Chapter 96: Trampling the rose garden
King Robb Stark
The morning air was heavy with the scent of roses, though to him, it carried a sharp undercurrent of iron—the lingering memory of blood spilled in distant fields on the road behind him. Before him loomed Highgarden, the legendary seat of House Tyrell, its beauty undimmed by the fires of war. The castle rose like a vision from a minstrel's song, its pale stone walls entwined with flowering vines and its towers crowned with banners bearing the golden rose of House Tyrell. The lands around it were a riot of life and color—fields of sun-dappled green, orchards laden with ripening fruit, and the endless expanse of the Mander glinting like liquid silver in the distance. It was a vision of beauty, but he had seen enough beauty tarnished by war to know its fragility.
Highgarden may appear majestic and unbroken; it had been clear that war had also come here. Some fields around it seemed to be trampled by the remnants of an earlier army encampment, and the wreck of an Ironborn ship could be seen a few miles upstream.
He reined in his horse at the head of his host, their banners snapping in the light breeze. His auburn hair, streaked now with the beginnings of gray at the temples, glinted in the sunlight. The crown upon his brow felt heavier than it had on the day he first donned it, weighed down by the cost of years of conflict and the recent loss of friends and family.
Behind him moved his victorious army—grim-faced Northerners, scarred but loaded with gold, alongside Riverlords who were on the cusp of achieving revenge for their ill-fated and foreign-orchestrated civil war. Many of his most important nobles rode around him, like Umber, Dustin, Mallister, Tully, Manderly and Darry. Some looked happy, eager for the possibility of this war ending soon. Others looked stoic, not believing that the Tyrells would give up yet. It would all depend on who came out of that gate to talk to them.
As he neared, and his army spread out to set up camp, the castle gates creaked open, and the delegation of House Tyrell emerged. At their head was Lady Myrielle Tyrell, widow of the slain King Garlan and now regent of the Reach. Born of House Peake, she brought with her the scheming and zealous ways of her ancestral house. She carried herself with the poise of a queen who refused to kneel, her emerald-green gown trailing behind her in the saddle like the stems of the golden roses embroidered across its silk. Her face was pale but proud, framed by dark hair that fell in soft waves upon her shoulders. Though grief lingered in her features, her eyes—deep pools of blue threaded with untamed anger and steely resolve—assessed him as a woman that was used to getting her way. A woman whose fighting spirit was not yet broken, and that he would still have to break. He sighed internally at this observation, and the Reach's choice for negotiator as he would have rather talked with her goodmother, Lady Talla Tyrell, although his face betrayed nothing.
The lords and retainers who followed her looked less certain; their expressions uneasy as they cast furtive glances at the moving Northern host. Yet, after Lady Myrielle dismounted, her steps did not falter as she approached. Her chin was high, her gaze sharp, as though daring him to believe that the war had truly ended. Behind them, the golden rose of House Tyrell fluttered defiantly above the castle, a symbol indicating of a house refusing to accept its loss.
He dismounted amid an honor guard that Torr was creating on the spot, handing the reins to his squire and grandson, who had recently become the new Lord of Deepwood Motte. Galbart Glover accepted them without a word, skillfully leading his horse away from them as he himself strode forward with Grey Wind next to him. His measured step betrayed none of the exhaustion that tugged at his limbs. Their eyes met, and for a moment, the air seemed to hum with the tension of a thousand unspoken words.
Lady Myrielle inclined her head, but only barely—a gesture that danced on the edge of insult. "Stark," she said, her voice smooth and commanding, though it carried an undertone of defiance. "You stand before Highgarden, a castle that has never fallen, and yet you come as though you are its master. Have you come to pluck a rose, or merely trample it underfoot?"
His gaze hardened, though his tone remained calm. "I come as the victor of this war, my lady. The blood of my men, and yours, stains the fields of the Reach. I would see that no more is spilled."
Lady Myrielle's lips curved into a faint, bitter smile. "A victor, you say? I have not seen the banners of the direwolf waving in the wind above Highgarden, nor above the Hightower, above Old Oak or Horn Hill. Winning a battle does not make you the victor, Northerner. Swords can be crafted anew; new armies can be raised. Inside my walls I have over five thousand men and provisions to feed them for years to come. You have won nothing but this year's crops on our fields."
"Your late husband forced this war upon us, and I answered as any king would. Your people need peace, Lady Myrielle, not more prideful defiance. Without their crops they will die in droves."
"Peace?" Her voice sharpened, her indignation flaring like the thorns of her house's sigil. "You speak of peace and my people's need of food, yet it is your banners that darken our fields, your men who tread upon the legacy of House Tyrell. Do not speak to me of necessity or justice, Stark. You have brought war to the golden heart of Westeros, and you will find that it will not yield so easily."
The lords behind her shifted uneasily, and one dared to whisper something, but she silenced him with a glance. His jaw tightened, but he stood firm, his voice calm and unyielding. "Enough blood has been shed, my lady. You can rail against the tide, but it will not turn. The Reach will have to adhere to our demands. That is the price of peace. Refuse, and your people will pay a higher one."
Lady Myrielle stepped closer, her blue eyes blazing as she looked up at him. "The Reach does not kneel to wolves who choose to pray to trees, no matter how loudly they howl. My husband and eldest brother may be gone, but I will not see their legacy diminished or my son's inheritance defiled. If you believe your sword is enough to cow us, then you do not know the spirit of this land nor its faith. We are protected by the Seven. They will deliver us victory against your heathen forces!"
He sighed aloud. This zealous nonsense again, when would it ever stop? "I have neither the time nor stomach for this petty game, Lady Myrielle. Either you agree to our demands, or you don't. In the latter's case, the Reach will burn. Your crops and valuables will be looted and carried off, your castles and towns will burn, and your people will suffer unnecessary horrors. After that has happened, we will return to these talks with harsher terms. This will repeat itself until either the Reach surrenders, or it has become a wasteland. The choice is yours."
"What would those demands be?" Someone in her entourage asked. He wore the colors of House Vyrwell. Myrielle Tyrell shot him an angered glance, but she then turned back to him and raised his eyebrow. "Well?" She asked bluntly.
"Broadly?" He asked. "You will pay a war indemnity of three million golden roses over a course of fifteen years." He started, golden roses being the local equivalent of what had once been golden dragons.
"You will cede lands around your borders. Small tracts of lands from Houses Crane and Oakheart to the Westerlands. Larger areas in the east to House Baratheon, including all the areas from the former Crownlands that you received after the last war. The lords there that bow to Queen Shireen may keep their lands, those that don't will forfeit all of them. The Shield Islands will be relinquished to the Ironborn. All fortifications within a hundred leagues of the border with the Riverlands will also be demolished."
The eyes of Lord Vyrwell almost popped out of his head. "This is outrageous!" He cried, but he simply held up his hand in response. "I am not done yet."
"House Florent will be restored to Brightwater Keep, and all its original lands around it. Lord Ryam Florent will be given the Late Lord Leo Tyrell's only sister's hand in marriage to remove any other claimants from it, after the deaths of her three brothers." He continued, as he looked at the young Florent who was standing amongst his Northmen, a satisfied, vengeful grin on his face.
"The Faith Militant will be outlawed in the Reach, on the punishment of death. The High Septon will be delivered to us so he can be trialed in Riverrun for the crimes he ordered in the Riverlands. On top of that, exclusive trade contracts will need to be agreed to, and ransoms paid for all the prisoners taken. Finally, all loot taken in the war will be formally relinquished."
Lady Myrielle's jaw tightened, as she started to lash out again. But now she wasn't alone. Most of the lords in her retinue screamed their outrage at him. The hands of his loyal guardsmen went to their swords, but he stopped them. "You have received my demands. You have been completely defeated. Your army has been entirely destroyed, half of your kingdom is on fire and your seat of Highgarden will be under siege by nightfall. Know that I will not be this lenient next time." He expressed, his voice hard as ice.
Lady Myrielle's deep blue eyes had turned into pools of hate. "You dare to come here, to the heart of chivalry and faith, and dare to utter these demands? You dare to demand the head of the representative of the Gods? You heathens should learn your place! I will have you and your entire family flogged and executed for this on the steps of the Starry Sept. Together with the High Septon, I will burn your filthy trees to the ground and built Septs on them everywhere so the Septons' prayers can undo the thousands of years of tree-worshipping!" She razed uncontrollably, which in turn enraged all his own bannermen, not in the least his own sons.
Rickard stepped forward towards her, cold rage clear on his face, as he uttered words with a viciousness that took even him aback. "Mark my words carefully now, woman. You will regret having the audacity to speak about my family and Gods like that."
Myrielle's lips curled in disdain. "The Reach does not bend to wolves." She spat. "You come with your banners and your blades, thinking yourselves conquerors. But Highgarden stands. Our fields bloom, and our people endure. You have won battles, yes, but the Reach will never kneel to the likes of you.
Rickard's eyes narrowed, "Your pride blinds you, my lady," he said, his voice laced with quiet menace. "Look around you. Your golden knights lie broken in the fields. Your harvest, if not stolen, will rot in the ground, your rivers will run red with blood, and your precious roses will wither. You think your defiance is noble, but it is a death sentence for your people."
Myrielle raised her chin, refusing to shrink before him. "'Growing strong' are the words of House Tyrell, heathen. The Reach has faced ruin before. We have endured dragons, storms, and swords. We will endure you, and afterwards we will grow strong again."
Rickard's mouth twisted into a grim smile. "Endure? Let me tell you what endurance means, my lady. If you force my father's hand, the North will not stop with your fields. We will salt the earth, burn your orchards, and pull down every stone of this castle until Highgarden is nothing but ash. Your people will curse your name as they starve and freeze, knowing it was your arrogance that condemned them."
His son stepped closer, towering over her now, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "And when it is done—when the Reach is nothing but a memory—I will make certain the name Tyrell is spoken only in tales of ruin. Your son will have no kingdom to inherit, no people to rule. He will grow up a beggar, and your name will die with him."
The nobles from the Reach reached for their blades as they pushed themselves between their lady and his heir. His guards reacted similarly, but he calmed them down and ordered all, including Rickard, back. "All that needed to be said has been said. I want your answer now, Queen Dowager Tyrell. Will it be peace or destruction?" He asked calmly.
Myrielle Tyrell had become red in the face. She aggressively pushed a strand of hair that had come loose to the side. "I advise you to leave, Stark. Leave this meeting, leave these lands and never come back. If I ever see you or your son again, I will have you flayed alive like the Boltons used to do to your ancestors. They were onto something, although they sadly left the job unfinished." She almost growled, as she shot a look to Domeric. He shook his head in disapproval at the misguided defiance.
"Destruction it is, so be it." He surmised, as his grandson brought him back his horse. He mounted it and rode off, without looking back. He had given that zealot of a woman an honorable choice, but her pride wouldn't allow her to submit. He would come back here, but only after bringing the whole of the Reach to their knees first. He would leave Highgarden for last, and only when House Tyrell was alone and broken would he allow her to cower at his feet for mercy.
(Eight days later)
Lord Cley Cerwyn
The afternoon sun hung low over the Reach, casting long shadows across the rolling green fields and golden orchards that flanked the Roseroad. The banners of his house fluttered lazily in the breeze, their black battle-axe against a silver field. He rode in the middle of the column between his men, as he took in the sights of the Reach's heartland.
Around him, the Northern host marched in grim silence. The men of Castle Cerwyn were disciplined and experienced, and well-respected by both the king and his peers for this. Interspersed among them were Riverland levies and soldiers from other Northern lords.
Dustonbury came into view as the column crested a gentle rise. It was immediately clear how the Manderlys had built the New Castle in its image. The pale castle was built upon a hill, overlooking not only the Roseroad on one side, but also the Mander and a large fishing village down below on the other side. All around it farming settlements, large and small, dotted the lands. Its fields empty now, abandoned by those who had fled the tide of war. Beyond the castle, smoke curled into the sky—ships burned along the Mander, their hulks bearing the sigils of the Ironborn.
The Ironborn blockade had cut Dustonbury off from many of its remaining allies to the south and west, and their longships patrolled the waters with impunity. Yet today, those same reavers loitered on the shoreline, waiting for them to join them. The Ironborn were no friends of his house, but after their subjugation almost thirty years ago they had been surprisingly steadfast allies. He even looked whether he could see the banners of House Tawney. Their current lord had spent six years in captivity at his seat with him, and he would like to reacquaint himself with his former ward.
He gave command of his house's forces to his cousin Clenard before riding to the front together with Lords Umber and Mooton, and their respective retinues. He saw how the front of the column slowed down near the castle, and they matched their pace.
The gates were closed, the walls lined with archers whose faces betrayed more fear than resolve. A man emerged onto the battlements, his tabard displaying the sigil of House Redding— a golden flagon on burgundy, with a border of gold and white checks around it. This, then, was Ser Moribald Redding, the castle's heir and its current ruler, as his lordly father had been taken captive at the Fallen Flowers.
"King Stark!" Moribald called, his voice shaking slightly but loud enough to carry across the quiet fields. "What are you doing here, this far south? Your quarrel is with Highgarden. Turn around and parlay with them and find an end to this damned war! We are tired of fighting you, and your reaving allies."
He halted his black destrier a dozen feet from his liege lord, friend and goodbrother, as Robb raised a hand to still the men. His blue eyes glinted like ice as they swept over the battlements, as he reigned in his horse just out of arrow range.
"We have come from Highgarden." He shouted back. "We marched there for the same purpose that you speak off, but Queen Dowager Myrielle Tyrell refused to even entertain our offer. Now we are here and, if she doesn't change her mind, soon we will be in Brightwater Keep and Oldtown. She chooses to let the Reach burn for her pride. Now you have a simple choice; will you burn for her, or will you see reason?"
"My father, does he still live?" The heir to Dustonbury asked, his voice carrying with him the fear he must feel for his father's life.
"Aye, he lives. He has been transported to the Riverlands and is safely in the custody of my men there. As long as he doesn't try to escape, no harm will become of him or any of the other prisoners." Their king replied truthfully. Harming their prisoners would be a foolish thing to do. Not only would it anger his peers, as the captors had a right of ransom, but it would only rid them of a very important bargaining chip in the negotiations with the Reach for nothing more than to satiate their bloodlust.
Robb had sat down with him and explained him this, after the death of his son and heir Medgar. He had promised his king that he would not react rashly, and in turn Robb had given him the opportunity to vent out his emotions on Longtable, as it was here that the commander of the enemy archers that had killed his son had come from. All that now remained of the seat of House Merrywheather were blackened walls and burned-out halls. House Merrywheather still lived, but only its underaged members. All adult males had been dealt with, it was what his Arya would have wanted and in her letters she had thanked him for this.
It was a silent for a few seconds, until the Redding heir answered back. "Tell your men to stand down, and we will speak of terms."
"You are wise to speak of terms, Ser Moribald." Robb replied, his voice cool and clear. "Dustonbury's gates will open before sunset, your garrison will march out and surrender your arms and your family will present itself to me. You will pay my army a sum of thirty thousand golden roses in either gold or supplies, and in turn we and the Ironborn will promise to leave your keep and lands be. We will put a small garrison with you in your castle to ensure our supply line, but you and your family will be allowed to remain here in exchange for hostages. If you agree to this, you will be spared."
The terms were lenient. Ever since losing Jon, their king had been more lenient towards the Tyrell vassals. He believed that it would sway them to lower their banners and avoid any further bloodshed. Nonetheless, Ser Moribrand hesitated, casting a nervous glance toward the Ironborn on the riverbank. "And if we refuse?"
Robb's lips curved into a faint smile, though it held no warmth. "Refusal would be folly. My archers will darken your skies before the Ironborn breach your walls. I can only imagine how they will act once inside. Your people and family will not thank you for condemning them to fire and steel when surrender offers them life."
A silence stretched between them, broken only by the distant cry of a seagull. At last, the Redding heir gave a small nod, his shoulders slumping. "We agree to those terms" he said, his voice hollow. "I will open the gates."
His king nodded curtly. "A wise choice." Robb Stark looked around, before resting his eyes upon him. "Cley, will you take care of …?" He asked him, but he cut off his goodbrother. "Already on it, Your Grace." He signaled to the dozen Cerwyn riders that had followed him to the front to gather around him and also rallied over two hundred Stark and Ryswell cavalry at the front.
As the gates creaked open, he spurred his horse forward, leading his men into the courtyard of Dustonbury. The Ironborn lingered on the riverbank, their savage faces watching with faint amusement as the Northerners filed in without a fight. Once inside, he dismounted, his boots crunching against the stone, and approached Ser Moribrand Redding, who had descended from the walls to meet him.
The heir looked younger up close, he couldn't have reached the age of twenty yet. As his men began to spread out, their grim efficiency ensuring order as they secured the castle, gatehouse and the walls. In the meantime, Ser Moribrand's family filed out from the keep into the courtyard. When he was done giving orders, he nodded at them but refrained from talking.
Not much later, the garrison walked out, as his men took hold of their weapons. Only after that was finished, did His Grace enter the castle. All things went very orderly, and Redding quickly paid off his debt by opening his stores to their men. They took hold of thirty thousand gold pieces worth of provisions and carried it outside towards where their army was encamping.
After gathering the most important lords their next stop was the shoreline, where they greeted the Ironborn commanders who had come down from their ships. One-armed Lord Harras Harlaw awaited them, together with multiple of his vassals and kinsmen. He was glad to see Lord Sigryd Tawney amongst them. When their eyes met, Tawney nodded respectfully at him. Even though he had been forced to be there, Lord Sigryd had always enjoyed his time in the North with his family. Even Arya had warmed up to him as a boy over the years, not an easy feat after her history with the Ironborn.
"It is good to see you again, King Robb." The Lord of the Iron Islands greeted his goodbrother when they got inside a large tent that the Ironborn had sat up there. Lord Harras nodded at the lords he knew, of whom he was one, and he nodded back as he took a seat next to Prince Rickard.
Robb expressed a similar feeling. "It's always good to see you, Lord Harras. I want to thank you and yours for your contributions in this war, and your contribution here at Dustonbury in particular. As you noticed, they have surrendered to us."
"On what terms?" The Ironborn leader asked.
"Opening their stores to us, which we will share with you. They will also give us hostages and allow a garrison of our forces to be stationed in their castle." Robb replied.
"You let them off the hook in exchange for easy supplies and guarantees that they won't betray you." Lord Harras surmised. Robb nodded. "We have lost a lot of men already, Dustonbury is not worth anymore. It is simply a crucial supply point on our way south."
"That we can both agree on, and I will take you up on your offer of sharing the supplies. It is most appreciated." Lord Harras diplomatically stated. His late cousin Lord Rodrik had always been far too diplomatic for an Ironborn, and Lord Harras had been thought well by him. The Harlaws were still Ironborn, they did as they pleased as long as they didn't offend House Stark or its allies. In return, Robb had given them back almost complete autonomy.
"I thought your army would be larger." Lord Harras remarked, and Rickard jumped into the conversation. "It was. We left ten thousand men under Lord Hoster Tully to siege Highgarden. Once they have taken New Barrel, the Karstark host will join them too."
The Ironborn leader nodded in acceptance. "How fares the war here on the western front?" Robb asked.
"Well-enough, from a tactical standpoint. In the early stages of the war, we knocked out the Tyrell fleet and managed to capture the Shield Islands, albeit with tougher opposition than we had expected leading to the death of one of my sons." The old Lord spoke slowly.
"Afterwards, we raided the lands from the border with the Westerlands to Bandallon. After many assaults, we managed to capture the forts at the source of the Mander and we have been successfully raiding up the river until around this point. However, we've had losses too. Another one of my five trueborn sons and a group of my cousins died in a disastrous attack on Old Oak. They orchestrated a trap in which most of our forces were caught. Nonetheless, we have achieved much. No fishing village or town north of Bandalon remains unraided. We have brought gold and glory back to the Iron Islands and we feel that we have made a significant impact on this war. More than can be measured in territory." The shrewd lord explained, propping up his achievements and the offers they had had to make to get them.
It was clear what Harlaw was trying to do, he wanted recognition and compensation from Robb. His goodbrother saw it too. "I agree with you. First of all, let me express my condolences for your losses."
Harras interrupted him. "Two trueborn sons and three saltborn ones fell in this war. A heavy price, but we had to pay it. We had axes to grind with the Reach. When I was a youth, during the Greyjoy Rebellion, Paxter Redwyne and the fleets from the Reach were some of the architects of our demise, and many of our kinsmen died in the Reach under Euron Greyjoy's folly campaign. I myself lost my arm there too. These grievances have now successfully been paid back in kind."
He raised his eyebrows at that. He had been a part of the Northern invasion of the Iron Isles. Would they need to pay back those grievances back in kind? He saw others frown too, but their king paid it no mind. Robb just nodded in confirmation.
"You and your men have proven yourself to be strong and potent against a formidable enemy." His goodbrother started. "Sadly, that enemy doesn't know when to give up. We offered them terms at Highgarden, but the Queen Dowager refused these. She lives in some sort of delusion while her armies have been destroyed, her lands are burning and her vassals are abandoning and surrendering all around her."
Now he saw most of the Ironborn frown. "You were going to sell us out and offer them terms? You would hang us out to dry after my brothers died in your war?!" A noble the age of Rickard screamed from behind Harlaw. He had black hair, an unruly black beard and a long moustache. Over his broad chest, the sigil of House Goodbrother was displayed on his tabard.
Multiple other Ironborn joined in the screaming and even Lord Harras looked angry. Robb just stoically stood there and took the verbal abuse, while Lords Umber and Blackwood slung insults back. His goodbrother stopped them, before speaking.
"Firstly, they rejected the terms, so this is all a moot point." Robb started, and everybody looked at him with anticipation. "Secondly, I did not hang you out to try. Major concessions were demanded from House Tyrell to your benefit."
Lord Harras frowned, and most of the Ironborn calmed down, as they looked at all of them in suspicion and confusion. "You demanded terms from the Tyrell on our behalf, without consulting us first?" Robb nodded. "You were on your ships. I had no way to contact you before."
"How would you know that we would accept?" Harlaw asked.
"I didn't." His king replied. "But I would if I were you. May I elaborate?"
Lord Harras nodded impatiently. "There were a few things I asked concerning you and your people. One, all loot gathered would be formally relinquished." Robb replied, but Harlaw waved it off. "Inconsequential. They would never be able to take it back anyway."
His goodbrother just continued. "Secondly, I demanded three million gold pieces in war reparations, part of that would have been yours. However, by refusing my generous offer the price will go up substantially now." Now he saw many of the Ironborn's eyes glint with greed. It was a colossal sum, and all knew that.
"What part would be ours?" The Lord of the Iron Isles asked.
"I was thinking something along the lines of five hundred thousand. However, as the demand increases, your cut will increase too to say seven hundred and fifty thousand gold pieces." Still an enormous amount, but the division didn't sit right with Harlaw.
"Originally, we would receive only a sixth of the pot. We deserve much more than that." He grunted.
"Oh, but you will. Just not all of it will be in coin. You would also receive preferential trade concessions, which I think would help with feeding your people in winter." Harlaw agreed to this, but he was still not satisfied.
He grinned. He had been a part of the negotiations with Lady Myrielle Tyrell. Robb was keeping the main price for last. "And then there is the biggest concession." His goodbrother casually added. "I demanded them to formally cede the Shield Isles to you."
Now the eyes of the Ironborn all popped out of their heads. "I don't understand, King Stark. You brought us low twenty-five years ago and forbade us from ever reaving and having thralls again. Then you call us up to raid your enemies, and now you would give us the Shield Islands, our historic base to launch raids up the Mander and along the Sunset Sea."
Robb shrugged. "Well, I still stand by most of that. Thralldom is a thing of the past, and if but a single Ironborn ship illegally enters my waters you will all regret it. But maybe I have realized that some enemies need a good reaving once in a while to be kept low, so they don't invade my lands."
All Ironborn grinned now, understanding perfectly what his liege had said in between the lines. 'Attack the cold and infertile North and I will end you. Invade the rich and plentiful lands of the Reach and you can reave as much as you want.'
"There would of course be a forced period of peace, three or five years or so, but I imagine that your people can spend those years counting all your looted coin." His goodbrother added carelessly, which broadened the smiles upon the Ironborn nobility's faces.
Harlaw looked over all his peers, crossing his own face briefly. "So summarized, we keep our loot, we get seven hundred and fifty thousand gold coins in war reparations, we get exclusive trade benefits, and we get the Iron Isles." Robb nodded.
"On what conditions?"
"That you stop raiding the Reach for five years, ransom off all noble prisoners and help me to siege Highgarden from the river. Attacking more of the Reach together with my army would be appreciated as well, but that is at your own discretion."
Now Harras finally grinned. "Ten of my best ships will leave for Highgarden to blockade the river by sunrise. We will discuss campaigning plans on the morrow, although I have one more request."
Robb cocked his eyebrow in response. "We have lost a lot of ships during this war. We will need wood to replenish it."
"I will sit down with you together with Lords Glover and Whitefyre. I am sure they will find a way to up their export for a good deal." Lord Harras nodded thankfully in response.
He looked around, and a few Northern lords looked a little annoyed. The Umbers, Mormonts and Flints clearly didn't like being passed over, and neither did he. All those houses and House Cerwyn had more than enough wood to supply them with logs for their ships. It was clear that Robb was protecting his young kin that had recently come into their lordship by bringing in a lucrative trade deal to their lands. His nephew and grandson's subjects would surely thank their young lords for it, thereby stabilizing their early reign. Nonetheless, nobody uttered a word. Robb had ensured that they had all gotten richer than they could have imagined in their wildest dreams. He wouldn't object, but that didn't mean that he had to like it. They had all lost kin; his own son had been Robb's nephew. He would talk with him, maybe he could get something out of it to better Rion and his house's future, his second son and new heir was the Crown Prince's personal squire, that meant something.
After the meaning ended, he went to greet Lord Sigryd Tawney. "Sig, how have you been?"
"Lord Cley! It is good to see you. Personally, I am well now. I had been wounded during the battles of the Shield Islands, but I have now long recovered." His former ward told him.
"Do you fancy a cup of ale to talk about what we have missed lately?" He asked him, and the Ironborn gladly accepted. They walked into the Ironborn camp together, which got them a few stares, but Tawney didn't seem to mind. Only one guard accompanied him, a distant cousin of him called Harwin Cerwyn. Harwin was an excellent swordsman and entertaining company, and he had known Sig from his time at Castle Cerwyn so his form former ward didn't complain about his presence.
After a few minutes, they reached a part of the camp where he saw multiple sigils of Houses Tawney and Orkwood, to a lesser extend mixed in with a few others. When they sat down, he asked Sig about this.
"In this part of the camp most people hail from Orkmont. My house enjoys very good relations my neighbors there. I myself married an Orkwood, and one of my wife's younger brothers later married a cousin of mine. Other Tawney or Orkwood kin married into cadet branches of other great family's or lower born ones, which compromise most of the other sigils you see here."
"You did well for yourself." He noted appreciatingly.
Sig shrugged. "We made do. After the wars, most houses were destitute, and many houses were ruled by women or child rulers with most of the able-bodied men having died in the war. I had the benefit of having a grand-uncle who's children and grandchildren had all died in the fighting. As you know, my father Balon died during my time in the North. My uncle kept House Tawney afloat, and after my return there were no disputes about the leadership or succession. He served me for ten more years as an advisor after my return, only thing that he asked me was that I provide for his new salt children. I happily did. His sons and goodsons now serve as my captains, one even serves as first mate on my own ship."
He remembered the distinction about rock children, legitimate children, and salt children, bastards from their concubines. It seemed the grand-uncle had some fun before leaving this earth, he laughingly expressed as much.
His former ward shrugged. "We had huge population issues after the war. Orkmont lost most of his able-bodied sons, and after most of the thralls were freed our economy plummeted. Lord Rodrik Harlaw was right to push the remaining Ironborn to have as much children as possible. We haven't yet reached the population we had during the Targaryen era, and our recent losses will hurt, but we are rapidly recovering."
"If I can recall from your letters, you followed up on that personally too. Didn't you? How big is your family now?"
"Big," the Ironborn grinned. "I have seven rock children with my Orkwood wife, four boys and tree daughters. I have eleven more with my three salt wives. Two I got during my adventures on the Stepstones, one came from what the Tyroshi call 'the Disupted lands'."
"Four wives," he whistled. "I can barely handle one." He replied jokingly, while longingly thinking about the embrace of his stubborn she-wolf.
Sig let out a chuckle. "Not all marry stubborn Stark princesses, Cerwyn. I will even take a fifth wive. She hails from the Shield Islands. The ceremony will occur once I return home to Orkmont."
"How fares your home?" He changed the conversation, not willing to further think about the poor girl from the Reach that would be forced into this unequal union.
"Better each day," Lord Tawney replied. "Only three years ago, we were finally allowed to stop paying tribute to your king. That finally freed up coin for us to expand our trading fleet and to reopen mines that had been closed since the departure of our thralls. Our population is booming too, which has created a weird demographic shift. All my subjects are either very old or very young. Only now that the first of my generation's children are reaching adulthood has our economy been able to expand."
He nodded in understanding. What they had done in the Iron Islands had been with full knowledge of what would happen. Still, hearing someone say it out loud was something different.
"The rest of the Iron Islands?" His cousin Harwin asked.
Sig shrugged. "The Harlaws have been good to us, considering the circumstances. Our population is recuperating. Trade, especially with the North and Seaguard, has flourished, and our way of live has largely been preserved. Lord Harras has even managed to get the former thrall islands back into the fold somewhat."
He asked his former ward to elaborate on this. "Ever since the war, Lord Rodrik and Lord Harras have tried to win over the new nobility on Saltcliffe and Pyke with marriages, even some of their kin married into those ill-reputed houses. Ten years ago, the Faith Militant tried to settle upon Saltcliffe with the aid of the family who had taken over the former castle of House Sunderly. Lord Rodrik and a few of the local thrall families managed to drive them off the island, destroying that new family in the process."
Tawney took a large gulp of his horn of ale. "Seven years ago, when Lord Rodrik died, others tried to challenge Lord Harras' succession. Harlaw's reaction was swift, and he managed to defeat his challengers quickly. The old Ironborn were killed or sent to the Wall, the former thralls lost their respective lands who were given back their old families and quickly repopulated with Ironborn. Due to this, Houses Sunderly and Myre have made their reappearance on Saltcliffe and Pyke, while a thrall lord who married the female heir to House Saltcliffe has now taken up the esteemed name of his wife to continue the family."
He frowned. Robb had formally forbidden these houses from reestablishing themselves on those islands. This was a breach of the peace treaty.
"Don't look so dramatic, Cerwyn. Your king knows all this. Harlaw communicated it immediately. The Sunderlys and Myres had to pay him to allow this. The latter even send one of their sons as a ward to the Stony Shore for two years."
He calmed down. "How's your life been, Lord Cley? Still having to tame your wolf princess?"
He smiled, as he thought of Arya. "Aye, but I don't think I'll ever manage. We were doing good in the North. My family, my house, even my lands and people were prospering. The food production has expanded exponentially, and our logging, wool and fur exports have risen every year, albeit to White Harbor and Braavos not to your people. Nevertheless, this war has hit us hard. I lost my niece and her family in the rebellion in the Riverlands and my eldest son and multiple of my cousins in the fighting here in the Reach. My wife lost some more beloved kin too." He vocalized his grief, his voice becoming hoarse at the end.
Tawney nodded understandingly. "Aye, war tends to rip our loved ones away from us. I lost a cousin and a brother in the battles for the Shield Islands. I then lost another cousin and my eldest goodson in a failed attempt to storm the fortresses along the Mouth of the Mander."
He looked in the eyes of the chiseled man that he had known as a boy. "Do you think it all worth it? You knew Medgar briefly. Can his dead ever be worth it?" He asked.
His former ward scratched the scruff on his cheeks in thought. "It depends, really. For my house my brother's sacrifice was. We have already accumulated fifty times the yearly income that House Tawney makes. Over half of that will be divided amongst my people and captains, but it still leaves a colossal sum for our house. With it, I will better our future. Out of respect, I will put some of it aside for my brother's and cousin's children. Dowries for their daughters, apprenticeships and the means to build their own longships for their sons. That is how they would have wanted it. Besides, what is dead may never die, but rises again, harder and stronger. They feast in the halls of the Drowned God now. I will join them there when He deems it is my time."
The Ironborn noble then looked him into his eyes. "You must have faith that Medgar is with your Gods now. You will see him again there, when they call you to them. All you can do now with the days and years that you have left is to make sure that your house and family prospers. If you can do that and tell him this in the house of your Gods, then he will tell you himself that it was all worth it."
To his surprise, the idea brought him great comfort. They talked until late into the night, and over time many other Ironborn fell prey to their curiosity and joined them in their conversations. When he finally stumbled back to his camp, Harwin dutifully making sure that he arrived there safely, he drunkenly thought back about his earlier conversations. He decided that he would take the Ironborn's words to heart. He would also keep in contact with Tawney, maybe he could go with Rion to Orkmont on a trip after he was done squiring for Prince Rickard. It would do the lad good to see some more of the world, other parts where the inhabitants weren't burning or trying to kill them.
(Two days later)
Prince Rickard Stark
He walked up the stairs of Dustonbury with Ser Dickon Brune, his ever-present shadow, behind him. In his hand, he held the scroll that had just arrived by messenger. He looked at it and grinned at its contents. It came from Eddarion Dustin, who was currently leading a force of six hundred men with only one simple mission: to burn as much of the Tarlys borderlands as possible.
It seemed that he was doing a good job. The scroll mentioned that he managed to raid two small hamlets, before capturing the tower of an insignificant landed knight. Some distant Tarly cousin had counterattacked them, and Eddarion had managed to ambush him and his force in some small village. The result? Ser Alan Tarly and two hundred of his men death or captured for only fifty of the Dustin men. Eddarion mentioned that he would be retreating now, before a larger force showed up.
Lord Tarly didn't have enough men as it was, losing men left and right like this was not sustainable for him. He almost felt pity for the man. He was a great military commander, but there wasn't much he could do. While Dustin raided him from the west, the Freys raided him from the north and the Stormlanders raided his lands from the south and east. Even if one of the raiding parties was defeated, they could afford to send another.
The Stormlanders had vigorously started raiding the Peakes and Tarlys, ever since Prince Robert Baratheon had won a great victory over Houses Fowler and Wull in the Dornish Marches, killing both lords in the process. The victory had even shaken the Martells awake, who had already made peace with the Stormlords in name of their rogue vassals. The rebel Dornish houses had to pay hefty war indemnities, and the Martells granted the Stormlanders some trade benefits in certain key trading towns. The second son of the late Lord Wull will serve as a hostage at the court of House Dondarrion. House Martell will be the guarantors of the treatment. Failure to comply with any stipulation of the treatment would result in all-out war between Dorne and the Stormlands, which the former desperately tried to avoid.
Without allies, and effectively encircled, Tarly was caught between a rock and a hard place. If he rode out to meet his opponents in the east, their troops pounded on his lands from the north, south and west. Whatever he did, or didn't do, his border areas would burn. Soon they would penetrate deeper and deeper into the Tarly lands. Devasting the Marcher Lords economic strength and prohibiting Tarly from supplying another large force. He was exactly where they wanted him; practically alone with no way out of his own lands, as they burned all around him and his people and kinsmen slowly fell to their relentless attacks. Those were the consequences for killing their loved ones.
He entered the hall on the second floor and took a right, until he was in front of the lordly solar which his father had claimed as his own. In front of it stood Ser Jeremy Bigglestone.
"Welcome, My Prince. Your father is expecting you." The loyal Wolfsguard told him, as he let him pass through, while Ser Dickon quietly took his place next to Ser Jeremy at the other side of the door.
He entered the Southern solar, which bathed in the midday light that reflected off the white stone. His father sat at the desk, while in front of it stood three men. He greeted the first one, Lord Ryam Florent, fondly. Ryam was only a lord by name, a courtesy that his father had granted him to reflect his claim on Brightwater Keep.
Nonetheless, Florent had proven himself capable and useful during these last months of the campaign. Initially, he had brought them coin and excellent Essosi mercenary light horsemen. Afterwards, he had been able to rally another hundred Reachmen that had become disillusioned with the Tyrells. They all hailed from the lowest houses or were simple hedge knights, but they knew the area and this had helped them greatly when they needed information. Lord Ryam had also helped to convince a handful of lower lords to surrender instead of fighting to the death. This had in turn earned him the gratitude of his father, who tried to diminish bloodshed as much as possible.
He looked to Lord Ryam's side, where the two younger men stood, the youngest one barely having hit puberty. They wore the Florent colors, and they both sported similar features as Ryam.
"Welcome my son," his father commenced as he slipped him the note from Eddarion Dustin. "You know Lord Ryam well enough." He started the customary introduction, while reading the note. His face was a mask, not showing any emotion as he took in the news.
The eldest son of the late Lord Alekyne bowed lowly. "As always a pleasure, Prince Rickard." He grinned at the Southern antics but answered the greeting warmly and with respect.
"Lord Ryam's younger brothers, Ser Alester and Squire Erren Florent, have arrived from Pentos this morning." His father explained.
"It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Sers. All kinsmen of Lord Ryam are welcome with us." He politely spoke, which seemed to please all three Florents. "How was the journey?"
"Uneventful," the eldest of the two, Ser Alester, answered. "We sailed from Pentos to Riverport and then travelled here by horse. Our retinue was large enough to ward off any looters."
"They brought with them another thirty Essosi sellswords, as well as a similar number of knights and soldiers with Westerosi heritage. Old followers of their father and their now adult sons." His father explained.
Both brothers nodded. "We have vacated Pentos completely, the women and children remaining in Riverport for now until we have safely reclaimed our ancestral lands." The youngest one proudly proclaimed.
"They also brought the remainder of the Florent treasury with them, which Lord Ryam has kindly donated to our war efforts." His father interjected again. He looked upon the eldest of the three brothers and gave a nod of gratitude. Lord Ryam was a shrewd one. He was on the cusp of reclaiming his family's ancestral lands which would yearly bring in more than he had just donated to them. Nonetheless, it served to bring him and his kin further into their good graces.
"House Florent has formally asked to know our plans for them after the war and, considering that we made these plans together, I found it useful that you would be here." His father explained his presence casually. He pushed down a smile. His kingly father had been making a point of insisting his presence at all important meetings with foreign allies. The Florents didn't seem to realize this and seemed honored at his presence. His father didn't give a damn about honors, he wanted to show the world that they were a united front to bring across a single message: killing me won't matter. If you do, my heir will simply win the war as if nothing happened. Afterwards, he will toast to my death from a cup made from your skull.
A simple, but effective tactic, and strikingly accurate. If something were to happen to his father, he would have the unwavering support of all Northmen, and no Rivermen would dare oppose him after their recent civil war. House Stark and their kingdom was more secure than it had been in decades. If something were to happen to his father, his first order as king would be to make sure that the culprits' houses would fade into oblivion after handing them truly gruesome ends. It was his father's idea that this warning needed to be shown for all to see.
Without having to look to his father for permission, he walked towards the larger table at the back of the room. On it lay maps of the Southern Reach, from Highgarden to Oldtown. He had known this to be the case, as he had left them there this morning.
All three Florents followed him, as they exchanged curious looks. "Your ancestral keep, Brightwater Keep, was gifted by the late King Willas Tyrell to his goodbrother Leo Tyrell. Leo and Willas' sister Margaery had also received the vast majority of your lands, but not all of it. Houses Beesbury and Blackbar both received some five percent of your lands each as tokens of appreciation for their loyalty to him." He commenced to unfold their plans.
"You will receive the entirety of it back. Not only the Tyrell part, but also the lands the Beesburys and Blackbars received." All three seemed to positively radiate from that news, but he wasn't finished yet.
"There are certain complications, however. Margaery Tyrell is still alive, and she is a very capable adversary. Her line also remains alive, and she has done much to secure her rule over your former lands. Yet, we have thought of a solution. We will get rid of the Lady Margeary by sending her to the Silent Sisters, where she will symbolically do penance for the many crimes of House Tyrell. Margaery's three sons all died during the war, but the females remain. Her eldest son had fathered a daughter just before the beginning of the war, and her own daughter Olenna remains in the Grassy Vale, as the childless widow of the recently deceased heir of House Meadows."
"We not only wish to gift you back your birthright, but we also want ensure that you keep it this time." He told them firmly. "To be able to do this, we will need you to make certain concessions."
All three frowned at him, but none of them uttered a word. "You will need to make important marriages to not only consolidate your claim, but to also acquire important allies who will bolster your power and prestige. Evil tongues will talk in the shadows about your mother's relatively lowly birth. No better way to stop this at the start than to take brides from prestigious lineages. We want you to relinquish your autonomy on this matter, so we can help you to procure the rightful betrothals necessary for House Florent to survive."
"Do you have any names in mind?" Lord Ryam asked him, as he forced his younger brothers to remain quiet. "Aye, as a matter of fact, we do. The future survival of House Florent is of paramount important to us, as you can serve as a counter to the future revanchism that will be present in the Reach. Therefore, we have taken our time to look at the best possible options."
He picked up three sheets of parchment and offered one of them to each of the Florents. On each stood a description of a young lady.
"Lord Ryam would marry the recently widowed Olenna Tyrell. She is the last remaining child of Leo and Margeary Tyrell and will make it much easier for you to bring together Margaery's subjects with your old supports in your new reign. The young granddaughter would be sent to a small religious institution in White Harbor where she will be trained as a Septa from a young age. This will leave Olenna, and your future children together, as the only remaining heirs of the Tyrell line of Brightwater Keep. None will ever dispute your claim to your rightful lands in the future." He started.
The eldest Florent looked disgusted at the idea of marrying a Tyrell, but after a few seconds of silence he begrudgingly agreed to the proposal, to the shock of his younger brothers.
He didn't leave them time to bicker amongst themselves. "Ser Alester will marry Malora Hightower. The youngest sister of the Late Lord Gerold Hightower. Their father Lord Garth Greysteel only fathered children at a late age, but he fathered many, nonetheless. Lady Malora is the youngest of his seven children and the aunt of Lord Gerold's now six-year-old successor. The fourteen-year-old Malora has a good bond with her nephew and remains a maiden to this day. The marriage will ensure that the mighty Hightowers, Highgarden's strongest bannerman, will never move against you."
Ser Alester seemed pleased, immediately recognizing the opportunities that a Hightower marriage brought for a second son. He quickly, and gladly, agreed to their suggestion.
He then looked to the young Erren Tyrell, barely thirteen years old. "We propose that you will get betrothed to the youngest sister of the new Lord Blackbar. It is a direct neighbor of you and together with your brother's Hightower connection both will ensure strong connections in the southern part of the Reach."
Erren looked doubtful, but Lord Ryam immediately agreed to it in his stead as he saw the merits of the proposal. However, the oldest Florent was skeptical about something else. "Why would you think these houses would agree to this? Our Ironborn allies have ravaged the Blackbar lands, together with our own coast at that. The Hightowers have lost their lord fighting against us. Why would they agree to this?"
He grinned widely. "Because if they don't, their lands will burn. Their orchards will be cut, their fields salted, and their towns demolished. These lords can choose between impoverishment for generations or the hands of their daughters. You would be amazed to see how easy this choice is for most men."
The two youngest Florents looked at him in shock, but Lord Ryam, who was used to this after serving in their army for months, just grinned. "That'll do it, I suppose." The eldest of the three voiced. His two youngest brothers looked disturbed, but he just nodded confirmatively. "Aye, that will do it."
"What are the other concessions that we would need to make?" Ser Alester asked.
His father stepped in. "We want pre-emptive rights on at least half of your produce for fifty years. We will always buy at market prices, so you won't ever make a loss on it. However, it will secure our food supply and ensure good cooperation between our houses in the decades to come."
The three Florents exchanged looks before Ryam responded with a question. "You would always buy at market price?"
"Aye, and if we wouldn't be able to pay that you would be allowed to sell to other buyers." His royal father replied, which seemed to placate some of the doubts in the room.
His father's demand wasn't about money, he knew. It was far more devious than that. Of course, it helped supply the North's food supply in yet another way, thereby increasing their options, but it also directly undermined Highgarden's influence on its vassals. They wouldn't be able to control Florent trade or embargo the North in the future without risking both an unwinnable external war in combination with internal conflict with a close and important vassal. It directly undermined royal authority in the Reach for fifty years. Together with concessions they would demand at Oldtown, it would hamstring Highgarden's future power to such a degree that it would risk becoming their economic dependency in the short-term.
"How would we transport it? Winterfell is a long way away. We don't have the infrastructure to bring it to you." Ser Alester voiced, which brought him back to the conversation.
"Don't worry about the transport. We'll take care of that." His father waved away the concern." He walked over to the maps and pointed to the area. "More than likely, you can simply put the produce on barges down the Honeywine River to Oldtown. From there, our traders will take it north to Barrowton and Winterfell."
"You would think the Hightowers would agree with this?" The youngest Hightower countered.
"Aye, seeing as it is there that I and my father are going there next." He stepped in.
Lord Ryam frowned. "I thought that we would be freeing Brightwater Keep next."
"Aye, the army will split again from here. The South of the Reach is completely empty, and the morale of your peers in the Reach is at an all-time low. Many, especially the lower nobility, will simply surrender. Our army is big enough to do this."
"King Stark, if I may? We heard stories at Riverport that during the battle your army numbered over sixty thousand men. I don't see half of that here. Are you sure your army is big enough?" Ser Alester Florent asked.
"It is big enough. Let me explain our troop situation to you to put your mind at ease." His father started, as he started pointing out his explanation on the map.
"We of course split from our allies at Appleton, but our original force was always the vast majority of the army. We marched into the Reach with fifty thousand men from the North and the Riverlands. Along the way, we lost just over eight thousand and a few thousand are presently scattered across garrisons along the Mander and the Roseroad to protect our supply lines. I left ten thousand at Highgarden under Lord Hoster Tully, and the Karstarks will also join them once they have dealt with New Barrel. Another twelve hundred are presently raiding the lands of the Tarlys and Peakes. This leaves us with just under twenty-five thousand soldiers here, with the addition of the troops you command directly and thousands of our Ironborn allies who have expressed their will to coordinate with us." His father pointed out, and he respectfully remained silent.
"There is not much to counter us. Tyrell emptied most of the lands of troops and only around three thousand managed to flee back south of Highgarden in small groups. They are scattered around and pose no significant threat. The Blackbars, Bulwers and Costaynes are holed up in their keeps shivering out of fear for an Ironborn attack by sea. The Redwynes are fortifying every inch of their island, scared to death that history will repeat itself and the Arbor will be devastated. The Tarlys and Peakes are kept busy by not only our raiders, but also those from the Stormlands, giving us free reign between here and Oldtown. Our scouts and soldiers are swarming the borders of his lands, if Tarly makes a move we will know far in advance."
The Florents listened attentively, and his father nodded to him to jump in. He stepped forward to the table and pointed towards the map too. "My Uncle Brandon, and three thousand men will accompany you and your soldiers to Brightwater Keep. The force will outnumber the defenders at least eight to one. Try to use you family's old contacts to open the gate or force a surrender. The quicker it falls, the quicker you can start to reestablish your authority in the area."
The Florents looked deep in thought, trying to think on how to approach this. "At the same time, The Umbers will march on Uplands and the Manderlys and Lockes will put Honeyholt to siege. My Uncle Rickon will move to Bandallon with a thousand men to attack Bandallon by land, while the Ironborn attack it by sea. This way we will neutralize everything between Dustonbury and Oldtown."
"What will you do?" Lord Ryam Florent asked, as he looked between him and his father.
His father replied stoically. "We will march on Oldtown by way of the Roseroad with the remaining fifteen thousand men, splinter forces will capture smaller holdfasts and walled villages along the way before rejoining the host. This way we won't lose time being bogged down by insignificant obstacles and we plan to arrive in Oldtown in a fortnight. The Reach is finished, they just don't realize it yet. I have no stomach to drag this war out any longer than it has to be. After the fall of their largest city and economic center, even the Tyrells will come to their senses."
"You plan to take Oldtown?" The young Ser Alester asked in shock.
"I plan to make the Hightowers surrender. I would prefer it if they would do that peacefully, but if they don't then we will burn Oldtown to the ground. It has been done before, and if Ironborn can do it we can do it as well."
His father shifted his balance, taking a step closer and peering into the eyes of the young Florent knight. "I want to go home, good Ser. I have lost too much here and do not wish to stay in the Reach any longer than necessary. I have lost my brother, my eldest goodson and two of my nephews in this war. Two of my grandsons, I have never laid eyes upon. I want to go home, but I can only do that when the Tyrells have surrendered and when your family has reclaimed their birthright. Sieging Highgarden could take years, and defeating Tarly would be bloody. Capturing Oldtown is the quickest way to end this war, as it will send shockwaves throughout the Reach. So, that's what we'll do."
His father looked tired. The grey in his hair seemed suddenly more profound and the truth in his words was clear for everyone to see etched upon his face. Nonetheless, that was not all what could be seen. His eyes were cold and determined, as blue ice on a clear winter day. He might be tired, but he would see this war through. No one could doubt that for a second. The Reach would bow or it would break, the choice was theirs.
This is it for this chapter!
The campaign has fully kickstarted again, although Robb remains a proponent of avoiding bloodshed. The allies have split off, with the Valemen going north towards the Lesser Mander Vale and the Northmarch with their main target being Goldengrove and an intent on looting. The Stormlanders attack the lands they border with Ashford and Grassy Vale as the main targets with an intend of conquering and weakening the Reach in the future. In the meantime, Robb has arrived at Highgarden, but the widow of King Garlan refuses to negotiate because of zealous faith, pride and a staunch believe in the castle's defenses.
Robb chooses not to be bogged down in an endless siege against its mighty fortifications. Instead, he puts it under siege, while making sure that the Tarlys are too busy to be able to march to its aid, and he pushes on. We see the perspective of a grieving Cley Cerwyn when they take Dustonbury and are reminded of the fostering after the last war, and the bonds it created between the North and the Ironborn nobility. At the same time, Robb tightens ties with his Harlaw allies.
Lastly, we see the Starks' plans for the Reach. They explain their strength, their future axis of attack and the central position that the Florents will be playing in a post-war system, and what Robb expects from it in return. Next chapter the Starks march on Oldtown.
Reviews:
- Scifiromance: Thank you! It is an often-overlooked part of warfare. It felt good to be back in Winterfell too.
- Yogurt9928: He has picked him up somewhat, although he wishes to avoid bloodshed as much as possible. Jon Stark and Edrick Whitefyre's arcs will become more visible in the future. House Tyrell's future becomes clearer here, although much remains undecided. Tarly is backed into a corner for now, Robb will revisit him when it's time. Robb's entire strategy hinges on not giving the Reach any opportunity to regroup by attacking it on all side and keeping its key authoritative figures locked in Highgarden and the Dornish Marches.
The next generation will need to step up, if they prove lacking then the kingdom will falter. Lord Flint was a very capable B-list character which Robb relied on. He has lost many of those by now. I will look into writing Arya or Wylla.
- Rebfan90: Thank you!
- Force Smuggler: Thanks!
- Libexi01: PM
- Poly19hum: Thank you so much for your continued support!
- Max20.7: Part of the plan has been explained here, but much more will follow. What did you think of it?
Guest: Thank you! Glad to see that my choices are appreciated.