This is shaping up to be a fine tale. I'm truly loving the detail in these characters that can't be shown in the game.
An Arm of Iron-A Narrative Stannis AAR (GoT mod)
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The characters in GoT are brilliant, and I just hope I'm doing them justice.
Chapter 9: Sea Knights
Shireen
Shireen
Great uncle Alester and Lord Randyll did not leave after one night. They stayed for weeks, and ships filled up the harbor of Dragonstone. And so did their captains. There was Paxter Redwyne; a sickly thin fellow who had a few scraps of orange hair left. Matthos and Maric Seaworth came, the Onion Knight's two middle sons. Matthos was shy, but nice, and a Queen's Man, while Maric only ever talked about the best strategies for killing Lannisters. Shireen didn't know why the Lannisters needed killing. She had read about them in some of her books, but knew little about them besides their golden hair and the Lion being their sigil. She wouldn't be told until Monford Velaryon arrived with his squire Gabriel Darkholm. Shireen at first thought Ser Monford was a Targaryen. He had silver hair and purple eyes, just like her books said the Targaryens did. He was eager to strike at the Lannisters, and also was a Queen's Man.
It was Gabriel Darkholm who explained to her why the Lannisters had to be killed. "You're father is the rightful king," he explained to her. "The Lannisters have put one of their own on the throne, a spoiled brat. The Greyjoys and the Starks also need disciplining. They think they can claim independence. After we're finished with the Lannisters, we'll deal with them." Shireen liked Gabriel more than any other man on Dragonstone. He was strong, and very smart, and in Shireen's opinion very handsome. He was fourteen, but spoke to her like she was an equal, and every time there was a war council he would visit her, and talk to her about it. He played with her in the garden, teaching her how to fight with wooden swords. Her days were made brighter by him, and on the days he couldn't visit she would cry in her room.
The days were her only solace, for the nights were filled with terrible dreams. Crabs, small ones and giant ones, came in her dreams. She saw them eat the flesh of father, and the Onion Knight, and great uncle Alester, and Lord Randyll and all of them. Often she saw Gabriel's corpse floating with the rest, floating on a sea of blood. She would wake up screaming, slick with freezing sweat. The maester had given her potions to help her sleep and keep the dreams at bay, but they did nothing to help. Mother said the dreams were undoubtedly sent by the Lord of Light as a message, but Shireen did not dwell on what the message might be.
"Eddard Stark led an attempt to overthrow Joffery," Gabriel explained one day as they dueled with wooden swords. "You're holding the blade to low, go a little higher. Lord Baelish betrayed him, and 'King' Joffery chopped Lord Eddard's head off."
"Isn't that a good thing though? Ow!" Gabriel struck her across the arm and she dropped her sword. Stooping to pick it back up, she continued, "I thought the Starks were rebels."
"Robb is," Gabriel confirmed, "But Eddard was a honorable man. He wanted to put Stannis in power. The Lannisters cheated him."
"Is there going to be a battle with the Lannisters?" Shireen asked.
"Yes. Hold the blade with one hand," Gabriel instructed. "Lord Alester is going to lead the fleet to battle. We'll crush the Lannister navy and then Lord Randyll will lead us in the attack on the city. Your father will command the attack from land. I'll be on Lord Monford's ship."
"I think you should get your own ship," Shireen said as she drove forward with an attack.
Gabriel smiled, "Squires don't get to captain ships. But when I come of age I'll get a ship of my own, and I'll take the title Ser. I'll be the knight of the waves."
"And you'll sail across the ocean and have many adventures!" Shireen decided.
"And I'll name my ship the Princess Shireen," Gabriel smiled, "Because that's the best name for a ship."
"And you'll sail to the Free Cities, and the Summer Isles, and the Shadowland beyond Asshai, all the way to the Jade Sea!" she proclaimed happily.
"How can you know so much about the world and yet no so little about what's happening now?" Gabriel asked, laughing.
"I spend most of my time in my room, reading. Mother doesn't let me out much. She says my grayscale..." Shireen trailed off. She threw the sword down and touched the side of her face where she couldn't feel the skin. It was hard, and dead, and sometimes when she rubbed it enough the gray would flake off. When she was younger she had rubbed it constantly, thinking if she got enough of the grey off then normal skin would take it's place. It never worked. "Mother says my grayscale was given to me by the Lord of Light, because he was angry with me, and if I pray to him every day, he might cure me of it." She sat on the cold stone bench of the garden and looked around at all the pretty flowers.
Gabriel put his sword down and frowned. "I've always thought to the gods were strange. They took my mother from me before I met her. My father says I ripped her open when I was born. He has two other sons, so he never really bothered with me. Sent me as far away as he could, because he always remembered that I took his love from him. I always wondered why any gods, be it the Seven or the Old Gods or the Lord of Light, could let that happen. When I'm a knight, I'm not going to have any gods," he said resolutely.
The next day the fleet was to set sail, and she gave Gabriel a token, like she'd read that ladies did when their knights went off to war. She didn't have any silk scarfs or anything like that. She gave him the little toy ship the Onion Knight had given her, and said that it could be his first command. She had watched him go until Lord Monford's ship was a grey dot in the distance. The fleet had sailed to war. She went back to her room and cried.
And that night the crabs came again.
Chapter 10: The Challenger
Davos
Davos
The battle was to take place at the top of a hill. Dozens of knights and lords had arranged themselves in a circle, facing in, as the two champions got ready for the combat. Ser Garlan was dressed in a shining suit of finest armor. Usually he put his personal coat of two flowers on his shield, but today he was fighting for his house, so a single yellow flower blazed on his shield. He also possessed one of the finest longswords Davos had ever seen, and a great helm lifted onto his head. He looked like a knight from the songs.
Allard, who had insisted on being his father's champion, was a poor sight by comparison. He to wore heavy armor, carried a longsword, and had a helm as well, but none were of the fine quality that the Tyrells could afford. His shield had the Onion of House Seaworth painted on it, but it had been a rush job, only painted the night before, and hadn't properly dried yet. Strangely enough he wore woolen boots instead of the steel greaves that went with his armor.
Davos was starting to have second thoughts about sending his son into personal combat. "Are you sure you can beat him?" he asked, looking across the little arena. "We could still have one of Stannis's kingsguard fight for us."
"That would solve nothing father," Allard said, "If we are ever to be respected as lords, we must win this battle ourselves. Show all these pompous lords that Seaworth is a noble name."
"Ser Garlan is hardly a pompous lord," Davos said, "He's near undefeated in tourneys, and an excellent swordsman."
"He may know how to fight, but he's not very clever," Allard insisted, "It rained last night. The ground is muddy, and his metal leggings with sink into the mud and get him stuck. These boots protect me from the same happening. He'll move slower and tire faster. If I can knock him into the mud, he'll scarcely be able to get up."
"Alright," Davos admitted, "But if you see he's going to beat you, yield. I'd rather be dishonored than lose a son."
"You've got seven father," Allard grinned. "Surely you can afford to lose one."
As Dale helped Allard with the final preparations, Davos walked over to where Stannis was sitting, a chair brought up for him. It was a formal occasion, so he wore the antler crown that Renly had, and was flanked by two kingsguard in glowing white armor. "Your son better win," Stannis remarked as he approached. "I'm not giving that fool Mace any more trust than I must."
"I've seen him strike down many foes," Davos said, and it wasn't entirely a lie. Allard had won a number of tavern fights in his youth.
Lord Mace came over wearing his finest clothes, emerald green silk. Davos did not feel at all like a lord, wearing only sailor's clothes. "My son is ready whenever the Onion is," Mace said, glaring at Davos with small, piggish eyes. Davos turned as saw Allard nod at him.
"My son is ready as well," he said.
"Good," Stannis said, and rose to address the gathered lords, "I, King Stannis Beratheon, declare that this contest between noble Houses Seaworth and Tyrell will determine who has the honor of leading the vanguard against the Lion Gate. Begin."
The two combatants approached each other, and Davos immediately saw his son had been right. Garlan's steps were heavy, and came with the sound of mud's suction. Allard stepped as lightly as a cat in his woolen boots. The two of them paused for a moment, circling, sizing each other up. Then suddenly Allard lunged forward, striking with the point of his sword. Garlan parried easily and slammed his shield into Allard's, throwing him back, unsteady. Garlan rushed forward and struck, but Allard just barely managed to get his shield up in time. Davos's son was soon being driven back by hammer blows that he could barely parry.
"Yes boy!" Mace shouted, "Kill the lowborn scum!" Other cries of a similar nature came from the assembled knights.
Another heavy blow landed and Allard was knocked into the mud, his shield caught next to him, keeping him from moving. A few cries of "finish him!" erupted and Garlan got ready to finish the combat, raising his sword for another heavy blow. "Damn this shield!" Allard cried, and used his sword to cut away the shield's straps, freeing him, and then rolled out of the way seconds before Garlan sliced at him. He was back on his feet in an instant, and with only his sword launched a flurry of attacks. Garlan blocked the worst of them, and the few blows that did land bounced off his armor. He then struck back, slicing at Allard's unprotected legs. Allard hopped backwards, easily outpacing Garlan. When Garlan did catch him he launched his own attack, and the blow was so fierce that when Allard parried it sparks flew from their blades. As they were both thrown off balance by the force of it, Allard did something that no tourney knight Ser Garlan ever faced had done. He drew back his free hand and punched him across the face. It was a well aimed punch, connecting with Garlan's jaw, and although his helm hurt Allard's hand, the Tyrell was sent sprawling to the ground, landing on his side in the mud.
"You're not beaten boy!" Mace cried, "Don't you dare yield!" Davos noticed that the fat lord was beginning to sweat. A number of common soldiers, drawn by the sound of fighting, had entered the circle and were shouting encouragement to Allard.
Allard went over to his fallen shield and picked it back up with both hands. Garlan, stunned and sucked into the mud, had barely gained his footing when Allard slammed into him, bashing him back to the mud with his shield. When Garlan tried to parry Allard kicked savagely and the sword flew from his hand. He was left only his shield as Allard beat down with his sword, using two hands to batter him again and again and again. Finally Allard tore Garlan's shield from him and struck down, burying the point of his sword in Garlan's neck. The knight's blood flowed and mixed with the mud as he choked and sputtered, and then died.
Allard pulled his sword from the Tyrell's neck, and raised it into the sky. The commoners in the circle, who now outnumbered the lords, wooped and cried; "Onion! Onion! Onion!" Allard took off his helm and basked in the glory, blood running down his sword and on to his arm. Most of the knights and lords looked dismayed, although a few took up the cry themselves.
"The vanguard is yours," Stannis said to Davos, who was half stunned by his son's victory. The king left the hill, kingsguard following, not caring about the hoards of smallfolk that were swarming it.
Mace Tyrell came to Davos, eyes narrowed. "You think you can get away with this?" he asked, "House Seaworth will pay for taking my son from me." He then walked after Stannis, a few retainers following.
There was much celebration that night, heavy drinking on the part of Allard and Dale, and Davos indulged in some good brown beer as well. Several hedge knight's swore fealty to him that night, so that when he went into battle he would have a retinue. Some of the commoners swore loyalty as well, even though it was not their place. Amid the endless music and dancing, the Words of House Seaworth were created; Champions of Smallfolk.
That was truly some of the best writing I've seen in this forum. I tip my hat you ser, and bid you to carry on.
Chapter 11: Chained
Loras
Loras woke to a thundering crack of the whip. He opened his eyes and saw the one they called Snout looking down on him. His captors were not creative men. The small man's face was dominated by a huge nose. Every other feature of his face was drawn toward it, like ships to a whirlpool. "Get up!" Snout demanded, and the line of chained men and women slowly got their feet. One girl got up a little too slowly for Snout's liking, and he whipped her just to be sure. They were mostly enormously strong men and young girls. Uthar had use for little else.
"Lord" Uthar was a large, broad shouldered man, with a great round belly that stuck out in front of him. His face was a mess of contradictions. He had hollow cheeks, but also great fleshy jowls under them. His nose was small, unusually small, and seemed smashed. He possessed a slowly receding hairline and mud brown eyes. He dressed a bit better than any of his men, but that was not saying much, as most of them were dressed in rags. The only weapon he carried was an unusually ornate dagger, but his men seemed to fear and respect him, and addressed him as "m'lord". Loras was certain that the man had never held a lordly title in his life.
Uthar was a slaver. He and his band of brigands were taking advantage of the war to gain some extra coin, Loras guessed. Every day Uthar sent out men like Gardel to abduct the kind of people he needed; virgins and strong men. The central camp moved every few days, from one clump of woods to the next, but somehow the sellswords always found it with their catches. About a dozen men stayed with the main camp, a fairly standard lot of outcasts and unmorals, but there was one man who always caught Loras's attention. He was a tiny Tyroshi man, reaching no higher than Loras's chin, and Loras was hardly tall. His hair was thrown up in spikes and dyed an electric blue, while piercings covered him from head to toe. He had thick, brawny arms that seemed out of place on such a short man, and each one of his nails was filed into a sharp claw. When he smiled (as he often did whenever one of the captives was beaten) it was a big toothy grin, and Loras could see his teeth were filed as well. His name was Solio, and everyone, even Uthar, feared him.
A thunder of hooves entered the camp that morning, and Uthar jumped down from his cart to see what new creature his swords had kidnapped. Three men rode into camp, Gardel at their head. A captive was swung over Gardel's saddle, a tall, muscular man by the looks of him, dressed in rags, with his hands and feet tied and his mouth gagged. He had golden blonde hair and a handsome, if smug, face. Loras recognized him instantly. "Kingslayer," he whispered under his breath.
Ser Jaime Lannister recognized him as well, and his eyes widened. Then easy confidence took his eyes as he was dragged before Uthar, who poked and prodded the Kingslayer, feeling his arms and examining his face. "He better be good," Gardel said, "Even unarmed he gave us quite a struggle."
"Yes, he'll be fine," Uthar said, "But why the gag?"
"He talks to much, even when you beat him," Gardel reported, "Cocky bastard too. I almost like him."
"Take it off and put him with the others," Uthar instructed, and Jaime's rope bindings were exchanged for chains. He was dragged over to the others and dumped. Slowly Loras worked his way over to where he was.
"Hello Ser," Jaime said with a mocking tinge in his voice, "And here I thought I would have to endure this captivity alone, just as I did my last. Turns out I'm not the only knight in Westeros stupid enough to be caught by brigands. Any escape plans?"
Loras had several in fact. He had attempted escape twice before, first trying to pickpocket keys off Snout. He had gotten ten lashings for his trouble. His second attempt had been more cunning; he found a splinter of stone and tried to break the manacle's locking mechanism, working it in to the key hole every night. But he'd been caught in the act, and gotten twenty lashings for it. His head was filled with other ideas, most of them too far fetched to work. "A few," he admitted. "How did you escape the Northerners?"
"Killed a distant relative," Jaime said flatly, as if that was the only explanation required. "But I'm a bit short on relatives, so I don't think that will work."
"They're cunning," Loras told him. "It will be easier if we work together."
"Fine," the Lannister said, "But the moment we are out of danger I'm leaving you. I'm not going to become your friend and have them sing songs about us with titles like 'Ser Jaime and the Knight who preferred men.'"
"Alright," Loras agreed. He didn't know whether to be happy that his chances of escape were at least doubled, or disgusted by having to work with the honorless man.
Thank you!
Victor227 said:
Ser Garlan up and died of "natural causes" at the age of 21. I figured I'd work it into my story.
Cuban said:
Aw, alas! Still, it was some excellent writing! I was just hoping the engine had somehow decided to make Garlan and Allard rivals. It's amazing what it'll come up with sometimes in regard to crazy-random pairings and appearances!
I'm thrilled to see the Seaworth's win the duel, though killing one of Mace's sons is sure to have repercussions down the road. The Stannis-Tyrell alliance doesn't seem long for this world...
Davos is one of my favorite characters, so I'm glad to see him prosper. A champion of the smallfolk, even!
Davos is one of my favorite characters, so I'm glad to see him prosper. A champion of the smallfolk, even!
Chapter 12: It Begins
Tyrion
Tyrion
War was coming.
Tyrion rolled out of his bed and slowly set himself on the floor. The last rays of the sun lit the sky on fire, a brilliant, glowing red. Mostly without clothes, he went on to the balcony and looked out over King's Landing. From the top of the Tower of the Hand he could see across the city to the hills around it, which had been stripped of trees, brush, and anything else Stannis's army could use as cover, fuel, or building materials. Even rocks had been taken, to be hurled down on the attackers when they came. Tyrion glanced over at The Great Sieges of Westeros again. He had taken every preparation he could, he thought to himself, and thrown in a couple of nasty surprises for Stannis's hoards as well.
Below him the Red Keep was doubly fortified and it's storerooms were filled to their ceilings with grain, salted meats, and many other foods. Tyrion had also ensured there was a good supply of wine. Without the stuff moral would collapse. Boiling oil and wildfire bombs were stored in plenty, and the fetchers had been working day and night to produce enough arrows. 10,000 of the things were deployed for archers throughout the city, although Bronn said they'd need twice that many, and Tyrion tended to agree. Just need to survive the initial assault, Tyrion thought, then there will be plenty of time to make more.
The city itself was full to bursting with sellswords and refugees. Littlefinger had loaned a huge sum from the Iron Bank, and every cent of it had gone into paying for more swords. Goldcloaks, Lannister soldiers, mountain men, and sellswords combined added up to 12,000 men, a tidy number. While the keep had a good supply of food, the city was not as well off. Merchants had bought as much food as they could, and Gold Cloaks would be provided with food from the keep, but for the poor of Flea Bottom there was little, and after a month or two of siege there would be none.
They had sighted Stannis's fleet, and it would arrive this very night. Without the army to support him Lord Alester would not dare attack, but the blockade would begin. Lean times were ahead, even if they beat off Stannis's assault.
Suddenly bells were ringing in the lower town. Bongggggggggg, bonggggggggggg, bongggggggggg, they rang, and Tyrion knew exactly what they meant. Stannis's army had been sighted close to the city. A moment later the door burst open and Podrick Payne burst through. Tyrion's squire was a thin boy with thin hair, and a red bump under one eye. “My lord, an outrider has come. Stannis's army is drawing close, 50,000 men at least, with scaling ladders and battering rams.”
Tyrion absorbed the information strangely calm. Time for battle at last. “Get my armor,” he ordered, “And make sure everyone in the castle is prepared.” Podrick left hurriedly, and Tyrion went over to the bed, where beautiful Shae was lying.
“Stags have come for My Lion to kill,” she said, fierce confidence on her face.
“Go to Lady Sansa, make sure she is safe,” Tyrion half-asked, half-ordered. Shae did as he bid, but not after she gave him a kiss on the head.
Podrick returned with Tyrion's armor. It was exquisitely made, crimson red, to fit his misshapen body. He hopped up on his desk so Podrick could fit it around him.
The door opened again and Lord Varys entered, looking grim and without his usual powder and perfume. “I have brought a map,” he saying, rolling it out before Tyrion. It showed the maze of tunnels and passages that wove under King's Landing like a giant spider's web. He looked at Podrick, “Do you trust him?”
Tyrion thought for a moment and said, “Oddly enough I think I do.”
“Good, I will have trustworthy men and horses waiting here,” Varys pointed to the map, “If the battle turns sour you may find me there. That tunnel leads out of King's Landing, where Stannis's will never think to look.”
“Are you proposing I run with you?” Tyrion asked.
Varys looked him right in the eyes. “There are few enough truly decent men in these seven kingdoms. Although I have never said it I believe you are one of them. Stannis will not stop his attack until every one of his men dies around him, and he has to many men for that to happen before the city falls. I have no wish for you to be tied to a stake and burned for some red god.”
“You must be one of the few people at court who don't want me dead,” Tyrion remarked, “But I do not intend to run. I will go down with my ship. With luck I won't have to, but I will.” The last plates of his armor were put on around him, and Podrick handed him a broad battle axe.
“You might have just stepped out of a song,” Varys complemented him.
“Must have been an unusual song,” Tyrion remarked, “I've heard the one about the Blind Knight, but never the one about the Half-Knight.” Podrick smiled. “Come now,” Tyrion said to his squire. “Let's go to war.”
They marched down to the throne room together. King Joffery was dressed for battle in his red plate. The shoulders were made in the shape of golden lions with rubies for eyes. They arrived just in time to she him make Sansa kiss his new sword. “Hearteater I've named it,” he boasted, “You can taste my uncle's blood after the battle is finished.
“Lady Sansa,” Tyrion interrupted, “You had best get to safety. Stannis's hoards could be on us at any moment.”
Sweet Sansa, with her innocent face and her gentle beauty, looked at him with her sad eyes and said, “I will pray for you to survive the battle,” and quickly remembered to add, “And of course the survival of my beloved Joffery.” Shae took her to safety, stealing a glance at Tyrion that said I will be praying too. Tyrion made a quick silent prayer to the Mother to keep both of them safe from harm, although he was not usually a religious man. War makes all men religious, he thought.
Tyrion, Joffery, Podrick, and the Hound left the keep, going to a spot on the walls Tyrion had found. It offered a good view of the west, where Stannis's main attack would come from, but still let them see the river, which Stannis's fleet was approaching as the day darkened into true night. They were joined there by Ser Lancel Lannister and Wisdom Hallyne of the Alchemist's guild, who informed Tyrion that all was ready.
They got there and waited in silence. Tyrion felt as if the whole world had gone quiet, although that was hardly the case. He had done all he could, hired men, prepared the defenses, and a few surprises as well. Now he just had to hope it was enough.
Then the drumming began. Hundreds of drums all timed together, beating a marching tune for Stannis's army. And over the hills they poured, a numberless wave ready to pour down on the city and it's meager defenders. They carried hundreds of banners among them, the flower of the Tyrells, the fox of the Florents, the grapes of the Redwynes, the huntsmen of the Tarlys, and a fair number of onions, although Tyrion didn't know which house's sigil that was. And above all the rest was the flaming stag of Stannis Baratheon, who was, according to all those men down there, the rightful King of Westeros.
“There's to many of them,” Joffery said, panic in his voice, “We can't fight! We have to retreat!”
“Where to?” Tyrion said dryly, and Joffery shut his mouth. Tyrion turned his attention to Stannis's fleet, which was now sailing into the river to fight the handful of ships in the Royal Fleet. Lord Alester was not a soldier, and Stannis had made a grave mistake giving him charge of the fleet. He sent no scouts, simply rushing to battle as fast as he could, not heading caution. When nearly all of the fleet entered the river, Tyrion knew it was time. “NOW!” he shouted as loud as he could.
A signal was given, and a heavy chain was pulled across where Blackwater Rush met the bay, trapping most of Stannis's fleet in the river. And then a flaming arrow flew. Just one.
The wildfire that the Royal Navy's few ships had been packed with exploded, sending a green wave of destruction throughout the enemy fleet. Men screamed and died, were lit on fire and jumped into the water. That brought no safety, for the water itself was on fire, everything in Blackwater Rush was aflame. In a single blow Stannis's fleet was rendered impotent.
War had come.
Tyrion rolled out of his bed and slowly set himself on the floor. The last rays of the sun lit the sky on fire, a brilliant, glowing red. Mostly without clothes, he went on to the balcony and looked out over King's Landing. From the top of the Tower of the Hand he could see across the city to the hills around it, which had been stripped of trees, brush, and anything else Stannis's army could use as cover, fuel, or building materials. Even rocks had been taken, to be hurled down on the attackers when they came. Tyrion glanced over at The Great Sieges of Westeros again. He had taken every preparation he could, he thought to himself, and thrown in a couple of nasty surprises for Stannis's hoards as well.
Below him the Red Keep was doubly fortified and it's storerooms were filled to their ceilings with grain, salted meats, and many other foods. Tyrion had also ensured there was a good supply of wine. Without the stuff moral would collapse. Boiling oil and wildfire bombs were stored in plenty, and the fetchers had been working day and night to produce enough arrows. 10,000 of the things were deployed for archers throughout the city, although Bronn said they'd need twice that many, and Tyrion tended to agree. Just need to survive the initial assault, Tyrion thought, then there will be plenty of time to make more.
The city itself was full to bursting with sellswords and refugees. Littlefinger had loaned a huge sum from the Iron Bank, and every cent of it had gone into paying for more swords. Goldcloaks, Lannister soldiers, mountain men, and sellswords combined added up to 12,000 men, a tidy number. While the keep had a good supply of food, the city was not as well off. Merchants had bought as much food as they could, and Gold Cloaks would be provided with food from the keep, but for the poor of Flea Bottom there was little, and after a month or two of siege there would be none.
They had sighted Stannis's fleet, and it would arrive this very night. Without the army to support him Lord Alester would not dare attack, but the blockade would begin. Lean times were ahead, even if they beat off Stannis's assault.
Suddenly bells were ringing in the lower town. Bongggggggggg, bonggggggggggg, bongggggggggg, they rang, and Tyrion knew exactly what they meant. Stannis's army had been sighted close to the city. A moment later the door burst open and Podrick Payne burst through. Tyrion's squire was a thin boy with thin hair, and a red bump under one eye. “My lord, an outrider has come. Stannis's army is drawing close, 50,000 men at least, with scaling ladders and battering rams.”
Tyrion absorbed the information strangely calm. Time for battle at last. “Get my armor,” he ordered, “And make sure everyone in the castle is prepared.” Podrick left hurriedly, and Tyrion went over to the bed, where beautiful Shae was lying.
“Stags have come for My Lion to kill,” she said, fierce confidence on her face.
“Go to Lady Sansa, make sure she is safe,” Tyrion half-asked, half-ordered. Shae did as he bid, but not after she gave him a kiss on the head.
Podrick returned with Tyrion's armor. It was exquisitely made, crimson red, to fit his misshapen body. He hopped up on his desk so Podrick could fit it around him.
The door opened again and Lord Varys entered, looking grim and without his usual powder and perfume. “I have brought a map,” he saying, rolling it out before Tyrion. It showed the maze of tunnels and passages that wove under King's Landing like a giant spider's web. He looked at Podrick, “Do you trust him?”
Tyrion thought for a moment and said, “Oddly enough I think I do.”
“Good, I will have trustworthy men and horses waiting here,” Varys pointed to the map, “If the battle turns sour you may find me there. That tunnel leads out of King's Landing, where Stannis's will never think to look.”
“Are you proposing I run with you?” Tyrion asked.
Varys looked him right in the eyes. “There are few enough truly decent men in these seven kingdoms. Although I have never said it I believe you are one of them. Stannis will not stop his attack until every one of his men dies around him, and he has to many men for that to happen before the city falls. I have no wish for you to be tied to a stake and burned for some red god.”
“You must be one of the few people at court who don't want me dead,” Tyrion remarked, “But I do not intend to run. I will go down with my ship. With luck I won't have to, but I will.” The last plates of his armor were put on around him, and Podrick handed him a broad battle axe.
“You might have just stepped out of a song,” Varys complemented him.
“Must have been an unusual song,” Tyrion remarked, “I've heard the one about the Blind Knight, but never the one about the Half-Knight.” Podrick smiled. “Come now,” Tyrion said to his squire. “Let's go to war.”
They marched down to the throne room together. King Joffery was dressed for battle in his red plate. The shoulders were made in the shape of golden lions with rubies for eyes. They arrived just in time to she him make Sansa kiss his new sword. “Hearteater I've named it,” he boasted, “You can taste my uncle's blood after the battle is finished.
“Lady Sansa,” Tyrion interrupted, “You had best get to safety. Stannis's hoards could be on us at any moment.”
Sweet Sansa, with her innocent face and her gentle beauty, looked at him with her sad eyes and said, “I will pray for you to survive the battle,” and quickly remembered to add, “And of course the survival of my beloved Joffery.” Shae took her to safety, stealing a glance at Tyrion that said I will be praying too. Tyrion made a quick silent prayer to the Mother to keep both of them safe from harm, although he was not usually a religious man. War makes all men religious, he thought.
Tyrion, Joffery, Podrick, and the Hound left the keep, going to a spot on the walls Tyrion had found. It offered a good view of the west, where Stannis's main attack would come from, but still let them see the river, which Stannis's fleet was approaching as the day darkened into true night. They were joined there by Ser Lancel Lannister and Wisdom Hallyne of the Alchemist's guild, who informed Tyrion that all was ready.
They got there and waited in silence. Tyrion felt as if the whole world had gone quiet, although that was hardly the case. He had done all he could, hired men, prepared the defenses, and a few surprises as well. Now he just had to hope it was enough.
Then the drumming began. Hundreds of drums all timed together, beating a marching tune for Stannis's army. And over the hills they poured, a numberless wave ready to pour down on the city and it's meager defenders. They carried hundreds of banners among them, the flower of the Tyrells, the fox of the Florents, the grapes of the Redwynes, the huntsmen of the Tarlys, and a fair number of onions, although Tyrion didn't know which house's sigil that was. And above all the rest was the flaming stag of Stannis Baratheon, who was, according to all those men down there, the rightful King of Westeros.
“There's to many of them,” Joffery said, panic in his voice, “We can't fight! We have to retreat!”
“Where to?” Tyrion said dryly, and Joffery shut his mouth. Tyrion turned his attention to Stannis's fleet, which was now sailing into the river to fight the handful of ships in the Royal Fleet. Lord Alester was not a soldier, and Stannis had made a grave mistake giving him charge of the fleet. He sent no scouts, simply rushing to battle as fast as he could, not heading caution. When nearly all of the fleet entered the river, Tyrion knew it was time. “NOW!” he shouted as loud as he could.
A signal was given, and a heavy chain was pulled across where Blackwater Rush met the bay, trapping most of Stannis's fleet in the river. And then a flaming arrow flew. Just one.
The wildfire that the Royal Navy's few ships had been packed with exploded, sending a green wave of destruction throughout the enemy fleet. Men screamed and died, were lit on fire and jumped into the water. That brought no safety, for the water itself was on fire, everything in Blackwater Rush was aflame. In a single blow Stannis's fleet was rendered impotent.
War had come.
You'll see some of those later on.
VILenin said:
Davos is among my favorite characters as well, and I'm happy to be able to make his sons major characters, as they are quite minor in the books.
Chapter 13: The Lion Gate
Davos
Davos
The entire army looked on in horror at the fire that swept through the fleet. Thousands of men had perished in a single instant. Davos's thoughts turned to Matthos and Maric, who were captaining ships in the fleet. Had they been killed? Were they burning? Oh gods let them be safe. May all the Seven keep them safe. Behind him Dale, Allard, and his bodyguard of knights stood shocked. The only one who seemed unfazed was Stannis.
“Ride along the river,” he ordered a rider, “Find Lord Alester, Lord Randyll, or anyone. Tell them to get all the men they can together and continue the attack as planned.”
“But my lord, hundreds will die!” the rider protested.
“Thousands,” Stannis corrected him. He turned to face the vast army at his back. “Come with me and take this city!” The army roared, bashing their weapons together and chanting, “The Last Stag! The Last Stag! The Last Stag!” Drums beat in fierce time, faster and faster.
Allard and Dale slid their swords from their sheaths. “Lannister bastards!” Allard cried, and led the charge. Thousands of men followed, shouting insults and swearing oaths, and nearly swept Davos off his feet. “For King Stannis!” Davos ordered, drawing his sword and charging as well. Tens of thousands of men charged across the plain before King's Landing. Twenty thousand men were unleashed on the Lion Gate, some hauling rams to batter it down, and some carrying ladders to scale the walls and butcher the defenders. The rest came screaming, some screaming “The Last Stag!” others screaming insults, and some just screaming. To their left Stannis himself led another twenty thousand men to the King's Gate.
Arrows began to fall among them, and other types of screaming started. Arrows cut into legs, and arms, and chests, and heads. One of Davos's retinue went down, arrow sticking from his throat. The dense rain did not stop the attackers' relentless charge. Drums beat fast, fast as possible, speeding them onward.
They reached the wall, and stones were thrown as well, smashing heads and breaking bones, sending bloody men to the ground, crying out in pain. Blood's sent filled Davos's nose, mixed with piss and fire. “Get the ram up!” he bellowed loud enough to be heard of the din.
Ladders were put to the walls, and men began climbing up, a rain of rocks and arrows smashing them, sending them back to the ground. When they were nearly at the top the defenders would knock the ladder back to the ground, the fall enough to kill most men. But in some places one man would get to the top, and he would die, but he lasted long enough for a second man to pull himself onto the wall, and then another, and another. Davos saw Dale fight his way to the top and slay two defenders in short order.
The ram came up, a wooden log with a steel ram's head at the front. One of the men carrying it had his had smashed in by a rock. Unhesitatingly Davos took his place, picking up the heavy oak and ordering, “RAM!” They surged forward as one, slamming the gate with all the force they had. The Lion Gate took it. It had been built three hundred years ago by Aegon the Conqueror to hold against any attack. They went back and Davos yelled again over the din, “RAM!” they slammed into the gate. And again. “RAM!” And again. “RAM!” And again. “RAM!” A crack of wood was heard, but Davos could see no splinter. So again. “RAM!” An arrow pierced another man at the front of the ram, and one of Davos's bodyguard took his place. “RAM!” Davos's arms ached from holding the heavy thing, and his voice was hoarse from shouting. “RAM!” He did not let that stop him. “RAM!”
Allard fought his way to the top of the wall. “Kill the bastards! Kill the bastards!” he screamed, cutting a man open and letting his guts collapse to the hard stone. Dale dueled a Lannister Knight and slit open his artery, spilling blood. Still arrows rained down, but they seemed less dense now. Wildfire bombs were added to the missiles, and explosions ringed in Davos's ears, and he was sprayed with a haze of blood.
“RAM!” he screamed again, his voice cracking and old back tiring. Finally the gate gave, wooden boards splintering, hinges swinging open. “The Last Stag!” the army roared, pouring through the gateway, butchering the first few defenders. Davos drew his sword and joined the press. The defenders were beaten back before the onslaught. For each Lannister that died five of the attackers were killed, but it didn't matter. There were too many men pressing through the gate, the sheer number of bodies, man pressed against man, was to great. The defenders broke and ran, and were cut down like wheat.
And the chant began. Davos didn't know who started it, maybe he did. “Onion! Onion! Onion! Onion!” the men cheered for him. Soon the entire army was cheering for him, the son of a crabber, they cheered for him, and amid the carnage and blood, Davos cried. He was a lord paramount, his sons were knights, and a whole army screamed for him.
Then the world exploded. A rush of wildfire blasted from the ground, like a volcano erupting. The men that had just been praising Davos were burned alive, and he was hurled back, skin torn, ears bleeding. Ringing filled his head as he fell on the piles of slain, his blood mixing with the blood of the dead.
Through the fire, Lannisters charged. A huge man with a mutilated face led them. “If any man dies with a clean sword I'll rape his corpse!” They butchered the survivors, cut them apart. The big man sliced them in half, even the ones who yielded. Davos lay helpless as they advanced, without even the strength to lift his sword.
Suddenly strong arms grabbed him under the armpits, and dragged him out of the fire. Davos saw one of his bodyguard, a hedge knight named Grent, pulling him backward, away from the slaughter. “Call the reserve!” The moment he spoke blood flooded his mouth, choking him and spilling out over his armor.
“Call the reserve!” Grent cried as more of Davos's men were butchered. Screams filled the sky, and men were thrown off the walls, breaking when they hit the ground. Davos' vision went hazy, and his ears still rang. He heard drums hammering the signal, calling the reserve forward. The attack could still succeed if Lord Tyrell brought in the reserve, he thought. It was that thought he carried into darkness.
He woke up in a tent, cold wind blowing through it. It was an inky dark night, and the screams of men washed over him. Grent was standing over him. “He's awake!” the knight said excitedly. He was a tall man well past his younger years, with age lines drawn across his face and stringy dark hair.
Dale's younger face joined Grent's. “Father, you're alive, thank god!”
“Did we win?” Davos asked. “Did Tyrell arrive with the reserve in time?”
Dale's face became grave. “No father. The men routed when you were taken out of action. Then they sallied out of the gate and attacked Stannis from the flank.”
“Where was the reserve?” Davos asked. “Shouldn't they have come?”
“The camp was attacked,” Grent explained. “The Imp sent his barbarians in a great circle. They attacked the camp and Mace turned the reserve to face them. He outnumbered them ten to one, but they weren't interested in a fight. They burned our supplies and kidnapped our camp followers. Lord Mace kept chasing them, didn't know you needed support.”
“At least that's what he says,” Davos said angrily. “I know better.” He'd left them. That fat lord had left Davos and all his men to die. He had the excuse of chasing barbarians, but really he'd turned and ignored the real battle. “How many men lost?” Davos asked, dreading to hear the number.
“Nearly twenty thousand all together,” Dale answered solemnly, “And a number of lords and knights were taken prisoner.” He meet his father's eyes. “They got Allard. He was trapped on the wall and they took him. Many women were stolen from the camp as well, Lady Margaery and the Red Woman among them.”
Davos absorbed the grim news, and then decided to laugh. “At least I won't have to listen to the woman's sermons on the Lord of Light.”
Stannis called a war council to decide their next course of action. Food was scarce, and the army crippled and low on morale. But Stannis refused to retreat. He would starve the city out, or die trying. There was no going back now
“Ride along the river,” he ordered a rider, “Find Lord Alester, Lord Randyll, or anyone. Tell them to get all the men they can together and continue the attack as planned.”
“But my lord, hundreds will die!” the rider protested.
“Thousands,” Stannis corrected him. He turned to face the vast army at his back. “Come with me and take this city!” The army roared, bashing their weapons together and chanting, “The Last Stag! The Last Stag! The Last Stag!” Drums beat in fierce time, faster and faster.
Allard and Dale slid their swords from their sheaths. “Lannister bastards!” Allard cried, and led the charge. Thousands of men followed, shouting insults and swearing oaths, and nearly swept Davos off his feet. “For King Stannis!” Davos ordered, drawing his sword and charging as well. Tens of thousands of men charged across the plain before King's Landing. Twenty thousand men were unleashed on the Lion Gate, some hauling rams to batter it down, and some carrying ladders to scale the walls and butcher the defenders. The rest came screaming, some screaming “The Last Stag!” others screaming insults, and some just screaming. To their left Stannis himself led another twenty thousand men to the King's Gate.
Arrows began to fall among them, and other types of screaming started. Arrows cut into legs, and arms, and chests, and heads. One of Davos's retinue went down, arrow sticking from his throat. The dense rain did not stop the attackers' relentless charge. Drums beat fast, fast as possible, speeding them onward.
They reached the wall, and stones were thrown as well, smashing heads and breaking bones, sending bloody men to the ground, crying out in pain. Blood's sent filled Davos's nose, mixed with piss and fire. “Get the ram up!” he bellowed loud enough to be heard of the din.
Ladders were put to the walls, and men began climbing up, a rain of rocks and arrows smashing them, sending them back to the ground. When they were nearly at the top the defenders would knock the ladder back to the ground, the fall enough to kill most men. But in some places one man would get to the top, and he would die, but he lasted long enough for a second man to pull himself onto the wall, and then another, and another. Davos saw Dale fight his way to the top and slay two defenders in short order.
The ram came up, a wooden log with a steel ram's head at the front. One of the men carrying it had his had smashed in by a rock. Unhesitatingly Davos took his place, picking up the heavy oak and ordering, “RAM!” They surged forward as one, slamming the gate with all the force they had. The Lion Gate took it. It had been built three hundred years ago by Aegon the Conqueror to hold against any attack. They went back and Davos yelled again over the din, “RAM!” they slammed into the gate. And again. “RAM!” And again. “RAM!” And again. “RAM!” A crack of wood was heard, but Davos could see no splinter. So again. “RAM!” An arrow pierced another man at the front of the ram, and one of Davos's bodyguard took his place. “RAM!” Davos's arms ached from holding the heavy thing, and his voice was hoarse from shouting. “RAM!” He did not let that stop him. “RAM!”
Allard fought his way to the top of the wall. “Kill the bastards! Kill the bastards!” he screamed, cutting a man open and letting his guts collapse to the hard stone. Dale dueled a Lannister Knight and slit open his artery, spilling blood. Still arrows rained down, but they seemed less dense now. Wildfire bombs were added to the missiles, and explosions ringed in Davos's ears, and he was sprayed with a haze of blood.
“RAM!” he screamed again, his voice cracking and old back tiring. Finally the gate gave, wooden boards splintering, hinges swinging open. “The Last Stag!” the army roared, pouring through the gateway, butchering the first few defenders. Davos drew his sword and joined the press. The defenders were beaten back before the onslaught. For each Lannister that died five of the attackers were killed, but it didn't matter. There were too many men pressing through the gate, the sheer number of bodies, man pressed against man, was to great. The defenders broke and ran, and were cut down like wheat.
And the chant began. Davos didn't know who started it, maybe he did. “Onion! Onion! Onion! Onion!” the men cheered for him. Soon the entire army was cheering for him, the son of a crabber, they cheered for him, and amid the carnage and blood, Davos cried. He was a lord paramount, his sons were knights, and a whole army screamed for him.
Then the world exploded. A rush of wildfire blasted from the ground, like a volcano erupting. The men that had just been praising Davos were burned alive, and he was hurled back, skin torn, ears bleeding. Ringing filled his head as he fell on the piles of slain, his blood mixing with the blood of the dead.
Through the fire, Lannisters charged. A huge man with a mutilated face led them. “If any man dies with a clean sword I'll rape his corpse!” They butchered the survivors, cut them apart. The big man sliced them in half, even the ones who yielded. Davos lay helpless as they advanced, without even the strength to lift his sword.
Suddenly strong arms grabbed him under the armpits, and dragged him out of the fire. Davos saw one of his bodyguard, a hedge knight named Grent, pulling him backward, away from the slaughter. “Call the reserve!” The moment he spoke blood flooded his mouth, choking him and spilling out over his armor.
“Call the reserve!” Grent cried as more of Davos's men were butchered. Screams filled the sky, and men were thrown off the walls, breaking when they hit the ground. Davos' vision went hazy, and his ears still rang. He heard drums hammering the signal, calling the reserve forward. The attack could still succeed if Lord Tyrell brought in the reserve, he thought. It was that thought he carried into darkness.
* * *
He woke up in a tent, cold wind blowing through it. It was an inky dark night, and the screams of men washed over him. Grent was standing over him. “He's awake!” the knight said excitedly. He was a tall man well past his younger years, with age lines drawn across his face and stringy dark hair.
Dale's younger face joined Grent's. “Father, you're alive, thank god!”
“Did we win?” Davos asked. “Did Tyrell arrive with the reserve in time?”
Dale's face became grave. “No father. The men routed when you were taken out of action. Then they sallied out of the gate and attacked Stannis from the flank.”
“Where was the reserve?” Davos asked. “Shouldn't they have come?”
“The camp was attacked,” Grent explained. “The Imp sent his barbarians in a great circle. They attacked the camp and Mace turned the reserve to face them. He outnumbered them ten to one, but they weren't interested in a fight. They burned our supplies and kidnapped our camp followers. Lord Mace kept chasing them, didn't know you needed support.”
“At least that's what he says,” Davos said angrily. “I know better.” He'd left them. That fat lord had left Davos and all his men to die. He had the excuse of chasing barbarians, but really he'd turned and ignored the real battle. “How many men lost?” Davos asked, dreading to hear the number.
“Nearly twenty thousand all together,” Dale answered solemnly, “And a number of lords and knights were taken prisoner.” He meet his father's eyes. “They got Allard. He was trapped on the wall and they took him. Many women were stolen from the camp as well, Lady Margaery and the Red Woman among them.”
Davos absorbed the grim news, and then decided to laugh. “At least I won't have to listen to the woman's sermons on the Lord of Light.”
Stannis called a war council to decide their next course of action. Food was scarce, and the army crippled and low on morale. But Stannis refused to retreat. He would starve the city out, or die trying. There was no going back now
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Whenever I read this it doesn't feel like an AAR, rather it reads like a book or a story. Imagine my frustration with the game's mechanics in the last chapter Stupid siege mechanics ! Also, MOAR.
Stupid siege mechanics ! Also, MOAR.
Ouch, that's quite a reversal! Still, without the Tyrell host switching sides and "ghost" Renly's charge to rout Stannis, it seems like it's only a matter of time before King's Landing falls. Then again, if there's one person you should never underestimate it's Tywin Lannister...
Chapter 14: Blood, Death, and Green Apples
Loras
Loras
“You remind me of my father,” Solio said, giving Jaime a grin. He showed all his pointed teeth, looking like a shark. The man took a green apple in his hand and bit into it, juice running down his chin. “He was always talking like you. Yap, yap, yap. All day and all night.” The tiny Tyroshi sat in front of the line of captives, talking and watching intently.
Jaime smiled, a slow, cunning smile. “Was he a handsome man?”
Solio laughed a great belly laugh, disconcerting coming from a man so small. “I think he took every woman in Tyrosh at one time or another. He took many things my father. He was the richest man in Tyrosh, and I was his only son. He once told me that a man gets only what he earns, that if you wanted something you had to take it. So I slit his throat in the night and took all his gold.” The Tyroshi showed his teeth again, and Jaime was suddenly more concerned about being compared to the man's father.
“No honor in that,” Loras mumbled, trying to concentrate on the stale bread and meat he'd been given to eat. Uthar always fed them well. No point in starving your cattle.
Solio stole a glance at Loras and took another bite of his apple. “Your friend?” he asked Jaime, pointing. “You are both knights, no?”
“Yes,” Jaime said cautiously. “But we're enemies, not friends. My family supports King Joffery's claim on the throne. The Tyrells and the Reach support Stannis, if I'm not mistaken.”
“Oh, you knights with your wars and your honor and your big plates of armor,” Solio laughed, beating his chest before returning to his apple. “I cannot fight in armor like that. A water dancer from Braavos once told me that if you cannot see you cannot fight, if you cannot move you cannot fight, and if you cannot breathe you cannot fight. A man in steel plates can do none of those things, and so I can always kill him.” He spat an apple seed into Jaime's face. “How do you kill knight?” he asked.
“I use my sword until they can't use their's,” Jaime answered, and that got another laugh from the Tyroshi.
“I think I like you Ser Jaime!” Solio admitted, taking another bite of his apple. It was nearly gone now. “I might have to let you out of your chains and give you a sword, just to see which one of us is better.” He flexed his muscles and they bulged unnaturally large for a man his size.
Above them a squirrel jumped from tree to tree. Solio's eyes flew up and followed it. He licked his lips and slowly got up. Then he sprang like a bird, scaling the tree in seconds and grabbing the squirrel between his jaws. For a few futile moments it struggled, but then he bit down and its neck snapped. He spat the body down to the dirt, and leaped ten feet to the ground, landing on all fours.
Taken aback by the display, it took a few moments before Loras asked, “Why did you do that?”
“Why not?” Solio grinned. “I hadn't killed anything in a while, and I felt like it.”
“Solio!” Uthar called, walking across the little camp to him. “I trust our assets are well?”
“Very well my lord,” Solio said, bowing so low that his forehead almost touched the ground. “The women eagerly look forward to rape, and the men are ready to be worked to death in mines. All are happy and prosperous.”
Uthar eyed Solio with suspicion. “Yes, well, make sure they're feed and watered, and get plenty of rest. We march to the meet tomorrow. Don't want them damaged.”
“Of course my lord, a thousand blessings on you and your descendents,” Solio said, and bowed once again. When Uthar had passed out of earshot he muttered, “If you have any.”
* * *
That night as Loras slept, he dreamed of escaping, chopping Solio's head off and bringing Uthar back to justice. But where ever he took the fat man, justice was not done. None of the king's would listen to him, and then the slaver would escape him, and pass forever out of his reach.
He was awakened by grunting near him. He opened his eyes and saw Snout straddling one of the girls, one hand cupped over her mouth, the other undressing her. “Just give Snouty a little bit of love huh?” the man said, “Man has needs. Uthar doesn't know about it, but he's hardly a man, isn't he? Real men need a little love.”
“Leave her be!” Loras ordered. His voice carried an authority it rarely had. “Leave her be! Now!”
Snout stopped suddenly and turned on him. He drew his thin, slightly curved sword and put it to Loras's chin. “Do you want some pretty little knight? I think I'll slit your throat for that.” He advanced on Loras, who tried to move away, but the chains dragged him down. “Now it all happened very fast,” Snout said, grinning as he did. He pressed his blade closer. “You tried to escape, you see? You were going to strangle me with your chains. I had no choice but to open your throat from ear to ear, and let it all your blood spill out on the dirt!”
Loras didn't know what to do. In a fight he could have skewered the man, but this was no fight. It wasn't battle or tourney. This was just murder. The first drops of blood hit the ground and the blade's tip dug into his flesh. He muttered a prayer to the Seven, and when that didn't work he tried the Old Gods, and when they failed him he called on the Drowned God. When that did nothing he closed his eyes and cried, “Lord of Light please!”
“I would not do that if I were you,” a voice drifted across the camp. “Uthar does not like his products spoiled.” Solio stood behind Snout, with his thick arms crossed in front of his chest. He was grinning, moonlight dancing off his sharpened teeth.
“Be gone freak,” Snout said gruffly. “This does not concern you.”
“Oh but it concerns me that men like you throw away their lives so hastily,” Solio said. He was unarmed. “You should have let the girl be as this bold knight said. Or I will punish you.”
“I'll kill you too!” Snout roared, charging at Solio and swinging his blade down on his head. It split the Tyroshi's head like a melon.
Only it didn't. Solio clapped his hands over his head and caught the blade, holding it like it was nothing. In an instant Solio traveled the length of the blade to grab Snout's arm, breaking it like a stick. He closed his hand over Snout's mouth and stifled a cry of pain. “Shhhhh,” he urged, putting a raised finger to his lips. Then in one elegant movement he grabbed Snout's sword and drove it upwards in at his navel. The tip poked out of the base of his neck, and Snout fell to the ground dead. Not a sound was made.
Solio left the sword, and slowly turned away. He glanced back at Loras before he did. “I don't like rapists,” he explained, and then went back to his bedroll to sleep.
Whenever I read this it doesn't feel like an AAR, rather it reads like a book or a story. Imagine my frustration with the game's mechanics in the last chapter
Yay! That was the goal!
VILenin said:
As you will see in the coming chapters, the fall of King's Landing is anything but certain...
Chapter 15: A Taste of Victory
Tyrion
Tyrion
The prisoners were marched through the city streets. Most were burned, some horribly. Others were wounded to badly to run. A few, a tiny number, were women captured in the camp raid. All were highborn. Lowborns did not get mercy. The victorious King Joffery had ordered them all shaved, even the women, and had them whipped through the streets. The crowd jeered at them, and did worse than that. Rocks were thrown, although no rotten food. Food was already growing short in the city.
Tyrion could smell the blood, even from high in the Hand's Tower. It had been a simple enough thing to do. A huge wildfire bomb placed behind every gate. A powerful reserve to launch a counter attack. And a raid in their rear, to lure away any reserve of their own. It had worked as Tyrion had seen it work, unfolded like a map in his head. It did not feel as good as he thought it would, to smell the blood of his enemies. He wondered if his father ever felt guilty after winning a battle. Of course he doesn't, Tyrion thought, That's why he always wins.
Tyrion turned from the window and waddled over to the door. Podrick had dressed him and he was ready for the business of the day. He opened the door and Bronn was suddenly there next to him, holding a small message in his hands. “Came from a raven today,” the sellsword explained, “Thought you should be the first to read it. From your father.”
“Perhaps he is informing us that he is moving south to break the siege,” Tyrion wondered, taking the note from Bronn's hand and reading intently. His hopes fell. “The Stark boy has defeated my uncle's host,” he reported, “If he comes south now he'd be chased by the Northerners, and have only Stannis's army before him. And he'd be outnumbered the either one. He says we can expect no help until Robb Stark is soundly beaten. Well that's an excellent start to the day.”
“Also a ship's captain was caught trying to sail out of the city with a cargo of grain. He claims he just wanted to get out of the city.”
“But I'm sure he was going to sell his grain to any interested party, perhaps the army that now surrounds us?” Tyrion remarked, “Throw him in a cell and confiscate his ship. If anyone else wants to sell food to our enemies they are free to join him.”
They entered the Hand's office and Tyrion was surprised to see Littlefinger and Varys waiting for him. Varys was back to his usual perfume and powder, and said, “My Lord Hand, urgent business has brought us to you.”
“The sellswords you hired are becoming restless,” Littlefinger explained. “They think the city is going to fall, and want more gold to see the siege through to the end. My usual methods for obtaining the necessary amount have been cut off by the siege, and the royal treasury is dry.”
“It's been less than a month and they've already given up?” Tyrion wondered, “We've won a stunning victory. The land outside is stripped bare, with Stannis's supply lines stretched back to Storm's End. He'll starve before we do.”
“But he will not give up,” Varys interjected. “He will resort to cannibalism before he leaves this city in peace. And the city is not as well stocked as the keep. Food was scarce enough before the siege began.”
“The price of rats has doubled, or so I'm told,” Littlefinger said with a sinister smile.
“The Smallfolk have little love for Stannis, but they will betray us to him if he promises food,” Varys insisted. “It will be near impossible to hold the city without the people, and we cannot pay our mercenaries further. It is a difficult situation my lord.”
Tyrion thought for a few moments. “Lord Balish, you will find the money to pay off the mercenaries. I do not care how you get it, but get it. Take funds from your personal fortunes, as you said you would, raise taxes, do whatever it is you have to do. If they go over to Stannis we are lost. As for the people, I want the guard on every gate doubled.”
“It will be done my lord,” Varys said, bowing. They both turned to leave, but Varys turned back. “I almost forgot my lord. You will be expected to meet the prisoners when they return from their march. The King is not yet come of age, and so cannot be expected to handle them alone.” That was not the case of course, but someone would be needed to make sure Joffery didn't kill all the valuable prisoners.
“Can Cersei do it?” Tyrion asked. He was in a foul mood, and had more pressing concerns. That is what you tell yourself, he thought, truly you don't want to see those burned faces.
“The Queen has taken young Prince Tommen and locked herself in her chambers,” Varys told him, “She refuses to come out, except to feed the boy. She is in no condition to preform this task.”
“Fine,” Tyrion said, a hint of anger in his voice. He got up and accompanied them to the throne room, where Joffery's procession of blood and tears was due to end.
Joffery was already there, sitting on the cruel spiked chair. He tapped his fingers, and curled his mouth in anticipation. He looked like a little daemon, wondering what horrors it could inflict on the world today. The Queen was, as expected, nowhere to be found, as was Lady Sansa. Grand Maester Pycelle was beside him, and the six white cloaks of the kingsguard before the throne, in case the prisoners got any ideas.
They did not have to wait long. The doors of the throne room opened and the captives were led in, whips cracking and blood dripping onto the stones. The women came first, the young, scared looking Margaery Tyrell, and the other, a tall, elegant woman who seemed unaffected by the whips, even as her blood ran to the floor. The moment the line stopped she spoke. “You are doomed. King Stannis is Azor Ahai reborn, champion of the Lord of Light. This city will fall to him, and you will all be punished for your sins.” She said it with such certainty that a shiver ran down Tyrion's spine.
“Shut her up!” Joffery commanded and whips cracked. The Red Woman flinched, but did not continue.
Margaery broke down in tears, reaching up to her shaven head and pulling at hair that was not there. The woman was not made for this, Tyrion thought.
Joffery smiled. “Lady Margaery, your father supports my tratorious uncle. Perhaps would should send him a message. Ser Meryn!” The knight advanced on the girl, drawing his sword as he did.
Tyrion chose that moment to intervene. “Stop now!” he commanded, voice carrying throughout the hall. “You would beat a helpless girl? What kind of knight are you?” he spat at Ser Meryn.
“The kind that follows the King,” Meryn spat back.
Tyrion ignored him and turned to Varys, who had led Magaery beyond the knight's reach. “Lord Varys, make sure Lady Margaery and all the others are looked after with the utmost care.” Varys nodded and motioned for the prisoners and their guard to follow him.
“You can't do that!” Joffery shouted, “I'm the King! I can do as I want!”
“The Mad King did as he wanted,” Tyrion said, climbing the steps until he was nearly eye to eye with Joffery. “Did your Uncle Jaime ever tell you what happened to him?”
Joffery stood quivering with anger, but said nothing. He's afraid, Tyrion realized. The king slid back into his chair and watched the prisoners being led off, but still said nothing.
“Beware King Joffery,” The Red Woman called from across the room. “The night is dark and full of terrors.”
Chapter 16: An Army's Stomach
Davos
Davos
“By order of His Grace Stannis of House Baratheon, first of his name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, do thus decree that all foodstuffs, including grain, salted meats, and fruits, are to be seized to accommodate the needs of the Royal Army.”
Ser Grent finished reading the decree, and the villagers were silent as a crypt. For a moment Davos wondered if they'd gotten their tongues cut out by some vengeful raiders. They were a ragged bunch, mostly women and children. A smattering of old men and boys remained, but they were to weak to put up a fight. Their men had gone to fight, although for who none of them would say. Finally, an old man, bent over and aided by a woman, stepped forward to speak. “You can't do this,” he said simply.
It was Davos's gaggle of knights and outriders turn to be silent. Grent turned to Davos. “My lord?” he asked, not having to put the question into words.
“Take it,” Davos ordered slowly. “Try not to hurt them.” His men advanced into the peasants, keeping them away, while three of them helped load the villages entire supply of grain onto the cart. Wisely, the villagers didn't fight back. When it was finished, Davos ordered them to move on.
“You've killed us,” the old man said as they turned to leave, “I hope you know you've killed us. You've killed us! You've killed us!”
Davos kept his back turned and tried to ignore the old man's pleas. House Seaworth, Champions of Smallfolk, he thought. It would have made him laugh if it hadn't made him cry.
* * *
The camp was sprawled out around King's Landing, hundreds and hundreds of tents and banners set up on every side of the city's walls. The brightly colored banners would have been a glorious sight had it not been for the stench of rot that hung over everything. Disease had raked the camp, what kind the maesters could not tell, but it was deadly. Hundreds of men had died, and thousands more were ill.
A sentry stopped them as they went to enter the vast camp. “M'lord Seaworth, I've been instructed to ask what you've got and report to the maesters. His Grace wants to keep track of our food supply.”
Good luck with that, Davos thought, but said, “Three dozen sacks of grain and flour, don't know how many of each.” The outriders and footsoldiers began unloading the cart while Davos and Ser Grent rode on into the camp. Davos need to check on Dale. He had taken to fever when the disease first appeared, and Davos had spent every moment he could at his son's side.
The camp was hardly alive with activity. One thing songs always failed to mention was the endless hours of boredom for the besieging army. Stannis wanted to construct a siege tower to make the next attack easier, but there was no timber to be found for at least a league in every direction. The men occupied themselves by playing dice, or pooling their money to buy camp followers for a night. All the men were a bit thinner than they'd been when the siege began.
Davos glanced over at the fleet. Paxter Redwyne and Monford Velaryon had both perished in the wildfire explosion, but Lord Alester and Lord Randyll had survived, and thankfully Matthos and Maric as well. Although Lord Alester had yet to meet with Stannis, do to fear of spreading disease to his fleet, but he had established a firm blockade that prevented any ships from getting in or out.
The fleet was much smaller than it had been when it first sailed from Dragonstone. This concerned Davos, as the Iron Islanders had decided to make another bid for independence, and had a large fleet. If they sailed around to attack King's Landing themselves... it was a foolish idea, but Lord Balon had always lacked reason.
He came up to Dale's tent, an Onion banner fluttering above it. The two guards he'd posted parted to let him through, and he came into the dark, warm tent. Dale was on a cot, his face beet red, and his breathing slow and labored. A maester stood over him, coaxing food into his mouth.
“How is he?” Davos asked immediately.
The maester turned around. He had a boyish face, but carried himself like a man well over thirty. An heavy chain was around his shoulders, longer than most maesters, and with heavier metals. “He fades in and out m'lord. I've given him milk of the poppy, which should help him sleep. He is strong and I doubt he will die, but he needs to rest, so that his body can defeat the disease. I would recommend a good book. I have a few if you need one.”
“I'm afraid it would be wasted on me Maester...”
“Rece m'lord,” the maester said, holding out a hand for Davos to shake. “And never doubt the value of books. Reading can make a man if nothing else will.” Rece had a bouncy optimism to his voice and his body.
“That is not the problem,” Davos explained, “I cannot understand letters. I never bothered to learn.”
“Oh,” Rece said, obviously a bit surprised, “Well in that case I'll have to teach you. My mother always said I'd be a good teacher. Of course, my mother said a great many things about me, of which only three that I can think of came true.”
Davos was about to ask what three things they were when one of his guards announced, “King Stannis my lord,” and Stannis swept into the tent like a thundercloud, grinding his teeth. Davos only had to look at him to tell he was in a foul mood, and motioned for Maester Rece to leave.
“That damned Tyrell,” Stannis spat when once the man was gone.
Davos knew exactly which Tyrell Stannis was referring too. “What has Lord Mace done now?”
“It's not what he's done, it's what he wants to do,” Stannis corrected him. “He wants to take half the army and go north, bring Tywin Lannister to battle.”
“He would be butchered,” Davos responded. The Warden of the West was a great many things, a superior general being foremost among them. “Why does he want to undertake such a futile expedition?”
“He wants a captive he can exchange for that daughter of his. Man won't stop talking about it, keeps asking if it's the right time for him to leave. Damn man will get half our army slaughtered for a woman! I have half a mind to throw him in a cell for that kind of talk.”
“If you do that more than half the army will die,” Davos told his king plainly. “With the possible exception of the Florents Lord Mace's bannermen will follow him before you. They'll turn on the Stormlanders and we'll have to abandon the siege.”
“What else am I supposed to do?” Stannis asked, “You're my Hand, advise me.”
Davos thought for a moment. There was an opportunity in this, he could feel it clinging to the tip of his brain. Suddenly it struck him. “Give him leave to go,” he said, “And send Randyll Tarly with him. He's more than a match for Tywin. He could give us a victory.”
Stannis stopped grinding his teeth and furrowed his brow. “You're right. Tarly is the best commander in Westeros. But with less men the siege would take longer.”
“Twenty-thousand men are easier to feed than forty-thousand,” Davos pointed out, “And if Tarly beats Tywin, it might be enough to make the city surrender. Even if he loses, it would still weaken Tywin's position. Make him easy pickings for the Stark boy.”
“You're right,” Stannis admitted without blinking. “Thank you for your advice Davos.” He swept out of the tent, and the very next day twenty-thousand men left the siege lines to head north, with Mace Tyrell leading them in name, and Randyll Tarly leading them in fact.
And that same day Davos prayed to the Seven he had given the right advice.