[A/N: Noted issues regarding pacing, hopefully this chapter works better. I also plan to take a look regarding possible inconsistencies in the previous (and earlier) and edit those if necessary.
As for the comment about potatoes, it takes time to grow enough for a decent tater industry.]
In her office on the top floor of the Sealord's Palace, Andrea leaned back into her chair, completely and utterly exhausted. These days it seemed as if everything was on fire, the recent arrivals from Alexandria only adding fuel to the flames.
She was never cut out for political work in the first place. Sure, she worked in a law firm before the apocalypse, but only as a clerk and that didn't even last long. She was far more comfortable with her newfound talents after the world ended, and better at it too. Put her in front of a target five hundred yards away and she would hit it in one shot; put her in front of a line five hundred petitioners long and she would rather quit. Not this time however, all thanks to the backwards Westerosi who turned to their 'lord's' wife once their 'lord' was away. That or they would turn to Carl, him being their 'lord's' eldest son, but Andrea didn't want to put her stepson through any more worry and grief.
So here she sat slumped in a swivel chair shipped in from Alexandria. Sifting through reports, drafting memos, listening to Westerosi lords petition, explain, recount all manner of drivel. But the man now standing in front of her was from her own lands.
"Did the Greatjon really gun down the Mountain's Men over one thrown knife?" She asked after Jesus finished recounting the disturbance at Darry.
"Yes, he did. And what are we gonna do about it?" Jesus asked her in turn.
"Thoughts and prayers." She replied.
She couldn't care less about the Mountain's Men. Rick would have done more if he were here. But he was thousands of miles away at Hardhome, and Andrea was not her husband; there were far more important things to do than 'civilizing' the Northmen. Not that it excused them from killing Alexandria's prisoners on what was now Alexandria's soil.
"I'll need to talk to this Jon Umber."
"He's still at Ragman's with the other Northmen, I'll let you know when he gets here. You have to be careful. The Greatjon has little respect for women," Jesus warned.
Andrea shrugged. "So he's a sexist dick. He can't be worse than all those walkers and rapists and murderers we've handled."
"He's a sexist dick in a world of sexist dicks. If he manages to make you look stupid in front of all those other sexist dicks, the rest of them might try to push through more demands. Or they might try to remove you and the other women from command. We can't afford this bullshit, not when Rick and the rest of our guys are trapped by fucking ice walkers."
"Fine, I'll talk to him with you and Carl and Arya there, and some of the Westerosi who are more open-minded," Andrea grumbled, "Who else have you got for us apart from that bigot?"
"Renfred Rykker with his five hundred Crownlanders. Around half of them are goldcloaks from King's Landing. The rest are Renfred's own guards or men from Driftmark, two hundred Northmen under Olyvar Rosby who will join their countrymen already here, along with the additional two hundred I brought directly from the Hilltop. Most of those are Westerosi recruited from the settlements we hold, but fifty of them are our own guys in riot gear."
"How about the other communities?" she asked. "How many did they send?"
Jesus cast a furtive glance at the door before gently shaking his head. "None of us can afford to send any more. We had to pull back all our garrisons except the ones at King's Landing and Harrenhal, and delegate all our farmwork to Westerosi newcomers. Even so our island is practically undefended as it is."
"Fine," Andrea gritted out, "Please, please tell me all our men have guns."
"They do," Jesus confirmed to Andrea's obvious relief. "Even the newest recruits have had more than a weeks' training with their matchlocks by now. And the Westerosi know how to march, heck they're better than us at swinging their swords. We even got a wonderkid swordsman. Boy's name is Ned Dayne, the latest in a long line of legendary knights stretching thousands of years back and it clearly shows. Good kid too. He was the only one who tried to stop the Mountainfall massacre and managed to save one of the Mountain's Men."
Andrea made a mental note to take this Ned along when confronting Lord Umber. But for now she had other plans for the boy.
"Pair him up with Carl for training. The two boys can teach each other how to use swords and guns."
"Consider it done. How's Carl doing?" Jesus asked carefully.
"Badly," Andrea admitted with a sigh.
Carl had brought little Judith to Andrea's room the day news broke about Hardhome and locked himself in his room afterwards. Few had seen him since; neither at school or the council meetings, nor at the dining hall, nor at the bathhouse. Only Tyrion and Sam claimed to have met up with him in the dead of night, the three crawling through scrolls in the Sealord's Library. A few guards claimed to have seen him and Arya dancing with swords near the Moon Pool, on a night so cold it snowed in Braavos for the first time in many years. The girl said she had been asleep all night, but the dampness of her shoes told another story.
"I thought so," Jesus stroked his short-cropped beard, "Must be hard on him with Rick in danger. The Hilltop's got a gift for him, hopefully it will cheer him up. There's one for you too. I think you'll like it." he added with a sly grin, gesturing for her to follow him.
They ended up in the mailroom where he fumbled with an olive green box on the table. She couldn't contain her surprise when he unlatched and opened the gun case, containing an Arctic Warfare sniper rifle chambered for .50 BMG. Designed for cold weather as its name implied, this was the very gun she needed for this mission, moreso when the bullets it fired were more than enough to tear through flesh and shatter bone. Even a glancing blow could mission-kill a wight.
The other gear Jesus brought for her was still useful if not so flashy: A snowsuit that the Hilltoppers chose according to her measurements, followed by goggles and a balaclava, and a pair of gloves fitting perfectly with her new gun. Last but not least was a sturdy pair of snow boots, perfect for the march in freezing climates of snow and ice.
Jesus gave her a report of Alexandria's comings and goings. Much of it was encouraging especially when it came to armaments; the Hilltop settlement's forge had more than doubled in manpower. The Saviors managed to restore parts of their foundry, though still much constrained by available power. And only a stone's throw away from the Island itself, the Alexandrians had begun mining the massive piles of guano that topped Harrenhal's five gargantuan towers, built up from centuries of bat droppings after the towertops were abandoned. Lowered onto the ground from gigantic wooden cranes, the guano would be carted to a powder mill built upon a ruined sept. More than enough gunpowder for years to come.
But it would take time for these developments to take effect, too much time and and too far in distance to affect the upcoming battle. Braavos was a thousand miles away from home, another thousand miles away from Hardhome still.
And so Andrea paid a visit to Claudia's workshop after lunching on a burger catered by Carl's stall.
The former museum curator was working on weapons straight from the Stone Age. Andrea picked up the strangest weapon she saw: Obsidian shards lining the edges of a thick paddle as long as her arm, ending at a sturdy two-handed hilt with a ringed pommel.
"What's this?" she asked.
"A macuahuitl, used by Aztec warriors in the Conquistador era. It is not possible to make Carl his obsidian sword because it shatters easily, but this is the closest thing I can give him. Historical records say these macuahuitls are very strong, enough to remove the head from a horse," Claudia took the macuahuitl and mimicked a swing. "Let us hope it is strong enough to remove an icewalker's head."
It all seemed ridiculous to Andrea. Steel was infinitely stronger than obsidian and could hold an edge for longer too. But this world was not the one the Alexandrians came from. This world was one where magic reigned.
Andrea stared at the next weapon with doubt in her eyes. A small axe and a crude one at that, barely as long as a shortsword, the axehead also made of obsidian.
"This tomahawk is meant for throwing," Claudia finally said.
"But we don't have anyone who knows how to throw axes, and it doesn't seem the Westerosi do-"
"I can throw it." A young woman at a nearby bench turned around with another tomahawk in her hand.
It was Sam Fairbanks. She eyed one of the wooden targets standing at the end of the room. Lining up her feet towards that target, she raised her tomahawk until it was behind her ear, then threw it in one smooth motion. It sailed lazily through the air, spinning once before embedding itself into the target's bullseye.
"Tomahawking our enemies is a time-honored American tradition," the Algonquian yanked her axe from the splintered wood. "Dad always said this would come in handy one day. Guess he was right."
"Yes, very handy," Claudia agreed, "If one axe misses, another one can be thrown."
"Can't we have all our soldiers carry these axes?" Asked Andrea. "Everyone will have a way to take down those icewalkers."
Claudia shook her head sadly. "It is not possible. Knapping is a very fine skill. We do not have many knappers and it takes time for them to knap stone. They are working as rapidly as they can, but only a part of our army can be equipped with these axes."
"But some axes are better than none, and they told me that not every enemy will be an icewalker."
Let's hope so, Thought Andrea. Prepare and hope.
For the seventh time in a day, Carl winced as the wooden sword flew from his hand.
If his swordsmanship was weak compared to Arya's, it was downright hopeless compared to Ned Dayne's. Not that any of the kids had much of a chance against the newcomer. The Lord of Starfall picked up his first sword at the tender age of five, started serving as a knight's page when he was seven. And now he could hold his own fighting against grown men. Rumours were already spreading that Jesus had invited Ned to a duel back in the Hilltop… and did not emerge the victor.
Gritting his teeth, Carl picked up his sword again, ready to receive another bruise. Better to be pummelled here on this sandy field in the Sealord's Menagerie than on the snow-covered beaches of Hardhome, or any other battlefield Alexandria fights on, as all of the Alexandrian grownups repeatedly stressed. Their guns were all but invincible as long as there were bullets in their magazines, but the last modern bullet would be fired one day, and then the Alexandrians would be using the same weapons as everyone else: Guns that took half a minute to fire, and swords that Carl still couldn't properly swing.
Carl lunged. This time he got close enough to hold his sword against Ned's chest - even as the young Dornishman's blade rested against Carl's left side.
"I still killed you," Carl insisted when the two lowered their weapons. "It's a draw."
The Sealord soon dispelled that notion. "Your foe lost a warrior, Westeros lost its heir. You win by surviving your opponent in battle. Your men will take care of the rest."
"Aye, can't have our young prince die on us. Not when I'm taking the Crownlands' coin," A tall man spoke with a thick Flea Bottom accent. He rose and plucked Carl's sword from the boy's hands. "You won't win in a fair fight against Dayne. Now watch Ser Bronn of the Blackwater bring down the next Sword of the Morning."
That name rings a bell, Carl thought. Vaguely he remembered a bodyguard Tyrion had spoken of, a sellsword who was just another name on a long list of those missing after the Grey Wedding. Not that it mattered now; all that mattered was that the man was wearing an Alexandrian style uniform and marching under the Alexandrian banner.
Bronn swung the wooden sword a few times in the air to gauge its weight. He picked up a round oaken shield that lay nearby, large enough to cover his sword hand. Slowly he advanced, longsword still firmly in its sheath, shield always facing Ned who was warily circling the Kingslander in turn.
Carl didn't see the sword being thrown. He only heard the collision of wood against Ned's arm followed by a pained grunt. Bronn had closed the distance by the time Ned got onto his feet. The Flea Bottomer slammed his shield into the young Dornishman, kicking a shoe's worth of dirt and sand into Ned's face as he fell.
"Ser Bronn, enough! Come fight someone your own size!" Shouted Aurane from the wooden benches. The admiral unsheathed his sword and made his way down to the arena, Bronn drawing live steel in turn.
"That will be enough swordsmanship for you two boys," the Sealord told Carl and Ned. "Save your strength and take some dinner, you will need it for the night drill at Sellagoro's Shield tonight. Be at the Titan's legs by seven hours past noon."
Ned's mumblings were lost among the clashing of swords in the distance. Carl turned to his new friend, but Ned had already slipped away, lost in the crowds of soldiers who had taken over the Sealord's Menagerie, leaving him to watch the sellsword and the admiral duel each other. It was not close to a fair fight when Bronn couldn't score a single hit.
Carl felt a light tap on his shoulder. Ned has returned with a flagon of beer in each hand. How Ned managed to tap him and keep the beer steady, he did not know.
"W-want a drink?" Ned offered one of the flagons to Carl.
"Sure." The flagon was heavier than Carl had expected, just like almost every sword he picked up or swung. The ale was cold with a bitter taste unlike the sweet Arbor Red that he frequently drank ever since the Grey Wedding, "I heard you have a thousand-year-old sword at Starfall made of pure iron. Is it true?"
"That's Dawn. But it is my House's ancestral sword, Prince Carl, not my own," Ned explained politely. "Being Lord of Starfall is not enough to wield it. Only a worthy knight of House Dayne can become Sword of the Morning. Not me, I'm not worthy and I'm only a squire."
Carl took another sip from his flagon. "This is the right place if you wanna do something worthy," he pointed out, "Hardhome won't be an easy battle."
"I'm not going to Hardhome," Ned said sadly. "I want to, but the Alexandrians want me to defend those staying behind at Braavos-"
"I'm an Alexandrian too. I'm bringing you along. Aurane will say that we need another cabin boy on board our ship. He's an admiral so the other Alexandrians will listen to him when it comes to sailing stuff," Carl offered. His stomach rumbled from too much beer and not enough food. "Wanna go to the new burger stall and grab a burger? You can have it for free."
Ned nodded. "That would be too kind, Prince Carl."
"Cool. Let's take the ferry, it sure beats walking there," Carl proposed.
They emptied their flagons and set those aside. A short walk along the menagerie's cobblestone paths took them to a ferry pier, where a barge arrived five minutes later, empty save for the lone bargeman who welcomed them onboard with a smile. Ned kept looking back and forth, at the inns and manses along the Purple Harbor and the many ships that filled the outer lagoon. Carl couldn't help but do the same. The fleet would be sailing out of Braavos tomorrow after sunset, on a moonlit night much like the day his Dad left for Hardhome. But this time they had more guns, more ships, more men and women who had experience fighting the dead. The Alexandrians were ready and so were their friends. They had to be. This world needed Rick Grimes and they couldn't let him die.
Carl and Ned weren't the only passengers for much longer. A small crowd of men boarded at the Chequy Port. Carl had heard enough Crownlanders speak to recognise their accent, as they complained about the ferries' tardiness and the Braavosi guards who refused to let them climb the Titan.
"I heard you live in a giant castle," Carl asked Ned as the ferry headed towards Ragman's Harbor. "What's it like?"
"Oh, it's nothing…" Ned began.
Carl listened carefully as Ned began describing his home; towers of pale stone rising above a meandering river and between reddish mountain peaks, blending in with the sky during dawn and dusk. But Ned's memories were already turning hazy. He had only been back to Starfall a few times since being Lord Beric's squire. As much as he enjoyed his adventures in the outside world, Ned longed to see home again.
Carl promised to go with him. "We'll go together once this war is over. I wanna see it with my own eyes, Starfall seems like a cool place."
Ned made to answer, but the conversation was rudely interrupted when hands reached out from behind and grabbed the two boys.
Ser Justin Massey slowly toppled over like a statue, giving him enough time to regret his life choices as he screamed in pain.
To be fair the boys had screamed first. Sitting one row in front of Justin and his strongest men, the Alexandrian boy's long hair made for an easy target, a fact the knight took full advantage of by reaching out and yanking it as hard as he could. He wrapped the Alexandrian boy's neck in a chokehold when the boy faced upwards. The Dayne boy's hair was shorter so one of Justin's lieutenants settled for pulling on an ear before also locking that boy in a chokehold. The lieutenant's other hand rested on a knife handle as he looked at Justin for his next orders. Justin shook his head. Ned Dayne was polite and kind and did not deserve a slit throat. Nor did Justin fancy hanging from a gallows in the Sealord's Court or shredded by bolts from an Alexandrian gun. He wasn't so sure of victory yet and he didn't want defeat to be fatal.
His men sprang into action, the twenty of them who waited with him at Chequy Port instead of the other half of his group busy lining up outside the burger stall at Ragman's Harbor. A few started making their way towards the barge's stern to subdue the shocked bargeman, others climbed forwards to bind the still struggling boys' hands and feet. Justin's worries were soon realised when he tried to gag the Alexandrian boy. He had just managed to stand up when the boat violently lurched to one side and nearly made him fall. His arm on the boy's neck momentarily went slack. Some of his men weren't so lucky. They crashed into the benches or the barge's railings, resulting in a cacophony of bumps and curses.
Somehow the Alexandrian boy managed to recover before him. Justin had yet to balance himself when pain tore through his forearm. The Alexandrian had bitten his forearm so deep it drew blood. He couldn't help his wounded arm from slacking again, couldn't stop the boy from wriggling out of his grasp. But he could yank on the boy's hair again with his unwounded arm, this time hard enough to drag the boy over the bench onto Justin's own row. The boy landed with a painful thud. Not painful enough for Justin's liking. He slapped the frightened boy so hard his own hands hurt.
Here Justin made another error. He closed in to slap the boy again. To stun the boy this time, Justin told himself, a task in which he would be anything but gentle. Close enough for the boy to bring up his knee and slam it between Justin's legs as the knight raised his hand.
Agony. Raw agony, burning his groin with the fury of a thousand suns. Justin heard another scream. This time it was his own. He wasn't so sure if he could sire children anymore. Maybe that would be for the best if such children were anything like this-
These two boys. Dayne had somehow gotten free and landed a solid kick on Justin's chest. Justin tried to stand but it was a losing battle, as sure as Stannis would now lose the war.
Plop, plop. The Alexandrian boy leapt into the lagoon first, Dayne following close behind, spraying ice-cold water all over the barge. He hoped the boys didn't drown or freeze to death. They fought too well to deserve such fates, he grudgingly told himself as his own legs gave way, though he didn't deserve dying too. Justin was without his hostages, dead or alive, and there was no way he and his men could flee Braavos in this state. As he lay sprawled on the bench, he wondered who would take them alive. The Crownlanders were best, the Braavosi might even feel reasonable on a good day. Alexandrian mercy would be a losing bet if their leader's boy died. And when it came to the-
Justin couldn't see the barge crash into a pier. But he felt it happen, heard angry soldiers order them to yield in accented Common Tongue… of the Northmen.
An arm held onto Justin with an iron grip and flipped the knight over. A hand pinned Justin's neck against the bench. The other hand was wrapped into a fist as large as a ham. Justin raised his arms in surrender.
A large face with a thick beard loomed over the shivering knight. A bass voice roared so loud Justin feared his eardrums would burst. "WHERE. IS. KARLON?!"
Justin was too weak to answer, and far too weak to stop the impatient fist on its swift journey towards his face.
"Oh shit," Ser Justin Massey barely had time to whisper before the fist connected. Pain overtook him and he fainted.