The banners rippled in the morning breeze—trout of silver and the sunburst of gold, side by side atop a craggy ridge.
Beneath them, Brynden Tully, the Blackfish, studied the hills of the southern Westerlands with a cold, seasoned eye. The land was good for an ambush, too good; narrow valleys and steep slopes hemmed them in. But they had no choice now. Riders of House Sarsfield spotted their movements. They had no choice but to confront the threat and neutralise them before they threaten Brynden's position.
Lord Leo Lefford rode beside him, his polished helm tucked under one arm. His face was lean and weathered, and he betrayed no fear.
"They know we're coming," Lord Lefford said. "The Dwarf is not as foolish as we thought."
Below them, the enemy host was gathering: banners of crimson and gold with the lion of Lannister roaring proudly, but fewer than Brynden had feared. Two thousand foot soldiers, perhaps, and a few hundred horses—a force scraped together from the western lords still loyal to Casterly Rock. Enough to bloody them, if they were careless.
Brynden's own army, made of Riverlanders, numbered only a little above three thousand. It was not a number worthy of conquering the Westerlands. But he was supported by another thousand men from Lord Leo Lefford, but most were green boys and tourney knights.
"How did Tyrion Lannister know we were coming, and how did he secure House Sarsfield's loyalty?" Brynden questioned, but he received no answer from the Lord of Golden Tooth immediately.
"I have heard the Dwarf of the Rock is not one to be underestimated and inherited much of his father's mind. It seems the rumours were not wrong." Lord Leo muttered, joining Ser Brynden by the cliff.
"Then let's ensure Tyrion Lannister doesn't think of himself as tall as Tywin Lannister." Brynden said with a snort.
The morning passed in a tense, slow crawl. Armour was buckled, swords whetted for the coming battle. Priests of the Seven moved through the ranks, offering blessings that many accepted and more ignored. Brynden sat his grey gelding, steel-helmed and cloaked in dark blue. His shield bore the black trout leaping still, though the paint was scratched and battered.
Across the narrow valley, the Lannister banners shivered above a line of spears and pikes. Brynden could see the enemy commanders and youngsters playing at war, in his opinion. Ser Lymond Lannister, in gilded plate and Ser Melwyn Sarsfield with his fierce red hair, and many other younger knights he didn't know, hungry for fame.
The horn blew. Once, then twice.
Brynden raised his sword high, and five thousand men moved forward.
The valley swallowed them whole.
The first clash was a terrible thunder. Shields slammed together, pikes drove into flesh, swords hacked blindly. The centre buckled almost immediately, Lefford's men meeting the Lannister vanguard in a grinding melee. The air filled with screams and the clang of iron.
Brynden fought in the thick of it, his old sword flashing with pitiless precision. He cut down a red-haired knight who came at him wild with rage. He parried a spear thrust and drove his blade through an unknown squire's throat.
All around him, the battlefield was gripped with madness. The snorting of horses, the shriek of the dying, and the roar of men boomed across the battlefield outside Oxcross.
He saw Ser Karyl Vance's riders crashing into the unsuspecting Lannister right, banners snapping as they sowed chaos. The attack was so sudden that the Lannister men were too slow to put up a proper defence.
Brynden gripped the hilt of his sword tightly and looked on with approval as he watched the Lannister army reel under the charge of the Vance knight. When he saw the Lannister lines bulge under the pressure, he saw his opportunity.
"With me!" he bellowed, spurring his horse.
A knot of Tully guards rallied around him, and together they plunged into the swirling melee toward the failing left of the Lannister lines.
He cut his way through, his sword slashing through the common soldiers of the Lannister army.
Above them, from the ridge, came the sound Brynden had been waiting for: the deep, strident call of a warhorn.
Lord Lefford's reserves, hidden in the hills, were charging.
Steel met steel in a deafening crash as Lord Lefford's men struck the overextended Sarsfields from behind. Horses screamed. Men fell. Steel and blood filled the battlefield.
Brynden wheeled his horse back toward the centre. The Lannister lines were wavering now. He could see the hesitation, the faltering steps, the glances over their shoulders from the enemy side.
Brynden caught a glimpse of Ser Lymond Lannister, gold-helmed and fierce, trying to rally his men.
Brynden angled toward him through the melee, recognising the need to capture or kill the young warrior.
They met in a brutal clash of steel. Lymond was strong, and his blade a blur. But he was young, and young men fought with anger, not sense. Brynden let him come, parried high, and then slipped his sword under the Lannister's guard before the young knight could properly comprehend what happened.
Steel slid through mail and flesh.
Lymond's eyes widened in shock. The young Lannister knights sagged on his horse before slowly tipping to one side. He toppled from his horse, the golden lion embroidered on his cloak darkening with blood.
The sight broke the Lannister lines.
Panic spread like fire. Men threw down shields and fled. Ser Vance's riders, wild with battle lust, chased them down, hacking without mercy.
Brynden reined in his horse atop a low rise and watched the rout. The valley was a sea of bodies now, broken banners and broken men.
Leo Lefford rode up, helm dented and bloodstained, a gash across his cheek.
"Victory," he said hoarsely.
"For now," Brynden replied. "Battles won are not wars ended."
"True Ser. But we're off to a good start." Lord Lefford agreed with a nod before turning to his men with his sword raised in triumph.
"The gods are surely in our favour. To victory!"
The excited roar came from their men in a chorus.
Brynden turned away from such displays of needless bravado and mused about what lay ahead. Knowing the Lannisters were aware of their movement and intentions changed everything. The element of surprise was lost, but Brynden was not dependent wholly on taking his enemy by surprise to achieve his war aims.
The plan to capture Castamere and Tarbeck Hall and threaten the coastal lords was still in the plan. Now, he just had to expedite the second phase of the plan to accommodate the change in the ground reality.
"Find me a Maester. I have a raven to send." he ordered to one of his men.
*******
Alestor was now a relatively happier man than he was a week ago.
A week back, the threat of Targaryen invasion loomed at the forefront of his mind. But now, the joyous news of Viserys Targaryen's death assuaged his fears. Though the fleet that sailed from King's Landing was swept aside, they did the deed of killing the Targaryen claim to the Iron Throne. With Viserys Targaryen dead, no one in their right mind would support a little girl to ascend the throne.
Alestor was certain the Targaryen cause would crumble from within. He was planning to send offers of surrender to the Narrow Sea lords after the Small Council meeting.
When he arrived at the council chambers, he was heartened to see all members were present save for the king.
"His grace is otherwise occupied this evening. We shall make do without his presence." Alestor informed the council.
There was a smatter of mutterings, but the council didn't react otherwise.
"You asked for this gathering, Lord Varys. Speak your piece." Alestor Florent grunted in an annoyed fashion as he took his seat at the head of the table.
"I wish to inform this council of treason, my lords." Varys said with a simpering smile.
"Treason? Whose treason do you speak of, Lord Varys?" Alestor Florent sat up in alarm.
"I speak of the treason of the Dornish houses and, most recently, the treason of House Tully."
"What?" Alestor was on his feet, anger and fear settling in his heart.
"My little birds bring me songs of an invasion into the Westerlands by House Tully and House Lefford. As my Lord Hand might remember, I did inform you about Ser Brynden Tully gathering a great many swords to his side to hunt down some bandits in the Riverlands."
"Yes, I remember. But how did hunting bandits turn into a war?" Alestor asked, slamming a fist on the table. "Have those infighting fools truly lost their minds?"
"I do not know the reasons for their actions, but my little birds tell me a considerable number of Tully men have joined forces with Lord Lefford and marched out from the Golden Tooth. I wager they're not acting in the crown's interests, Lord Hand."
"No, they're definitely not." Alestor nodded with a furious stare while his mind rushed to find what House Tully was planning.
'Did they see some threat in the Westerlands or were they exploiting the crown's weakness to some other end?' Alestor asked himself.
"Grand Maester, I want a raven sent to Lannisport, warning Lord Axel of these unfortunate events. Send one to Casterly Rock as well, ordering them to deal with this misbehaviour of their neighbours."
"As you will, Lord Hand." Grand Maester Gormon nodded.
"There is also the matter about Dorne, my lord." Varys said, bring the attention of the council once more upon him.
"What about Dorne?" Alestor turned his attention back to the Master of Whispers.
"Prince Oberyn has gathered a substantial host under his command and has invaded the Stormlands through the Dornish Marches."
Alestor fell into his seat with a broken expression.
"The Stormlands are under attack?" Renly gasped, no longer sitting at ease in the council chamber.
"Why? Viserys Targaryen is dead. The Targaryen cause is dead." Alestor raged at the new problem that fell into his lap at a most inconvenient time.
"I'm afraid the Martells are not supporting Viserys Targaryen, my lord. They've raised the Targaryen banner for Aegon Targaryen."
"What sort of farce is this, Lord Varys? Everyone knows the Mountain murdered the child during the Rebellion." Renly said with a scoff.
"That might as well be the case, Lord Renly. But Prince Oberyn and Prince Doran seem to believe otherwise enough to lend their armies to this boy's cause." Varys said with a shrug.
"So, there is an actual mummer with this name among the Dornish?" Grand Maester Gormon asked with an incredulous look.
"I'm afraid so, and the boy is not alone. He has the exiled Jon Connington by his side vouching for his identity."
"Jon Connington is dead." Ser Barristan broke the silence to state firmly.
"I'm afraid not, Ser. It seems Lord Connington orchestrated a clever ruse to make us believe he drank to death. He is very much alive and advises the boy who claims to be Aegon Targaryen." said Varys.
"Is there any chance for this boy to be the true Aegon Targaryen?" Alestor asked desperately, fearing the implications of a new war with Dorne.
"I saw what most courtiers saw after the sack of King's Landing, Lord Hand. The bloodied bodies of Princess Elia and her children were delivered to King Robert wrapped in Lannister cloaks. The Princess had her head crushed, little Rhaenys was stabbed half a hundred times, and little Aegon had his infant head crushed."
The gory details of the deed explained by Varys made the people in the council chambers flinch. Ser Barristan looked like he had seen a ghost, and his skin turned chalk white.
"If the child was somehow spirited away, it's impossible to know because of the chaos that came with the city's sacking by the Lannister army." Varys said his piece in the eerie silence that invaded the council chamber.
Renly chose to break the silence with his take on the situation.
"Surely this must be an elaborate ruse set up by the vile Dornishmen to bring war and suffering to the Seven Kingdoms."
"I'm inclined to agree with Lord Renly. Surely, this is a scheme by the Dornish to disrupt the King's peace." Grand Maester Gormon sided with Renly, a rarity in itself that made Alestor nod thoughtfully.
However, Ser Barristan Selmy was not so eager to dismiss the claim.
"Jon Connington was one of Prince Rhaegar's closest confidants. If Connington is vouching for this Aegon's identity, we must take this claim seriously." Ser Barristan said calmly.
"Besides, it doesn't matter whether we think this Aegon is a mummer. All that matters is that House Martell believes it enough to rally behind the boy." Varys sneaked in his opinion.
"Indeed." Ser Barristan readily agreed.
"Where was this Aegon raised? Was he hidden in Dorne all these years?" Alestor asked, feeling a headache slowly gripping his head.
"My little birds have uncovered that Aegon went by the name Young Griff and arrived at Sunspear a few moons back in the company of Jon Connington." Varys answered.
"So, the boy was not raised in Dorne." Alestor muttered, his thoughts swirling in his head without any direction.
An invasion from Dorne into the Stormlands came at a most unfortunate time. Whether Aegon was raised outside Westeros or not didn't matter in the context of the war. The people supporting him were raised here, and they had enough power and influence to threaten the Baratheon dynasty.
He was also reminded that House Martell has a marriage pact with the traitors in the North.
Suddenly, everything made sense. The succession of the North and the recent adventurism of House Tully all made sense to him now. It became clear they were directly or indirectly working together to weaken the Iron Throne.
'This is an unholy alliance of traitors.' Alestor thought with a mental snarl. 'But I won't allow these enemies to cast down my blood from the Iron Throne.'
Coming to a quick decision, Alestor addressed the Grand Maester.
"I want ravens sent to all the loyal houses in the Reach, the Crownlands and the Stormlands. It's time to see who stands with us and who doesn't."
*******
The chill beyond the Wall differed from any cold Waymar Royce had felt before—biting, ancient, and relentless. It clung to his cloak, wormed into his bones, and made him mad in his own mind. He had once thought himself proud and brave, a knight of the Vale serving the Night's Watch, sword-sharp and sure-footed. That Waymar Royce had died on his first ranging. What had returned was something else, something forged in the frost of the Others and the warmth of his wildling lover.
Now, he trudged through snowdrifts as high as his waist, the black of his cloak obscured beneath layers of black and grey furs bought from the finest fur merchants of Winterfell. His destination lay ahead—Mance Rayder's hidden camp in the Haunted Forest, nestled deep in the woods beyond Caster's Keep, unreachable by most and unknown to all but a chosen few. It had taken him ten days to reach it after he dumped his fellow black brothers at the edge of the forest.
With him, he carried a message from Harrion Stark. It was a message he knew Mance Rayder was not going to like. Nonetheless, he had to deliver it no matter the risk involved.
Waymar was not surprised when a wildling patrol tracked him and picked him up before he reached anywhere near the wildling camp. He was quickly taken to Mance Rayder when the patrolmen were convinced of his identity.
"So, you have returned. A part of me thought you would never return." Mance Rayder said, his voice as cold as the frigid air outside the tent.
"A part of me hoped never to, but here I am."
"Here you are." Mance nodded.
The King-Beyond-the-Wall nodded slowly, gesturing to the space beside the table. "Sit. Speak. You were sent to Winterfell. Did the wolf king agree with my proposal?"
Waymar shook his head.
"Eddard Stark received me in his hall. Heard the plea. Looked into my eyes and saw the truth of what I said."
"And?" Mance prompted.
"He refused."
One look at the King Beyond the Wall, and he knew the man was not happy.
"Did you meet Harrion Stark?"
"I did." Waymar nodded.
"What did he say?" Mance asked with a hopeful look.
"He says he can offer refuge to the women and children so long as the wildlings bend the knee and accept the laws of the North. If the wildlings agree to live under a Stark king, he offers safe passage to the people to the safe side of the Wall."
A heavy silence fell. Mance's jaw clenched. His knuckles went white on the edge of the table, gripping the wood in a vice grip.
"Did he give a reason?" Mance asked, voice taut with suppressed anger at the harsh terms offered.
"He said it is not the North's burden to bear the influx of wildlings so long as they're not sworn to Winterfell. He also said he never asked you to proclaim yourself king when he gave you this." Waymar said, taking the compass out of his pocket and placing it on the table.
"I see. He said this despite knowing the true threat." Mance asked with gritted teeth while snatching the compass from the table.
"He did. He said he is willing to arm your army with dragonglass weapons capable of harming the Others and their wights. He also promised food provisions provided you and your people stay beyond the Wall."
Mance stared at the floor for a long moment before he started laughing.
Mance closed his eyes for a moment, breathing through his nose.
"I thought the Starks were men of duty," he muttered. "I thought Harrion Stark might understand what was at stake here."
"From his perspective, letting the wildlings cross the Wall might lead to a war he can ill afford to fight right now. The North is already engaged in a war against another kingdom."
"He can make all the excuses, but the crux is that he wants us to fight the Walkers for him." Mance growled unhappily with a frown.
"Yes." Waymar answered honestly.
Mance turned, resting his hands on the edge of the table.
"So, what now, Royce? You returned, though no man expected it. What do you say we do? Sit and wait for the dead to come for us all?"
"What else is there to do? The Night's Watch won't open the gates for the Wildlings to cross the Wall."
"There is much we can do, Royce. You'll see." Mance said ominously.
AN:
To read ahead of the update schedule; pat(r) eon. C (O) M/Dragonspectre.
For artwork related to the fic:
https://discord.gg/Nw2JH25fJf