold, the hunger, the longing for safety had gripped them in a vice; coupled with Mace's eagerness to be rid of the woods and the dangers… they had walked straight into their foe's hands…

And if they hadn't? No doubt, they'd have been set upon by this Stark regardless.

"You planned this all," Randyll scowled at the supposed King of Winter.

"Aye," came the answer. "We have our ways; you needn't ask how Tarly."

They'd had wargs on them since they'd left the capital after all, the woods had eyes.

"This won't stand," Mace Tyrell declared boldly. "The King will see you all punished! Executed! My Daughter is-"

"You should stop now my Lord," Prince Snow interrupted.

"Aye," Rodrik agreed with a look. "This road leads to your grave."

"Y- You wouldn't dare harm me! I am the Lord of Highgarden! My daughter is Queen!"

"Seize them," King Rodrik muttered uncaringly as the guardsmen put spears close to throats.

Randyll Tarly watched as his liege lord was led away grumbling and muttering curses and empty threats.

"Speak boy," he told the Stark King, as the guards had not seized him nor his son.

"You are a bold one," Rodrik looked down from his throne.

"I will not be cowed," Randyll declared. "You have something say, so be done with it…"

King Rodrik was amused. "Very well," he said. "I prefer it this way, you andals love your flowery words – but we do not – so here it is…"

Randyll hadn't been expecting the question, in truth, it wasn't a thing most voiced so openly and without care. Then again, this was a Stark and a King, with apparently more power at his fingertips than they'd dared to consider. His men had harassed them in the woods since they'd entered. They'd planned everything, it appeared.

Dickon's eyes were glued on his father, pleading the man for guidance as spears surrounded them on all sides. Randyll gave his answer. The wolf's grin grew wider.

---

Twenty thousand men strong had left the capital and entered the Kingswood. They'd lost a few thousand or so to the ambushes, be it directly or by way of the wounded, then just as they'd broken free of the wooded hell their soldiers – broken, tired and cold – found themselves set upon from all sides outside the walls of Felwood Castle. The Stark's spared only those who laid down their steel once the majority had been cut down like so many flowers in a vast field now painted with their blood.

Lord Tarly would shed no tears for their losses. His house bred and trained warriors, through and through, each and every one of his swords knew their duty.

Now he rode beside a Stark, a Snow and a Princess as well; alongside the forces of House Fell, Buckler, Errol and Arch all of whom had opened their castles to the wolf when they'd approached under the banner of young Shireen Baratheon – the last living descendant of her house, the Stormlords fell in line one at a time as their approach.

Tarly had fallen in line as well, though under guise of ensuring his liege lord was not harmed; least anyone doubt his loyalty to Highgarden.

The weather had thankfully improved tenfold the further south they rode, not that the snows seemed to phase the Stark's in the slightest, as King Rodrik had only laughed when he'd overheard some talk of the snows being any hindrance. At only ankle deep, he claimed, such were considered only light summer snows.

In that, it explained why the man seemed unbothered by the cold winds. Atop his white stallion he looked at home when the winds hit his stony face.

Storm's End laid ahead of them on the horizon now, gracefully free of the blanket snows – the banners of gold cloth flew atop its battlements and the black-and-red dragon of House Targaryen fluttered proudly atop the Storm Drum itself; roaring in defiance against the crashing waves and what was no doubt a furious Storm God.

"By guile," the Stark Princess had explained it so simply, as if it was a small thing to have taken the fortress.

The Stark woman was a strange one, dressed in a coat of black raven's feathers and leathers; she'd appeared with news of Storm's End capture just as they'd passed by Broad Arch to rally the men of House Steadmon. Lord Jason Steadmon conferred with the Princess, sharing letters he'd received with the Targaryen dragon.

This supposed son of Rhaegar had sent out ravens to all the Stormlands, if not all Westeros, declaring that he had seized Storm's End.

House Targaryen had returned with a vengeance, and none could turn a blind eye now that the boy had proven himself so utterly.

By the time the Princess had returned from her parlay with the dragon she'd lost possession of the Griffin Knight, having traded his feathering hide for an invitation, the Fat Flower was freed from his cage and given a horse. "As you're so fond of reminding us," the Stark King had declared. "You are the Lord of Highgarden…"

"And you will behave," the Bastard Prince added dangerously.

"Your son is enjoying Dragonstone," King Rodrik had shared plainly.

It was all he'd needed to say. Mace had long since been cowed by their words.

Tarly was not so easily beaten down, though even he had to respect Stark's position.

The man had played them masterfully – biting at their heels in the Kingswood – the ambushes were in equal part designed to weaken and herd them, like castle into the pen that was Castle Felwood; even if they hadn't entered the walls so eagerly, the northmen would have surrounded and slaughtered them regardless.

"The dragon will see us," the Princess declared with a smile. "Inside the castle, he offers Guest Rights…"

"His grandfather was mad," Randyll said bluntly.

Mace cleared his throat, as if to test if the Starks would bite at him.

"My house has long been leal subjects of House Targaryen," he declared, puffing up proudly.

"And now your daughter is wed to a bastard of incest sitting on the boy's throne," Rodrik countered, and Mace deflated immediately.

Tarly wagered that the Tyrell's were regretting that decision of late, with their liege lord and one son in Stark claws and their daughter wedded to a king who it seemed was unlikely to sit the Iron Throne for much longer. If the boy king got his Tyrell wife with child, then Highgarden would be quite royally stuck with their ties…

"Pray to your gods that the Dragon is feeling forgiving," the Stark King declared from atop his stallion.

"Not that they'll hear you," one of Stark's nobles added with a smirk.

The King was never without his nobles and near a hundred guardsmen in grey cloaks.

And at their feet ran wolves – obedient as any dog Randyll ever knew and seemingly twice as intelligent.

That was not the only oddity. The Princess claimed to have come from Storm's End only a day prior to her arrival, yet no horse could ride so far so fast, and then there was the birds – ever flocking and flying about Stark's host – perhaps one in every hundred Stark men boasted a raven, crow, eagle, hawk, wolf or dog…

It was a notion that Randyll pushed aside. It was said that Ned Stark's children all had a Direwolf as well, odd as it was; he dismissed it for now.

Storm's End opened its gate for them without any fuss, as King Rodirk rode at the head of their party of some hundred guards and a handful of nobles that included every Stormlord in their merry host; the Starks had dragged along Mace Tyrell and Randyll for these talks. Dickon was not invited, however.

"Your boy will remain with my men," Rodrik Stark had told him in private.

"As a hostage," Randyll hadn't once honied his words for the man.

"Call it whatever you like," the Stark was uncaring. "The boy stays here."

That was that. A hostage of Horn Hill, one of Highgarden, the message clear as day.

Tarly had known hard men – even counted himself among their rank and file too – so he did not doubt that this Rodrik was capable of taking the lives of his hostages should his hand he forced to do just that. At the mere motion, the lives of Dickon and Loras could be cut short as easily as they breathed.

"I may die," the King had shrugged at the notion. "There are others to take my place, if this dragon should prove mad – there are others."

"He offers Guest Rights," Tarly said, looking to the Stark girl to confirm.

She only smiled, nodding, apparently all the confirmation he'd receive from her lips.

"Then he'll not break it." Randyll was sure of that. "If he did, then he'd stand no hope of ruling Westeros."

A king already wearing the stain of his grandfather's madness could ill afford the stain of breaking laws so sacred as Guest Rights.

It was a laughable idea to suggest that any man, if so despised by the nobility, had any hope of seeing a long and peaceful rule. Not without dragons, at least.

If this boy dragon were to do something so wholly foolish, the Stark host outside his walls would no doubt tear Storm's End down stone by stone until nothing but a memory was left of the once great fortress, nor the dragons for whom the castle would serve as a crude grave of sorts. The boy would need to be mad…

They were greeted in the courtyard quickly enough and escorted into the Storm Drum by one Harry Strickland.

He looked little like a warrior, with a stout build, big round head, mild grey eyes and thinning grey hair that was brushed sideway; his blood was of Stirckland – Randyll knew the name as that of rebels – serving in the Golden Company for four generations ever since a Lord Strickland rose in rebellion with Daemon Blackfyre only for the foolish bastard dragon to be slain upon the Redgrass Field. Lord Strickland had fled across the Narrow Sea with Ser Aegor Rivers and the other Exiles.

And now a Strickland served as Captain-General of the Golden Company, greeting Starks and Tyrells in the seat of Baratheons. How times changed.

Inside the Round Hall they laid eyes upon Aegon Targaryen, sitting atop the throne of ancient Durrandon Storm Kings, looking every inch the Valyrian King he claimed to be, dressed in red with black trimmings with a black ornate scabbard across his lap; he watched them enter in silence.

"Welcome my lords," one man beside the dragon declared aloud. "To Storm's End!"

Randyll raised a brow at the flamboyance of it, especially as the man he knew to be a Martell chuckled.

"You must forgive my friend," another said with a sigh.

"The silence was getting terribly awkward Stark…"

"Hello there, Roddy," Willam ignored Suko's idea of fun.

Randyll watched with interest as King Rodrik stepped forward. One. Two. Three.

The man closed the distance in a flash that had every Targaryen spear poised to strike; were it not for the Aegon boy's raised hand halting them.

"Brother," Rodrik had assaulted the other man at Aegon's side, having bolted up the steps and away from his guards as if none of the Targaryen spears could possibly stop him, his arms wrapped around Aegon's man and proclaiming him as brother. "You're alive, you mad sod!"

"Last I checked," Willam struggled awkwardly in his brothers grasp. "You look like shit, by the way…"

"We thought you dead," Rodrik let him free, but clasped onto his shoulders; as if he might run away again.

"Pfft," Willam audibly scoffed. "I always come back…"

Rodrik's smile faded in a heartbeat. Idiot. Gods damn idiot.

"I hardly think me coming all this way counts as you coming back, Will…"

"Technicalities dear brother," Willam removed his brother's hands. "You worry too much."

"And you worry too little," came the wolf's kingly snarl.

"Your Grace," Ashlyn had bowed her head respectfully enough.

Rodrik regarded the woman for a moment, noting her hair and the eyes.

"Amber," he guessed. "Cregan mentioned you – though I'm afraid he's not here…"

"No?" Willam thought the urge to frown.

"With the men," Rodrik explained. "Little Bran too…"

"Brandon came? How'd you ever convince Art of that?"

"I didn't," Rodrik smirked. "He takes after his uncle too much…"

So, the boy was disobeying orders and likely snuck away without his father's permission.

"I'm so proud," Willam declared with a huff.

"You should be. The lads grown up and he's-"

Jon Connington cleared his throat. Very Loudly.

All eyes had been on the Starks, oblivious as they were, the dragon's spearmen were still pointing their spears.

"King Aegon," Rodrik's voice shifted, his tone twisting into a harsher mask of itself; devoid of what joy he'd let slip in the moment. "You have my thanks, for tolerating my little brother's antics – no doubt they were great and increasing outlandish – he's never quite done as he's told…"

Willam muttered a sharp "I resent that" as Aegon smiled awkwardly in reply.

"No trouble at all King Rodrik," the dragon stood from his throne and offered his hand.

"You've heard of me then? I'd thought you Westerosi ignorant of us?"

"Prince Willam was quite forthcoming," Aegon revealed, smiling over at the man.

"All good things," Willam shrugged. "I swear. It was mostly all good things…"

"Mostly," Suko muttered quietly.

"My men are no doubt thirsty…"

Rodrik's hint was hardly a subtle thing.

"Of course," Aegon's face turned serious. "As promised, you are most welcome here."

In an instant men and women came forward with palters of bread and cups of wine and water.

Rodrik glanced at his brother only briefly, as Willam gave a nod, Rodrik sipped at his wine and tore a chunk from the bread; though not before allowing the wolf by his brother's wife to sniff at the bread. Flash, he knew the wolf at a glance as of Greystark stock – gifted to a young Aedan if he wasn't mistaken.

That would no doubt he a sour subject for his brother that was best left alone for now. Those two had been as close as… well…

Willam hadn't ever been all that close to the rest of them, in truth, he'd all but recoiled just now after all.

"Your Grace," came the voice of Mace Tyrell, though the fat man struggled to kneel.

"Who is this?" Aegon did not know him. Some fat lord, though his accent was not northern.

"That-" Lord Connington halted in surprise as he realized.

"Mace Tyrell," Rodrik declared. "Lord of Highgarden and my honoured guest."

"How?" Connington demanded to know.

"I can answer that," Randyll stepped forward, putting his cup aside.

"Lord Tarly," this man Connington seemed to know better at a glance. "You've less hair than I remember…"

"And you're less dead than I'd thought," Randyll countered immediately.

Willam sipped his wine and watched the pair stare daggers across the hall.

"You are most welcome as well, Lord Tyrell," Aegon allowed the man to rise from the floor.

"Aegon," Connington turned to the boy. "This man's daughter is married to the Lannister bastard…"

"Yes, I know." Aegon frowned deeply.

"I-" Mace blushed. "I, well, that is… Your Grace…"

"Men who turn their cloaks so easily are liable to turn them again," Willam counselled the boy, sipping his wine.

"Stark is right Your Grace," Connington agreed, as if the act of agreeing with a Stark of all people somehow hurt his very soul.

"I-" Mace looked loss for words. His mother would've known what to say…

"His Lordship is my prisoner," Rodrik delared. "I'll hand him over to you though, should we come to terms…"

"He is King," Connignton declared angrily. "You have no right to-"

"I'm King too," Rodrik stared at the man. "Least you forget, go take a walk on your battlements."

"You'll see some thirty thousand men," Lord Greystark said loudly.

"And that's not the half of it," Rodrik downed his wine and put the cup aside.

"You dare threaten us," Jon Connington growled like a dog.

"I'll dare all I like," Rodrik scoffed. "You hold nothing I want, Griffin, I can't say the same for you…"

"We hold your brother, least you forget Stark," Connington countered with a triumphant grin on his lips.

"Enough," Aegon demanded, up from his throne. "Jon, we're not here to make new enemies. We share one in common!"

"And this fat flower is one of them," Prince Oberyn said helpfully.

"Martell," Mace glared at him. "You-"

"Did you enjoy the wine My Lord?"

Tyrell's face turned pale, the colour draining.

"Y- Y- You wouldn't…"

"Oh," Oberyn grinned wickedly. "Wouldn't I?"

"Stop playing with your food Martell," Willam sighed.

"Why? Look at his face – it's priceless Stark!"

It was. Willam honestly couldn't deny him that.

Mace Tyrell was gaping like a fish stuck out of water.

"You will come to no harm in this hall Lord Tyrell," Aegon assured him quickly.

Oberyn scoffed aloud in mild disappointment of that.

"Shall I remove the scorpions from his bed dear Nephew?"

"Yes," Aegon looked to him as if it wasn't a jest. "Please do, Uncle…"

Oberyn got himself another cup of dornish red muttering "such a shame" as he poured.

Tyrell muttered his thanks and several Your Graces as he was escorted out of the hall, red and weary.

"You've done us a great service in defeating Lord Tyrell…"

"Honestly," Rodrik said. "It was more Tarly's host than the Flowers."

"Your Grace," Randyll dipped his head only ever so slightly to the boy on the Storm Throne.

"Lord Randyll Tarly?" Aegon seemed interested. "I've heard stories about you My Lord, they say you bested the Usurper at Ashford and sent him running?"

"His only defeat throughout the war Your Grace," Randyll's pride turned sour. "My only regret is that I did not manage to capture or kill the man…"

"Nonetheless," Aegon persisted. "Your valour is known, my lord; yours were among the lessons Lord Jon taught me of warfare as a boy."

Jon Connington looked ready to protest that but kept his peace.

"You honor me Your Grace," Randyll bowed his head lower this time.

"You honor your house Ser," Aegon smiled genuinely. "And the Reach as well, I pray we do not meet as foes…"

Randyll thought to defend his liege's choice for king… but Stark's words rang against his skull…

"As do I," he said instead. "Your Grace…"

Aegon beamed at that, raising his cup to the Lord of Horn Hill.

"At the very least the Reach ought to excuse themselves from the war," Rodrik wagered aloud. "I – or perhaps we – have their lord and their son in chains."

"I swear there might not be chains big enough for such a large man," Suko commented as Oberyn chuckled.

"We'll use rope," the Martell Prince suggested sagely.

"Fine idea," Suko hummed his agreement. "Should work… but where do we find so much rope…"

"There will be no rope Uncle," Aegon frowned somewhat. Why must his councillors be so quick to violence?

"No poison, no scorpions, no rope," Oberyn lifted off all the negatives.

"None for now," Aegon managed to smile, albeit sheepishly.

"As you wish Nephew," Oberyn sighed dramatically. "Such a shame…"

Today had been a long day, filled with more than Aegon had expected.

And it was not yet over. The negotiations to come would decide the future of the war, with Mace Tyrell out of the picture they'd all but ensured Highgarden's absence from the war – or perhaps its aid, although Aegon doubt that – so long as the Tyrell girl was married to the pretender on the Iron Throne. Still, things were improving quickly….

The wine flowed and talks turned friendly quicker than Aegon had dared to hope, as the Northmen and the Stormlords seemed to get along like oil and fire even if they kept some distance from the members of the company; their ranks were far from openly hostile to him as he tried to strike up conversation among them all. In the days to come their talks would range from customs to captives to land and title; none so pressing as the matter of the now independent North. These were maters for sober minds.

He'd wait to bring up that topic for a smaller audience. Jon had counselled him against being too trusting, but these Starks could well be their key to victory, or to defeat.

---

My Note(s): I missed Friday again :D busy as usual, but we've managed to make it for Sunday instead of delaying for a whole week till next Friday. In this chapter I ultimately decided to gloss over the Trials in King's Landing as I felt they'd be too drawn out and rather boring additions. Jaime is acting as Hand at present, despite not wishing to and his relationship with Cersei being on the ropes, once Marg is declared innocent (there's no evidence against her really, she'll be found innocent in the books for sure) the Tyrell forces leave the capital with the hope of defending the Reach; only Jaime orders them to remove the Golden Company on their way South. That has not gone well.

Ultimately, they have highly underestimated Rodrik's strength at Dragonstone and are naturally unaware of their ability to warg and effectively keep tabs on their movements; that is extremely fucking overpowered – the Starks harass the Reacher host in the woods all the way to the 'safety' of the nearest castle where they spring the final stage of the trap and encircle Mace's exhausted and bloodied host to destroy it more or less. Rodrik now has Highgarden and the Reach by the balls…

The following chapter will explore the talks between both parties more in-depth (I couldn't fit it all in this chapter :P) and we'll have plenty of character interactions like Rodrik finding out about Ashlyn being pregnant, Will gets to see his nephew, Aegon brings up the whole King Robb issue among other things. Lots of diplomatic shit to do.

That's all for now, sorry if you were expecting more of the reunion but we'll explore the 'proper' reunion in the next chapter. This was more of a teaser in that sense heh.

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246vili: Aegon could be anyone, truly, but then that's Varys whole thing; making the boy a People's Prince raised to become a King that'll rule because it is his duty rather than because it's his right. If he's really Rhaegar's son doesn't really matter and there's no way to truly prove it either way even with dragons, we've countless examples of Non-Targaryen Dragonriders throughout history and even Nettles who may not have had any hint of Valyrian blood in her and merely earned Sheepstealers loyalty by way of feeding him slowly over time. I've always gone off the belief that Dragons are highly intelligent creatures and respond to strength, courage, respect, blood and magic.

Quentyn Martell tried to 'tame' a dragon using a whip, thinking them beasts, he went in afraid and desperate and failed because of those factors; not his blood etc.

Jaimerey7000: The whole custom of not shedding Stark blood (including the Cadet Branches) is quite unique to the Sunset Island's situation, being isolated, most of the great houses share some blood with the Starks one way or another and familial loyalty has been a stable of their culture for a thousand years. It's also not infallible and didn't stop the Frost Rebellion's nor the other minor conflicts that've popped up throughout history. Aegon would have a hard time installing such a mentality in Westeros within his lifetime, though he lay the foundations with his descendants given the chance. I wouldn't call it a code of Honor though. It's about loyalty, not so much Honor.

As explored in this chapter as well, there IS the matter of how a Targaryen killed not one but two Starks; but Ned already received justice for those particular crimes.

Hulkbuster97: I'm glad you're enjoying it :) sadly I was too busy last week to upload – happens occasionally – but I try to stick to my weekly updates as best I can manage without rushing chapters and sacrificing their quality at all. As for the great castles Winterfell has been sacked multiple times throughout history (largely by Boltons) and Dragonstone has fallen to Targaryens a few times, same with Harrenhal and the Eyrie; though I suppose using Dragons can be considered Cheating hahah…

I don't think Suko can really blame the Starks for what's happened in the Empire though, even if Artos has recognized the girl as Empress, his alternatives were declaring for Suko (who is half a world away) or taking the throne himself; that would've gone very poorly and ended up in a full-scale war the Starks couldn't possibly hope to win.

As for the PoV changes, these latest chapters have indeed jumped around a lot (as they cover a Lot of stuff) though normally there's linebreaks to indicate that/skips.

Max207: Dorne/Stormlands don't get enough love, sadly no, so I do enjoy flushing out areas like that even if for a chapter or two :)