Jon Arryn
The darkness was smothering him. Every time he thought that he was clawing his way out of it, it pulled him back down again, down into those black depths. He dreamed in that blackness, dark and terrible dreams. The ruin of the Realm, the death of his son, the deaths of Robert and Ned, the deaths of his kith and kin. He relived the deaths of all that had been close to him, and saw again Denys fall at the Battle of the Bells, to the sword of Connington.
And then there was Lysa. She was always there, somewhere, dressed in blackness, her face twisted and her dagger ready. That was the worst dream of all. She killed him again and again. She killed young Robert and then blamed him. She blamed him for everything. And there was blood. Blood everywhere.
Dark dreams. And then… something shifted. Robert. He could hear Robert. He was faint, he sounded strained but as if he was trying to be cheerful. He was leaving for the North. Leaving to find out what was going on. Leaving for Winterfell. A raven had arrived from Ned. Young Robert was doing well, flourishing. Learning to ride a horse apparently.
Robert faded away and the dreams took him again. The Battle of the Bells again. And then the Ruby Ford – only this time Rhaegar won. Robert went down, his massive form slumping into the water, the great Warhammer broken, he had been too late again, always too late, his legs too slow, his frame too old, his mind too feeble.
Wait. What had Robert said?
Learning to ride a horse. It rang through him and pushed him up out of the darkness. His son needed him. An Arryn should ride a horse. An Arryn should know of the Knights of the Vale and how to fight. He clawed his way up, exhausted but still trying. Up from the shadows, out from the darkness.
The dreams chased him, clawed at him, flailed him with shards of bitter memory and terrible nightmare. Failed, came the words, failed. You have failed the Realm.
The voice sounded like Baelish – and that was another reason to fight, to claw out of the darkness. He was never going to let that piece of filthy thieving scum win, not now. His shade might slither out from the Seven Hells, but if needed he'd kill even that oozing remnant. No, Baelish would not win.
Sounds began to filter through the thick cloth that seemed to be wrapped around him. Someone talking? Pycelle? And… Quill. He struggled again, the cloth tearing and ripping as he struggled to get through it. Robert needed him. The Realm needed him. No - his son needed him.
It felt as if every part of him had been dipped in lead, so great was the struggle to move, but at long last he finally managed to crack an eyelid open. He felt exhausted – and hungry, but that was as nothing to the thirst. His throat was parched.
He looked about as much as one half-open eyelid would allow. There was someone moving on the other side. A… man? Yes, a man. A Maester – and a young one. He looked as if he was reading something.
It once again took a massive effort but after a long moment he was finally able to make a noise. It was little more than a gargle, but the Maester's head shot up as if he had shouted at him. "My Lord?" The man stood and peered at him. "Lord Arryn? Was that you?"
A nod of infinite slowness – but it was enough to get the Maester buzzing around him. "You are awake? Can you hear me? Oh, this is most welcome news, perhaps that last poultice helped, what was in it again, I need to consult my notes…"
He opened both eyes and glared at the man properly, who finally fell silent. "What do you need My Lord?"
"Wa…ter. Dr…ink."
The Maester cursed at himself and then poured a glass of what looked well watered wine and then carefully brought it to his lips. It was like nectar. He gulped every drop with increasing strength, before leaning back weakly. "Quill…"
The Maester nodded and then hurried to the door. "Quill!" He barked the name earnestly. "Lord Arryn is awake!"
The door burst open and faithful Quill ran in, straight to his bed. "My Lord!"
He struggled to more than smile. Then he finally found the strength. "Quill. How… long… have… I slept?"
"Many days My Lord. Many days." Quill looked terrible, thin-faced and gaunt. "I… have lost count."
"Water… more… water."
"Aye My Lord," Quill barked, before jumping to the nearest pitcher. Another glass of watered wine and he felt fresh strength enter his body.
"My Lord," the Maester said carefully. "Do… do you remember who attacked you?"
His chest heaved for a moment as the grief stabbed through him. "Aye." He licked his lips slowly, chasing the last morsels of moisture. "Lysa. Lady… Arryn."
Quill and the Maester exchanged looks, one of fury and one of weary acceptance. "We thought as much My Lord," Quill said eventually. "Your dagger was found with blood on it and she was seen fleeing the city with an injured arm."
He swallowed the pain and the grief and then focussed on what was foremost on his mind. Robert. He had to be told. The Great Matter… he had tarried too long on it. What if he had died? It would have been left to Stannis to tell his brother, and whilst Stannis Baratheon was a good and dutiful man, he and Robert had never gotten on that well. They were too dissimilar at times – whilst being similar at other times.
"I… must… see the… King. His Grace."
This time the two men exchanged looks of deep bemusement. "I fear you are some hours too late My Lord," Quill said – and terror spiked through his mind. Had the Lannisters moved so quickly? Had Cersei manipulated her way against Robert?
"How… so?"
"His Grace has sailed for the North. To meet with Lord Stark."
Relief filled him. Not too late then. Not too late to secure King's Landing. "Who… has acted… in my… stead?"
Quill looked down at his feet for a moment. "His Grace said that… that he needed a full time Hand, My Lord. The new Hand of the King is Lord Stannis Baratheon. He has not left yet, but he is scheduled to do so. Something about dealing with unrest in the Riverlands."
Relief was replaced by wonder. Gods be good, had Robert started to mend the breach with his brother? And done something sensible? "Then… ask the Hand… to attend me." Then he sniffed. He stank. "But first… a bath. And… food."
Quill nodded and left, barking commands at guards as he went. He watched him go and then set his jaw. There was much to be done. The Realm needed him.
As did his son.
Robar
Young Edd looked worried as he slipped through the hole in the hedge and then scurried over to the men as they sat by the small fire in the pre-dawn darkness. And his first words sent a shiver of dread through him. "They've arrived."
He looked up from his task of sharpening his sword. "How many?"
"I counted forty of them. Five more were talking to Old Blackfeet."
Heh. The name for the mad Septon had taken after all. He frowned a little. That man was no Septon, not a real one. Anyone who roused smallfolk to do evil things in the name of the Seven was going against the words of the Seven. Hmm. There were times when he wondered just which road he might have taken if he hadn't heard the Call and been drawn here to the God's Eye and the good people that were here. "Did you hear what they were talking about to him?"
"Their leader was asking about what needed to be done. Apparently we're all pagans who need to be thrown into the arms of the Stranger."
The other men laughed a little and muttered insults, but he could tell how tense they all were now. They'd been lucky so far. Old Blackfeet had the tactical instincts of a small child at times. He had sent his 'Faithful' three times down the road that them now, all armed with as motley a collection of weapons as he could imagine.
He and the villagers had ambushed them each and every time with volleys of arrows. The man around here (and many of the women) were good hunters and could use their bows well. They'd gone after different game this time and they had made Blackfeet's Faithful have second, third and fourth thoughts about going anywhere near the village, the only place in the area that had boats.
It hadn't been all one-sided though. The Faithful had bows of their own and they'd used them. And last time they'd used their numbers to try and press home, to charge them. He'd killed five of them himself, messily and very visibly, before they had broken again and ran. They'd left five villagers dead behind them and another ten wounded. And the village couldn't lose any more men.
And now Old Blackfeet had more recruits. Hedge knights. Men with armour. "Are they mounted?"
"They are."
Well, fuck. "Aim for the horses then." He ran a weary hand over his face. "And we use the hedges as much as possible. If we can get them to charge home across Warrenfield then they might lose some of their numbers to holes in the ground." He was reaching a bit now, but he had to show confidence.
Young Edd nodded and then looked at them. "Any word from the Isle?"
"Nothing new. Old Edd went off with Lake Sprite just after dusk. No word of him since."
He nodded. Then he looked at Robar. "Will they sing songs of us do you think?"
That depended on the matter of any of them surviving. "Perhaps, lad. Perhaps."
A silence fell. "It isn't right. They can't win. They're in the wrong."
He sighed and laid a hand on the lad's shoulder. "Edd, there are times when evil men win and good men lose. This isn't a song. The songs leave the bad bits out, like evil winning over good. All we can do is fight – fight the best that we can. We have to protect the village and the island. They can't get to it. Not the Isle of Faces. It's the last true place where the Green Men still reside. All we can do is our best." He paused. "All we can do is our best," he repeated softly.
He stared into the fire. They'd need the few precious spears they had. And they'd have to hope that the hedge knights were led by an idiot. But somehow he knew that they probably weren't.
He was right, he thought an hour later as he stared at the road leading down to the village. The hedge knights were in a line on the left hand side of the road, away from the hedges and not on the side that held all those lovely rabbit holes. They had already sent a few scouts out into the copse to one side, the one that was just over the hill. Fortunately he'd pulled his men back from there already. Too obvious. No, this was going to be a battle of horsemen with demented idiots at their back against a grim pack of men and women with spears and bows.
And they didn't have enough spears and despite the best efforts of the fletchers they were running short of arrows.
"Archers, aim for the horses. We bring some of them down and they might bring others down. Spearmen – stay together. Horses will not charge spears. Not if you hold firm. Swordsmen, axemen – when they flank us aim at the eyes of the horses. Cruel, but the more they rear the less their riders can fight. We stand here. We fight here."
Grim nods greeted these words. And the words that were unsaid. 'We die here'.
The hedge knights didn't bother with a parley. They started to trot down the hill towards them, their leader at the front. He gritted his teeth and stared at the man. He was in old plate armour that looked as if it had been made before the first Blackfyre Rebellion and his shield was red with seven white stars painted on it. Yes, the Faith Militant.
"Steady," he warned. "Archers, stand ready!" They came on. He watched them come on, measuring distances in his head. He was distantly aware that someone was shouting his name somewhere behind him but he ignored the noises. He had to wait until… now. "LOOSE!"
Twenty bows sang almost one and a score of arrows flew through the air and into the horsemen. Perhaps five of them hit and at least one horse went down in a flail of hooves and blood. Not good enough, he thought, not good enough.
He opened his mouth again – who was it back there who kept calling name? – but before he could order another volley a horn blew to his left. Bold and brassy and a challenge to all that heard it – and then horsemen poured past the copse.
He gaped at the galloping newcomers. They were all dressed in green cloaks, with what looked like chainmail armour. One of then held a spear with a banner on it, a banner of a white tree with red leaves on a green background. And they were led by a trio of riders. Two looked familiar and he stared at them in shock. The Blackfish and that strange tall young woman. And the third was a tall man in what looked like plate armour with a helm that had horns on it. He stared. Was that the King? Wait, no, there were no Baratheon colours on him and there were no Kingsguard.
There were only twenty of them, but they were at full gallop now, spears and swords glittering in the sunlight. The leader of the hedge knights had seen the newcomers and was trying to get his men to turn, but it was hard to turn at a gallop.
The green men slammed into the side of the hedge knights and all was chaos. Hedge knights fell under sword and spear and the green men pressed home with a grim intensity. Behind them the crowd of Faithful had stopped in shock.
The leader of the hedge knights had turned his horse and then spurred at the tall man with the horns, recognising that this was the leader. But as he raised his sword the horned man moved just as quickly. He parried the blow almost effortlessly and then whipped out a backslash to the throat that left the man reeling out of the fight, red liquid sheeting down over his chestplate, before falling from the horse lifelessly.
That broke the hedge knights, or rather the few that remained. The Blackfish had killed at least three or four of them and the blonde women had matched him body for body. As the hedge knights galloped away the horned man held up a clenched fist and the green men rallied around him. A few looked as if they were injured, but none seriously.
The crowd of Faithful gaped at the horsemen – and then another horn sounded and more appeared from the left again, banners snapping in the wind. The crowd started to waver – and then the horned man stood up in his stirrups, threw back his head and roared. It was not a loud noise – or it didn't seem so – but he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.
The crowd fled. One minute they were staring at the man and the next they were running as fast as they could, leaving whatever they were holding behind him.
Some of the green men had unslung bows and were sending shafts into the chests of the few men who were trying to rally the Faithful – no small thing from the back of a horse – and as he watched the last of the rabble vanished off into the distance. It was only then that he realised that he had been standing there like an idiot, before letting out a shout of exultation. The others stared at him and then joined in, relief on all of their faces.
It was then that he saw Old Edd approach, his face wreathed in smiles. "I was trying to find you!" The older man grinned at him. "I got them over as fast as I could. Me and old Timmins, and everyone else they could find to haul a sail. The wind was kind to us. Just as… he… said it would be. The Green Man, that is. Him there."
He nodded, his heart suddenly too full for words, his eyes bright with unshed tears. And then he saw the Blackfish approach, leading his horse, with that blonde woman in armour next to him.
"Still alive then Robar?"
"Still alive. Good to see you Ser Brynden. You brought friends then." He looked at the other man and noticed that he was wearing a green cloak as well. So was she. And they both had cloak pins in the shape of horns. "You found what you were looking for then?"
The Blackfish exchanged a long glance with the woman. Brienne… that was her name. He'd only ever heard it the once and it had been what felt like an age and a half ago. Yes, Brienne. Brienne of… Tarth. He could see Young Edd staring at her with admiration and not a little fear as she cleaned her blade on a cloth.
"Oh, we found a great deal on the Isle of Faces," the Blackfish said wryly. "A lot of Green Men for a start." He looked at him again. "How bad was it here?"
"Not as bad as it could have been. They weren't expecting us to fight, not really. And that Septon leading them… well, he was no soldier. If he's with the dead then you'll know him by his black feet. As dirty as his soul. He used them to better his standing. Or he intended to. But we lost good people here. A score dead and wounded, all told."
"They will be remembered. Remembered as the Green Men go forth for the first time in many a long century. There is much that needs tending, some in very unlikely places." The words came from the man with the horned helmet as he walked his horse up to them. As he dismounted Robar realised that he was old – very old. How did he have the strength to wear that armour? And then he took his helm off. No. It couldn't be. He remembered seeing him once from a distance…
"You… you are the Green Man? But surely-"
"I was once a different man," the Green Man said with a sigh. "Yes. I was once Ser Duncan the Tall. T'was an age ago now, or so it feels like. Before I found a different duty." He straightened a little. "I have one last campaign within me. One last battle to push back the night. Now – you are Robar Glovett? Ser Brynden spoke of you. Spoke highly of you – as have others. And you have done well here. You have protected these people against fearful odds."
The Green Man drew his sword. "So – kneel."
He sank to one knee in a daze. The sword touched one shoulder and then the other lightly.
"Rise Ser Robar. The Others come. The Stark calls for aid. You are needed."