A/N: Hey everyone. Glad y'all liked the last chapter.
Awesome stuff: I have just started a collaborative project called The Targaryen Dynasty with BlackRose999. It is an interesting take on post-The Bells Targ restoration.
Also, I've just come across a great story that any Targ fan would like. It's called Black Reign from my friend bykim0120. Check it out, you won't be sorry :)
Enjoy and please comment :D
Chapter 49: No Quarter
"Open the gates!"
High in the saddle, for the second time in his life Ned Stark took in the might of Harrenhal. Winterfell could fit inside of it three times over. Each of the massive spires looked about to topple over, weakened by the years and from Aegon the Conqueror's assault. If one doubted the existence of dragons, the melted stone of Kingspyre Tower was all the proof needed.
And yet again, the walls of Harrenhal hosted another Targaryen victory. One Ned was unable to take part in but - at the head of a column of Stark horse far in front of the bulk of his army - he could catch the aftermath. All about, the stench of death still hung over the keep. Bodies still swung from the nooses of which had taken their lives. Large fires still worked around the clock to burn other corpses before disease spread.
And the wounded... Hundreds of them lined up to receive what little medical care the maesters, septons, and local healers could give. "My Lord!" He turned to see the spindly face of Rickard Karstark, just managing to dismount his horse before the Lord of Karhold took him in a tight embrace. "Thank the gods you're here!"
Ned blinked. "Did you take many casualties?"
Karstark shrugged. "Any man lost is a tragedy, but we came off better than most." He grinned. "Howland Reed really punched above his fuckin' weight."
"Howland?"
"Aye." He pointed to a pyre of corpses. "Most of those were his doing." A laugh left him. "Northern justice for these southern cunts… and the She-Wolf should be proud of her King."
A relieved breath passed his lips. "Where are your wounded?"
Rickard nodded. "Over there, follow me."
About two dozen Karstark and fifteen Crannogmen layed about the grass, tended to by a tall man in septon's robes - he looked to be of a warrior type, but showed signs of age slowing him down. "Lord Stark!" one of the Crannogmen shouted.
Leaning against a barrel, Ned crossed his arms and gave a smile. "Heard you whipped those southerners good?"
A horseman grinned savagely. "Fuck yeah, mi'Lord. We fucked 'em up the bum!"
"Didn't know what hit 'em," a small man of the Neck said, miming a knife into the gut. "Rest of the North behind us. We kin kick 'em to King's Landin' on our lonesome."
Ned laughed. "I don't intend to be King, so Rhaegar will have to lead the attack."
One northerner, looking like he was on death's door, offered a weak smile. "Let 'em, mi'Lord. E's good people." No southern monarch had gotten such praise since Good Queen Alysanne.
After chatting with the wounded for another half-hour, he looked to the septon. "Thank you for caring for them."
"Tis not a problem, mi'Lord," the septon repeated, pouring water over his aching feet. "I do what I can."
"Very noble of you…"
He smiled. "Meribald." He shrugged. "Been through war once many years ago in the Stepstones. This is far worse."
Ned seemed interested. "The War of the Ninepenny Kings?"
"So they called it, though I never saw a king, nor earned a penny. No penny now, but at least I caught a glimpse of the King. Good man." Meribald reached into a sack and took out a loaf of black bread. "I'd love to continue this, Lord Stark, but I believe a man like you has places to be."
"Oh… I suppose so." Ned stood straight. "Thank you, again, Septon Meribald. We shall continue this."
"Bring the King of you can," Meribald called out as Ned walked towards the keep. "I'd love to actually meet one!" Ned couldn't help but chuckle.
Ice strapped to his waist and direwolf emblem both pinned to his surcoat and etched on his cloak, all guards in the keep let Ned pass without fuss - often shooting him a whoop or a call of endearment for his House or Lyanna in particular. After the third minor knight mentioned defeating Arthur Dayne in single combat, Ned decided he rather enjoyed the little bit of pride.
Finally, Ser Barristan came into view in front of the solar of the Lord of Harrenhal - a familiar face at last. "Ser Barristan!"
Catching a glimpse of him, the taciturn knight smiled genuinely. "Lord Stark, you've finally arrived. The Queen will be relieved when she is brought the news."
Thinking of Lyanna calmed Ned. "Decided to rush it when I heard of his Grace's victory. Is he inside?"
"Aye, had a strategy session with his generals. Ser Myles, Ser Richard, Lord Brynden the Blackfish, and Lord Reed. Was just dismissed half-an hour before. He didn't leave though."
Brooding, I suspect. "Thank you, Ser Barristan. May I…"
"Of course." He stepped aside and allowed Ned to enter the solar.
Hunched over the map table, leaning on only one arm as the other was wrapped tightly with linen bandages, Rhaegar hissed at the annoyance of being disturbed. Looking up to give the intruder a piece of his mind… only for the anger to vanish at seeing the Lord of Winterfell standing right there. "Ned."
He certainly looked like a Dragon King, Ned figured. As well as the man Lyanna fell for. "Goodbrother." He smiled.
Rhaegar matched the smile, walking round the table to him. "You made it." The two of them wrapped their arms around the other in a brotherly hug. Genuine among the closest of friends. "You don't know how much I need someone I can truly trust in charge of my allies."
"Eager to provide it, brother," Ned said, truly meaning the words. "The North stands behind its King."
"Still getting used to that title," Rhaegar chuckled. But the reason behind it hit full force. "Gods Ned, please forgive me for what happened to your brother and father."
Ned held up a hand, controlling his emotions. "It wasn't your fault, Rhaegar. Only one is at blame, as only one is at blame for Jon Arryn's death." He clasped Rhaegar's shoulders. "You are the husband of my sister and father of my niece and nephews, may the gods strike me down if I wish ill on you."
Smiling warmly, Rhaegar embraced Ned once more. "That means the world, brother. If you can, I may need a fresh pair of eyes here - along with the disposition of the North and Vale."
"Aye." They moved to the place on the map. "By the way, what have you heard of Lyanna? Is she alright?"
A sad sigh left Rhaegar's lips. "Babe is growing inside her every day, and I'm missing it. Thank the gods she has Elia to… comfort her when I can't."
It took a moment for Ned to truly understand, blushing when he did. "Gods, that is something I never would expected of her."
"Nor Elia, but it's amazing how these things work themselves out." Rhaegar laughed. "I mean, you have to be familiar with such matters, married and with a babe coming of your own." He smacked Ned on the back.
Ned's turn to sigh came. "I wouldn't… I…"
Rhaegar understood. "Cold fish?" He took the silence for affirmation. "My apologies." Wordlessly, both brothers turned to the map.
"Riders approaching, my Lord."
Jon Connington, out of the capitol and feeling his youthful, vigorous body refreshed again, watched as a line of horsemen emerged from the woods. Banners fluttering in the wind - the red three-headed dragon of House Targaryen, black weirwood of House Blackwood, the white falcon of House Arryn, a few minor banners, and…
"House Bolton?" questioned Owen Merryweather. "Why would Rhaegar fucking send them?" He wasn't very bright, but his effusive praise of the King and constant sponsoring of feasts in Aerys' honor kept him among the royal advisers and well-regarded in court. Connington felt he couldn't screw up much, so included him in the parlay that was soon to happen.
"Trying to unsettle us I suppose," Master of Ships Lucerys Velaryon replied, no one doubting the pink flayed man that wafted upon the grey banner. Unlike most among the now reorganized small council, Lord Lucerys had a head on his shoulders.
The other had such a large head, just not on his shoulders. "Doesn't matter," Robert Baratheon growled. "If they know what's good for them they'll abandon the rapist as soon as we make such a demand of them."
Connington desperately wanted to bury his sword in the oaf's eye for insulting his Silver Prince. All in good time. As the riders approached, the Lord Hand hoped for Rhaegar but was fine with who it composed of. Blackwood will see sense and Bolton hates the Starks. They'd compensate for the vengeful Elbert Arryn. In a mere minute, both sides sat upon their horses - staring at each other. "Welcome my Lords," Connington smiled. "I am honored that Prince Rhaegar accepted my request for a parlay."
"He didn't seem like he could refuse," Elbert Arryn hissed. He bore the same blonde cowlicks that his uncle had in his youth, and cut an even more imposing figure. "Unlike you, Lord Connington, he has honor."
"Honor, ha!" Robert laughed. "Rapists and defilers of women have no honor."
Tytos Blackwood eyed him curiously - as did a hooded figure waiting to the back, shadowy eyes taking in everything that was going on. "Not the best person to speak about defiling women - how many bastards do you have? Three? Four?"
"Unlike that dragonspawn, all my women wanted my seed," he said proudly. "You can tell Rhaegar that he no longer faces craven morons like Chelsted, but a proper warrior of Westeros." Robert pounded on his chest. "Any army he sends, I will destroy."
The milky eyes of the Lord of the Dreadfort narrowed… dangerously. "You make a grave mistake to underrate our capabilities, Lord Baratheon."
Robert scoffed. "I know that Rhaegar the Dragonspawn only brutalizes fair maidens that take his fancy. He doesn't fuckin' scare me, leech." He pumped Stormbreaker in the air, wielding the massive Valyrian steel warhammer as if it were a stick. "Bring his worst, he cannot match the fury."
While most would either react in fear or anger, Roose gave away nothing. Merely a jerk of the hand. "Locke, get it." Donnel Locke, heir to Oldcastle and a sworn sword to House Bolton, directed two bannermen with a stretcher covered in a burlap tarp. At the command of his liege, Locke removed the tarp… Roose taking a silent pleasure in the gasps and blanched looks from most of Aerys' retinue. "My Lords, I present Lord Boros the Belly of Harrenhal."
What had once been Lord Boros Blount - the same pompous knight that Queen-claimant Lyanna Stark had unhorsed in the tourney - had been strapped to a large Rogar's Cross. Exposed flesh and bone a bright pink-crimson, the cold thankfully stunted the smell. His mouth had been left open, as were his eyes, showing just how the man had screamed and writhed in terror as the Bolton knives went to work.
"You can't have the skin. That belongs to me," Roose added with a casual smile. Behind him, both Elbert and Blackwood looked perturbed, but not sorry to see the vile 'Lord of Harrenhal' meet a fitting fate.
It was the amiable yet old Owen Merryweather that first replied. "You are a savage," he hissed, still shocked in disbelief.
"The realm will know of this perfidy!" shot Lord Tanton Fossoway, one of the Reach Lords representing Mace Tyrell.
Roose snorted. "Your King can place the body with the ashes of Lord Stark and Lord Celtigar if you wish to be reminded of what perfidy looks like." There were chuckles among the northerners.
Of all the loyalists, the only one who didn't seem a bit disturbed was Robert. He looked almost bored. "Is this supposed to scare me, leech?" He rolled his eyes. "The rapist better do a lot worse to scare me."
"This isn't meant to scare," Tytos Blackwood answered. "Simply to prove just how determined the rightful King is."
"Aerys Targaryen is the rightful King," hissed Lucerys Velaryon.
"Not after he fuckin' killed our liege," Rickard Karstark hissed back.
Sensing things were deteriorating, Connington urged his horse forward. Coming ahead of the Master of War to meet the eyes of Bolton, Elbert, and Blackwood. "This verbal melee solves nothing. I am here to deliver the King's terms, not trade insults."
Sharing skeptical looks, Elbert interjected himself. "King's terms? Same as what my uncle received? What Lord Stark and Brandon Stark endured? Because I'd sooner trust a wildling or a Ghiscari slaver over your so-called King."
"You will refer to him as His Grace!" Merryweather huffed.
"Silence!" Connington's bark quieted the amiable fool. "His Grace will be willing to accede to terms that further the peace." Terms that leave Rhaegar ready to strike with me by his side. "All rebel forces are to put down their swords and head home."
Lord Blackwood scoffed. "That easily?"
"Be lucky yer' livin' at all," Robert growled.
Wishing to silence him with a dark look, Connington instead continued. "Each rebel house will send a hostage to King's Landing and pay his Grace an added lump sum of bullion as reparation. As for Prince Rhaegar…" It's only temporary my Silver Prince. "He will renounce his claim and be given Summerhall and the lands around it to rebuild as a hereditary keep. Additionally, he will have his marriages to Princesses Elia and Lyanna annulled but the legitimacy of his children by them will continue."
"And Lyanna will be betrothed to me, where she belongs!" Robert added, adamant about it.
"The North rejects all such offers, Lord Hand," Roose said simply. "As does his Grace. Our counteroffer…"
"Enough of this!" Robert's steed trotted forward, getting as close to Lord Bolton as he could, blue eyes blazing the fury of his house. "Heed this and heed this well. If that rapist you call a King has any stones, he will come to neutral ground and face me like a man. No one else, just each of us and our weapons."
Elbert spoke up. "Please, Robert, for my uncle and your foster father - can we please come to a peaceful accord…?"
The rage-filled brute was nothing close to the fun-loving boy that Elbert had grown up with. Consumed with vengeance and bitterness. "The only peace will come when Stormbreaker crushes the chest of the Dragonspawn." He spat on the ground near the flayed body of Boros Blount. "Fuck your counteroffers. Seems none of you will listen to reason."
"You suggest that, Robert," Barristan Selmy said for the first time that day, removing his hood to stare at the Lord of his former liege. "Your father was as strong and warlike as you, but he possessed a working mind. Instead of his great legacy, you are nothing but a drunk and a pathetic fool raging after a woman that will never be yours." He spat at Robert just as Robert had to them. "Aerys has the knack of surrounding himself with the most dishonorable people, and you are no different."
It took everything in Robert to not end Barristan's life right there - the rational part of his mind knew that the Kingsguard could probably kill him. He raised Stormbreaker's head. "After I kill that rapist dragonspawn, I'm coming after you next, old man."
Barristan smirked. "I'll keep my sword sharp for that day." Easing back on his reins, he maneuvered his horse towards the rear - riding away.
Everything seemed to be still after the verbal clash of two such commanding men. Robert still commanded. "We'll meet on the battlefield like proper men."
"Indeed we shall," Roose Bolton remarked. "Till then, my Lords."
Watching the banners of the North, Vale, and Riverlands disappear towards the woodland, Connington found his hopes for a quick peace and return to his Silver Prince dashed upon the shoals of the God's Eye. Wiped out by the storms of Durran Godsgrief's 'illustrious' decedent. If that's how it will be, then time to force Rhaegar to realize what's best for him. It would be painful, but it would have to be done.
"Robert," he called to the Master of War. "Assemble the army to march, and tell Ser Baelor to take Stoney Sept."
The Stag Lord whistled. "Now that's what I'm talking about!" With a massive slap upon the back of the Hand, Robert galloped off - manic grin upon his face.
"Oh gods…"
"Mmmm… my lioness."
His gravelly voice made Cersei shiver with pleasure. "Ned… seven hells, you know… just what I like…" It was true, his hands, lips, tongue, and… attachments played her like Rhaegar played his harp. The only person she ever wanted to play her for the rest of eternity.
Lips descending from her neck until they latched to a nipple, she writhed beneath him atop the fur bed. Bare stone walls around her unfamiliar, yet also comforting the way only a home would be. "I love you," he growled as he moved to devour her other breast. A direwolf hungry for his mate.
"Yes… take your mate, my wolf" She tangled her hands in his hair.
Suddenly, his hands ghosted over her belly. "I love our pup too. All our pups."
Her heart clenched with love. Staring at his beautiful grey eyes as Ned entered her. Filling her up the way only he could. With a smirk, she flipped him over. "I love them too, but now is just you and me." Cersei's mouth dropping in ecstasy as she rode him...
"So, what would you like to know?"
Cersei looked around and saw the hovel from her youth. The scary facade of Maggie the Frog even penetrating her youthful haughtiness. "When will I wed the prince?" she found herself saying, not in control of her speech.
"You shant wed a Prince, but you will wed into a House of great Kings." In the distance, a massive line of shadowy figures still as stone seemed to appear, faces hard and eyes wary.
Cersei blinked, assaulted by the images not there during the actual memory. "I will be queen to this man, though? Will he love me?"
"Aye, he will. But this man shall be haunted by the ghost of another long dead..."
The figures disappeared, replaced by a man weeping in front of a Weirwood tree. Faintly, she could make out the sobbing words. "I'm sorry… it should have been you… it should have been you."
She began to hyperventilate, but the voice of her memory was strong and true. "Shall he and I have children?"
"Seven children you shall have, all destined for greatness but the greatest not of your womb..."
A vision of a beautiful redhead appeared, one that Cersei instinctively felt a great affection for even though she showed no Lannister features. But suddenly the vision pushed back to reveal her astride a mighty dragon - its roar nearly rocking Cersei back.
And then came the words… the ones that haunted her to this day. "But death shall come for your line, its claws driving forth to drag them to the abyss before you..." Shadowy tendrils of mist, black as night that filled the hut. Revealing a rider in a grey cloak, sword in his hand. "And the valonqar shall ride out from the mists that hath shrouded him his whole life, only to bury the dagger in the belly of the child you hold most dear..."
Cersei awoke with a start. Breathing hard and her forehead drenched in sweat - not the only part of her drenched… Cursing, she attempted to stand and… succeeded. Something the large swell of her child wouldn't afford her in a few weeks time. Take the victories as they come.
Waddling to a dresser, the act of changing her smallclothes was far more difficult. Robb really hampering her. If sensing the thought the babe kicked in her womb, making the lioness smile. "Easy, little pup," she patted her belly, resolved to not let her child ever forget he was a wolf. "Take it easy on mother." A little kick answered, as if he heard her.
"And the valonqar shall ride out from the mists... only to bury the dagger in the belly of the child you hold most dear..."
That day a decade before, still it plagued Cersei. Jayne and Melara had ran screaming from the hut but Cersei sat firm, determined to know her fate… Only to regret it forever after.
It drove her ambitions, melded her into mistrusting and shunning Tyrion - though as a child she needed nary an excuse for that. All hat drove her was one part. Seven children, all destined for greatness. She rubbed her belly. Including, paradoxically, a dragonrider.
She didn't dream of trying to dissect that eventually.
The door opened suddenly before she could reflect further. "Alright, niece. Nap time's over."
Cersei blinked. "Aunt Genna…"
The larger than life curvy blonde didn't accept delay. "You're no longer some maiden to be kept cloistered for some man. You're a proud lioness of Lannister and it's time you learned more of how to be one."
Wrist caught in her aunt's tight hold, Cersei nearly tripped as she was dragged out. "But Aunt Genna." She glanced at her commode, feeling this was supposed to be some formal matter. "I'll need to get dressed…"
Genna looked her over, taking into account her well curled hair and maroon dress that did little to cover the babe in her belly. "You're dressed well enough. Come on."
Turns out, Cersei was both right and wrong in her initial expectation. It did end up being a formal matter, but rather her father's planning chambers with nearly a dozen of his most trusted bannermen. As eyes of the hardened men found her, Cersei knew an extra smattering of jewels and Myrish perfume wouldn't have done anything. They either regarded her in personal contempt by how their eyes drifted to her stomach.
The Light of the West had become the 'Whore of the West,' though few still knew the secret. Tywin and Ser Gregor kept it from spreading.
At the head of the immense map table, her father's scowl greeted her and Genna both. "I said not to bother, sister, lest of all with... her." The biting tone hurt.
"Well tough," Genna shot back, elbowing aside Cersei's uncle Kevan to take the position of honor right beside Tywin - uncle Tygett and Loren Payne directly across from them. "I know more about politics than my husband, and he's here." Sure enough, uncle Emmon was scrunched at the end trying to appear invisible. "Besides, Cersei needs to learn."
Ser Rolph Spicer snorted, square jaw set hard. "But a woman of her… repute…"
"And you're the grandson of a jumped up merchant that only acquired his nobility by selling silk and perfume for my father's whores, so shut it." While Spicer and many others bristled, Cersei swore that she could see a ghost of a smirk on Tywin's face. Genna was rather on the nose in her insults. "Now can we get on with this?"
Before anyone could complain further of their presence, Tywin held up his hand. "Roland, please continue."
Clearing his throat, Lord Roland Crakehall - Tywin's right hand - gestured to the map. "Based on what we know, the situation has stabilized in terms of manpower. Both the Reach and Stormlands hosts have arrived in King's Landing and swell King Aerys' army to one of the largest in history under the command of Robert Baratheon and Randyll Tarly." He leaned and traced Harrenhal castle. "Rhaegar is camped here, and his Rivermen and whatever other meagre forces he has have been reinforced."
"By who?" Leo Lefford asked - he was also a good commander, if a bit unimaginative.
"Vale knights and levies under Elbert Arryn and the bannermen of Lord Ned Stark, both thirsting for vengeance." Cersei's heart clenched. My Ned… She knew he'd be going into battle but this was just too real for her. A hand brushed against her belly, before she took it away. No one knew the paternity aside from Genna, Gerion, her father, Tyrion, and Emmon. Lord Crakehall didn't notice. "Along with the Daynes, Peakes, and Blackmonts from the south. A force slightly smaller than Aerys' but strong in its own right."
Tywin stroked his chin. "Well, Rhaegar won't be able to advance. He's deficient in cavalry and that could allow Robert and Tarly to envelop him. It's defensive strategy for now."
"Brother," piped up Tygett. "If we declare now we can join with the Baratheons and crush Rhaegar in a vice." His suggestion drew nods from many around the table, most notably Rolph Spicer.
"And why should we possibly declare?" Kevan asked brow raised. "We have no dog in this fight. Best keep our men from being decimated."
A scoff from Damon Marbrand, Cersei's great uncle from her grandmother's side. "You've always been craven, Kevan, like your idiot father. Willing to fritter away all opportunity."
"What fucking oppertunity?" Genna exclaimed, incredulous. "You'd have us side with that monster? The one who absolutely hates our brother? Shame, Tygett, shame."
Tygett bristled. "You think me a fool, sister? Aerys won't last and Viserys will be far easier to manipulate. Our brother could find himself Hand again."
A laugh tumbled from Genna's lips. "If you think Jon Connington would allow that then you are the stupidest Lannister."
"And you'd have us side with Rhaegar?" Rolph scoffed. "The man that spurned our Light of the West?" He gestured to Cersei, as if forgetting the fact he had been one of the most flagrant offenders in the 'Whore of the West' murmurs that wasn't stupid enough to try and spread it outside the walls of Casterly Rock.
It made Cersei's blood boil. "I can speak for myself, Ser Rolph," she ground out, sounding a lot like her father in that moment. "And I believe we should side with Rhaegar."
"You can't possibly dictate…"
"Wait, I want to hear what she says," Loren Payne said.
Rolph looked him over with disdain. "And who the fuck are you to say…"
"I am in a position to say, Ser Rolph," Tywin said simply, shutting him up. "Tell me your thoughts daughter."
Her father's words were so… gentle that it almost unnerved her. But feeling Genna squeeze her hand gave Cersei confidence. "Aer… Aerys can win without us. Rhaegar likely can't." If she framed it as fighting to save her love, all the men would laugh her out of the room. She needed to frame it in terms of politics. "We can get more concessions out of Rhaegar rather than Aerys or Connington."
"That's… a wise statement, Lady Cersei," Roland mused.
Loren smirked. "Looks like you in a skirt, Tywin."
Tuning all words out, Tywin saw through Cersei's airs… but she did offer a smart observation. The choice was neutrality like the Dornish, or choosing one side… "Leave me."
"Brother?" Genna asked.
"I need to think," he said roughly. "All of you are dismissed."
Cersei bit her lip as soon as she was out of the chambers. "Did I…"
Genna laughed and hugged her niece. "Cersei, you did amazing." A gentle kick from Robb seemed to agree with his aunt.
Not for the first time in the history of House Bolton did its Lord appreciate the advantage of forests. They had concealed the marching hoplites of King Royce Redarm as they annihilated the Stark forces and burned Winterfell. They masked the approach of King Rogar the Huntsman as he routed the Andals near where the Twins would be. They shrouded Belthasar Bolton time and time again during the Longsister War with the Vale.
And now - watching his marching columns advance parallel to the flowing waters of the Blackwater Rush - so would the forest cover Roose Bolton as he advanced to save the very Vale houses his ancestors so gleefully slaughtered thousands of years before at the Riverlands town of Tumbler's Falls.
"Where's the fighting the thickest?" Bolton asked his guide - in the distance, the sounds of thundering hooves and clashing steel grew more and more deafening. Already, Donnel Locke and Rogar Reek were splitting the men into their attacking phalanxes. Men gritting their teeth and eager to show the tourney knights just who held the North.
Disheveled and exhausted from an entire day carrying dispatches across miles of the battlefield, young Andar Royce pointed a bit towards the southwest. "A hill just north of Tumbler's falls. Lyonel Corbray was supposed to be holding it, but his men have been savaged by Hightower cavalry."
Roose smiled. "Men, sharpen your knives!" he called out. "Time to flay the pious cunts of Oldtown!"
His bannermen whooped. "Who holds the North!" Bloodlust obvious from expression and reputation, even the savagery of that morning couldn't stop the three and ten Andar from shivering.
It had been early morning when the camp of Yohn Royce's six thousand cavalry had been set upon by Baelor Hightower and a force of over nine thousand prize horsemen of the Reach. Stampeding over the pickets and fording the Blackwater Rush in a branching pincer, Oakheart heavy cavalry engaging with Bronze Yohn's younger cousin Kyle at a small hamlet known as "Milltown" for the large windmill that dwarfed even the trees.
While each force traded control in charge after countercharge, Ser Baelor used the time gained to swing through two dirt wagon roads to assault Royce's main camp. Ben Beesbury excitedly charged at Elys Waynwood's disorganized knights close to the town itself but were bogged down by a recent snowmelt that hadn't dried, allowing the more rested Vale steeds to gain the momentum advantage. In the resulting slaughter of man and beast, the Lord of Honeyholt was among the casualties.
Ser Baelor had better luck trying to flank the Vale, ending up facing Bronze Yohn himself in a joint charge of lances that descended into a bloody mounted melee between the two forces - Reach armor and elan facing off against the discipline and endurance of the knights of the mountain. Ser Baelor rapidly found out that the latter mattered more, that skill in tourneys didn't translate to the rapidly moving slaughterhouse of the battlefield.
With all sides embroiled in stalemates, it was up to Mathis Rowan and his heavy horse to break Lyonel Corbray and his men mounted on Greenwood Hill, the highest point of elevation in the entire region. Twice they had charged, and twice the horsemen of Heart's Home stood firm under the shadow of Lady Forlorn.
Both charges had been piecemeal, and the second nearly broke them. Lowering his visor, Lord Rowan depressed lances and charged for a third time in one large sheet of over fifteen hundred horse. Hooves of the great stallions and mares churning the grass beneath them as they hundred at Greenwood Hill. Eager to finish what they started. But about to crest the hill, the Rowan knights found not the disorganized Corbray horsemen but five blocks of spearmen. Pikes bristling out and the dreaded Rogar's Cross of a flayed man slashing across their shields.
"Boltons!" came the hue and cry. The first wave stood no chance, impaling itself upon the front of the phalanx and taking heavy casualties. Men tossed from their mounts into bloody heaps, spears running through throats and chests. Wounded horses screeching in agony, falling and crushing their riders underneath. The second and third waves watched this as they struggled to a halt, milling about until Roose led a full charge at them.
What had been general organized descended into a series of confusing charges and countercharges that swept back and forth across the hill. But fresh and bloodthirsty, the Boltons cleared the hill for the final time as the sun was low in the sky, turning over a third of Rowan's men into casualties. Baelor's small reserve of Fossoway knights was delayed by inability to find the fords over the Blackwater Rush. Last minute attempts to try and break Kyle Royce at Milltown were for naught as the tired Corbray forces completed their three hour long swing around all their armies to reinforce their comrades.
Exhausted beyond belief, Baelor sounded the retreat under the cover of darkness - thousands of the pride of the Reach withdrawing across the river. Battles were not tourneys, and the young heir of the Hightower was sent smarting with this lesson. The southern shore of the God's Eye solidly in rebel hands and Rhaegar's position solidified at Harrenhal.
Setting camp and collapsing onto anything resembling a bed - be it a pile of hay or a patch of grass - the Vale knights were glad to be alive that day. Enjoying their blissful win. But it was the Boltons that celebrated their victory.
"WHO HOLDS THE NORTH!"
Roose Bolton was… far more circumspect. Focused more on the piles of Reach corpses. "I wonder how flowers look like without their skins," he mused to Yohn Royce after the battle.
"You really are a barbarian aren't you?" Bronze Yohn responded. Roose merely smiled.
Releasing a relieved breath, Lyanna sank back into the loveseat. Rubbing her aching belly and thighs all over. "Thank the gods, he's alright."
An equally relieved Elia plopped beside her wife, propping her head upon Lya's shoulder. "Aye, and your brother is finally with him. Harrenhal is large and they know the land. He'll be safe defending it." Lovingly, she caressed Lya's swell, feeling the flutters within of their little dragonwolf.
The touch of her love and the flutters in her womb made Lyanna sigh in happiness - Rhaegar should be here, feeling this too - though her mind was deep in thought. "He should abandon Harrenhal."
"Why?" Elia had little knowledge of military matters. Of the two of them, Lyanna was the closest to becoming the warrior queen that Visenya was.
Lya leaned over to kiss the crown of Elia's head, the two of them enjoying such a serene moment with each other. "Harrenhal is good ground but close to King's Landing. Best make Robert extend his supply lines and blunder into an ambush deeper into the Riverlands."
"I hope Rhaegar kills Robert," Elia ground out.
In response, Lyanna squeezed her waist. "I hope so too."
Suddenly, Arthur burst into the room. "Your Graces."
Elia was up quickly. "Is it Dacey?"
"No, I'm fine." Beside him, an equally worried Dacey looked as if she had seen a demon. "There's an army at the gates. Banners of the Reach, sellswords, and the black stag."
Easing herself up, at the last Lyanna's eyes widened. "Black stag… Baratheons." Her final word was spat out with the deepest contempt. "How many?"
Hours later, the group of them stared out a slit in the battlements, watching the sea of banners, tents, and gleaming steel settling to camp across the Torrentine. "There have to be at least five thousand," murmured Benjen, having tossed on his armor even though he was given the day to rest - having been with Ashara at the time. "Where did the Mad King get so many forces to come down here? Without being spotted by the Dornish?!"
"House Blackmont and our cousin at High Hermitage all left for the North," Ashara mused, lips pursed in apprehension. "Without patrols it would have been simple, especially if they had the cooperation of the Reach."
"Some riders are coming to the keep," said one of the Dayne guards. "They carry white flags of parlay."
"My father will want to treat with them," Arthur said.
Elia nodded. "Aye, and I will too. They are here for me, not for House Dayne."
As Lyanna moved to join her wife and guards in the gatehouse, her brother attempted to block her path. "Ben," she growled - eyes filled with a wolffish fury upon realizing what he was doing. "Move."
"Ser Benjen, stay," Arthur commanded, the senior of the Kingsguards.
Lyanna's glare was close to murderous. "As Queen, I command both of you. Move aside." They refused.
But her attempt to force her way past them was stopped by a gentle touch. Lya looked with wide eyes from the bronzed hand to honey-brown eyes. "Please, Lyanna. Let me handle it," Elia begged.
Her worried tone melted most of Lyanna's anger. "I am not weak nor feeble, Elia. My people need to see their Queen."
"Normally I would agree, but something is off about this." Elia moves to pat Lya's swell. "I can't risk you and Jon both."
"But…"
"Your Grace," interjected Arthur. "Among the banners I've seen are those of the Brave Companions and other sellswords. Their reputation is detestable even by the lowest standards."
Benjen looked grim. "They make the Boltons look honorable. Please, sister."
Biting her lip, the thought of one of those monsters hurting Jon swayed Lyanna. "Alright, but tell me everything they say."
"Of course." Leaning forward, she murmured something into her wife's ear, Lyanna nodding in understanding at each word. "Alright?" In lieu of an answer Elia was pulled into a quick and passionate kiss, Lyanna's mouth stealing her breath away.
"Stay safe. Come back to me." At her wife's plea, Elia could only nod. Having averted their eyes, the Kingsguards only shifted when Elia broke the embrace - Arthur following her into the courtyard while Benjen stayed with her. Small smile on his face. "What?"
He shrugged, smirking. "We have the same taste in Dornish girls, it seems." If it wasn't so tense, Lyanna would have chuckled along with him. Instead, she rolled her eyes and headed in the opposite direction of the keep. "Lya… Lya?" Benjen called out, following her.
Hands clasped on the front of her red and black dress, Elia certainly looked the part of a Targaryen Queen. Black hair pinned into a severe but intricate series of braids, she waited between Ser Arthur and Lord Althos. Elia's frown deepened at each clack of the chain that brought down the drawbridge over the narrowest stretch of the Torrentine around the island. "You still don't have to do this, your Grace," offered the eldest Dayne.
Seeing the riders approach the gatehouse, black and yellow banners of House Baratheon flanking them, Elia narrowed her eyes. "No, I have to." Wordlessly, Elia walked out of the gatehouse. Riders dismounting and approaching half-way as well. Only six feet apart, the enemy leader removed his antlered helm to reveal the youthful beauty of Renly Baratheon. "Princess Elia." He bowed, smirk on his face. "It is heartening to see you in person alongside the Lord of Starfall."
Elia smiled - more akin to a hyena than anything amiable. "Lord Renly. I could smell the foul stench of stags from across the Torrentine."
"My brother has a rather noxious stench, I agree. Seems I haven't scrubbed it off yet." Renly's smile didn't falter. He had every reason to be confident. "Where is the Stark whore? I would have thought the fierce Witch Knight would want to be here with lance and sword."
"The only sword you'll see is the one that lops off your head, Baratheon," Arthur hissed, hand on the hilt of Dawn, leading the others to reach for their blades.
It was Elia that deescalated the situation. "Enough!" It worked as to both sides.
One rather brutish fellow with an Essosi tan chuckled. "Well well, seems thhhe frail Princesshh has some bithhe to her. I approve. You'll make a fhhine pleasure slave for me."
Elia's eyes narrowed. "A dagger will end up in your stomach before I let you touch me, Brave Companion." She meant that.
His lecherous sneer turned into a scowl. "Howthh's abouthh we test thhhath now?!"
But a punch to the jaw stopped him. "Enough Vargo!" Tagyn Sand bellowed. "We are under a flag of truce. Forgive me, Princess. He does not know about Westerosi concepts of honor." The scowl only deepened on Vargo's lips.
"There is much he doesn't know, I suspect." It gave Elia a bit of satisfaction to ruffle the brute. "Anyways, what do you want, Renly?"
Unnerved by how his men were distracting him, Renly was glad to get back to the subject at hand. "Ah, good. It's simple really." He looked at Lord Althos. "Lord Dayne, you can keep your keep and your men… I'll even throw in your son, he means nothing to me. But only if you hand over the Princess, her brats, and the Starks. They face the King's Justice in the capitol."
"You mean being burned alive for crimes only existing in the King's delusions," Arthur glowered.
"I cannot speculate as to his Grace's mindset." The smile only grew wider. "I'll sweeten the pot, ser Arthur. You can keep your Mormont whore. Wildlings don't matter to me, only royals and witches."
Holding up a hand, Elia looked each man in the eye. A knight of House Dunn, Lord of House Sloane - likely here to keep their castles from reverting back to Peake control - the two Brave Companions, and Renly. How… pathetic. "I have but one answer for you, Renly." She dragged it out. "Fuck you."
The knights seemed shocked to hear a highborn lady utter such words, but Renly merely laughed. "You dare to face my thousands of men with your pathetic few hundred?" Elia merely raised her palm up, saying nothing - further infuriating him. "The blood of every man, woman, and brat in the keep will be on your hands…"
Suddenly an arrow smacked into the wood of the drawbridge, right between Renly's feet. The young highborn yelped and scrambled back - tripping and tumbling to the ground in a heap. Elia smirked, looking at the arrow. Just a bit higher and it would have ripped through his manhood.
Shaking from the fear of it all, his expression showed Renly knew that as well. His eyes, as well as all but Elia, drawn to the battlements of the gatehouse. To Queen Lyanna, bow in her hand and chestnut hair blowing wild in the wind. Almost a vision of Daena the Defiant.
Cheeks burning with rage and humiliation - he could hear the laughs of the Daynes and the hidden chuckles of his own men directed at him - Renly scrambled to his feet. "You will all hang for this! Consider this my notice of no quarter!"
Elia's eyes burned just as brightly. "Likewise, Renly. Likewise."
A/N: So, the Queens are now surrounded. Not a good situation at all.
Ned and Rhaegar are already the closest of friends, while we now have Septon Meribald.
Hope you liked the new version of the Maggie the Frog prophecy. Already, we now have the senior leadership of the westerlands on display.
Next time, Jaimella comes to a head ;)
The more reviews, the quicker the update comes!
