Chapter 6

The Hour of the Wolf, Driftmark

Dark corridors offered discretion to the quiet movements of hooded figures. The cloth wrappings adorning their feet muffled their brisk pace. Each step of their route was well practiced, their movements rehearsed. Every door was opened in time with the sound of crashing waves, filtering in through open windows.

The usual servants had been given leave for the evening, and all patrols had been rerouted to different regions of the keep.

A rumbling growl emanated from farther down the hallway, giving pause to the figure leading the pack. Each member in line froze in silent unison.

The sound of shattered glass followed shortly thereafter along with other, muffled sounds of drunken rage. If one listened closely enough, there was an undertone of sobbing.

After nearly a minute, the ruckus abated. One more beat of silence, and then the man in front gestured to resume their shadowed pilgrimage.

Harsh yellow light streamed out from under the door of the solar, spilling into the hallway with a flickering quality. In unspoken cohesion, two men aligned themselves on either side of the looming, oaken doors while a fifth positioned himself in the center a step away from the entryway.

Four sets of eyes looked towards the central figure, mimicking his movements.

Five daggers materialized. Under the new moon, only the polished, bone handles were clearly visible in the darkness of the corridor.

Quiet as a mouse, the central figure stepped up to the door, hovering his free, gloved hand a hairbreadth away from the latch.

The sound of agonized crying was clearer now from the other side of the threshold.

Steeling himself for the moments to come, the central figure took a measured breath, exhaling slowly.

And then gave a nod off approval.

The Following Morning, Outside the Gates of Riverrun

It had taken Maelys a while to realize the dangers lurking behind a white flag. Sure, the enemy may have surrendered, but that didn't necessarily imply they stopped playing the game. Depending upon the player, you may have just traded a victory in the field for a knife in the back later on.

With those uplifting thoughts swirling in his head, the prince suppressed a frustrated sigh and directed his mounts towards the northern bank of the Tumblestone where his forces had assembled.

Pale sheets shimmered in the morning sun, listing aimlessly on a background of red sandstone walls. A larger force, albeit a fraction the size of the green's, stood erect outside the castle gates. Many sported the banners of House Tully, but also the deep gem tones of Mallister, Frey, and Vypren. He noted the protective moat had been filled as if in preparation for a siege.

Any peasant with half a brain might have wondered why they, or at least as many as could reasonably fit, had abandoned the safety of the keep literally right behind them. Maelys was less surprised. In the game of dragon vs castle, the former boasted a pretty good track record. The fate of Raventree Hall was a perfect example and had likely been on the lips of nearly everyone this side of the Narrow Sea in the weeks since its capture.

A small force of armored knights took a central position against the backdrop of foot soldiers, and most likely contained the highborn commanders, presumably Ser Elmo Tully amongst them.

Trout bastard, the prince internally groused. Not that he could blame their house for its sense of self-preservation. Riverrun was no fortress after all. However, months of grueling war had a way of draining your patience for treating with Sesame Street-themed side characters and the like.

Lord Petyr Piper's fate was proof enough of that though Maelys had needed to make an example for the other rogue river lords all the same.

Not that Ghostfyre had minded the highborn feast. Apparently in the eyes of his temperamental steed, charred riverlanders were a close second to deep sea fishing. Who knew?

With practiced poise, Maelys clambered down Ghostfyre's harness and took a moment to collect himself before turning to deal with the matter at hand. The sensation of drawing a few thousand eyes every time he landed had become less unnerving over the years, but the ripple a Targaryen presence sent through a crowd still made one's hair stand on end.

The royal felt both powerful and exposed all rolled into one.

"Any sign of Lord Reyne's host?" Raylon Rivers asked, trotting up to the royal after Maelys had traded his flying mount for a destrier. Silver locks flitted in the early rays of sun as the Targaryen shook his head.

"Nothing on the horizon," he confirmed. "Not that we truly need the assistance." With the combined armies of Darry, Mooton, Strong, Bracken, Butterwell, both Vances, and a number of other, smaller river lords, the size of their host was one of the largest in Westeros, rivaling those of Lords Boros, Jason, and Ormund.

It gave Maelys no small amount of satisfaction that all of the major land armies on the continent bore green banners. Or that the majority of those supporting his half-sister were already six feet under.

"They've asked for a meeting in the field," Ser Raylon intoned, without looking away from the small host assembled before them. "A handful of men each. On horseback," the Riverlander said, drawing out the final syllable distastefully.

The knight's hands gripped his reigns so tightly, the knuckles were likely bone white beneath the steel gauntlets.

Maelys wondered if the Bracken family had promised the castle for the Bastard of Stonehedge which could be put in jeopardy should the Tullys yield. Despite his social status and rough temperament, Raylon Rivers had shown himself a capable commander, and had earned the lands and titles of a cadet branch twice over.

If that land was available to endow that was.

Not that Maelys had any plan to let Raylon settle down in peace. Aegon needed men like him in the capitol when the war ended, and the real clean up began.

"Fair enough," the prince muttered resigned. "And our party?" The burly knight's torso shifted slightly which Maelys took for a shrug.

"Muscle or smiles?" Rivers asked. The royal craned his neck to peer back towards the ensemble of armored men behind them. The helmeted knights appeared almost indistinguishable save for the contrasting banners adorning their surcoats and bannered warhorses. A few looked away from his gaze, betraying their young age.

"Muscle."

"Hugo, Florian, Roland," Raylon called out without looking back. In a moment, the prince found himself flanked by the heir of Wayfarer's rest and Lord Mooton's personal champion. The latter drummed his fingers along his reigns in quiet anticipation.

I hope this is quick, he sighed internally to no one in particular.

With a quick nod at each member, Maelys urged his mount forward at a slow trot. The wet chop of hooves on mud-cacked rock helped drown out the murmuring of a few thousand anxious peasant-turned-soldiers. The Targaryen prince idly noted the ruddy red hue of the clay mixed into the riverbank and wondered how many men had died fighting over this same flood plain in millennia past.

In response to their departure, a similar sized group could be seen breaking away from the opposing host to intercept them.

No one spoke as they rode, allowing the gentle ripple of the Tumblestone to fill the silence. Without anything to distract him from the sweltering rays of the morning sun on metal plate, Maelys could feel the dampness of sweat pooling down his back. Despite his reservations, the royal was glad when their small jaunt came to an abrupt end.

Opposite their party stood an equally well-armed assortment of men, and Maelys internally cursed himself for not having Raylon specify exact numbers.

They were outnumbered 7 to 5.

Flanking Ser Elmo, sitting erect in their saddles were his two sons both men grown at least in size. Despite having earned their spurs, the boys' polished and unblemished plate betrayed their inexperience. And, unlike their father, neither seemed able to maintain the same poise, allowing an undertone of displeasure to seep into their expressions.

Maelys met their stare, unflinching. He wasn't certain what they saw in his amethyst eyes, but neither could hold is gaze for long.

Good.

The remainder of their ensemble included more imposing figures. The prince recognized Forrest Frey and Jorah Mallister whom had both competed in a Kings Landing tourney celebrating the birth of Aegon the Younger. He hazarded a guess the final member of their party to be Osgood Vypren, a burly and aged knight sporting a green frog emblazoned on his shield.

For a moment, no one spoke as their groups took measure of each other. Probably picking out whom they would engage should hostilities break out Maelys supposed. Not that the prince needed to give it much thought as he was basically honor bound to fight Ser Elmo should things come to a head. The royal's musing were interrupted when said heir cleared his throat.

"Prince Maelys," he greeted with a frown. "I would welcome you to the Riverlands, but it seems you've already made yourself quite at home." The voice of Riverrun's heir was calm and measured, but the rigid grip he kept on his saddle conveyed a different tone.

The mention of the green's victories, or perhaps massacres was a better term, painted the opposing river lords with varying expressions of anger. Lord Vypren went as far as to spit into the red brown mud of the riverbank.

Beside him, Ser Raylon rolled his shoulders and subtly brought his hands closer towards the pommel of his weapon as if already anticipating how the discussion might unfold.

"I see my reputation precedes me," Maelys offered with an apologetic smile. "I actually had hoped to avoid disturbing Riverrun altogether." He held up his hands in a what-can-you-do sort of gesture, "However, I had heard Lord Tully had gathered his men, but not a one showed up at Blackwood Vale despite all the letters I sent."

The prince fixed the other members of Ser Elmo's party with a hard look. "A recurring sequence of events I felt the need to look into personally."

"You'll have to forgive my lord father for his absence," Elmo countered with a casual glance towards Riverrun's ruddy walls. "He's much too frail to leave his quarters these days, much less the keep."

"It would be in poor taste to make a lame man march," the prince conceded, "but if I remember correctly, those letters were addressed to you, Ser." Maelys gave a soft smile, and the creases of Ser Elmo's frown deepened.

"Shame on a son who abandons his father on his death bed," Lord Forrest Frey rebuked. "But perhaps you're unfamiliar with that." He said with a cutting edge to his voice.

Low hisses through gritted teeth escaped the other members of the prince's party, and Maelys had to shake his head when Roland Darry, their youngest member, opened his mouth in rebuttal.

If this hadn't been the Valyrian man's second life, Lord Frey's venom might have stung more, but Maelys found the barb more humorous than hurtful.

In truth, the late king's second living son had been in a meeting with a young Drazenko Rogare at the time when news broke of Viserys' passing. There had been no warmth between Maelys and his sire, and, perhaps unsurprisingly, the prince chose not to visit the leprosy-ridden corpse when given the chance.

Although, in a way, Maelys had been the first to wish his father farewell, depending upon how one looked at it. The prince could still vividly recall the sensation of crunching bone on a background of silk sheets. It was the first and only time he'd voluntary touched his father.

A multi-front surprise attack required quite a bit of planning and coordination, and the greens couldn't exactly sit on standby waiting for a hospice patient to randomly expire. Not that he had any co-conspirators help him with that particular task.

Though, now that Maelys pondered the late king's death, he briefly wondered if Alys Rivers had seen that in the flames before deciding it didn't truly matter either way.

In the aftermath, it had only been Helaena's tears that drove him to attend the private pyre the family held a few days later. Maelys still wasn't sure if his wife had been more perturbed by the death itself or the sequence events it set in motion.

The green's rebuttal brought him out of such thoughts and back to the matter at hand.

"Then Lord Tully must be quite comfortable in his death bed if we've had time to march all the way from Harrenhal, and that's despite a quick jaunt through Blackwood Vale," Greysteel quipped, making Ser Elmo scowl.

At the mention of the Blackwoods, Maelys noticed Elmo's two sons tense.

Perhaps the beginning of their little boys club predated the war. In the end, it didn't truly matter. The prince had a job to do, and these talks were more of a formality than anything else. He pressed ahead.

"Ser Elmo, the realm is under external threat from the pretender in the Narrow Sea," Maelys cut in before the discussion could devolve further. "Despite the unwillingness your house has shown in confronting the rebel lords, the Iron Throne asks for your support."

The heir of Dragonstone glanced at the remaining rogue river lords. "That goes for all of your houses. The throne has little patience for rogue vassals."

The elder Tully's armor creaked as he straightened his spine in the saddle. Despite the cool morning breeze, the atmosphere felt more suffocating by the moment.

"We swore an oath, boy," Lord Vypren rumbled, righteous fury seeping into his tone. "Your king should be grateful we haven't enforced it. Yet."

"And was that delay due to impartiality, or because you were too slowed by your age to gather your men before we'd already crushed your allies?" Roland shot back practically growling.

The heir of Riverrun fixed the wizened man with a warning look before things could spiral further. Fuming silently, the aged lord slowly released the bone-crushing grip he'd kept on the hilt of his sword.

Ser Elmo returned his gaze towards Maelys, frowning.

"Our house has no place in a war between dragons. And for that matter," he stated glancing at each of Maelys' companions in turn "neither does any other house wishing to remain neutral."

At that, the prince rolled his eyes and made a show of looking back towards the assembled force behind them.

"Between dragons? Ser Florian, pray tell. How many dragons do you see? For I can only see the one."

"I'm a man for the field not a counting house," Greysteel rumbled, "but if I had to guess, I'd reckon just one. Hugo, you've a lord's education. Do you see another dragon?" The younger knight snickered.

"Perhaps it's just masked by the landscape," Ser Vance glibbed, casually glancing around the flat terrain. "Roland?" The young Ser Darry shook his head.

One of the Tully boys, whom Maelys judged to be Oscar solely based upon the fact he sat shorter in the saddle, growled and opened his mouth in rebuke before his father silenced him with a quick glance. Both boys sat incensed atop their mounts

"And when your uncle shows up in a fortnight, should we skip the formalities and simply kneel then as well?" Ser Elmo shot back.

"My uncle," Maelys said with a deadly calm, "Is House Targaryen's to deal with. When the rogue takes the field, he will have one objective in mind, and I promise you it's not to treat with the local lords."

"I suppose you would draw his attention," the Trout agreed, nodding his head. "Kinslayers have a way of doing that."

Saddles shifted uneasily at mention of the word, and the tension surrounding their group was almost palpable.

Despite the enmity between them, Maelys felt he finally had an understanding of the man. Whereas these same circumstances may have elicited Ser Elmo's servitude towards the Blacks in another life, serving under the prince seemed another matter altogether. The royal supposed his reputation has finally caught up with him.

Unfortunately for the Tullys and those following them, their stated neutrality was more than enough justification for the prince's purposes. Straightening himself atop his horse, the prince cleared his throat.

"Ser Tully, you and the rest you've gathered are vassals of Aegon Targaryen, the one true king of Westeros," he announced without any emotion seeping into his tone. "The Iron Throne will not tolerate a wayward Lord Paramount. Under the authority of his grace, I hereby revoke your house of its lands and titles."

A litany of curses spilled out from the opposing group laced with anger more than surprise. A cascade of emotions flickered over the face of Elmo before settling on barely concealed rage.

Oscar and Kermit were far less collected. The Tumblestone's babble was drown out by the shrill sound of steel being drawn first by Elmo's sons, and soon mirrored by all of those in the gathering.

A few horses whinnied, nervously swishing their tails or shifting weight to and fro in anticipation of impending hostilities. A ripple of movement echoed through both hosts with the cascade of shifting plate and armaments akin to rolling thunder. Ghostfyre's bestial growl rolled through the flood plain though from displeasure or anticipation, Maelys couldn't tell.

At the very least, the reminder of a nearby drake brought pause to the group before they could complete their descent into violence.

To his right, Roland let out a long breath he'd been holding, and Maelys could just barely hear Greysteel trying to stifle his laughter. To the man's credit, he no longer held the lowest social standing amongst their combined parties.

"My forces will be at the gate shortly," the prince said curtly and pulled on the reigns. His mount had only made half a turn before the protests started.

"Your family may have won control over the Riverlands through conquest, but this land has been with us long before your family even thought about crossing the Narrow Sea," came Elmo's seething reply. "You have no right."

"My right is 50,000 stone in weight and sitting on this very riverbank," Maelys retorted.

"Then why not simply kneel to the dragon rather than the men hiding behind them?" Ser Elmo challenged. "If you're here to champion your brother as the rightful king of this land, then dismount and duel me for it. I've yet to see you actually step foot on the land you so adamantly claim. Let us see if the gods truly favor your supposed divine right."

A few grunts of approval from his party echoed the challenge.

Without waiting for a reply, the knight dismounted. Mud and rock squelched under plate as he rounded to face the Greens expectantly.

Maelys cursed under his breath as all eyes shifted towards him. He caught a look of unease in Raylon's eyes while Roland Darry shifted in his saddle as if suddenly uncomfortable.

In Maelys opinion, Westerosi honor was an asinine concept and, as he oft noticed, was typically the first virtue discarded in pursuit of ambition. Honorable men didn't tend to do well with Ned Stark being the prime example.

Reputation, however, was an important currency in a medieval society, and one the Greens were in desperate need of given the whole usurping their sister debacle. And Elmo had just put Maelys', and by proxy the King's, on display in front of Lords whose loyalty they wished to obtain.

Of course, the prince didn't have to accept, but what about the political cost? Taking sides in a civil war was one matter, but pressing those into service who wished to remain neutral was another altogether. The prince had already ruined his own reputation, but could he do the same to Aegon's?

The answer was fairly obvious, he supposed.

"Bold of you to demand anything given our relative positions," Maelys replied, forcing his tone to sound unconcerned. "The decision to name a new Lord Paramount was made when you chose to stay behind your walls. What are your terms?"

"Should I win, our house keeps its holdings, and our neutrality is preserved regardless of who comes knocking on our doorstep," the trout proposed. He glanced around at the other Riverlords. "As is that of all those wishing to pursue a similar course."

As if Daemon would allow you to take such a stance were he to come calling, Maelys internally critiqued, stopping himself from rolling his eyes.

Behind his calm demeanor, Maelys mind was a whirlwind of thoughts, trying to find another pace with a better chance of victory. Unfortunately, none came to mind in the moment save for dragonfire, but his twin could ill afford to start his reign appearing as the second coming of Maegor.

Still, it was a lot to hinge upon a single duel. Trained under Criston Cole, Maelys was no slouch in a fight. His skill in the yard wasn't that of Aemond, but was it enough?

"Should I win, I expect obedience," the prince drew out the word, staring down Frey, Mallister, and Vypren. "A pledge of fealty upon victory here, and another in Kings Landing when the pretender is defeated. Your levies will join my host to put down those who support the false queen."

Maelys leveled a hard stare at the undeclared lords, eliciting a stiff nod from each despite the deepening creases of Forrest's frown and Osgood's darkening visage. The prince then turned his eyes towards the man who'd created this spectacle in the first place.

"And your castle is mine."

With a roll of his shoulders, the prince locked eyes with the heir of Riverrun. The first beginnings of wrinkles surrounded a set of deep blue orbs. Despite the glint of defiance and pride, the prince found a trace of what he was looking for.

Fear.

Things moved swifts after that. The two knights found themselves squaring off on the muddy terrain, their various supporters backed away, creating a rough perimeter on a – relatively – dry patch of the rocky bank. With a departing clasp on his back from Raylon Rivers, the two warriors soon found themselves alone in the makeshift arena live steel in hand.

The cool, misty breeze emanating from the Tumblestone offered a welcome balm to the warm tension beginning to settle in Maelys' muscles.

The prince tightened his grip on his mace, willed his breathing to slow, and allowed himself one more fleeting thought of those waiting for him in the Red Keep.

And with a word from Raylon Rivers, the tranquility of the early morning snapped, and the dual to determine the fate of the Riverlands began.

Roughly Sixty Kilometers North of Winterfell

Blood erupted from the man's mouth as he gaped at his killer in a silent scream. Ripping the spear tip free of the mountain clansmen's chest, the armored northman took a moment to aim before hurling it at a different, fleeing target.

The poor sap crumpled like a puppet with his strings cut as the projectile lodged itself between his shoulder blades.

Arrows shot out from amongst the rest of the spearman's compatriots, and the few remaining clansmen who had dropped to their knees in surrender collapsed onto the hard ground.

"Go fetch it," Benjen Stark commanded still staring at the now motionless dead man. Without speaking, one of Lord Umber's men sprang forth to collect his weapon.

"Ya got ten minutes to loot 'fore we resume the march," he spoke louder to the hunting party. Those which had participated in the slaughter surged forward to strip clean the 200 or so dead their host had slaughtered.

With the sound of twigs crackling under horseshoes, Benjen's goodfather stopped his mount beside his new liege. The giant of a man cleared his throat before speaking.

"I've commanded some of my riders to perform a wide sweep. With any luck, we'll catch any survivors before word reaches your cousin. We may yet still catch Winterfell unaware." Even when speaking softly, Lord Umber's voice carried a booming quality. Benjen did his best to hide his annoyance.

He sent a quick prayer to the old gods that none of his kids inherited that particular trait. By the time the ancient keep was taken, and it was safe to bring down Shyra from Karhold, his firstborn, Elric, would probably have spoken his first words.

"I have a feelin' he already knows," Benjen countered without naming his cousin. "But he's too proud to abandon our family's seat even when faced with a siege."

"And yer certain?" The large man's eyebrows knit together, making his eyes look even smaller against his wide face. "In that case, why not pull them back to defend the castle," he asked jerking his chin towards the dead.

"T'slow us down I reckon," Benjen supplied. "Mayhap he's hoping it buys enough time to pull some real numbers back to Winterfell."

Not that it would help Cregen even if word managed to reach those fighting on the farthest edges of the North, Benjen thought. The North was vast and could take months of travel to cover any meaningful distance.

No aid was coming to Winterfell in the foreseeable future.

As much as he hated to admit it, Maelys' plan had succeeded in pulling every able-bodied northerner towards the coasts.

With Ironborn raiding the lands along the west while Skagosi and Sistermen plundered the east, or at least those territories south of Umber and Karstark holdings, Winterfell was exposed.

The fact that they had come upon the clansmen likely meant his cousin was really scraping the barrel if he was relying on Norrey men to defend his castle. Although it did save their host from having to suppress the men of Lord Norrey's land later on. The clan leader would have inevitably revolted over the death of his grandson, Cregan's heir, probably sooner rather than later.

Lord Umber had been promised the lands of Cregan's goodfather and would surely appreciate the opportunity to assert control over them with minimal bloodshed when the time came. Benjen's own grandfather was busy fashioning the mountain clansman's head onto a spike no doubt to adorn his warhorse.

Lord Alaric Karstark was a hard man to begin with, having been raised during a harsh winter like much of those from the generation preceding Benjen's. The death of the man's daughter and grandsons had warped him, however, until all that remained was a vengeful shell.

He stalked around like a man possessed, and his stare was pure ice.

As much as Benjen fantasized about killing his family's murderer with his own hands, he would have to rely on Lord Karstark to play the executioner. This was the means in which the next Lord Stark would avoid his friend's fate of being labeled a kinslayer.

"Send a raven ahead to Raventree Hall and Riverrun," Benjen instructed as he readied to ride forth. "Let the prince know when we're expectin' to arrive at Winterfell." Lord Stark paused for a moment to think. "Actually, tell Maelys we'll arrive a few days earlier than we actually will. I don't wanna sit on my ass outside of a locked gate, waitin' for my friend to bring a key."

Author's Note:

Thanks to everyone leaving a comment after the last chapter. The feedback is always helpful, and I do try to incorporate it into the story. I apologize for the delay. Part of it was because I wrote chapter 7 first before deciding I wanted to go back and flesh out the political consequences of trying to take Riverrun. I also wanted to show that although the majority of the war thus far has been focused on Maelys' campaign in the Riverlands, that doesn't mean the rest of the continent is sitting idle. In fact, just about every inch of Westeros is being contested at this point. We'll keep seeing glimpses of the ever fronts, especially as the Riverlands campaign draws to a close.

- IMD