Author's Note: Hello again. Fell into the old trap of 'I like it but don't love it', which always results in long delays from me. Such is my life as an amateur writer.
Anyway, I hope you enjoy and review this update. I'll try to have another out very soon!
Chapter 28
Original word count: 3,252
Revised word count: 4,500
The harbor burned.
Tywin Lannister stood atop the walls of Lannisport, watching the chaos beneath. The sun was rising behind him, but the first tendrils of dawn were no match for the blinding light of the burning ships at anchor.
Their answer is no, then.
He hated having his offers thrown back in his face. He hated even more how often that happened lately. King Aerys the Mad had done it to him twice, when the Lion of the West offered his maiden daughter Cersei first to Rhaegar and then to Aelor, with the intention that his grandchildren sitting the Iron Throne one way or another. Now, as the burning ships signified, Quellon Greyjoy had done the same.
Over thirty galleys and several smaller craft had been put to flame by the sleek longships of the Ironborn, along with dozens of merchant traders and fishercraft. Though soldiers scurried around the docks below, fighting to keep the blaze from encroaching further on the city's walls and saving anything they could, Tywin could already tell no ships would be salvageable.
There is no helping it now. The Ironborn have chosen their side, and now we must adjust.
Lord Quenton Banefort approached, face grimy. The Lord of the Banefort was short and thick of shoulder and neck, and a good commander of men. He was also loyal to House Lannister above all else, having additional reasoning for joining Tywin in his rebellion; both of Lord Quenton's younger brothers had joined the attack on King's Landing, one dying in the fighting in the streets and the other in the slaughter at the sept. "It is as you guessed, Lord Tywin. They put the crews to the sword and stole what they could, then set it all alight and slipped back out into the sea."
"They knew they had no chance of taking the city, not with our armies growing within and without." Tywin clenched his jaw in irritation. "Doubtful they lost so much as a single man." And will now set their course for the keeps and towns of the Westerlands, while our strength is all centered here and cannot be spared to oppose them.
Tywin had not put much stock in the Seven in years—not since Joanna had died—but he wondered if he were facing divine punishment for actions he had taken in the past. Too much had gone too wrong in too many ways for it to only be the maneuvers of men.
His breakneck advance on King's Landing had not only been detected—Varys' work no doubt—but also correctly guessed to be hostile, despite only the inner council knowing their true intent until right outside the gates. Aelor Targaryen had abandoned the chase for Robert Baratheon and force marched his entire force back to the capitol on that hunch, catching and slaughtering Tywin's own force when his men had been distracted with looting and pillaging. The siege in the sept had been ended before Tywin could properly negotiate terms, according to his sources having been upended by sinful septons and a drunk. Tywin and Jaime's escape, which could have been a devastating blow to House Targaryen had it been accomplished a fortnight earlier, had come too late; Robert had died the day before, and his rebellion with him. His assassination of the Martell queen had proven to be nothing but trouble considering the survival of her children, only serving to antagonize Dorne.
Logic would have him surrender, to throw himself and his children on the mercy of Aelor Targaryen. But that was a course Tywin Lannister would not plot, a possibility for the future but not for now. He would not ask for mercy for actions he took in the interest of House Lannister, however they had played out. His pride would not let him, and even if it would, Tywin knew mercy would not be found in the second son of Aerys. Not yet, at least.
He still had thirty thousand men in the Westerlands, and he had Casterly Rock and Lannisport. His men would serve him for fear of a second Castamere, and Tywin had not neglected his family's seat and city during his years as head of House Lannister; both were well provisioned, capable of keeping large armies fed for far longer than the Targaryens would want to lay siege. Even now, he had forces spreading throughout the Westerlands, further stockpiling food and drink, much as he had in the Sept when the Sack turned sour. He could withstand Aelor and his armies for a time, wear them down until they were thoroughly sick of sleeping in tents and shitting in ditches, and then negotiate a more favorable surrender, saving face and saving lives. Tywin had no doubt he personally would still suffer, perhaps even still die, but he could put his house in a stronger position to absorb the blow and carry on.
Cursed by the Seven or not, House Lannister will survive this.
Tywin glanced back at the raging fires of the harbor. Though it could have been easier.
The Ironborn raid was particularly damning considering Tywin had, however briefly, had naval superiority. Reports from his spies in the capital—and he still had many, even with his puppet Pycelle reduced to a rotting head on a spike—told him the Royal Navy and Redwyne Fleet had both been severely damaged by the recent storm that had battered the eastern coast. While he did not intend to use his fleet offensively—defense was the course that best favored his house—having the threat of it available would have greatly benefited his goal. Having the Ironborn on his side would have been even better and would have forced the Targaryen hand much sooner.
Instead, the Ironborn had chosen the other side. Aelor had struck a deal first, a truth that irritated and surprised the Lion all the more. He'd known the spare heir for all of the boy's life, and had known Aelor was a capable commander and fierce fighter, but political maneuvering had never been his talent. While it didn't take much tact to know approaching the Ironborn for support was a good move, it did take a modicum of it to actually convince them.
Perhaps I misjudged Aelor. Or perhaps he is merely smarter than his father, and surrounded himself with men of sense. Arryn perhaps, now that he's back in the Targaryen fold.
Contemplative, the night sky filled with the sound of shouting and flame, Tywin turned his attention from the burning ships to the lords and officers near him on the walls. He could already see the restlessness in the faces of some of his coastal lords, men who had guessed as Tywin had what the Ironborn would do next. Fear for the families they'd left relatively undefended would prove a looming threat to the stability of his force, another wave eroding the foundations of his rebellion. He was certain many already harbored doubts, and if not for the fear of his reprisal should they dither in their duty—something Tywin had made a point of instilling in his bannermen—they might well have abandoned him already.
Tywin could not afford to let the doubt build in his lords, or the confidence in his enemies. A show of force was needed, something to prove to both ally and enemy that a predator was never more dangerous than when cornered.
"Tybolt." One of his countless Lannisport cousins, golden-haired and well built, ceased what had been a vicious tirade and stepped at once to his liege's side. The head of one of the minor branches, Tybolt was an eccentrically pious man who had been making a grand show of heaping condemnation upon the 'heathens and their fish god' as well as the 'abomination of incest that unleashed them'. Tywin knew the man's zealotry and hatred was heartfelt, just as he knew Tybolt had a cruel streak to match Maegor Targaryen's.
Tywin could work with hatred and cruelty. Sometimes they were nearly as good a motivator as fear.
Nearly.
Tywin nodded once at his kinsman. "Tell me again of the spikes."
Edmure Tully, a stocky boy of twelve, wasn't proving nearly as useful of a squire as Desmond had been, but the lad was eager, and Aelor supposed he couldn't ask for much more than that. Though the heir to the Riverlands was here more as a hostage than as a squire, the red-haired youth's spirits did not seem dampened by that. He was energetic and willing to learn, though willing did not necessarily mean exceedingly capable.
Not all men are meant to be swordsmen, I suppose.
Aelor reprimanded Edmure sternly, again showing the lad the proper way to set his feet, and barely choked down a frustrated curse when the boy immediately forwent the stance the moment Aelor crossed practice swords with him. Aelor knocked the lad to the ground on the second swing, blunted blade flying one direction and the heir to the Riverlands the other.
"I'll work with him, Ser," Desmond said before Aelor lost the struggle with his irritation. The young knight trotted over to Edmure from where he had been training with a knight of House Byrch, helping the boy to his feet. "We'll meet you back at your pavilion later if it pleases you."
Aelor nodded, knowing Des had sensed his frustrations and was offering the prince a break. Bless him, I'll take it. "It does. I'll see you both then." Another thing I owe him for. Des had earned the knighthood Aelor gave him at the Trident, surviving despite his youth when many more veteran men had died. What's more, he'd saved Aelor when Baratheon's charge had unhorsed him, holding off men twice his age and experience while the dragonlord regained his feet. And now he saves me from myself. It turns out Lord Jarman was good for more than just jibes.
Aelor moved towards his tent, Ser Manfred a white boulder behind him. The Prince Regent knew he should be better than that—Edmure was a boy, and no one knew anything until they were taught—but he couldn't find it in him to feel too guilty. He felt very little these days save for anger at everything and anticipation for killing every Lannister he could find, and sometimes those around him were caught up in that maelstrom. Even Manfred had been testing the prince of late; the squat man, despite his knighthood, hated horses with a passion and thusly hated riding even more—though, in fairness, Manfred hated most things. As he and the Kingsguard knight lead the column through the Riverlands, Aelor had been constantly battered by the big man's curses as he swore at his bloody stupid courser, the bloody stupid wet, the bloody stupid Lannisters and every other bloody stupid thing that drew the knight's ire. Aelor liked the man tremendously, but if he complained one more time the prince might well kill him.
He'd known since before leaving that this was a duty much more suited to Barristan Selmy, but Aelor refused to think any more of that right now.
Manfred took his post outside the black pavilion as Aelor pushed through the opening, the interior lit by several braziers and the ground covered in Myrish rugs, waving his hand out of habit to stop those inside from rising. He needn't have, for one of those was Oberyn Martell of Dorne, seated at the large table in the center with pretty Ellaria Sand in his lap. Aelor had gotten to know the bastard of Uller quite well at King's Landing and during the Trident campaign, for she went everywhere Oberyn went and was not shy about voicing her opinion. Aelor liked her well enough and was pleased as Oberyn's friend to see how well she softened the infamously unruly Red Viper's sharp edges, but the casual intimacy the two shared tore at Aelor in ways it hadn't before.
What could have been. That wretched, blessed voice tried to sour him against Ellaria and Oberyn for it, but he'd retained enough of his old self to resist that. For now, it whispered.
Aelor forced it away, turning his attention to a third figure seated across from Oberyn, methodically slicing off hunks of salted pork with a dagger and eating them. Baelor Hightower, the heir to Oldtown, was a tall, lean man a few years older than Aelor, called 'Brightsmile' by those in the Reach for his handsome features. Well-spoken and charming, Aelor had given him a place of command in the vanguard, though that had nothing to do with his courtly attributes. Hightower was one of the three thousand men that had charged across the Trident in Aelor's first wave, and one of less than a hundred to survive it. He'd further shown his valor in the later stages of the battle, helping to rally the faltering royalists, and leading a second charge that broke the rebel left with a sword in one hand and the Targaryen banner in the other.
"The scouts?" Aelor asked him as he entered, black armor clanking. Most men forsook plate unless they were on the eve of battle, but Aelor had been in his so often over the past year that he now felt naked without it. The armor had become a second skin, as familiar to him as his hands and feet.
"No change of note, Your Grace," Baelor said, flipping a slice of ham towards Oberyn, who caught it with one hand and popped it into his mouth. The history between the two was colorful, for Oberyn had named Baelor 'Breakwind' when he and Elia had visited Oldtown in search of potential betrothals some years back. While the nickname had certainly ended any chance of Baelor being a suitor, Oberyn and the Hightower had developed an odd friendship.
All of Oberyn's friendships are odd, I suppose. Hell, my friendship with Oberyn is odd.
"My outriders claim there is still no sign of a significant force at the Golden Tooth, at least not many beyond the Leffords personal men," Oberyn said around the mouthful of pork, Ellaria playfully scowling at his lack of manners. "Still no levies raised, and no ravens have left over the last few days."
"I know we've said it before and that Ser Manfred killed the raven meant for him, but Lord Leo surely must know by now what is going on." Brightsmile offered another slice of the ham to Aelor as he took his own seat, the prince taking it with a nod of thanks. He'd had trouble remembering to eat of late. "Other ravens have reached him, and while we've been killing messengers there is always a chance one slipped through the net."
"A war is certainly a hard thing to ignore," Aelor agreed.
"Do you suppose he intends to let you march through, Prince Aelor?" Ellaria now, glaring at Baelor until he realized his blunder and rushed to offer her another of the slices.
"Perhaps," Aelor said. He'd been wondering the same thing for several days, and didn't know if the prospect of passing through without bloodshed pleased him or left him feeling…cheated. That thought once would have scared him. It didn't now. "I don't know Lord Lefford personally, but he's rumored to be the sensible sort. Maybe he sees the odds against them more clearly than the others do."
Brightsmile nodded. "The western lords can't all be stupid. Any man who believes the Lannisters have a chance in this are fools, especially after the Greyjoys burned their fleet." He cocked his head, then continued grudgingly. "Though I will admit, if any man can turn this situation around to his advantage it would be Tywin Lannister."
"He'll have a hard time turning this one around," came the stone breaking voice of Ser Manfred as he stomped into the tent, face shockingly less of a scowl than normal. It was still very much a scowl, showing his hatred of everything with every line and contour, but for Manfred Darke the expression nearly passed for a smile. "There is someone here to see you."
There was a difference in idiots and fools. Idiots didn't recognize the truth, too rash or distracted or simple to see what was before them. Fools ignored the truth, clinging to hopes or dreams or desires so desperately that they convinced themselves the truth was not true.
Lord Leo Lefford was often an idiot, but he had never been a fool.
Until now.
He feared Tywin Lannister and felt no shame in admitting that, for only a fool wouldn't fear the Lion of the Rock. Tywin was brilliant and ruthless, and did not shy from the unsavory or the cruel if it advanced his house. Leo had seen that firsthand, having been at Castamere when they'd redirected the river to flood the underground castle and its warren of tunnels and shafts, knowing that every Reyne inside, man, woman or child, would die a horrible death. Tywin Lannister's face that day, even in his youth, had revealed only the clenched-jawed sternness it would keep in all the years since.
Leo had decided that day that only a fool would cross the Lion, then spent the following decades making a point of not being one.
But now… What does a man do when he has only two choices, and he'd have to be a fool to choose either?
Become one, I suppose.
It was a clear, cloudless day, perfect for a ride down the valley road that cut straight arrow-straight between the rising hills and high peaks on either side. The Lord of the Golden Tooth took it alone, a single slender and greying man on horseback as the sun started to fade. Alysanne had protested vigorously when he had insisted on riding out, her concerns shared by his maester and knights and cousins and probably the bloody stable hands and serving wenches to boot, but Leo's will had prevailed. If it all somehow went to hell, he could claim his household had had no part and that the fault was his and his alone, so long as he was the only man to do what he planned. Though this might be the most sensible fool thing anyone has ever done.
The Golden Tooth had not received a raven weeks ago, something the other Westerman high houses had. The call to arms came to Leo late, secondhand, passed on by a rider from House Payne. War had reached the Rock, and he was to rally his men and his levies and make all haste to Lannisport. He'd hesitated, sending a raven to Casterly Rock asking for clarity, for Tywin was supposedly a prisoner in King's Landing and calling the banners seemed an excellent way to relieve him of his head. The return raven, signed by Tywin himself, had changed Leo's directive. He was to rally his forces and hold the Tooth while the other Westerman marshalled at Lannisport.
It had come mere hours before reports began pouring in that a Targaryen host was nearing his lands from Riverrun.
Leo had ordered his vassals and their retinues to attend him at the Golden Tooth, but he doubted many would arrive in time, and he had not even bothered with raising his levies. Mounted knights might reach him in time and do some good, but there was no chance his smallfolk could walk to the Tooth before the Targaryen force was upon them. Even if by some act of the Stranger they did, they would be untrained and unprepared for battle with hardened knights—it would be feeding lambs to wolves. Or dragons. Leo had instead prepared for a siege with what he had and considered the unthinkable.
Tywin Lannister would have his head and the heads of all his family if Lord Leo was to forsake him, this he knew beyond doubt. Aelor Targaryen would likely spare their lives even if House Lefford resisted, and all risk would be negated.
But the more one risked, the more one might be rewarded. An idea had taken root in his mind, one that might see the influence of House Lefford rise higher than ever before. He weighed what would happen in the unlikely event Tywin somehow survived the upcoming war, and weighed against it what could happen if he played this correctly.
The decision wasn't nearly as hard as one might expect.
The scouts were good, for he'd seen no sign of them. One moment Leo Lefford had been riding alone in the dying sunlight, the next riders were on either side of him, keeping pace with his own palfrey and regarding him carefully, hands on swords. Dornishmen by the look of them, olive faces and dark eyes, wearing orange surcoats with a red sun and spear upon them.
"Good evening," Leo said, smiling at the bigger of the two despite the fright their sudden appearance had given him. "You wouldn't know where I might find Aelor Targaryen, would you?"
Half an hour later Leo Lefford found himself entering a black pavilion, escorted by perhaps the broadest and ugliest man the Lord of the Golden Tooth had ever seen this side of Gregor Clegane.
The Kingsguard knight was certainly a sharp contrast to the figure waiting inside. A tall and broad Valyrian man stood not far into the tent, violet eyes peering down a once-broken nose at Leo with cocked brow. "Lord Lefford," Aelor Targaryen said, voice a deep bass. "As you might imagine, this is quite a surprise."
Well, at least convincing Alysanne should prove easy. She will be enamored, even with that scar.
Leo Lefford bowed at the waist, possibilities running through his mind at a sprint. "So was an army approaching my castle, Prince Aelor. These are surprising times."
The prince cocked his head slightly to the side, studying Leo as the Dornish scouts had done. "Indeed, particularly when a man rides unaccompanied and unarmed into an enemy's camp."
Leo smiled at him. "And who said we were enemies?"
The prince did not smile back. Not one for joviality then. Best keep it simple. "Your liege lord, for one." The dragonlord gestured to another figure seated at the table behind him, a Dornishman with a woman in his lap. "Prince Oberyn for another."
Leo met the Prince of Dorne's eyes, Martell regarding him with unmistakable enmity."I do not blame him. I heard of Princess Elia's murder around the same time that I learned you were nearing my lands." Leo dipped his chin towards Oberyn, though he did not shy from his glare; it held nothing on Tywin Lannister's. "I am sorry for your loss, Prince Oberyn, though I myself had no hand in it."
The Red Viper said nothing, though his glare did seem to lessen slightly. Targaryen spoke for him, drawing the Westerman's attention back to him. "Why are you here, Lord Lefford?"
Leo shrugged. "I will admit, if I had been aware of this new development in the war a fortnight sooner, I likely wouldn't be. As it is, I received no orders from Lord Tywin until it was too late to call my levies. I was commanded to hold you and your forces at the Tooth, though that would prove much more difficult without them. I don't intend for my people to suffer and die because a bird got lost."
The Dragon of Duskendale, eyes still hard and wary, nodded his head to where the Kingsguard knight stood near Leo, hand on his sword. "You have Ser Manfred Darke to thank for that. He removed the head of the raven meant for you."
Leo glanced at the knight for a moment, the man's scowl from earlier still present. "That is quite the shame, at least for Tywin Lannister." Lefford turned back towards the dragonlord. "I daresay it is a blessing for you."
The prince stared at him a long moment more, then nodded once. "Go on."
No going back now. "The Tooth is a stout castle, and even without my levies and most of my sworn vassals it would prove difficult for you and your men to breach it. But I am no fool, Prince Aelor. You would breach it, sooner or later, and most of those under my protection would die in the struggle. I have a duty to my liege lord, but I have a duty to my house and those who serve it as well. Circumstances being what they are, I will choose the latter over the former."
Leo cleared his throat, deciding complete sincerity would best serve him here. "Your father was not a good king, Prince Aelor, and I understand the reasons behind the first rebellion. But your father is dead, as is your brother and the man he insulted, and it should have ended there. The death of the Queen was unnecessary, and it will cost Tywin Lannister dearly. I don't intend for the Leffords to suffer for it too." Leo sank to one knee, bowing his head. "The Golden Tooth is yours, Prince Aelor, as is my sword and the swords of my men."
Aelor Targaryen nodded once, then gestured for Leo to rise. "You are a wise man, Lord Lefford. I accept your sword and those of your knights. Do they all agree with your decision, or will there be resistance?"
Leo rose as prompted, grunting in amusement. "None even knew of my intent in leaving, Your Grace, so I imagine there will be some argument. But my people are loyal to me, and a few thousand of your men escorting me back will do wonders in convincing the stubborn ones, especially when I lead them to the gates myself."
Prince Oberyn finally spoke, his tone curious. "You would willingly disobey Tywin Lannister? I thought all Westerman feared him after Castamere."
"I do fear the man, in truth more than I fear either of you. But Tywin Lannister is miles away and you are right here, with a larger army as well. If I am to be afraid, I will fear the dragon at my doorstep over the lion in the leaves."
Aelor Targaryen finally cracked a smile. "You are a blunt man, Leo Lefford. I can appreciate that." The Dragon of Duskendale turned to a third man in the tent, who had remained silent throughout the exchange. "Ser Baelor, round us up an honor guard if you would." The tall man, a Hightower by his dress, nodded and left at once. Aelor turned back towards Leo. "I suppose you would like a glass of wine? It seems customary for these sort of agreements."
Leo Lefford smiled. "I would very much like one, Your Grace." He turned around to gesture the way he had come hours earlier, the full moon now gleaming down at the growing hills and mountains where deep within his castle lay. "But I believe I know a much more comfortable venue."