The Lord of Highgarden
If there was one thing Tristifer did not like about the Tower of the Hand, it was the stairs—long and winding, with rooms spread across all the floors. He guessed they kept him in shape, if nothing else.
Servants gave their courtesies to him as he descended the staircase, eventually reaching the ground floor. He had been interrupted while breaking his fast this morning by a missive from Maester Allard, informing him that they had finally received word from Lord Tyrell. It seemed his victory a few days prior had piqued the interest of the self-important lord.
Tristifer had one port of call before the rest of the council arrived for the meeting. He was keen to speak with the captured Lord Stark, a task he hadn't managed to find time for since the battle.
The Warden of the North had been given comfortable, if secure, chambers in Maegor's Holdfast, a little apart from the royal quarters—befitting a great lord such as himself.
Tristifer would now discover if Stark was grateful for this privilege or not. No lord or highborn had been put in the black cells or dungeons, but neither had they been granted chambers in the heart of Maegor's Holdfast like Lord Eddard had received.
The corridors were quiet but for the steady marching of Tristifer and his constant guards. He was quite satisfied with their appearance now. Castle-forged swords hung at their hips, and they were clad in boiled leather with brown tabards displaying his Mudd crown on their chests. Helmets with narrow steel nose guards completed their attire.
All in all, they looked like proper household guards of a proper noble house. The fact that he did not even need to pay them anymore wasn't lost on him, though when other powers entered King's Landing, he would ensure to regain control of their payrolls and make sure they could not be easily bought off.
They soon passed into the Holdfast, and after no time at all, he arrived at the door guarded by two gold cloaks assigned to Lord Stark by Addam.
One of the gold cloaks bowed to him as he stood before the door, then banged loudly. "You have a visitor, Lord Stark. Stand away from the door," the gold cloak ordered, briefly peering through a small hole at the side before unlocking the door with a key from his belt.
"Milord," the guard finally said. Tristifer nodded to show his gratitude but did not address either watchman as he passed through the door and entered.
The chambers were windowless, except for slits near the ceiling along two walls, allowing some natural light to push away the shadows. Still, it was quite dark, and numerous candles were scattered around, though Lord Eddard seemed to have left them unlit since they were last replaced by the servants.
"Ser Tristifer," Eddard Stark greeted him, seated at a desk in the farthest corner of the room, where a lone flame flickered beside him. Lain on the desk was a tome the Lord seemed to be reading. "Lord Hand now, I suppose," Stark soon corrected.
"Either is fine, my lord. I am not here to discuss such semantics and waste your time," Tristifer replied calmly as he moved to a seat near the desk and Eddard.
"Your rise has been most impressive. I must admit, I did not think I would ever see you again after that tourney," Lord Stark said, turning to look at him directly.
"The right place at the right time," Tristifer said humbly. The North were not fond of Southern braggarts, and he did not care to test Lord Eddard's patience for such.
"Time after time," the Northern lord replied, watching him steadily. Tristifer imagined that Stark wasn't very pleased or comfortable with his situation, but none of this showed in the Northman's expressionless face.
"The gods give and they take, some more than others, in both ways." Eddard remained silent at his comment, so Tristifer continued after a few moments. "A great injustice has been done upon your house. I had nothing to do with it, but even if I did, I would not defend those dishonorable actions."
Eddard's lips slightly grimaced, showing little care for Tristifer's denunciations. He supposed there was little to be said quite yet. What was the Northman to do? Thank him for his words?
"You know I met your elder brother upon his arrival at King's Landing." This finally seemed to catch Eddard's interest, though not in a positive way, judging by how his expression darkened.
"Your brother was not hard to befriend, and I certainly developed an appreciation for him over that tourney. We were no great friends, but he was always friendly, gregarious, and helpful." Tristifer paused briefly to assess the Stark's reaction. Eddard seemed more confused now, his brows furrowed.
"So when my men reported that your brother and his companions were outside my gate, demanding justice for the abduction of his sister, I was fearful. I had heard both whispers and screams of what happened to those our previous King thought traitors or threats."
"I rode as quickly as I could and briefly talked with him. Before I could dissuade him from his course of action, however, a force led by Lord Commander Hightower and the Commander of the City Watch arrived and arrested him without further ado. After this, I ended up with some unpleasantness, resulting in me receiving a whipping and being bedridden for quite some time. I must have fallen ill during the injury, for when I awoke, Lord Rickard had already arrived, and the injustice had been done. If I ever could have done something, it would have been before he was taken into the custody of the crown." Tristifer ended with a remorseful expression on his face.
It was no hard thing to do, as he did wish the two Starks had not suffered such grim fates, but Brandon had been a brief acquaintance, and it was now nearly two years ago.
Eddard finally nodded, his expression softer and less judgmental. "It seems you did all in your power, considering..." Eddard trailed off before smiling slightly, though it was a sad smile. "I always knew his Wolfblood would get him in trouble, but I thought it would lead to nothing more than a few scandals with maidens and such, as it had before. Never that it would lead to his death."
"I imagine many a maiden and lady cried when the news of his end reached them," Tristifer commented lightly.
"Indeed," Eddard nodded slowly. After a few moments, he suddenly straightened in his seat. "Now, I don't imagine you simply visited me to reminisce?"
Tristifer nodded firmly, his demeanor becoming serious. "You would be correct; we have ultimately ended up on opposite sides of this war. While I hope both of us survive this, that cannot happen if you don't give me something to work with."
Eddard looked at him with a guarded expression in his grey eyes. "What would this 'something' be? If you think I would betray my honor and kin, then you are foolishly mistaken."
"And I do not wish for you to betray your kin. I realize you will not do it without further incentives, for you are far too selfless to bend for your own situation. Therefore, I will add some incentives," Tristifer explained bluntly. Eddard seemed a little shocked, remaining silent before Tristifer continued.
"There was one who survived King Aerys' actions: your brother's squire, Ethan Glover." Tristifer raised a hand as Eddard looked ready to speak in anger. "I only recently learned of his survival and presence in the dungeons. As a sign of good faith, I will have him moved up from the dungeons into chambers like yours."
Eddard seemed hesitant, perhaps waiting for the other boot to drop. "I am pleased to hear of his survival," he finally said.
"As am I. Now, know that as long as I remain Hand of the King, no reparations, cruel tariffs, or other sanctions will be levied upon the North or House Stark. In exchange, I require information on Lord Lannister's scouts—how many, where, when, and specifically any presence south of the Blackwater Rush," Tristifer inquired.
Eddard furrowed his eyebrows for a few moments, his thoughts clearly whirring behind his grey eyes. "Lord Tyrell is on the march," the Northman stated eventually.
Tristifer raised an eyebrow, hiding his genuine surprise at Stark's statement. He quickly considered the implications and decided that the risk of Eddard knowing this was mitigated by his secure chambers and constant guard.
"Indeed, I must commend you on your reasoning," he eventually replied. Eddard's eyebrows furrowed further.
"... Surely you must know that you cannot have them march up the Kingsroad. At worst, in your case, they would be ambushed by Lannister forces or he would flee north to Robert. It would break the siege, but there would be little sense in consolidating your enemy's forces," Eddard concluded, though it seemed he hadn't discovered Tristifer's actual plan.
"This is true, but you need not concern yourself with it. It matters little for you," Tristifer said steadily. "I would rather you tell me how deep the Lannister scouts are in the Kingswood. Are they just over the Rush, or further in?"
Eddard's eyes narrowed before he spoke. "When I was last briefed, they were ten to fifteen men strong over the river and ranging down the Kingsroad from time to time. They mostly returned within a day to report, so not terribly far."
This was useful information. "I see. Where are the majority of Lannister's scouts then?"
"They are to the west, ensuring the safety of resupply caravans. He has a force of cavalry in reserve at all times to ride out and defend any caravans upon the Gold Road when they leave the Westerlands, from where the Gold Road crosses the Blackwater Rush."
"And to the North?" Tristifer raised an eyebrow.
Eddard hesitated for a moment. "In the terms of Lannister scouts I don't believe there were many, some northern ones but that may have changed now with... everything."
Tristifer nodded, absorbing the information. "Thank you, Lord Stark. This will be valuable in our efforts. Your cooperation is greatly appreciated." He rose from his seat and walked to the door, pausing to give a respectful nod to the Northern Lord before opening it.
"Wait." Tristifer stopped and turned back to Eddard. "It is concerning my sister."
One of the guards at the door leaned over to him. "Milord, a servant arrived to say that the council has gathered in the small council chambers," he said in a low voice.
Tristifer turned his head slightly. "I will not be long. Close the door." The door clicked shut as he turned back to the Northern lord, his face now filled with some desperation. "Yes?"
"There is only my brother at Winterfell and her left in my family. I—" Eddard began before Tristifer interrupted him.
"I am afraid that I only know she is... presumably guarded by the three missing Kingsguard knights. I never discussed it with the Prince; it was not my position to do so. She is at least protected by three of the greatest knights in the realm, if that is any comfort," Tristifer concluded, though somewhat wryly. Greatest was up for interpretation. Greatest warriors, no doubt, but knights were not supposed to abduct noble ladies, as far as he remembered from his vows.
"Ser Barristan told me the Lady Ashara probably was in contact with her brother and that they were someplace in Dorne," Eddard informed him.
"Ashara Dayne?" Eddard nodded. "I see, though I am afraid that is still not something I will be able to act on presently," Tristifer replied. It would hopefully allow him to retrieve the missing Kingsguard if they had not gone rogue or worse.
"I understand, but please, I would forever be in your debt if you returned my sister to Winterfell," Eddard pleaded.
Tristifer looked at the lord for a moment before nodding. "If it is within my ability, I will do all I can to accomplish it, but I cannot promise this."
Eddard remained silent for a moment before he nodded silently.
"I must attend the council now. Rest assured, I will keep your concerns in mind," Tristifer said earnestly as he departed.
As Tristifer and his guards walked through the Red Keep, two of his men had to walk in front, creating a path for him as the servants rushed to and fro, tidying the rooms of the now-awoken castle before attending to their other duties.
When he arrived at the doors to the small council chamber, they were closed. Two of his guards dramatically opened them for him. He walked into the room with purpose, his guards remaining outside to stand watch.
The small council chamber was already abuzz with conversation. As Tristifer entered, the murmurs quieted, and all eyes turned to him. He took his seat at the right hand of the empty King's seat, there would still be quite some years until it was occupied, if Tristifer had anything to say about it.
Lord Velaryon sat at the end of the table in the seat of his office. Though he had grown more comfortable in these meetings, he still mostly remained silent, observing more than participating.
Varys, the enigmatic Master of Whisperers, was seated opposite Tristifer, his observant eyes watching every council member.
Tristifer's cousin and best friend sat beside Varys on the Master of Whisper's right. Both were waiting attentively for Tristifer to speak. He ensured to catch their eyes and give them a nod of greeting.
Finally, the interim Grand Maester, Allard, sat on Tristifer's right. Queen Mother Elia had been invited but had seemingly chosen not to attend today.
Tristifer decided that there was no reason to wait any longer and stood up. "I must apologize for my tardiness, my lords. There is a lot to go through today for Baratheon marches ever closer, Lord Tyrell and his host is starting to reinforce us now and this discrepancy will be something to solve today, Let us begin."
He looked to Maester Allard, who was seated to his right and nodded. "I believe Maester Allard has something he wishes to bring to the council."
Maester Allard had quickly proven his worth and diligence to Tristifer. The fact that he wasn't old enough to have witnessed the dragons personally was a positive as well. Tristifer had visited the imprisoned Grand Maester Pycelle twice now. The first time, Pycelle had tried his dithering old man act before growing desperate and angry on the second visit, revealing his true nature.
Maester Allard rose and gave Tristifer a small bow as he sat down in his chair. The man pulled a small missive from his robes and unrolled it in his hands.
"I received a raven in the early morning hours from Lord Tyrell, its seal unbroken. I presumed to open it in case the news could not wait for this council meeting. This was unnecessary as he simply wished to inform the Lord Hand that he was on the march and had heeded his words to leave a smaller force under his goodbrother, Ser Jon Fossoway, to maintain the siege." The Maester paused for a moment as Robin banged his empty wine cup quickly upon the table, drawing some attention.
"The Lord also wished to give the Lord Hand congratulations for his victory and gratitude for his council seat and daughter's betrothal." The Maester bowed once again, handing the parchment to him.
He grabbed the missive and read it over quickly. "This is good news," he eventually said, his eyes rising to meet his councilors once again. "I envisioned three great steps to win this war and defeat the rebels. The first was successfully defending King's Landing. This, I believe, we have managed. The Lion has been bloodied and may even give up and wait for Baratheon."
Tristifer rose from his seat again, walking over to one of the walls where a map of the Crownlands and the immediate surroundings was depicted on a stand. He lifted the stand behind the chair of the King, allowing all to see as he first pointed south to the Kingswood.
"My second step is to involve Lord Tyrell and his men. I have discovered from a talk with our captured Lord Stark that Lannister scouts have been sent south of Blackwater Rush specifically to report the approach of this very host." Tristifer gestured to the river flowing south of King's Landing and the small depiction of the Kingsroad to Storm's End.
"They will hopefully remain undiscovered, as I wish for them to flank around and arrive from an unexpected direction," Tristifer revealed. Maester Allard had a thoughtful look on his face.
"Toward Tumbleton and then north to the Gold Road? That would be quite the detour; we do not possess an unlimited amount of time, I am afraid," the Maester concluded.
"He intends the opposite, over the Bay," Lord Lucerys suddenly commented, as Tristifer meant to reply to the Maester.
"Precisely. Using our Royal Fleet, we shall ferry as many of the Reach men over the Bay as possible, to either land at Stokeworth or Rosby. From there, they will make haste to the Kingsroad. Do you have any thoughts on this, Lord Velaryon?"
The Master of Ships sighed. "The entire coast of Massey's Hook is hilly and rocky. At times they are sheer cliffs, barely possible to dock a small cog, never mind embark an entire army. Where do you intend to have the Reachmen get on these ships?"
Tristifer nodded as he too looked toward the map. Tracing his fingers west from the Hook and Castle of Stonedance, he stopped by the lands of House Bywater and the mouth of the Wendwater. "If I'm not mistaken, the coast off of the Bywater lands is more agreeable to our intentions, with a smattering of fishing villages and the like." He turned back to the Velaryon lord. "Would you concur?"
Lord Velaryon tapped his fingers on the table in thought. "There are no ports in the area, and I admit I've never more than sailed past on the way to King's Landing, but if it is sufficiently deep, then I suppose, with the help of calm seas and small boats, it is possible to embark an army of some size there."
"Now, this is still too slow, I'm afraid. If the Master of Coin had marched upon receiving my first letter, the Reachmen would already be at Bywater. But that's neither here nor there," Tristifer commented, taking a sip of his wine.
"I wish to enlighten you, my lords, on the efforts Varys and I have engaged in to change this situation." Tristifer noticed he had the attention and some surprise from every councilor except the Master of Whisperers.
"A few days ago, I sent letters to the Crackclaw houses that have not been levied in past battles. Under the command of a Lord Brune, this host—which I can confirm is currently raising their banners—will aim to lure Robert Baratheon and his forces from the Kingsroad into the countryside of the Crownlands," Tristifer explained.
"Will this work to delay him, then? Are we sure he would track down what, a thousand? A few thousand men?" Robin finally asked. It seemed others had been wondering the same thing, as they all turned to Tristifer for an answer.
"A fine question. To answer it, yes," Tristifer stated simply. Pointing to the area north of King's Landing and the Kingsroad, he elaborated, "Robert Baratheon has proven himself quite proficient in the matters of war, but he is very aggressive. A storm only moves forward, one might say," Tristifer grinned for a moment.
"It is my belief that he would not want to leave an army, even one so inferior, at his back. Upon hearing of it, he will surely work to eliminate the Crackclaw host." Tristifer then gestured toward Varys. "Now, I believe Varys may be able to provide more insight into Robert Baratheon's situation and current intelligence."
"Lord Hand," the perfumed bald man bowed his head as he rose from his chair. "The Stag's host is still some distance from King's Landing. The last report indicated he was at Harrenhal, and he has yet to pass Butterwell. This means he will be here in a week if he marches as hard as possible."
Tristifer noticed Robin and Addam nodding at the information the Master of Whisperers revealed. "Our main advantage is that Baratheon is unaware of the Battle of the Gate and Lord Stark's capture. I have men disguised as simple smallfolk in the Butterwell lands, ready to inform the Stormlord about the Crackclaw army and its intention to flank and cut off any escape north via the Kingsroad. As long as he remains unaware of recent events in the city, this will hopefully compel him to pursue Lord Brune's host."
Tristifer looked around the room, ensuring the gravity of their plan was understood. "This is the plan, and if he does not bite, then I am afraid we will have to return to the drawing board," he added with some gallows humor. "Now, with Robert hopefully distracted for some time, we must turn our attention to the situation with Lord Tyrell and the Reach."
He took another sip of his wine before continuing. "I will take a small retinue of trusted men and sail to Bywater. There, I will identify a suitable location for the Royal Fleet to embark the Reachmen army. After this, we will ride down to Chyttering Brook and meet Lords Tyrell and Tarly at the bridge crossing of the Wendwater." There was a stunned silence before Addam, Robin, and Lord Lucerys shouted their objections.
He let their protests continue for a minute or two, simply watching as they voiced concerns about the risks and emphasized that he was the man holding the Royalist side together. Maester Allard remained silent, though he seemed uneasy. Tristifer knew Allard to be a man who would voice his opinions after thoughtful consideration. Varys simply stared at him, his dark eyes revealing nothing.
Tristifer raised a hand, and the three soon grew quiet. "I have heard your thoughts, but this is something that I must do." Turning to Robin and Addam, he addressed them directly. "I want one of you with me while the other stays to maintain the situation in my absence. Robin, I believe you would be the best to accompany me."
Addam's face reddened, a trait he inherited from his knightly father. "And what if Lord Tyrell takes you hostage? Then what? He has done more for the rebels than fucking Tywin Lannister with his inaction these past years, and now you will trust him with your safety?"
He and Addam stared at each other unflinchingly. It was rare for Addam to lose his temper like this. They had both grown up with his grandsire's teachings of never revealing their true feelings to those they did not completely trust. It warmed his heart to see his chosen brother care so deeply, but this changed nothing.
"You, my dear Addam, will stay here in King's Landing with the King and his closest family within grasp. Even if Lord Tyrell were cunning and grasping enough to take me hostage, I would inform him that you hold the lives of the Royal Family in your hands," Tristifer explained in a cold, factual voice. "However, this will not be necessary. Lord Mace is deluded enough to think himself quite chivalrous and would consider it dishonorable—or at least a bad look in front of his lords—to take me hostage."
Tristifer waited for a moment as silence reigned before he looked behind him and out to the balcony that overlooked the city from the small council chambers.
"I leave within the day if we are able to procure a ship or boat that can take us over the Bay." He informed the council.
"I believe we should adjourn for a luncheon before we finish this meeting. I will have servants retrieve you in around an hour," Tristifer announced. The meeting had already been quite long, and he felt the need for a break.
The chambers were soon filled with the scraping of chairs as the councilors rose to their feet. Tristifer turned back to see them all bow to him before all but Robin departed swiftly.
His cousin looked at him for a moment. "May we share a meal? I think I have heard something you would be interested in, which we can discuss more privately."
Tristifer nodded, knowing Robin had probably received new rumors from his informants. It happened from time to time, and Tristifer was always grateful for his cousin's scheme to turn them into valuable sources of information.
They were seated in his eating chambers in the Tower of the Hand not long after, as servants placed plates of warm venison in front of them. It was good to be Hand of the King, Tristifer thought.
"So, what did you wish to tell me?" Tristifer asked once they had taken a few bites.
Robin leaned in slightly, his voice low. "One of my girls entertained a talkative sailor who recently arrived from Duskendale. Details from the Trident have yet to truly reach the city, but the sailor said that in Duskendale there was talk among many subjects that Lord Whent had lost his two eldest sons at the Trident fighting for the rebels and that he has withdrawn all his men and family to Harrenhal."
Tristifer's thoughts whirred. The possibility of marriage with Lord Whent's daughter, Lady Sarra, did not seem unthinkable even with the war. He had believed that he had left an impression on her the last time they met, and with her now isolated in the massive, dilapidated castle, she might appreciate a renewed connection.
"This is interesting news, Robin," Tristifer said, considering his next move. "If Lord Whent is indeed retreating to Harrenhal, it could be an opportunity. It may be too late to involve him in this war but it would be good to show him a connection and alliance of sorts for after the war."
Robin has a inquisitive look upon his face. "I am sure your thoughts aren't entirely innocent either dear cousin" Tristifer returned his cousin's grin.
"I think we both left an impression upon the other" Was his simple words as Robin simply smiled wider.
"I would say so, it was not difficult to notice her throwing glances toward you, giggling with her handmaids..." Robin teased lightly.
Tristifer rolled his eyes with a small smile on his face. He leaned back in his chair. "I'll send a letter to Lord Whent expressing condolences for his loss and hinting at support in the post-war period." Robin raised an eyebrow. "I suppose it would be possible to accompany it with a personal message for Lady Sarra."
"How romantic," Robin said ironically, and Tristifer felt his smile sour.
"Yeah, well, that's the world I've chosen," he stated simply. "I will write it personally and hope that it actually does help her slightly, irrelevant of any possible alliance and gain."
His cousin nodded. "That is good. Just write them both now, and I will deliver them to Maester Allard after the meeting is finished."
Tristifer sighed before walking to a desk and retrieving his writing supplies. The letter to Lord Whent was efficient, offering his condolences for the death of the man's sons and hinting at what Tristifer might be able to do for House Whent in exchange for an alliance. He rolled it up, poured the wax, and found a newly acquired Mudd seal, which he pressed into the hot wax.
Blowing upon it, he looked up to see Robin finishing the rest of his luncheon. It seemed Tristifer would have to eat the rest of his food after the meeting.
Laying the letter to the side, he prepared another parchment for Lady Sarra. This letter was still succinct but carried a more genuine tone, mentioning her place in his thoughts. It would hopefully remind her of him, as cruelly calculating as that sounded. It was an ugly world, and it had tragically little time for heartwarming and innocent romances.
He read over the letter carefully, ensuring it conveyed the right balance of sincerity and subtlety. Satisfied, he sealed it and handed both letters to Robin as he returned to the table.
"I think it is time to resume the council session," Tristifer said, even as he sent a longing look at the barely eaten plate. The servants could hopefully prepare him another one when he was finally finished with the council today.
"Very well, cousin. The sooner we hold the meeting, the sooner I can pack and prepare for our journey," Robin stated as they left the chambers to descend down the tower.
Within the next hour, all councilors had returned to the Small Council and were seated, ready. Tristifer was now seated, the map having been put to the side again.
He cleared his throat as he watched each and every councilor. "Now, let us continue." He briefly looked down upon a small scrawl of his outlining the points of the meeting. "Right... Addam, you wished to report?"
His friend nodded as he rose to his feet. "Indeed, my gold cloaks informed me today that numerous trees have been felled by the Lannisters and that they seem to be constructing siege works. I have to admit that I wish to hear the opinion of the council before deciding upon a course of action."
This was not unexpected but it showed that Lord Tywin meant to stay his hand for now. Whether the Lannisters intended to wait for Robert Baratheon or simply wished to level the playing field, Tristifer did not know. Nevertheless, it was something they needed to disrupt, ideally destroy, before the Lannisters could mount a new assault.
The Battle of the Gate had been costly for the Lannisters, but it hadn't been bloodless for the gold cloaks and especially not the Targaryen household guard. Ser Jeremy and Ser Alliser had lost many good men holding the Lannisters back. The city's defenders were still outnumbered and outclassed by the Westerlander knights and men-at-arms.
The council had grown silent as they contemplated their own suggestions. Tristifer looked to Lord Lucerys for a moment as a plan began to form in his head.
"Lord Lucerys," Tristifer said to the Master of Ships.
"Yes, Lord Hand?" Everyone looked to Tristifer as the Velaryon replied.
Tristifer stood to better be seen by the men. "Would your shipwrights in the city be able, under the instructions of a siege engineer, to construct our own counter-catapults to sabotage the besiegers?"
Lord Velaryon looked a little surprised by his question before growing thoughtful. "Where would you acquire a siege engineer? I don't think the gold cloaks would be educated in such matters."
Tristifer nodded; this was the crux, where to find a siege engineer? The fighting men with such knowledge, after all, marched with Lord Connington and then the Prince, leaving the city guard quite poor for it.
Varys cleared his throat softly. "Might I suggest looking to greybeards, my Lords? Men who fought and besieged keeps in the Stepstones, mayhaps?"
Tristifer considered the suggestion. Veterans from the Ninepenny War were likely their best option. Seeking help from the Tyrells would take too long. No, veterans would be the most efficient choice.
"A fine suggestion, Varys," Tristifer eventually said before turning to Addam. "Have your men inform the heralds and procure a siege engineer. There must be at least a handful in this city of half a million."
"My lord," Addam said with a nod.
Tristifer then turned to the Master of Ships. "Would that work for you?"
Lord Lucerys stared at him silently for a moment. "With some elevated wooden structures to allow them to shoot over the walls, then I suppose so."
Tristifer clapped his hands together. "Wonderful. I will leave it in your capable hands. I am sure the treasury can handle it, isn't that right, Maester Allard?" He turned to the grey-cloaked man sitting at his side.
The chains around the middle-aged man's neck clinked as he nodded. "They will survive, my Lord Hand. I have catalogued, documented, and inquired into the crown's coffers at your behest." Maester Allard began as he rose to his feet, addressing the whole council.
"The coffers are bleeding, but it is a steady stream, mainly due to the recruitment and increased upkeep of the gold cloaks. What I discovered is more relevant for the absent Master of Coin, but I will briefly summarize it as best I can." Maester Allard grabbed a small pile of documents and sifted through them.
"Loans are at a low since King Aerys, in his later years, was in no condition to call for loans, never mind that his numerous... projects never left the theoretical stage. His only significant expense beyond the usual crown expenditures were his donations and commissions to the Alchemists' Guild, payments that I have halted." The man raised an eyebrow toward Tristifer. "Presuming I haven't overstepped?"
"Not at all," Tristifer replied with a smile. "I granted you leave to peruse the crown's finances, and it is only admirable that you help mitigate small-minded wastes of coin like that. Continue."
It was nice to have a competent and learned man to rely on. Robin and Addam were loyal to a fault, but they were still only two, and it did not hurt to gain more.
Maester Allard nodded, his eyes flicking to the documents again. "There is not much more to say. The increased numbers of gold cloaks are only feasible for a finite time, but with the crown quite ready to loan coin, it may hold for years at present levels. Hopefully, for the treasury's sake, the war ends in the not-too-distant future."
"I believe we all hope so, Maester. Regardless, it sounds like in the present circumstances the crown is holding relatively well, and the gold cloaks' ranks will be reduced when the city's defense can bear it," Tristifer explained. Looking around, he saw Addam, Robin, and Maester Allard nod with satisfaction. "If there was nothing else—"
"A small matter, my Lord Hand, pardon the interruption," Varys suddenly said.
Tristifer nodded. "Let us hear it then."
"It will be quick. I only recently heard my birds sing of an Ironborn attack upon the Shield Islands in the Reach. It was thankfully ineffectual and does not seem to have done much, but I thought you would want to know that the Greyjoys have seemingly chosen a side," Varys informed them.
Tristifer shared a look with Lord Velaryon, who had an ugly grimace upon his face. If there was one thing almost every Westerosi sailor hated, it was the Ironborn. "I see. Maester Allard, send a letter to Prince Doran informing him in turn of the Ironborn attack and ask that he keep an eye out on the Stepstones for any passing Ironborn who may wish to challenge the Royal Fleet's supremacy in the Narrow Sea."
Maester Allard bowed slightly. "At once, my Lord Hand."
"Good. Ser Addam will lead the councils in my absence; he will also take on Ser Robin's duties in his absence. Lord Velaryon will manage the siege works and the city's defense, working in conjunction with him. Maester Allard, you will continue to handle the responsibilities of the Master of Coin and prepare a more detailed summary for Lord Tyrell's arrival," Tristifer outlined quickly.
"This has been a productive meeting. I bid you all a good day, my lords," he said finally with a nod, feeling his throat burn after the long session.
The council members nodded in acknowledgment as they departed, soon leaving Tristifer alone in the opulent council room. He had faith that Addam would be able to maintain the status quo until his return, but it would be his first absence from the city since assuming the office of Lord Hand. Even he could not predict how the situation would unfold in his absence.
Now, he had to turn his attention to Lord Tyrell and Lord Tarly. One was a bumbling fool, and the other was the only man who had defeated Robert Baratheon in this war, even if Ashford had ended indecisively. Tristifer was only the second Royalist commander to deliver the Rebels anything other than victory, and he hoped to connect with Lord Tarly on this shared distinction.
The canopy of the Kingswood nearly blocked out the sun at times as they rode through the dense forest. The five guards accompanying Tristifer and his cousin spoke in hushed tones, their voices barely audible over the steady rhythm of their horses' hooves. There wasn't much else to do during the long ride, Tristifer mused. They had been traveling for two days since their ship had docked at an unnamed fishing village under House Bywater's sway.
When Tristifer had inquired about a location with deeper water, the locals directed him to a small bay they referred to as Maldon's Bay. Named after an ancient Massey Lord who had ruled the land during the time of the Storm Kings of House Durrandon, it was said to be a place where a modest fleet might find safe passage. Tristifer had briefly visited the area with a few locals who had explained that a small fleet could navigate the bay with relative ease.
He thanked the fishermen, tossing them a few golden dragons each and instructing them to assist the Royal Fleet upon its arrival. They had sworn by both the old and new gods that they would honor his request. Only the gods knew if they would keep their word.
Robin suddenly inhaled deeply from the mount beside him. "When was the last time we were as free as this, cousin?"
Tristifer was momentarily startled by the unexpected question, but he soon began to reflect. It certainly wasn't since their arrival in King's Landing.
"Before Harrenhal?" Robin suggested after a moment, his brow furrowing in thought. "No, it must have been that inn—named after a flower or a plant... something like that."
"The Ivy Inn, aye," Tristifer confirmed with a nod. It had been a simpler time, before the whirlwind of politics and the burdens of office. He couldn't help but long for the ease of those days, even if they hadn't aligned with his ambitions or his grandsire's expectations.
Robin's eyes twinkled mischievously. "You remember the name even years later. But it was a bit more personal for you."
Tristifer rolled his eyes as his cousin waggled his eyebrows. "The innkeeper I do remember, a pretty one indeed."
She had been quite comely and charming, perhaps someone he could have married in another life. Yet, Robin's teasing was a bit poor, had he grown rusty?
"Jealousy doesn't look good on you cousin," Tristifer retorted with a teasing grin. "It wasn't surprising to learn that the whores in King's Landing were your first since we left Sow's Horn."
Robin stared at him blankly for a moment before bursting into laughter. Tristifer caught the curious glances of the guards out of the corner of his eye. "The Hand of the King, Ser Tristifer Mudd... jesting?" Robin laughed even harder, and Tristifer's smile widened in response.
"It's good to know there's still something of your old self beneath the lordly mask," Robin said, his tone sobering slightly. Tristifer's smile faltered as he reflected on the cost of his current life. He often wondered how much he was willing to sacrifice for the sake of nobility—his time, simple love, a humble life, his friendships, and family? He no longer knew where he would draw the line.
"Though perhaps it's the fresh air that brings it out," Robin added with a light jest after a moment of silence. "No, I think you, I, and Addam should meet as we used to. Who knows what might happen in war? It's been too long."
Tristifer agreed; if they could still share moments like this, he was determined to make it happen. "Indeed, it has certainly been too long."
Robin nodded, and the silence between them was now more comfortable. However, his cousin's grin returned, and Tristifer braced himself for the next jest. "Circling back to your former flame, think there are any brown-haired children toddling about?"
Tristifer was caught off guard by the question. He had not expected such a question and struggled to recall the finer details of the past. Surely he hadn't been so careless?
"I doubt it strongly," Tristifer answered after a moment, and Robin raised an eyebrow in curiosity.
"Oh? Played a game of cyvasse or two, did you?" Robin teased.
"Of course not, but truly, I don't remember the specifics of what precautions we took," Tristifer admitted.
Robin scrutinized him for a moment. "A bit unlike you to forget, considering you're not exactly Robert Baratheon, fathering your own army. Still, you aren't an innocent maiden either, if I recall our days at Sow's Horn correctly."
Tristifer didn't care for the direction of the conversation and seized the opportunity to redirect it. "How does the capital view Robert Baratheon these days?"
Robin regarded him for a moment, as if reluctant to let the conversation shift, but then seemed to relent. "There are whispers of the Demon of the Trident in every brothel, inn, and tavern. He's painted both as a literal demon from the Seven Hells and as a righteous warrior king fighting against King Aerys' tyranny. The latter view has waned since the Mad King's death and Lord Lannister's arrival."
"King's Landing has been a Targaryen stronghold almost constantly since its founding by Aegon, when it was still called Aegonfort," Robin continued, as they navigated the winding path through the dense forest. "Food is still plentiful, thanks to our control over the naval trade routes, which keeps the majority of the smallfolk relatively content. There hasn't been a Baratheon in King's Landing since Lord Steffon, Robert's father, which leaves him largely unknown to those who only hear rumors."
Robin turned back to face Tristifer. "This makes the Targaryens and, by extension, you, the obvious side to support."
Tristifer nodded in acknowledgment as his cousin finished. "This is good for both the cause and myself. Thank you, Robin," he said, with an air of finality. They both decided to let silence prevail for the moment.
Not long after, the dense forest gave way to a clearing, revealing the keep and village of Chyttering Brook. The motte-and-bailey keep stood centrally, with the village and small fields spreading out around it.
Tristifer addressed his party. "We shall stay at the inn to both inquire about the Reachman army and to remain undetected." His men nodded. "Take Robin's and my horses to the stables while we head to the inn separately. We shouldn't all arrive at the same time."
"Very well, my Lord," one of the guards, Mern if he wasn't mistaken replied.
Robin and Tristifer dismounted, handing the reins to two of the guards. With a wave of their hands, they parted ways. The two then began walking towards the inn, their footsteps muffled by the soft earth and scattered leaves.
As they approached the inn, Tristifer noted the simple yet welcoming establishment. The sign hanging above the door depicted a red stream. Once inside, they were greeted by a servant girl who sidled up to their table as they sat down.
"Welcome to the Bloody Brook, milords," she said, looking at them intently. "What would you like?"
She glanced toward Robin, but Tristifer cleared his throat and tapped in front of an empty chair at their table. There was a middling number of patrons in the establishment, and a few threw curious looks in their direction—attention Tristifer wasn't interested in.
The girl looked briefly around before sitting down in the chair. Tristifer slipped a gold dragon from his coin purse and palmed it, letting the girl notice it before speaking. "I would like to know if you knew of any armies in the area? Apart from the Lannisters, of course," he asked in a soft voice.
The girl's gaze rose from the golden coin in his hand to his eyes. She had a strange expression upon her face. "There is talk of an army at Bronzegate flying rose banners, milord."
Tristifer shared a significant look with Robin. His cousin's brown eyes revealed little as they briefly met his before scanning the room.
"I see. What is your name?" Tristifer asked after a moment. The brunette girl looked a little hesitant before answering.
"It is Maia, milord," the young wench replied after a moment.
Tristifer nodded to her with a charming smile. "Thank you, Maia. Could you bring my friend and me an ale each?" He said, flicking the gold coin into her lap.
Maia's eyes flickered down to her lap for a moment before pocketing the coin. "You were a lot more polite than the last two."
Tristifer barely heard the comment, but his head snapped to her in a heartbeat. "Other two?" The girl's eyes widened dramatically.
"Yes, milord, two older men in red, clad like soldiers. They just left before you two arrived," the girl shook her head. "Cursed out my friend Lily and everything."
Tristifer's heart pounded. He and Robin jumped to their feet almost simultaneously, startling the serving wench. "Would these men be headed for the stables?"
Maia nodded silently. Tristifer didn't waste another second. He sprinted out of the building, the cooling evening breeze stark against his heated skin. He heard Robin following closely behind as he bolted in the direction of the stables where their guards had taken the horses.
It had been quite some time since he had been in such a rush, but he would not allow Lannister scouts to report on the Tyrells' approach. If the serving girl spoke true, then this was the first time the scouts had gathered this information, making him hopeful these were the only ones aware.
A warm glow emanated from a crack in the stable door, and Tristifer dragged it open. Inside, his guards looked up in surprise.
"Milord—" one began before Tristifer interrupted.
"Has anyone been here? Did anyone leave with their horses just now?" Tristifer demanded, as Robin joined him at his side. The guards exchanged glances before the first man shook his head.
"Not that we saw, milord. We arrived some time ago and had a little trouble stabling the horses, but there was no one else in the meantime," the man explained.
Tristifer was about to respond when a noise came from one of the stalls. All the men turned toward the sound, and Tristifer was the first to draw his sword. "Step out, whoever you are," he ordered, hearing his guards and Robin follow suit by drawing their weapons.
There was no reply. Tristifer gestured to one of the guards to open the stall door. No horse was housed on that side of the stables, meaning the source of the sound was either a coincidence or someone hiding.
The door creaked open, and just as Tristifer was about to repeat his order, two dark figures emerged, attempting to flee. They underestimated Tristifer's numbers, as the opening was completely surrounded. One figure faltered, stopping in a small cloud of dust, while the other attempted to slip past the blockade. He was swiftly punished for his daring, a castle-forged blade slamming into his face, rendering him unconscious as he hit the dirt.
Tristifer's gaze returned to the man who had not tried to run. "You chose wisely. Now, let my men restrain you, and then we will have a small talk."
In the faint light of the stable, Tristifer could see the man's red garb and desperate, flickering eyes searching for an escape while glancing at his unconscious companion.
Within five minutes, the two Lannister scouts were tied up to two chairs near the entrance. Tristifer stood in front of them, arms crossed and gaze hard.
"You are Lannister scouts," Tristifer stated matter-of-factly, not wanting to start with any pretense. "Now start talking, or else the blade to your head will be a lot less angled."
The second scout was still unconscious, leaving the sandy blonde man, who looked about ten namedays older than Tristifer and Robin, as the only one capable of answering. His pale green eyes showed his true fear and anxiety.
The man didn't answer, still seemingly searching for an escape.
Tristifer turned to one of his guards. "Jaremy, fetch a block. It seems we will have to see how much love this man holds for his companion."
Jaremy bowed before departing quickly. Tristifer turned back, seeing the man's eyes widen. "Will you still not answer? I assure you this is no bluff. Your friend there still has all his limbs—for now. You can prevent it."
The scout looked petrified but remained resistant as Jaremy returned with a woodcutter's block. Tristifer grabbed it and personally placed the unconscious scout's arm upon it. Looking back, he gestured toward the stabled horses. "Search their horses for a blade of some kind. I don't wish to blunt mine."
As Jaremy and Mern walked to the booths to search for a blade, Tristifer turned back to the conscious Lannister scout. "You only need to answer one question: are you the first to learn this information, or has it already been passed on?"
The scout's eyes welled with tears, but he remained silent.
Tristifer raised an eyebrow. "Does an old lord miles away frighten you so much when I am here with your life in my hands?" He sighed, trying to soften his tone slightly. "It really doesn't need to be difficult. I do not want to do this either, but your resistance forces my hand, you see."
Tristifer tested the balance of the short bastard sword handed to him by the guards, then lined it up on the lower arm that lay across the wooden block. The blade drew a slight amount of blood as he let it rest there for a moment. He raised the blade with both hands on the handle.
"No!" the scout screamed in desperation. "Yes, we are the only ones who know, I swear upon mi ma and pa." Tristifer held the blade completely still, though still ominously over the arm.
"Yes, and?" Tristifer asked.
The scout blinked in pure confusion. "And? You promised that you only wanted one answer to spare his arm," the Westerlander replied in a betrayed tone of voice.
Tristifer paused dramatically for a moment. "I did, didn't I," he said before turning to face the sandy blonde scout. "That was for his limbs, if I recall correctly." It was a play on words, in bad faith.
The scout's eyes widened in terror as he understood Tristifer's meaning.
"You have already betrayed your lord. If he found out, you would be hanged for treason. What is a couple more treasons for your life?" Tristifer asked softly.
"Y-you are a monster! Have you no empathy?" the scout stated with hate in his eyes.
Tristifer almost rolled his eyes. "So is, and neither has, your Lord Lannister." He looked at the man almost bored. "Do you not understand that you are at my mercy?"
"W-who even are you? Some kind of bandits?" the man asked, his eyes flickering to the gathered guards and Robin.
Tristifer almost laughed. "Have you not discerned my identity yet? I am King Aegon Targaryen's Hand of the King, and I assure you, as Lord Tywin learned, it is no empty title."
The scout seemed completely in shock, shaking his head slowly. "Just tell me how often you scouts are sent here to Chyttering Brook and further, and then my questions are done."
"We were the first. We don't usually pass the crossroads of the Roseroad," the man said absentmindedly. As Tristifer was about to reply, the man continued, "You intend to meet the Reachers and ambush us. You must know you will never outsmart Lord Tywin again. He has never lost a war!" The man shouted with some mad glee, though it quickly disappeared at Tristifer's reaction.
Tristifer sighed, closing his eyes. "Hasn't fought all too many wars either," he countered, shaking his head. "You were so close, you know. I had half a mind to let you live."
"Wha—" The scout managed to say before Tristifer slammed the pommel of the blade into his face, sending the man into unconsciousness alongside his companion.
Turning to his guards, Tristifer grimaced slightly. "Place them in the booths of their horses and make it look like the mounts did it," he ordered, gesturing vaguely to his head. "Make sure to close the booths and have it look like an accident."
His loyal guards released the two scouts from their bindings, hefting them on their shoulders and making for the booths. Robin joined him by the now empty chairs and bindings.
"We arrive at the Wendwater Bridge on the morn, I believe," Robin stated simply. Tristifer could hear the graphic sounds of the guards staging the scene.
"Good. We will retire for the night at the inn when this is done," he replied.
It was not pretty. Tristifer felt a slight chill as he reflected on how far he had departed from his old, simpler self, a mere man-at-arms among dozens in a small Crownlander keep. Robin had been right; there was only a small part of his old self left, and it felt like it was becoming ever smaller.
Would his grandsire approve? Tristifer knew he could not afford to be as innocent as a saint in this quest, but had his grandsire foreseen this? It mattered little now, he supposed. His grandsire would be lucky to still be alive, let alone able to witness his achievements.
The dead would not answer his questions; his parents' silence was evidence enough of that. Tristifer only hoped his grandsire had learned of his ascension to Hand of the King before he passed. It would show him that he had made progress toward their shared dream.
Lord Randyll Tarly tapped the pommel of Heartsbane lightly, letting none of his irritation show on his weathered face. The sounds of the Wendwater flowing under the bridge and the horses behind were the only things he could hear as he and his men stood in absolute silence, waiting.
They had brought a single Tyrell banner bearer while the rest showed the red huntsman. Randyll could not put into words his feelings about Lord Mace's petty stunt of not meeting personally. The principle of a common knight summoning a great lord, never mind the hundreds of miles he had marched and ridden from Storm's End to get here, was utterly nonsensical. It left Randyll as the lone lord to greet the knight who had somehow risen to Hand of the King and Lord Regent. If not for the Battle of the Gate, Randyll would have thought the man a mummer with a bad sense of humor. Now, however, there was eager talk about the mysterious man.
Randyll had met him once at Harrenhal and thought him a typical young knight, if gifted with the sword and duels. Now, that young man had done something Randyll could not have imagined in his wildest dreams.
The Tarly lord had been preparing for how to survive the war as best one could, considering the war lost. Their Reach army was large, the largest after the Trident, but he had had no faith Lord Mace would do anything after two years of nothing. He had almost been proven right when his Tyrell liege threw the first missive from this 'Hand of the King' into a hearth after a long chuckle about it.
The tone had changed at the second one, however, and they had been on the march soon after. Randyll had been doubtful himself but was so thankful they were actually doing something that he went to drill the men and prepare them for battles to come.
There were thousands of young men in the army now slothful and lazy after two years of siege, in no shape to fight. He changed this mentality when they passed the Parchments, and by the time they reached Bronzegate, these men were as ready as they could be without actual fighting experience.
Randyll had gained a lot of influence after Ashford. While he saw it as an indecisive clash and irrelevant in the long run, Mace Tyrell painted it as a grand military victory. The lords and men then believed it to be a victory in turn, but also knew who to thank for it.
He was both thankful and frustrated with his countrymen's attitudes. They participated in a tourney or two and thought themselves veterans of war. His vanguard at Ashford were veterans; the host that arrived under Lord Tyrell were simply veterans of marching and feasting.
"My lord, riders in the distance," one of his men said.
Around a bend came two riders bearing banners, soon followed by five more without. The banner on the right was something Randyll had seen dozens of times through his life. He did not think he could ever forget the red dragon upon black.
The golden crown detailed with emeralds upon brown, however, was something he had only seen once, worn on a surcoat by the rider in the middle of the party.
"Indeed there are," he replied, straightening his back and letting his hand rest still upon the pommel of his ancestral Valyrian steel sword, sheathed in its jeweled scabbard and leaning against his leg. Usually, he would have it slung across his back, but it would be his own show of strength in comparison to Lord Mace's small-minded power play.
The riders were soon at the bridge, and the man Randyll knew to be Ser Tristifer Mudd halted his companions and rode a few steps past.
"Lord Randyll Tarly, a pleasure to meet again. I am missing the presence of your Liege Lord Mace Tyrell?" the man shouted, looking a little hesitant—alert was maybe the better word, Randyll thought.
He picked up the scabbard holding Heartsbane before bowing. "And to you as well, Lord Hand. I am afraid Lord Mace is in an encampment a half hour behind."
Randyll could see the young Hand raise an eyebrow. "I see. Suppose I don't want to keep the Vanquisher of the Demon waiting then." There were some small chuckles from his men while he simply stared at the knight.
"Indeed, let us ride," Randyll commented after a moment, attaching Heartsbane to his mount's saddle before swinging up on it. He then turned to some of his men. "You ten will stay here and guard the bridge. I defer to you on how to handle it." His men did not reply as the rest of his entourage mounted their horses. They were soon joined by Tristifer and his men, with the Hand riding up alongside him.
"You have accomplished much and more since I last saw you, Lord Hand," he started. "A most impressive list, I must say, from someone who has only heard rumors and less."
Tristifer and Randyll rode at the head of the column, leaving the rest of their entourage to follow. Randyll noticed a thinner rider clad more like a knight, his horse two steps behind Tristifer's.
The younger man glanced at him with a touch of humor in his green-blue eyes. "Less, my Lord?" Tristifer echoed, a hint of amusement in his tone.
Randyll maintained his serious expression, even as he saw the subtle grin on Tristifer's face. "Indeed, Lord Hand. The soldiery are prone to the queerest japes and stories in the absence of facts."
Tristifer nodded, his grin widening slightly. "I suppose they are. Any specific stories that caught your ear?"
Randyll regarded him thoughtfully. "Everything from dragons to sorcery, snarks and grumkins. All drivel, really. What I am more interested in are the facts."
Randyll listened intently as Tristifer recounted his rise from guardsman under the patronage of a prince to becoming Hand of the King and detailing his most recent battle. Randyll remained silent throughout, asking only brief clarifying questions. He recognized that Tristifer's account, while likely edited for brevity, was nonetheless a compelling narrative—one that could easily have been the stuff of legend. Now, it seemed, it was becoming a significant chapter in history.
"How is it you've come by all this knowledge?" Randyll asked, his curiosity piqued. "I refuse to believe it's solely down to luck."
Tristifer regarded him thoughtfully. "Lords may forget the lessons of the past, but books do not. It's remarkable how many pitfalls can be avoided by studying history."
A faint chuckle almost escaped Randyll's lips at this simple yet intriguing answer. "Correct me if I'm wrong, Lord Hand, but weren't you born common? How did you come by such access to these books?"
Tristifer smirked. "True, I was not born in a keep or castle. However, my grandsire, who raised me, was deeply interested in the histories of our house and beyond. Additionally, I spent a considerable amount of time in the service of Ser Roger Hogg at his keep, where I had access to his extensive martial library."
"It is clear you are a resourceful man in all facets," Randyll stated, noting the humility in Tristifer's nod, though he doubted its authenticity.
"I thank you for the kind words, my Lord," Tristifer replied.
Randyll shook his head. "You have only delayed the seemingly inevitable for now." The Tarly lord was now deadly serious. "King Daeron I won every battle and even the war but could not win the peace."
He had Tristifer's full attention now. "You would not be the first in history, as you say. The higher you rise in arrogance, the harder the fall."
Tristifer seemed slightly irritated by his words. "Have I not proven myself? Lord Tywin lays bloodied, Lord Eddard captured, and Robert Baratheon chasing his own tail," he exclaimed, clearly touched by Randyll's pointed remarks.
Randyll remained composed, his expression impassive. "You have proven yourself a commander capable of victory and a leader of men. But will you quit while ahead or dare to keep office with enemies both angry and knowledgeable of your abilities? These are the questions you need to ask yourself," Randyll replied sagely. "Be mad at my words all you want; it will only prove them true. I wish for us to win, of course, but that cannot happen if we are led by a child."
Tristifer's anger flickered for a moment longer before he settled for a stiff nod. "Action before words, Lord Tarly, action before words."
Randyll never got to reply as they entered the sea of tents strewn about the dense forest by the Kingsroad. Before long, they arrived at an ostentatious green pavilion, its silk walls adorned with golden roses.
The guards outside the pavilion straightened at their approach. One of them stepped forward, a young man in Tyrell colors, and bowed. "Lord Tarly, and... Lord Hand, welcome. Lord Tyrell awaits you inside."
Randyll dismounted, handing his reins to a waiting squire. Tristifer followed suit silently, the two men soon walking into the green-colored pavilion.
Inside, Lord Mace Tyrell sat at a grand table, a map of the realm spread out before him. He looked up as they entered, a broad smile spreading across his face. "Ah, Lord Hand, I hope the journey was not too uncomfortable?" When Tristifer did not immediately reply, the Rose lord simply shook his head with a knowing look upon his face.
"Welcome, welcome regardless. Could I interest you in something off the cheese tray? Ever had, they are simply to die for," the portly man clad in ill-fitting if rich-looking armor said as Randyll walked to his side.
Tristifer glanced at him briefly before taking a seat and nodding. "I have had the pleasure, but I suppose something while we discuss would not hurt."
Mace nodded enthusiastically, signaling a servant to bring the tray. "Excellent, excellent. Now, we have much to discuss, don't we?"
Tristifer nodded after a moment. "Well yes, if I may outline my vision and then you can comment on what you think of it?" The Lord Hand said, addressing them both.
"Sounds like a fine plan, does it not, Lord Randyll?" Mace Tyrell agreed, his tone condescending.
Randyll simply nodded, waving away the servant who tried offering him the cheeses. It would have been comical if Randyll had not been so provoked by the Lord Paramount's attitude toward war, thinking it a great series of feasts and then a tourney at the end. It was infuriating to see the waste of resources, but there was little he could do.
"Well, I intend to ferry as many of your men across the bay to Stokeworth with the Royal Fleet, which is a hundred and fifty vessels strong currently. The Master of Ships, Lord Velaryon, reckons it would be possible to have twenty thousand men or so over in a reasonable amount of time," Tristifer explained.
"Oh ho ho, and why would I split my forces in half? The Kingsroad is perfectly fine for marching, I assure you," Lord Mace replied with a 'rich' chuckle.
Randyll grimaced. "He intends for us to accost Robert Baratheon on his march south, not to flank Lannister," he decided to leave out anything else he wished to add.
Lord Mace blinked, seeming to try to make sense of the plan in his head. "A most... interesting proposition, Lord Hand," the portly lord eventually commented.
"Yes, you will land in Stokeworth lands and then march to ambush Robert Baratheon and his host as they head south. I will leave the orchestration of the details to you."
Lord Mace was silent now, so Randyll decided to take the initiative. "Very well, but what of the other half? Will you alert Lord Tywin of their presence to keep his gaze south, or...?" He suggested. It might be prudent, though it could just as easily send the Lion to flight either to the North or West.
"No, it may spook Lord Lannister, and I wish for him to dip his banners then and there. No, instead you will have the remaining host here camped either here or by the Chyttering Brook, ready to march with a slight delay to allow for the ferrying of the first half." Tristifer took a brief breath, locking eyes with Randyll.
"Then, on the night before or of your ambush of Robert, I will sally forth from the city, sabotaging his camp, supplies, and siege works, leaving them both distracted and in no condition to potentially reinforce or attack your men."
Randyll's eyebrows rose at the comprehensive plan. It seemed quite feasible, though it required some luck to make it work. It still left them with some leeway to maneuver. "Not a bad plan at all, Lord Hand. I am sure we can polish the rough edges, but it sounds both daring and possible enough to work."
"I believe it would be most prudent to leave you in charge of this force, Lord Tarly, and Lord Mace in charge of the remaining—" Tristifer began, but Mace Tyrell cut him off abruptly.
"No! No, as Lord of the Reach and Warden of the South, I will lead this daring attack with Lord Randyll here by my side." Mace exclaimed, seemingly trying to convince himself as much as anyone else. Randyll was well aware of Tyrell's fear that any grand victory and influence for his vassals could challenge his seat at Highgarden.
Randyll understood the delicate balance of power within the Reach. Despite Mace's weaknesses, a divided Reach was a vulnerable one—a lesson learned painfully during the Blackfyre Rebellions and Peake Uprising. The other heirs of House Gardener would not accept House Tarly, especially not under a dragonless King and Royal Family.
"Very well, my Lord," Randyll replied to his liege, speaking for Tristifer. "If you leave with me, might I suggest your goodbrothers, Sers Baelor and Garth, lead the remaining force."
Lord Mace looked confused for a moment before recognition dawned. "Ah yes, of course. My wife's family has proven loyal and worthy of this honor indeed, a fine suggestion."
Tristifer seemed a bit puzzled during this exchange but then hesitantly smiled. "It sounds like we have figured out a plan?" Randyll nodded, and Lord Mace smiled, once more at ease.
"Indeed, I believe we have covered what was needed. Now, how about you join me for a luncheon, my Lord Hand? You mentioned a betrothal between my Margaery and the King. Perhaps we could discuss it over the meal?" Lord Mace inquired with a hungry look on his face.
"I suppose we could," Tristifer agreed as the two rose to their feet. "Until we meet again, Lord Tarly," the Hand said as he departed with Lord Mace, the portly man now entirely focused on the betrothal.
Randyll waved before sighing as they left the pavilion, guards in tow. Only time would tell how this all would develop. He liked the plan but was well aware how even the most carefully laid schemes could fail for the smallest of reasons.
The war was undoubtedly entering a new phase. Whether this would be the final chapter, Randyll could not say, but he knew that this phase would be decisive. The question remained: for which side?
End of Chapter
I could not help myself and now I am 11 000 words later. We continue to maneuver with a more calm chapter than the last though not without any action. Tristifer plots and schemes. Tarly strategizes and prepares.
How disappointing was the S2 'finale' of HOTD? They are fumbling it! No but seriously there are some shenanigans there which is leaving a slight bad taste in my mouth even as I enjoy the visuals and acting. The plot and BTS are a little concerning, and now we have to wait two years after that S3 Trailer episode.
Sorry for the rant, hopefully, you enjoyed the chapter as House Mudd's journey continues. Toodles.