Chapter 8

Winter is here

King Daeron I Targaryen

When a servant came to wake up as agreed a great turn of hourglass after dawn, Daeron groaned in a boar-like manner. His head was killing him. His legs were in pain. His back ached. His lips were dry. The urge to vomit what little he had in his belly was pressing.

"Water." He managed to croak in a very un-kingly voice.

A cup of water - a beautiful-carved wooden cup with a brilliant sapphire decorating it surrounded by a dragon of gold - was handed to him. Daeron seized it and poured it in his throat like it was the sweetest Arbor Gold. The desire to retch which prisoner in his throat disappeared.

"More."

The cup was refilled and Daeron emptied it in the same manner. His thoughts cleared a bit. The pain of his head started to go away. Two more cups and he was able to stand at the edge of the small couch having served as his bed. The view of his magnificent armour, pristine and devoid of mud, raised his spirits. The servant was thanked and commanded to leave the tent. Daeron put his head in his hands.

Was the last day a nightmare?

No. The souvenirs came back, as unpleasant as ever. His armour was not showing the marks of steel blows because dragon-riding was not the type of fight one used a melee weapon. The uncountable bottles of wine he had emptied last evening had not changed that. Except now his head was hurting like Tessarion had decided to walk on it. For a moment, Daeron felt shame. He was King of Westeros, by the Seven! He was supposed to give the example, not drown his sorrows in a tankard of bad wine!

But you were an example no? Half of the men in the camp were drunk before you!

Yes, half of the men in the camp. Half of the men...the hundreds who were still alive. Sorrow filled Daeron's heart. Of the ten thousands men-at-arms, freeriders and knights who had mustered to fight for the battle at Bosworth Bridge, so few remained. Drowning his problems in the ale, wine and whatever liquor had been stored by the quartermasters was not going to solve his problems.

Bah, whispered the amoral voice in his head. Half of your lords and the sellswords are in the same state. We needed these drinks.

This may be true. No, this was true. The vision of a Peak knight dancing on a couple of empty barrels and singing had been one of the funniest moments in this entire campaign.

But his bannersmen deserved better than that. The merchants, the septons, the smallfolk he had sworn to protect deserved better than that. In the future, maybe a king would be content to drink and whore his way for decades of reign, but Daeron swore by the Seven this wasn't going to happen to him. He wasn't his brother Aegon. He for sure wasn't Rhaenyra, that woman who had made her debuts as a lovely princess and died as a bloated and hateful woman.

Pushing on his trembling legs, Daeron stood up and marched on the soft green carpet covering the floor of his tent. Like the majority of the furniture here, it had been a gift of Lord Hightower when he was knighted on the field of battle. A lot of tapestries, weapons and cups had been presented to him on that day near the Honeywine, two or three days away from Oldtown. The sun had been brilliant, the birds singing and the fields had been green. There had been a battle of course but the good days of summer were still reigning. Autumn had not yet come.

And with autumn came the butchery. Autumn damned all of us.

Too many had already received the Stranger's judgement in this war. Too many had died at Bosworth Bridge. Too many had died for the Iron Throne and claims that were so useless when castles were sacked and the fields burned.

Breathing loudly and trying not to think too much about the dreadful scenes he had been able to watch on the back of Tessarion the last day, Daeron called his squires back. To his surprise, only one of the two young faces he expected answered his call; Owen Oakheart was now harbouring a small scar on his left cheek and a bandage on his sword arm. Of Orys Cafferen, the squire he had accepted at his father-in-law insistence, there was no trace.

"Where is my wayward squire, Owen?" His voice was far from his normal tone, the words were escaping upon his tongue. Damning the wine and the aftermath of the battles to the Seven Hells, Daeron repeated his question until the question was pronounced in something approaching the common Westerosi tongue.

"Dead, your Grace." Informed him the young Oakheart who was serving him since the First Battle of Tumblestone, giving him another cup full of water. The leader of the Greens emptied it in one gulp and added more for his memories than for his squire.

"I thought I gave both of you the order to stay with the reserves."

Owen Oakheart caught the hidden reproach in his sentence and answered with a disdainful face.

"Orys followed Lord Baratheon's glorious charge." The intonation put on the last two words was so accented that Daeron was for one or two instants tempted to laugh. Ultimately, he renounced. No doubt a glorious charge was exactly what Lord Borros had intended when he had...well, calling it a plan would be overly generous, wasn't it?

If given a glance, it had been an audacious attempt to break the Black lines defending the bridge, throwing thousands of heavy cavalry through the routing Vale infantry and finish the war in one big melee. Extremely audacious and risky, but if it had worked the Master of Storm's End would have been the hero of this rainy day.

It had not worked. The Blacks had known what sort of opponent they had in Lord Borros thanks to their thrice-damned spies, and the infantry guarding the bridge had just been the bait. When Borros and his entire cavalry had been on the other side, the trap had closed and the Stormlords had been massacred without mercy.

Lord Borros Baratheon, Lord Durran Grandison, Lord Simon Fell, Lord Harrold Mertyns, Lord Byron Wensington and Lord Renly Gower – and those were only the names of the main lords coming at first thought - had died against the Stark horse. They had fought ferociously, but in the end they had been encircled and destroyed one by one.

"You found his body?" Asked the King after a moment to recollect his thoughts.

"Yes, your Grace. I mean, I think it's his body. He fell in the mud and was trampled by a courser when a Blackwood arrow took him in the throat."

Damn it. I thought I had corrected his bad habit of not lacing correctly his armour...

And now Orys Cafferen was gone, like thousands of young men from Storm's End, the Rainwood, the Marches and the other regions of the Stormlands. They had come for glory and the chance of a knighthood at Bosworth Bridge. The luckiest ones had received a grave of mud. The unluckiest ones had disappeared in the flows of the river never to be seen again, or been crippled for the rest of their lives.

"Help me with my armour." Finally said Daeron as the young Oakheart and himself looked at each other with the silence becoming unbearable. After all what could he say? Telling his regrets would not convince the Stranger to release the dead. Cursing his family, his cousins, his grandfathers and the Lord Paramounts for their stubbornness and their ambitions would serve nothing. Assuming they heard him from the Seven Hells, they would not show him the path to end this war. They never had this wisdom. "I need to reassure these Volantene sellswords we have the situation in our grasp after our...victory."

The last word was awfully difficult to pronounce. Bosworth Bridge had been a victory for the Green cause, yes...as much as Maegor the Cruel had won battles after battles against the Faith Militant and never saw an end to the uprisings against his rule. Or the 'victory' Queen Rhaenyra had obtained by taking King's Landing, losing everything in the moons after.

Should we give these battles the name 'Bosworth victories'? I already tell these court-jesters tell me 'one more victory your Grace'. One more victory and I will be able to ride back to the capital with Tessarion since I will be alone.

Fortunately Owen had learnt to sense the mood of his sovereign, and every protection from the gauntlets and the hauberk to the cuirass were donned in near-silence, with only the occasional 'good', 'tighter' or 'looser' to escape their lips.

At last, Daeron was ready, the only piece of armour not worn was his helmet; this golden-silver part of his armour was far too limiting for his vision and he did not plan to fight a battle today. Crossing the threshold of the tent, the young King felt what little good mood he had in his bones flying away.

And the reason of this anger was the little white mantle starting to recover the ground. The mud had frozen during the night, but as the men-at-arms had been lighting a lot of fires and been drunk no one had really thought about it. Opening his armoured fist, Daeron let several snowflakes add a touch of white. It seemed...pure.

"Snow."

The maesters he had studied under had each told him their experiences with the cold and white substance in their own way, but during the long summers and his travels in the Reach he had never had seen it with his own eyes.

"Snow." Agreed an old man with a tired look. With some surprise, Daeron recognised him as Lord Shermer. The old Reach lord had stayed guarding the camp, which when one thought about it had been one of the wisest things to do. "Winter has come for us, your Grace."

Daeron made a quick nod of assent but repeated nonetheless the word. "Snow."

In other occasions, the King would have been enraptured by the large white snowflakes falling from the grey skies. Not today. Not when there was so much to do...and now time itself was running short. For him. For the Green cause. For the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros.

"It is going to be a hard winter, your Grace." Advised an old knight standing next to the ageing Lord Shermer. From his protective stance and the traits they shared, it was likely the man was a cousin or sharing a parent. And they had a point, Stranger damn it all.

The hill where their camp stood was close to the invisible limit separating the lands of the Rivers and those belonging to the Crown. If the snow was falling here, then every cove, plain, river, hamlet and fort north of the Trident was already covered by feet of snow.

A hard winter indeed. Sometimes the only kingdoms to see snowfalls were the Vale and the North. The high passes and impassable summits of the Westerlands might on occasion take a grey-white colour. The most inhospitable places of the Riverlands, north of Seagard and the Twins, were sometimes struck by long freezes and bitter gales. But it had been a long time, several decades at least, since it had not snowed south of the Red Fork.

That Daeron watched it with a growing circle of warriors and sellswords was an ill omen. More would come, as this was just the beginning of the glacial season. King's Landing was going to feel the icy grasp for the first time this century.

The few harvests which had survived the bloodshed of the civil war were condemned. Whatever holdfasts and villages which had been destroyed and not rebuilt would be forgotten until spring succeeded to the dark season.

Winter is coming...and our granaries have been destroyed.

This was a chilling sensation. In every winter so far since Aegon the Conqueror had landed and forced the disparate kingdoms to submit, the Riverlands and the Reach had been providing a fair amount of the supplies that the realm needed to survive during the cold months. Unfortunately, both had been the scenes of vicious battles which had despoiled anything edible.

Daeron had hoped there would be time to bring this campaign to a victorious end. It looked like he had been wrong. And now the chances of defeating the Northerners on a climate they were born and bred for...the South would clearly need a score of miracles to achieve this.

"Lord Shermer, please send messengers to Lord Caron and Captain-General Belicho. Their presence is solicited for a council of war."

"Of course, your Grace."

The old Reacher bowed largely before marching away from the growing crowd.

This was going to be a very unpleasant meeting. Daeron didn't need to have his Master of Whisperers in the vicinity to know it. Following the battle they had just fought, he had less than seven thousands men fit to raise a weapon and most of them were Essossi.

Whether he wanted to admit it or not, the only manner to end this war would be to negotiate with Lord Cregan Stark and the Blacks.

This could have been worse, whispered the treacherous voice in his head. You could have lost.

Somehow, this thought brought no comfort at all.

Balon Pyke

"WE PUSH! HO!"

Damning his royal brother, the weak greenlanders gods and the world in general, Balon pushed with all the strength in his arms.

The heavy ram, built with the prow of two longships and several chariots they had pillaged in the reaving of Lannisport, advanced laboriously on the ruined street leading to the castle of Southshield.

"WE PUSH! HO!"

If it had not been for that dreadful rain of the last days, the ram could have been brought much faster. Today however it seemed the Drowned God was smiling upon them. The cold had finally toughened the ground for the great ram to be pushed. Nothing could save the cowards hiding behind their ramparts now.

"FASTER! FASTER BAND OF SHELLFISHES! LORD CAPTAINS OF BOAT-WASHING!" Screamed Lord Urragon Goodbrother, who had been the day before named Master of Sieges by King Dalton. "THIS RAM SHOULD BE ALREADY AT THE GATE! FLOATING COFFINS! BILLIONS BLUE, BLISTERING BARNACLES! FASTER! ARE YOU MEN OR ARE YOU WORMS? FASTER! PUSH THIS RAM!"

"HO!"

A part of Balon wanted nothing better at that moment to stop pushing the ram, stand up and impale this arrogant Wyk weakling with his axe while others fed him his balls. The Drowned God willing, he soon would have the pleasure to do it. The last Master of Sieges had been slain by the Red Kraken himself the last day when the general assault ordered on the walls had failed.

"WE PUSH! HO!"

At the top of Southshield's dungeon, flew the white rose of House Serry, shaming the Ironborn by its very existence. Three assaults and the banner of the greenlanders still flew. A volley of arrows was realised from the walls, and a man screamed behind Balon. The Ironborn young man did not turn back his head. If the screamer was seriously wounded, he would be replaced. If not, he would continue to do his duty for the Iron King.

"WE PUSH! THE GREENLANDERS GODS FEAR US!"

They came closer from the white-grey walls and as the ram advanced the sellswords and the poorer reavers charged forwards protected by wooden palisades and their large shields. A few archers of Tyrosh and Lys hired after their great victories of Fair Isle and their raids of the Western coast shot their arrows, forcing for a few moments the defenders to redirect their fire elsewhere. They paid it dearly, as the archers pierced them and the ram rolled over their corpses.

Balon grunted when another rain of arrows slammed into the ram. He gritted his teeth when the wooden roof above his head started to burn. He was an Ironborn, and bastard or not this ram was going to pulverise the greenlanders' gates.

"WATER!" Shouted someone. "THE RAM IS IN FLAMES!"

Balon did not move. A few of the men abandoned their task on the spot, fleeing the promised inferno and bringing the progression of the ram to a halt. These cowards didn't go far. The ram was now close from the walls, and at this distance the big crossbows the levies of the Reach were so fond of could not miss. One, two three, four men served as target practises. Two of the survivors were killed by Urragon, who had fled into another of his rages and was agonising them in insults. Balon transpired like he had been plunged into boiling water, but did not move. The warmth was getting really unbearable...

At last, the content of several buckets was poured on the fire and two scores of fresh faces were pushed to fill the losses. The familiar smell of urine dirtied his nose, but Balon breathed heavily in relief. It was better than burning alive.

"WE PUSH!" Bellowed Balon, a sound repeated by thousands of voices.

"HO! FOR THE RED KRAKEN AND THE DROWNED GOD!"

The arrival of fresh men accelerated the effort. Feet by feet, the Ironborn were approaching the castle. Thanks to his position at the top of the ram, Balon could see scores of ladders and large sections of rubble be strategically emplaced at regular intervals. The reign of the Reach archers was coming to an end.

It was at this moment horns sounded behind him. The royal horns of his half-brother the King. The man who had restored the pride of the Iron Islands, taken the sword Nightfall as his personal weapon and broken the Lannister power forever. Dalton Greyjoy, the Master and Lord Reaper of Pyke. Known these days from Volantis to the frozen wastes of the North by his war name.

"THE RED KRAKEN!"

"DALTON!"

"DALTON!"

"DALTON AND THE DROWNED GOD!"

There was no order, a least none Balon could see or hear from his position where he pushed the ram. Not that it mattered a lot for him because his arms were in fire. They had pushed the bloody thing from the beaches to here, did someone realise how bloody tiring it was? Of course not!

And then suddenly next to him were thousands of Ironborn running and screaming their war screams. The final assault had started. In a last acceleration, the men marched over the pile of corpses which had not been removed from the first days. The arrows had stopped and now the great doors protecting Southshield were at the reach of his palm and-

Balon screamed in agony, joining his tortured voice to hundreds of countless Ironborn. A burning black liquid had poured from over his head, a feat made possible by the hundreds of arrows and rocks the greenlanders had thrown at them. The protection of the roof was cracked, letting the fluid pour on their defenceless heads. His hands were twitching under the black mixture. Not hesitating one instant, the young bastard tried to remove this tar-like substance.

May the Drowned God curse them to all eternity! Why are they sending us boiling tar? Oh...

Balon did not even try to think. He just reacted and fled the dying ram. Just in time too. The greenlanders were now throwing the fire arrows again. It was devastating. One moment Balon was crawling away from the ram, the other there was a gigantic bonfire at the position he had stood. The agony screams were terrible and the men atop the ramparts howled in triumphed.

Balon threw himself behind one of the wooden palisades, avoiding a quick end at the point of several arrows.

How many of the damned things do these weaklings have?

Watching right and left, the eldest salt son of Lord Goron Greyjoy watched with anger the attack be repulsed with heavy losses. The armours worn by the Ironborn were far heavier than these little things equipping their enemies, but the powerful impact of the crossbows shooting and shooting again was piercing them with ease.

They are cowards.

In a sinister crack, a ladder was destabilised, sending half a score of good reavers in the middle of the burning ram. As they were already covered in oil and tar, the Ironborn transformed themselves into living torches.

For a moment, Balon was paralysed by this atrocious death but only for a moment. His faith in the Drowned God returned, filling his arms and his legs with new determination. He rushed to a new wave of ladders being brought, jumping over the corpses and helped them carry it to the base of the fortress...but they had not the time to raise it that the wooden construction was already in flames.

"By the Storm God it's impossible!" Roared a reaver next to Balon, trying to stem a serious injury on his arm with a bit of rope and what had been a tunic. "They should run out of arrows!"

While privately he agreed with this affirmation, Balon watched and didn't notice any fall-down in the volleys sent their way. The greenlanders may be down to their last ten arrows or they had enough to do this for the last moon. There was no way to know. In the mean time, Balon and all the ladder bearers still alive withdrew to the palisades.

"This isn't working." Grumbled an old man with a scythe tattooed on his cheek. "We must wait-"

"ATTACK! ATTACK FOR THE DROWNED GOD!"

The exclamation thundered across the battlefield, silencing a good part of the Ironborn and the defenders scream. From the rear a new ram was pushed, scores of ladder and even a light scorpion. Hundreds more reavers in heavy armour were coming on the battlefield, armed with large warhammers, masses and axes.

The fury of the assault tripled in intensity. The greenlanders fires and projectiles faltered. In the middle of the formations a black-caped man marched, armoured with a bloody gold and black plate. Each reaver who faltered was cut in several parts by the dark sword in his hand. His head, devoid of any helmet, let his long dark hair flow in the cold wind.

He was Balon's half-brother and King. He was the Red Kraken.

"OPEN THE PATH TO HIGHGARDEN!" Screamed the Iron King. "ONWARDS! THE KRAKEN REIGN SUPREME!"

The ram was brought to the gates, the debris of the first one removed quickly. The archers on the walls were cowering in fright as hundreds of the reavers had taken positions with their bows, and more palisades were placed to protect them. Several ladders had been placed in position and this time the screams of the Reach vermin told everyone that the warriors of the Drowned God had reached them with sword and axe.

The blows of the ram were sounding like a predator having corner his prey. Southshield was theirs, and its pathetic garrison knew it.

"NOOOO!"

The scream was so heartbreaking Balon's head turned on its own. Who dared screaming in such a fashion? There were Ironborn and-

The Ironborn's thoughts turned to horror as he saw it was Lord Captain Botley who was screaming, bent over the body of Balon's half-brother the King. Abandoning everything related to the siege, Balon and hundreds of reavers ran to form a wall of steel and flesh. On the ground, you could be the greatest warrior of the entire world and it wouldn't matter. If he wasn't protected, the Red Kraken was going to die.

"PROTECT THE KING! PROTECT THE KING!"

But as Balon took a small shield and took his place in the wall, he saw it wouldn't matter. A white-coloured arrow had taken Dalton just under his chin. From the throat to the neck, the greenlander's projectile had pierced everything. There was too much blood and no healer had the skill to mend this wound.

"What is dead-" The Red Kraken whispered, before his throat gurgling in blood. His head rolled over and his eyes closed forever.

For close to a turn of hourglass Balon was stunned into immobility and silence. It was impossible. Dalton Greyjoy was the Red Kraken. He had survived hundreds of wounds, pillaged uncountable citadels and merchant hulls. His name was feared from Pyke to Asshai! Dalton couldn't be dead! It was impossible!

Not like this. Not with an arrow when we're about to win!

"I KILLED THEIR KING! I KILLED THEIR KING!" The joyous announce was coming from a small figure on the ramparts with a Serry tabard and holding the crossbow responsible for the kingslaying.

"RRRAAAAGGHHH!" The Ironborn army screamed like one wild animal. A Harlaw captain threw his spear like a javelin to slay the murderer of the iron King, but the Kingslayer crouched behind the stone protections.

"KILL THEM! KILL THEM ALL!" Ordered Lord-Captain Tristifer Botley. "DROWN THEM IN A SEA OF BLOOD! NOTHING ELSE WILL APPEASE THE WRATH OF THE DROWNED GOD!"

Hundreds of men abandoned the protection of the palisades to hurl themselves at the fort, but they had not made ten steps that two scorpions which had been hidden until then entered in action. The greenlanders regained their minable courage and slaughtered the wave of attackers. Scores of men who defended Dalton's body were joining him in the embrace of death. The second ram was in fire. The ladders were destroyed. The Ironborn were losing the initiative and no one was screaming loud enough to take command.

Balon did not know who shouted first the treacherous order. Maybe it was these Codd bastards. Maybe it was Kenning the Coward. Maybe it was one of these Volmarks who loved their jewels more than the glory of battle.

"THE KING IS DEAD! TO THE SHIPS!"

"TO THE SHIPS!"

"THE KING IS DEAD! GO BACK TO THE SHIPS!"

Putting the shield of his support arm over his head to intercept the debris of a ladder, Balon saw an entire group of Greyjoy reavers carrying the corpse of the Red Kraken to the beach. It was a vision which planted a stake in the heart of every Ironborn. At this sight, entire crews were turning heels and abandoning the siege. A rout was forming. The Ironborn having a spine were decimated by the greenlanders bolts, boiling oil and arrows.

"NO! STAY! WE MUST AVENGE OUR KING!"

But hundreds of men were deaf to the supplications coming from Botley's mouth. King Dalton alive, they had not managed to storm Southshield by surprise like they had done with Greenshield. Now the Red kraken was dead and there was no one to rally them. Balon was a salt son of the previous Lord Reaper, the captains of the Iron Fleet were not going to listen to him. No one in the ranks of the great reavers and lords was respected above the others.

And Dalton had no sons of his rock wife. Not that I blame him, that Farwynd witch was a true harpy.

His soul dying piece by piece, Balon started to withdraw. The day was lost, but if he rallied a few scores of Greyjoy troops maybe Botley would be impressed with him. Maybe this siege would not be a frigging disaster like it promised to be.

Screaming and promising a few women he had put under thraldom since Lannisport, Balon Pyke saw a group of fifteen or sixteen reavers gather around him as they regrouped near the ruins of a tavern. It was at this moment hope disappeared. A man pointed his mutilated hand towards the sea. Towards the sails.

And these ones were not belonging to the Ironborn.

Lord Alan Redwyne

"We have them, my lord."

Lord Alan Redwyne bared his teeth in a parody of smile at the remark made by his flag captain. The Master of the Arbor lowered his Myrish spyglass and answered in a pleased voice.

"The conditions are ideal for us, yes."

Despite the contrary winds and the atrocious weather, despite the general incompetence of the imbeciles Otto Hightower had left to rule Oldtown, the Redwyne fleet was arriving in time to salvage something the Shield Islands. Southshield at least still resisted to the enemy if the colours seen at the top of its highest tower were any indication.

But the real opportunity came from the fact three-fourths of the Ironborn longships had been dragged ashore, leaving the Reach fleet with a comfortable superiority. His war galleys, carracks and the converted merchants included in his fleet were more heavily armed than the typical Ironborn raider. After so many days of storms and incredibly high waves, the conditions were calmer and the wind was with them, allowing his ships to form a true line of battle.

No doubt this advantage was not going to last. But the crews of the warships under his command were well-rested whereas the Ironborn had been trying to storm a citadel for the better part of the day. One hundred and thirty-five true warships plus fifty converted hulls against a bit less than three hundred longships, most of them crewless and abandoned on the beaches. Oh yes, these were odds he could fight with.

"Signal general to the fleet, Luthor." Alan Redwyne stalled an instant to augment the excitation of the officers around him. "Engage the enemy in Gull formation...and give them no quarter."

The sinister black-red flag, usually reserved for pirates and the scum of the seas, was raised on hundreds of masts. Thousands of cheers mounted from the throats of the Reach sailors.

"You have seen your last dawn, Ironborn."

The three hundred-oars Arbor Spear had the honour of claiming the first kill, ramming a longship with Goodbrother colours and cutting it in half in the same move.

The Green Admiral firmly intended to send more of them by the bottom before the sunset.