Shrouded Destiny

Obligatory disclaimer: I don't own ASOIAF; that honour goes to GRRM.

Edited by: Himura, and R. Yorkshireman; B. Reader: Bub3loka

I also want to thank everyone for their support and encouragement.

***

11th Day of the 5th Moon, 299 AC

Margaery Tyrell, Bronzegate

The seat of House Buckler was nothing like the bright, beautiful castles she saw everywhere in the Reach. The walls were tall, thick, and gloomy; even the lumbering bronze gate the keep was named after was dull yet scarred from who knows how many sieges it endured. Like the other holdfasts in the Stormlands Margaery had visited, this one barely had any luxury on display, and even the gardens were trim and austere, with an almost gaunt heart tree sporting a grim face carved on its bone-like trunk.

The Stormlands did not lack gold or silver, but they did not care as much about displaying it. Instead, the halls and walls were filled with tapestries of previous victories or glorious moments, hunting trophies, swords, and shields taken from their foes. The emphasis on wealth and prosperity paled before the display of martial prowess and skills in warfare.

All of the Stormlords Margaery had visited were of similar make, including Lord Ralph Buckler–warriors to the last, if prickly and proud, regardless of age.

Yet it only made her work here harder. She and her small army of ladies-in-waiting were here to cement the alliance between the Reach and the Stormlands.

When Renly first called his banners, it was under Ser Cortnay Penrose, who was quite respected in the Stormlands as the acting High Steward while her husband stayed in King's Landing. Yet, few Stormlords had answered the call in person when it became known that Renly would not lead the host. Most had sent their brothers, uncles, or cousins to lead their armies in the fast muster.

It had been fine at first, for her father thought the countless swords of the Reach were more than enough to win the war. Yet things were slowing down, and the situation at King's Landing did not look as rosy as before.

"This is going to be a long siege," her father had said before Margaery left. "We could beat Tywin in an open field, but the old lion is cunning and retreated to use the city walls in his favour. One man atop the ramparts is worth at least three below. Doubtlessly, the whole city is being turned into one giant trap."

Worse, the Young Wolf's victories had turned the tides of war against them. Even with the Greyjoys bending the knee–at the cost of seven weddings. It had left Oakheart, Cuy, Mullendore, and Ashford rather disgruntled to give their daughters to reaver lords despite Highgarden providing the hefty dowry. Even though the maidens were her ladies-in-waiting, Margaery could feel their fathers were greatly rankled, and the alliance only went through after Renly promised honours, wealth, and positions in the future–including more lands and castles from the Riverlands and the Westerlands.

Neither Margaery nor her ladies-in-waiting, who were wedded off, were thrilled about the arrangement. For Margaery, it reduced her power and prestige, and no maiden dreamt of marrying Ironmen. 

Then there was Lenora Hightower, wedded to Lord Baelor Blacktyde, her foster brother and a man who followed the Seven. At least she was the only one looking happy with that whole arrangement.

Desmera felt like she was the one who was insulted to the point of betrayal, as her father was the one to put forth her hand in marriage. "They are exiling us to those barren rocks with the ugly, crude raper scum. The Greyjoy heir is pathetic."

Her grandmother had scoffed at her grand-niece then. "What a flock of silly clucking hens. As if they were not going to spread their legs and pop out an heir or two for whomever they married. The only difference is their pirate lord of a husband will steal some unwilling salt wife to occupy his attention instead of taking a mistress."

Those heirs and young lords who had to marry a maiden from the Iron Isles were not particularly happy, though Margaery did not hear any objections voiced in contrast to her ladies-in-waiting. 

Woes aside, the war demanded more swords.

"If we need more warriors, why not muster all the Faith and the additional men-at-arms against Robb Stark or summon them here?" She had asked her father before she left the Crownlands.

"Untrained zealots make for poor soldiers and do not take well to command," he had explained patiently. "There's nothing worse for an army than an undisciplined rabble, and no lord wants to feed, train, or pay gold for such useless retainers. Now, the Most Devout will be forced to fork out plenty of the coin for the Northern campaign since it was their plan, thus weakening them further. Besides, the Faith's influence grows too quickly, and Renly intends to remove them and their followers as far away from his court and camp and curb them by giving them what they want most."

Margaery blinked in confusion. "But wouldn't an invasion of the North be… very difficult and costly?"

"Probably, but we aren't paying for it," he had laughed while sipping on his Arbor Gold. "The North had never been conquered from the outside."

"Why send them, then?"

Her father leaned forth. "Some would say for the Seven. To prove the righteousness of their cause with a worthy feat before the gods. To take revenge against the savage, tree-worshipping Northmen. To expand the influence of the Faith." His smile grew darker. "The North is a cold and harsh land, yet abundant in natural wealth like timber, fur, and metal; things that are sadly lacking in the Reach. Your royal husband feels wary of the Faith and the Lords that openly support it but hopes that, at worst, they would distract Robb Stark and his army, hopefully to the point of them returning home."

"And at best?"

Her father laughed jovially then, "At best, the zealots would thin their abundant ranks on Northern steel, paving the way for proper Reachmen to settle the coastal lands. We would annex parts of the North and extract its considerable wealth for ourselves. Paxter's fleet would prove vital in any future trade along the western coast. It's a crime that the Northmen never bothered developing their western shores, so we shall do it for them–Renly has already graciously granted us a city charter that we'll split with the Redwynes."

She had understood then. The support her Uncle Baelor and many others gave to the Rose Septon did not go unnoticed. Her father definitely had a hand in this–because the tens of thousands of vagrants and refugees on the Tyrell lands had gotten too close to the wandering Septons and the Most Devout, who preached to them each morning while handing out food at noon.

For good or bad, bread and prayers were all it took to earn the fervent support of the dispossessed. Margaery was a devout believer in the Seven-Who-Are-One, but the power and influence the High Septon had rapidly gathered worried her. The man was not sworn to her husband and supposedly answered only to the Seven themselves as their avatar in the mortal world.

Yet no matter how much of an avatar he claimed to be, he was as human as any other and did not shy away from hoarding influence and power like a Lannister would hoard gold.

"Yet what if they succeed?" Margaery had asked, causing her father to look at her in confusion. "What if the Faith, Hightower, Redwyne, Blackbar, Peake, and the other overly pious lords succeed in taking the North with the Iron Isles on our side?"

Her father laughed again as if she had just asked the most absurd question.

"The Starks took thousands of years to conquer the North, dear. Years would have passed if the Seven blessed Leyton and the High Septon's efforts, and they would have to share it with the Ironmen, which might as well turn into another bloody struggle. Paxter wants to expand his influence along the coast and control the trade from the North, while your uncle Baelor wants to use the Faith's interest to expand the Hightower's influence."

His eyes were alight with amusement, and he downed his cup of wine and continued, "They are too focused on the barren parts of the North that they do not realise that an extended campaign would allow the prosperous East to rally and muster. It's not known as the largest of the Seven Kingdoms for nothing; if Baelor and the rest drag the campaign for too long, they would fail. They must understand the most important goal is not to conquer the North. By then, this war would have finished, your husband would be on the Iron Throne, their forces would be greatly spent, and Renly would have fully consolidated his rule."

"And the remains of the North cannot deal with the might of the Seven Kingdoms combined," she realised. "The Starks will have no choice but to bend the knee and accept whatever terms imposed or be replaced!"

"Precisely."

And so, the second muster was happening in the Reach now. More swords were raised and trained along the Ocean Road to bolster Oakheart's numbers, who had managed to retreat from the Westerlands with some losses. Even more were being trained in the Northmarch, for the Blackfish had organised raids along the Blackwater Rush all the way across the Gold Road and even into the Northmarch, disrupting the army's supply lines. 

Edmure Tully was also doing a second muster in the Riverlands while sieging Harrenhal with over twenty thousand men. If Mathis Rowan fell, Renly would quickly be outnumbered outside the walls of King's Landing.

What once looked like an easy victory now looked like a savage slog in a melee with no victor in sight.

More swords and knights were needed, or her father and husband would be outnumbered on the field. The closest and easiest to gather were the Stormlords, for their quick muster had left a good part of their strength unrecalled. Or so it would seem if the Stormlords didn't drag their feet.

"Pirates attack the coasts from Tarth to the Rainwood, the Dornish vultures roam the Marches unpunished again, and harvest season is upon us," Lord Ralph Buckler had told her. Margaery knew an excuse when she heard one, especially since the harvest season was yet to come for a few more moons. "Harvest Hall was almost sacked by those vultures because Selmy took most of his men with His Grace. My main force is already with the king, but I shall send everything I can spare soon!"

After that grand proclamation, everything he could spare was barely two hundred greybeards led by the captain of the guards, which was merely a fifth of what her father had speculated House Buckler could still muster. There was nothing she could do, too, for they did their duties and answered the call, and Renly was the one who was trying to leave the Stormlands undefended. 

The rest of the Stormlords were of a similar mind, and the most she had managed to get out of a lord was the promise of five hundred swords in exchange for a hefty dowry and a marriage to Alysanne Buwler for his heir. Her quest for adding their daughters into her retinue of ladies-in-waiting was met with polite rebuffs. Some outright claimed they were ill and would not even meet her lest they risk the royal heir's health. 

Margaery rubbed the swell of her belly. At over five moons, her child was growing without any complications, according to the maesters. The birthing bed was supposed to be her battlefield, yet she was now forced to try and mend the strained relationship between the prickly Stormlords and her husband. Even Brienne of Tarth, the tall, burly maid that looked more man than woman, dubbed the Blue, was no help. Her home, Tarth, was constantly attacked by pirate raids for over a sennight.

The feeling of uncertainty frayed her nerves. Margaery suspected she would have to give out almost all her dear ladies-in-waiting to squeeze out any significant help from the Stormlords, no matter how reluctant she was. 

***

15th Day of the 5th Moon, 299 AC

Regent Kevan Lannister, King's Landing

BOOM!

The explosion thundered, rocking him even in the Red Keep. Jarring the shutter of his apartment open, he saw a green shroom bloom all the way down near the walls, sinisterly light like a bright blot in the darkness of the night.

Thankfully, there were no other mishaps or explosions, but this one had been enough to worry many as the fires continued and nearly spread through the city. 

Renly seemed to have felt, or more likely heard, something was happening, and the city was soon under assault. Siege towers, catapults, battering rams, trebuchets, and climbing ladders—the assault was fierce, and Tywin went to command the defence in person.

Despite the attack, the court gathered in an hour, and Cregan Karstark dragged a snivelling alchemist clasped in irons before his royal grandnephew.

"Mercy, Your Grace, mercy! We are not traitors, we swear-" 

Joffrey scoffed from the Iron Throne. "Mercy? Why would the green piss explode in my city if you didn't work for Renly?"

"Perhaps we should give him a chance to explain himself?" Varys simpered, clasping his hands. "The Alchemist guild has not produced anything significant in years, and most of their pyromancers and acolytes have relocated to the Wall to help with the effort against the Others."

That softened the Northmen in the court, and Karstark no longer looked like he would strangle the robed Wisdom with his bare hands. Joffrey leaned back on the Iron Throne, squinting at the chained man.

"Speak then, alchemist," Ser Tylon Lannett, the new master of coin, barked out.

The Wisdom grovelled deeply, his forehead touching the marble floor. "The last time the guild had made the substance in quantity greater than two jars in this city was during the Mad King's reign when I was just an acolyte." The court erupted in murmurs, and even Kevan grimaced.

"Silence!" Joffrey's yell silenced them as the young king tilted his scarred face. "Varys, what say you? Have the alchemist guild colluded with my traitorous uncle?"

"Unlikely, Your Grace," the eunuch's voice was sickeningly sweet. "While there is some unhappiness amidst the city's guilds, Renly has not reached out to any of them."

Kevan stared at the Spider. His expression was ever subservient, nearly impossible to read, but he trusted him this once.

"Tell us, Wisdom…."

"Wisdom Hallyne," the chained man supplied, still grovelling on the floor. 

"What happened to all that wildfire Aerys ordered? Why would such an incident happen now?"

The alchemist only grew more nervous. "The substance grows more volatile as time passes. It also seeps into everything, including rock, stone, clay, glass, and even metal. Only a select few knew what happened to Aerys' batches, but they're no longer alive, my lords."

"What do you mean they're no longer alive?!"

"Ser Jaime Lannister hunted all of them down after he slew the Mad King, Your Grace, and one of the rocks the roses lugged over the walls must have landed on top of one of the caches." Kevan's head began to ache. Gods, what did the damned fool Aerys get to? Was this why he had made an alchemist his Hand?

Was that why Jaime had truly slain the king he swore to guard?

…Why had his nephew remained silent?

But Kevan couldn't ask him, for Jaime had taken that secret to his death.

The court had gone as quiet as a crypt. Even Karstark had a fierce grimace, and the damned Eunuch looked paler than a ghost.

"So," the Spider's voice quivered. "You're saying there are many wildfire jars across the city that could explode with a little nudge, and nobody knows their location?"

"Yes, my Lords."

***

17th Day of the 5th Moon, 299 AC

With nobody alive to answer, they could only blindly grope in the darkness for the truth, no matter how risky or dangerous. 

"Who would have thought Aerys could be this mad? We found caches under the Red Keep, the Tower of the Hand, the Great Sept of Baelor, Fishmonger Square, and even the Street of Silk. This is a disaster, Tywin," Kevan groaned. 

Renly's assault had come heavy and fast, but it was repelled, and Lancel had once again proved his valour on the battlefield. However, the thorny wildfire problem was not as easy to solve, nor was the lingering stench of sulfur and brimstone that filled the city after the first explosion.

With the help of the Wisdoms and their acolytes, searching parties combed through the city and began finding the green piss. Too much of the green piss and thrice more the city had shaken in an eruption of that green mushroom cloud. The jade flames would linger for days if the alchemists didn't bury them in sea sand, which seemed to be the only thing that could reliably put them out. 

Now, there were four hellish sand-filled craters filled with the choking stench of wildfire, and everything within half a hundred yards from them was either charred or levelled by the shockwave. It was a miracle that there were few deaths, probably because the city was half-empty.

"A disaster?" Tywin shook his head. "It would have been a disaster if the wildfire had ignited while we were sacking the city nearly two decades ago. It would have been a disaster if Renly was prepared to assault the city from every direction. It would have been a disaster if they had exploded during the Septon Riot or when Penrose could have stormed the walls before we arrived. It would have been a crushing blow if the Red Keep had gone up in those green flames. This? This is not a disaster but merely an inconvenience."

Kevan slumped on his chair, defeated. "Indeed. But there is no guarantee we'll ever find all of Aerys' caches. And what will we do to dispose of the ones we found without blowing up?"

"Combust them in the dragon pit with all the bodies Renly keeps tossing over the walls," Tywin said. "That fool thinks he can demoralise us; his plan to start a plague shall fail thanks to Aerys' madness. Fire purifies all, does it not?"

Kevan chuckled lightly at his brother's attempt at levity. He was sure Tywin found it incredibly ironic that his old friend would end up helping him from the grave.

Even then, it had been close. Morale had been terrible in the city until Robb Stark's victory, and it had lifted even further once Oakheart had been expelled from the Westerlands. Most of the lords, knights, and men-at-arms were from the Westerlands, and knowing their homes were safe relieved them far more than Tywin's ironclad discipline.

"Why don't we try tossing it at Renly instead?"

His brother's lips thinned even further. "We tried–and stopped after two catapults combusted. Tossing old wildfire did far more damage to ourselves than to Renly, that's for sure."

"Alas. Things still aren't looking good," Kevan noted as his face grew heavy. "Let's put aside that we don't even know if other hidden caches are buried, and the gods know where. Joffrey is still as mercurial as ever and refuses to attend any lessons."

"No matter, this is an issue that can be addressed later," Tywin's voice dripped with distaste. Both knew Cersei failed terribly as a mother, but his brother would never admit it outloud. The sting was even larger, considering that only Tyrion proved somewhat competent of his three children, and nobody knew where he was right now, not even Varys. Yet Tywin did not even seem to care. 

"For now, we must address more urgent matters," he changed the topic. "The Clawmen have begun raiding and attacking Renly's outriders, and Penrose is leading ten thousand swords to rally the remaining Crownlords. Perhaps we can sally out at dawn and try to rush Renly's quarters during the morning prayer or at least try to burn their siege equipment?"

The weight of the kingdom was upon their shoulders. As usual, the two brothers planned and plotted deep into the night with meticulous detail. From the Wall to Sunspear, everything that could tilt the scales of war was brought up. 

There wasn't much they could do in the grand scheme of things, but each undecided lord and each contested castle were discussed at length. Yes, the war had turned daunting, and all the large moves had already been played. Robb Stark and Edmure Tully were preparing to deal with the Ironborn attacks along the Westerlands and Riverlands, but they could still tilt the scales of victory if they pulled over enough minor lords to their side. 

Each small battle Renly's scouts lost was a victory. Each lord that didn't declare for him was another win, just like assuaging each wavering lord on Joffrey's side or collecting hostages. Each time they managed to burn down the trebuchets and the battering rams, Renly was forced to rebuild them again, wasting more time before a potential attack.

***

18th Day of the 5th Moon, 299 AC

Theon Greyjoy, the Summer Sea 

The wedding was not what he expected, and he struggled to remember much from nervousness. It was also the most dreary celebration Theon had ever attended. The Reachmen and the Ironmen seemed grim, and Theon couldn't say if it was out of determination or dislike for each other. Or perhaps the grudging dislike between the Drowned Priests and the Septons. Despite combining seven ceremonies as one into one day, the festives and feast paled before what Robb and Myrcella had.

Yet after the ceremony in the Sept, Theon became a married man.

Yet despite being a married man, he was not allowed to touch his bride after the bedding, for the pretty Desmera Redwyne said she felt ill the next morning and excused herself behind a small army of maids.

It was bad enough that Theon was so distracted and nervous that he did not get to enjoy her nubile body as much as he would have preferred. It had been a long time since he revelled in woman's company, so the bedding was too short. Now, his wife would not allow him to touch her as if he was scum.

Even the reunion with his family did not go as he had imagined. His Uncle Victarion was not there, his sister Asha looked down on him despite being shorter, and his father…

His father pulled him the next day and told him, "I will give you one chance to prove yourself, boy."

These had been the first words Balon Greyjoy had spoken to Theon since that day he was sent as Winterfell's hostage. Even during the wedding ceremony in Greyshield's Sept, the Lord Reaper of Pyke did not spare him even a glance. His father looked far older than he remembered but even more dangerous. The grim scowl on his face had deepened, the greys in his hair had defeated the blacks, yet his gait seemed far more… agile, like that of a shadowcat. 

"I am the heir of the Iron Islands!"

The moment the words left his lips, Theon realised that was the wrong thing to say because his father laughed at him mockingly.

After the most humiliating minute of his life, even more than when he had to pray and beg lest the damned zealots killed him, his father finally stopped and glared at him.

"Listen, boy," even his tone was derisive. "Nobody will follow a Greenlander boy who follows some statues or trees."

Theon's insides twisted.

"I'm not a boy! I just bathed in their seven oils to live! I have fought in a tourney, I had killed men-"

"All Greenlander make," Balon Greyjoy waved dismissively. "I have no doubt the wolf lord tried to make you into a good wolf and taught you to bark well. You claim to be my heir? Act like one!"

Deep inside, he wanted to scream and rage, but his father's beady eyes stared at him dispassionately. Theon wanted to say Eddard Stark had taught him as befitting of a Highlord's son. 

Instead, he swallowed his disgruntlement and asked, "How? How can I prove myself to you?"

The faintest smile appeared on his father's lips. "I'll give you a chance, boy. We're attacking the North, and you've been to most of their castles."

"But I thought," his words were laden with discomfort, "I thought we're going to attack the Westerlands and the Riverlands?"

He didn't want to fight Robb or the Starks after ten years of friendship. The North was his home as much as the Iron Isles had been.

"Merely a distraction. Orkwood and Goodbrother are already attacking Flint's Fingers while Volmark is scouting the shore," Balon leaned closer, looking down at him as if searching for something. "I'll give you a ship, but you must recruit your crew at Lordsport. I don't care how or who you get, but you must be the one to convince them to join you. Every Ironman is a king of their ship, and if you cannot rule a ship or even your own wife, what hope do you have to rule my kingdom, boy?"

And just like that, his father walked away, leaving Theon even more anxious than before. Any attempts to meet Balon Greyjoy were rebuffed, and he was not even allowed on the Great Kraken.

If he was not to inherit the Iron Isles, who would?

All his brothers were dead… and then he saw Asha's ship–the Black Wind. His confusion evaporated as the searing ball of rage climbed up his throat when he realised that his father was even considering disinheriting him for a woman, even if it was Asha.

The Iron Isles, Pyke, were to be his and his alone.

Perhaps he wouldn't be as angry if Asha had not been cold and exchanged less than a dozen words with him. Perhaps he wouldn't be so furious if they hadn't ignored him for a decade and were now willing to toss him aside. Perhaps he wouldn't be so enraged if his dainty red-haired wife, who was almost as pretty as Sansa if with a freckled face, looked at him as if he was some ant to be squished under her boot.

A wife was supposed to stay with her husband, but Desmera had retreated to her father's ship and refused to see him.

"You have no keep," Paxter had patted his shoulder condescendingly. "You don't even have a ship. Surely you cannot expect my daughter and your wife to stay in some longboat with dozens of other Ironmen?"

Theon gritted his teeth as his nails dug into his skin at the memory, and the fiery ball in his belly grew. He gazed at the Sunset Sea's inky waves and his new longship; the Black Swordfish's nose split the roiling waters in two as they sailed towards the Iron Isles. He would prove them all wrong.

***

21st Day of the 5th Moon, 299 AC

Zaphon Sarrios, Tyrosh

"Magister Sarrios," Varonar, the Archon of Tyrosh, greeted him. He was a tall, wiry man clad in a gilded robe with lilac perfume and unsettling purple eyes, hailing from one of those proud merchant families that could trace their origins all the way to the Freehold. Of course, not the blood of the Forty, but the lesser houses that served them as stewards, traders, and smiths.

His words were not as warm as usual, but the audience was still private in the Archon's gardens with no servants or guards in sight, which meant Zaphon had yet to lose his influence here despite the recent woes. Normally, the Archon was first among equals, elected every six years by the wealthy and powerful magisters, but when Tyrosh was at war, he had the power of a Tyrant. 

"Archon," Zaphon bowed. "How fares my daughter?"

"Melyta has finally gotten pregnant," the words were spoken with a hint of annoyance. The magister felt just as annoyed that his daughter failed to quicken for a whole year, but it was not something he could control. "But that is not why I have summoned you here. Sit."

Zaphon took to the bench and found his gaze gliding at the marble fountain with the naked dancing maiden. "If not for my daughter, is my presence necessary for the war effort?"

"War effort?" Varonar scoffed, his face growing fierce. "It's a farce. The damn stag king lied to us about the easy plunder and no resistance. Each day, more magisters and traders complain that their ships have been sunken or taken by a little girl. A little girl of all people! Worse, now we lack the strength to oppose the damned Lyseni and prevent them from claiming the Stepstones because we lost half of our fleet, and the other half has to remain at our harbour to defend against possible retaliation from Lady Stoneface."

"I don't see how that has anything to do with me," Zaphon shrugged. "Over half of my ships are gone, just like everyone else."

Varonar's face darkened further. 

"Yes, but you're the one who set this up, Zaphon," an angry finger stabbed at his chest. "Don't deny it. This was supposed to be an easy raid with plenty of loot, yet we suffered a humiliating defeat! Even the hostages are bloody worthless until the war ends, of those who did not escape."

Over a hundred highborn hostages were the spoils from the battles of Blackwater Bay, but most went to the noble family or merchant whose ship caught them. The Archon only held about a quarter of them, and all had somehow escaped, including the stunted lion, which had been a great scandal. Yet the city guard found nothing even after fervently searching for ten days, which struck Varonar's prestige as badly as the defeat.

Why was it so hard to find even a single dwarf in the bloody city?

It was one of the many failures in this war, and they tried to blame him?!

"Varonar, you have the gall to blame me for the losses after you put that lackwit Enyros in charge?" Zaphon coldly reminded, batting the finger poking at him away. "Nothing to say? You would do well to remember that I made you an Archon, and I can just as easily unmake you. You wanted to rule? You got it. You wanted my daughter? You have her. Think carefully about what you want from me now."

Varonar paled. Yes, the Archon was in command during wartime, but so what? Zaphon had done nothing wrong in this case, not even breaking some paltry laws. Archons came and went, but Zaphon and the House of Sarrios remained. Varonar might control Tyrosh, but Zaphon now had more officers in the city's administration than everyone else. He had money, he had the banks, he had the dyes, and he had seven other magisters directly in his sphere of influence.

In the end, even in wartime, the Archon was simply a figurehead that could take the fall if things went awry. And even though his daughter was married to Varonar, the Archon could never risk trying to dislodge Sarrios, for Tyrosh would be divided. The only man who ever posed any risk to him was that cretin Arvaad Marinaar who had latched onto the city guard like a hungry dog would gnaw at a bone.

Alas, the more power and wealth he grabbed, the more the other magisters attempted to thwart him. Varonar knew all this and used it to his advantage, if subtly. Still, he loved to strut around like a peacock wearing the Archon's mantle and sceptre more than anything else, so it was done in moderation.

Ah, if only he had gotten Jon Snow. If only… Zaphon would control the city guard. Lothor Brune was decent, better than any other warrior man-to-man in Tyrosh, but he lacked the lineage and magic, while Jon Snow was said to slay those legendary wraiths of darkness and death with laughable ease.

With the city guard and the North's implied backing, Zaphon could have made a play for the whole of Tyrosh. 

Just thinking about how he failed to secure Jon Snow as his good-son soured his mood even further.

"So?" Zaphon grunted, standing up. "What do you want from me? Out with it–I have better things to do." Such as enjoying Velyna and Deliena's company or plotting to expand his wealth further.

"I want assistance with putting down the trouble in the city," Varonar looked like he had swallowed a lemon. 

The magister frowned. 

"You call a few small riots and freemen being robbed at night trouble?" It was disgraceful, even. But it would be troublesome if the slaves gathered the courage to rebel as they did in Myr. 

"The Myrish revolts started as riots and troubles in the streets at night, too," Varonar closed his eyes, defeated. "There is a word from the Ashen Plains. More than half a dozen sellsword companies have been smashed one after another by the revolting slaves. If this continues, the Grand Council of Myr will starve or be forced to negotiate with bloody buzdari."

It was the most derisive word for slave, but it made Zapho weigh the costs and the benefits of assisting his wayward goodson. 

"Very well," he conceded. "I'll provide you with three centuries of Unsullied, but only if my man becomes Commander of the guard."

It was a double-edged sword for the Archon; he would receive the men to solve the problem in the short term, while Zaphon profited from having the Commander in his pay for years to come. And, of course, the most crucial part was diminishing Marinar's influence. 

"Fine." The single word seemed to pain the Archon as if he had spat out a nail, not a simple agreement.

Doubtlessly, the other magisters had declined his requests for sellswords or Unsullied or provided a token amount, which meant that the law and order of the city would have to be enforced out of their own coffers. After the defeat at the Sunset Lands, the enthusiastic support the Archon enjoyed had dwindled.

Varonar struggled to pay the city watch now that trade had halted almost completely for the war, with retaliation from Westeros looming close, the Myrish slave revolt spilling all over, and the Lyseni and pirate lords in bitter struggle over the Stepstones. It didn't help that the Archon loved flaunting his wealth and luxury, for he hailed from a family that had lost most of its fortune. 

The defeat at Blackwater Bay and the loss of too many merchant cogs and warships were heavy blows to the Tyroshi. What would have been an easy run of hit and loot turned into a disaster. Even all the plunder and slaves brought back were not enough to offset the loss.

It also meant the watchmen would barely lift their finger without pay or, at most, extort freemen or the sparse merchants to fill their now-empty purses.

Well, this was his play. If Lothor Brune proved capable and loyal as the commander of the city guard, Zaphon could chip away at Arvaad at the opposing magisters and eventually cement his influence and rule the city from the shadows. In fact, he had been the one to catch three of the escaped prisoners and succeed where the city guard had failed.

Of course, the prisoners now belonged to Zaphon since even Varonar had no face left to lay claim to them after they escaped from his dungeons.

***

24th Day of the 5th Moon, 299 AC

Edmure Tully, Outside Harrenhal

He still dreamed of the Rushing Falls. The roars of the men, the cries of agony, the clamours as steel met steel, the banging of the shields–and the death of Hugo Vance. Oh, how he hated himself when he awoke, only to realise that he had lost most painfully. And it was a costly defeat, one that still pained his heart to this day. But his good, brave nephew had helped him wash away the shame–and most of the bitterness, but not all. 

Behind him loomed the tall walls of Harren the Black's folly, casting out a long, twisted shadow that could stretch for miles at dawn. It was an ugly castle, even more so now that Rowan occupied it.

Yet Edmure's gaze settled on the long procession coming down the Kingsroad. Unlike a regular army, this one carried no banners, but they were neither sellswords nor hedge knights, but there was no mistake about who they were.

Over a thousand knights wearing pristine armour, followed by their squires and at least thrice as many outriders and men-at-arms, marching in good order. Despite the lack of banners flying in the sky above, the coats of arms were plentiful, and Edmure Tully recognised them all.

"Eleven hundred of the Vale's finest knights, according to the scouts," Jason Mallister murmured, impressed. "And with the retinue to go with it, nearly five thousand lances total."

"With no banners raised, none of them are here in an official capacity," Tytos Blackwood noticed, his face unreadable. Yet the Blackwood lord had become one of Edmure's staunchest supporters–just like Bracken, who did not want to get left behind—especially since sacrificing the Footlys, who burned his eldest son, to the dead heart tree in Raventree hall, which started blooming again. 

While some were disgruntled at the savagery, others said it was a sign from the old gods that their cause was righteous. Even the septons's main objection was that the Footlys were not burned to "purify them from their sins" for the heresy.

Blackwood compromised by burning the drained husks of the corpses after the carrion birds had picked them clean, and none complained further.

"Those old cunning foxes," Jonos Bracken tutted. "Royce, Redfort, Templeton, Tollett, Hunter, Bellmore, Donniger, Dutton, Moore, and Corbray, all uncles, brothers, cousins, second, third, and fourth sons."

"And nobody can say they are taking Joffrey's side without the lords or heirs in attendance," Lord Piper laughed. "Taking a page out of the old weasel's book."

An ancient-looking septon on a lame donkey, Sers Morden Templeton, Lyn Corbray, Harlan Hunter, Creighton Redfort, and Nestor Royce approached the helm, showing they were not as disorganised as professed.

"Greetings," Edmure and his bannermen stepped forth to greet them with far more pomp than supposed 'freeriders' would merit. "May I inquire what brings so many knights down the High Road in such times of strife?"

The former High Steward of the Vale, Nestor Royce, a massive, barrel-chested man clad in heavy steel from head to toe, stepped forth.

"Lord Tully," his voice rumbled as he bowed. "We are just a band of pious men who could not stand for Renly Baratheon's vile alliances with pirates, reavers, sinners, and slavers."

While there had been no personal feelings against Renly, his alliance with the Ironmen had infuriated even the calmest of the Riverlords, and they all wanted blood now. 

"The Seven themselves cannot tolerate Renly's sinister practices," the septon spoke. Despite his age, his blue eyes were as bright as stars, and his hoarse voice echoed with conviction, and he raised his sceptre that looked like a weatherworn shepherd's hook made from weirwood. "New and old, the Gods will that his cause be smashed on the field of battle!"

"The Gods will it!"

Hundreds, no–thousands of men echoed along as one. The cry clamour was so overwhelming and unexpected that Edmure almost fell off his saddle and struggled to rein in his spooked horse.

***

With over five thousand men coming down from the Vale and all the Houses dragging their feet getting off their arses, Edmure was in command of nearly thirty thousand swords. It was no longer a matter of coin or fulfilling their duties to the liege lord. When the banners were called, most lords brought the mere minimum just to cover the oaths of their vassalage, for each sword on a campaign had to be paid out of their purses. Yet Rowan's cruel victory and rampant looting and burning had made things personal, just like involving the Ironmen in the war.

With Lords Deddings and Perry agreeing to swear to the Black for life before ten witnesses and a council of septons, their heirs swore fealty to Edmure, while both houses gave three children hostages in Riverrun each. 

Now, all the Houses of the Riverlands were united under the silver trout of Tully for the first time in generations. Even the quarrelsome Freys had moved with Lord Stevron Frey to repel the Ironmen attacking their shores and aid Mallister and Blackwood lands, if reluctantly, and Black Walder Frey and his men loudly professed their loyalty for all that could hear.

Of course, his uncle Brynden had taken four thousand outriders to disrupt the supply lines down the Blackwater and the Mander along Tumbleton.

Twenty-six thousand men camped outside the cursed seat of Harren the Black, where Rowan hid with his four thousand men. Nobody knew what happened to old Shella Whent, and the Lord of Goldengrove had not even attended the parlay in person. 

After what he had done, Rowan had the audacity to request safe passage to the Reach while vowing to remain neutral for the rest of the war through his captain, as if he did not dare face them. It was too late to play with niceties, for Edmure and his men craved blood. Needless to say, things quickly devolved into tossing petty insults at each other, and the parlay ended inconclusively.

"I thought the Lords of the Vale were busy fighting each other over Lord Robert Arryn's regency?" Lord Lymon Goodbrook noted as they gathered for a council later that night. Word had tickled to the camp that tens of smaller battles and skirmishes had been fought already, though the Mountains of the Moon made moving many troops difficult. 

Many of the Vale knights bowed their heads shamefully. 

"It is so," Ser Nestor Royce said, his words laced with displeasure. "Yet seeing the current situation of the Seven Kingdoms and the lack of decisive success in open battle, Lord Royce and Lady Waynwood have agreed to settle the dispute with A Trial of Seven at the urgings of the Faith, though the old crone still tries to delay as much as possible."

"Of course, that does not mean Ser Vardis Egen will acknowledge the results," the Templeton knight muttered. "That old man thinks being the Eyrie's captain of the guards gives him the right to become Lord Arryn's regent."

"At least he no longer dares support vile slave-cavorting scum like Renly openly," Redfort tutted derisively.

"Even the most pious of men can be led astray by honeyed words," the old septon placated, his voice soft and calm. Edmure had found he was named Maryn, the leader of the Most Devout residing within the Vale. "Ser Egen has sworn his fealty and blade to Lord Arryn first and foremost."

That eased the disgruntlement of many, blatantly showing how significant a role the Faith played in pacifying the proud Lords of the Vale.

"We have enough men to march on Renly in the Crownlands," Ser Lyn Corbray pointed out, his gloved hand lazily fiddling with Lady Forlorn's pommel. "With Tywin Lannister's thirty thousand inside the city, we'll outnumber the damned roses."

"While important, numbers are far from everything in war," Lord Jason Mallister cautioned. "Doubtlessly, Cortnay Penrose, Mace Tyrell, and Randyll Tarly will be in charge of the fighting. They are old, seasoned, cunning, and would doubtlessly prepare for our coming. We cannot hide thirty thousand swords; if they do not think they can win, they will simply retreat south of the Blackwater Rush."

Edmure balled his fists.

"There are too many hostages in Harrenhal to leave it in Rowan's hands," he said. The memory of the battle, the pained grunts as Hugo and Kirth were slain, and the screams as his men perished were still fresh in his mind. "Some of our horsemen and the remaining muster will be sent to guard the western coast against the damned reavers." Mallister and Blackwood gave him a grateful nod.

The Royce knight frowned. "Starving out Rowan might take moons, and storming Harrenhal will be suicide. Those curtain walls must be at least a hundred and twenty feet tall and have never fallen."

"It's good then that I plan to do neither," Edmure smiled savagely.

The word had been out for over a sennight now, and thousands of smallfolk had flocked to aid him with spades, shovels, and pickaxes, eager to help him do some honest work that should have been done centuries ago. They were all digging only under the cover of the night to prevent Rowan from discovering his goals, but the day of reckoning was fast approaching.