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.

***

1st Day of the 6th Moon, 299 AC

Val, Warg Hill

Dalla's hoarse screams finally halted, replaced by a sharp, familiar wail. 

Val had become an aunt.

Most of the chieftains had gathered around Duncan's cottage–including the man himself. Red Jayne and Willow were with her, their shaggy forms sitting on each of her sides like guardians. After Calla had been born, all the direwolves had abandoned Val in favour of her daughter. It was one of the reasons she was willing to let her little one out of sight–a dozen direwolves hovered around her at all times, along with Leaf. Of course, Val was not without protection; her dagger aside, the shaggy Red Jayne and Helicent padded after her. 

Jon insisted their daughter receive her name now instead of waiting for two years, lest she get used to a milk name, and Val relented. Some spearwives frowned at that, claiming it would jinx her daughter, yet none dared to say it to her face…let alone her husband's, and Melisandre assured her it would not matter. If the Gods desired misfortune on their daughter, a mere name would do nought to protect them from their whims. 

It was an odd way to assuage her fears, but it helped. 

"Good set o' lungs," Tormund said approvingly, patting Duncan Liddle's stiff shoulder as the wails grew louder. "Gonna be a fighter just like 'er da!"

It did not placate the burly Northerner one bit. Val was also worried–the babe was fine, but what about her little sister? Yet no matter how much she wanted to rush into the house and ensure Dalla was fine, she dared not do it with Melisandre guarding the door. The Singer helping the birth had requested the priestess not to let any visitors through because it would be bad for the babe and the mother.

Val was supposed to do the same thing, but she had been distraught when Calla's eyes had come out that odd colour, and by then, it had been too late. Thankfully, her daughter was in good health, just like Val. Yet, unlike her, Dalla had spent over ten hours in labour, and the spearwife couldn't help but worry about her sister. 

As they all waited, the heavy fur rug covering the door was pushed aside just enough for the petite Singer to slip through.

"Boy, it is," she said in the same singsong voice all the leafcloaks spoke in, even though some words sounded slightly wrong–in the wrong order, too. Of all of her kin, Brightspot spoke the most words in the common tongue after Leaf, but it still showed that she was new to it.

"A strong warrior," Sigorn Thenn grunted with approval and turned around to leave.

However, Duncan ignored the congratulations and pats on his shoulders; he had eyes only for Brightspot, "What of Dalla?"

"Need rest, but well your wife is. You can see Dalla and newborn, but quiet you must be."

Duncan rushed into the hallway like an arrow released from the bowstring, and soon, the rest of the wildling chieftains began to disperse. 

"Too impatient, har," Tormund chuckled merrily, rubbing what remained of his right ear after a cannibal had bitten it off when Lerna attacked. "I heard Dunk vow to name the babe Jon should it be a boy."

"Aye, I'm naming my next son Jon, too," Morna nodded seriously, and Val just groaned. 

Her husband was very popular, and many hoped they could borrow some of his luck, skill, or divine blessing by sharing the same name. Jon had not only led every battle at the front, winning their respect as warriors and leaders, but also saved them all. Despite the initial suspicion and mistrust towards his kneeler origins, he had done everything he had promised and more. It helped that he was fair but firm while mediating any arising disputes. After the last battle, there were plenty of lesser squabbles, easily resolved by her man.

Tormund tilted his head. "A son? You already have two, har! I say your next shall be a daughter. Besides, who's going to sire the babe? Didn't your man die to the Cold Ones over a year ago?"

"He did," the spearwife admitted, yet her words were bereft of sadness. "But it's not like there is a lack of strong men here."

Morna looked at Val, who was already reaching for her dagger, while Giantsbane guffawed.

"Snowy hair is more likely to–how did Jarod call it…" Tormund rubbed his greying beard. "Ah, yes. She's far more likely to eviscerate you than share her man, har. How many did you shank for trying already?"

"One," Val frowned, her eyes not leaving Morna while her body remained tense, ready to pounce. She was easily amongst the strongest spearwives in Warg Hill, and one of the few Val wasn't sure she could defeat, especially after her strength had yet to recover from the birth. "Jon said I can't murder people for something they didn't do anymore. I sheared all the hair off the second and the third ones."

"Gods!" Of course, Pigsbane found that even more amusing and heaved over, roaring with laughter. "Is that why Thistle and Frenya no longer dare remove their hoods?" 

"I am not trying to steal your husband," Morna untied her weirwood mask, revealing a sharp face with grey eyes before raising her gloved hands as if to surrender. "Calm down, Val. I am just asking. It wouldn't be odd for a strong chieftain to take more than one wife, and there's no man greater than Jon Snow here. Each spearwife yearns to have a strong man and give birth to a strong son."

"Jon and I swore to each other before the gods," Val reminded coldly. "I am his, and he is mine. We vowed to be together until death. You were there, bearing witness along with everyone else. Or have your wits begun to fail you?"

She wasn't afraid Jon would leave her, but she knew of Morna's arrangements. Val had seen Ygon Oldfather and his eighteen wives, even if most were taken during raids. It was a bitter, underhanded struggle between the women vying for the man's affection, trying to use their children to get ahead of the rest. It was not a game Val had any desire to even contemplate for herself or her children. Trying to wrangle with a horde of half-siblings sounded exhausting and wrong; kin were meant to stand together. 

Of course, Jon would never go around raiding or stealing women, but some spearwives were daring enough to try and sneak into his bed despite the sizeable pack of direwolves in the hall nearby.

Morna sighed, rubbing the scar that ran through her lips. "My wits are still there and work well, Val. But I figured asking wouldn't hurt–I just want a son, not to wed him." 

"Well, the answer is no," Val snarked, sheathing her knife back and tucking it behind her shadowskin cloak. The spearwife knew her husband. If Jon sired another child, he would care for it no matter what, no matter how much Morna claimed to want only a son.

"There are fewer things more appealing to women than greatness and strength," Melisandre came over, lazily leaning on her weirwood staff. "Just like men are attracted to beauty."

"And what about you, priestess?" Tormund asked, lazily taking out a smoked fish from his bag and tearing a good chunk off with his yellow teeth before swallowing. "Any man caught yer eye?"

"My heart belongs to the gods."

He scoffed. "Tsch, keep yer secrets, then." His face lost its usual playfulness. "Speaking of the gods… are you sure the Cold Ones are gone?"

"Gone?" Melisandre chuckled hollowly. "Defeated? Yes. Gone? Not really. The Great Other has returned to his deep slumber, and his cold children have retreated to the Lands of Always Winter to join him in the protection of the cold and the darkness, so the threat still looms far in the distance. They will return. Perhaps not today. Not even in a hundred or a thousand years. The memories of men run short, and even the Watch had long forgotten their purpose just a few years prior. Once the Wardens of the Wall grow weak and forget their purpose, the Others might stir from their slumber again."

"So this is why the crows want to venture deeper North?" Morna asked, strapping her weirwood mask back to her face.

"Indeed," Jarod nodded. The greybeard's hair had turned almost entirely white in the last year. Old age was catching up to him, and his movements were not as vigorous as before. While his broken arm had healed, it was still stiff and weaker than the good one. "Lord Commander Stark wants to chase after the Others and kill them all to the last, but getting far with a sizeable ranging beyond the Frostfangs is nearly impossible unless they have a resupplying base and assistance on the way."

"The Crow Lord wants the Giant Stair for his base," Val reminded him. "He also wanted the Thenn valley, but Sigorn wouldn't budge. Neither would be feasible for him without Jon's support." They also had to deal with Isryn and his clans that had settled in the valley.

"Such preparations would take years, decades even, and would require the Haunted Forest to be peaceful and the clans, tribes, and chieftains to be on good terms with the Watch," Melisandre mused. 

Val knew all too well what good terms with the crows meant. Friendly or dead. Before, the crows were few, like the fish in a small creek–even then, she had heard the huntsmen in her village grumble about how it was better to avoid them, or more would come to avenge the fallen - not necessarily clad in black either. But now, their numbers had swelled, and she had seen how dangerous they could be with her own eyes. Benjen Stark was a great warrior and just as good a commander, and if he desired to smash through all the unfriendly clans and tribes, he would doubtlessly do it.

A part of her was glad that her man was Lord Crow's nephew and had managed to forge a pact with the Watch. Those fire witches and the flames in the jar made her skin crawl, but they weren't half as scary as the sea of black cloaks. Val would never say it out loud, but she would prefer to face the Others again rather than the Crows. Like many other free folk, she had seen the power of discipline, and the kneelers were masters at it.

"And he cannot start this in any other season but summer, for the cold would end them far easier than the Others," Jarod added. 

"Indeed." The priestess sighed. "Yet I fear by the time Benjen Stark succeeds in establishing a proper forward base to execute his plan, the will to see everything through would have long dwindled in the hearts of his men."

"Of course," Tormund nodded shamelessly. "We had our fight against the Cold Ones–and we won. Thousands of years later, it'll be for our blood to prove themselves worthy on the field. They'll grow soft and weak if we leave 'em no challenge."

"Many don't believe the Others have turned tail to run," Morna said. "After the last year, wariness still runs deep to the bone. The Warg Lord sent out scouts in every direction, and a third of the giants left for greener pastures, but everyone's still waiting for the cold to creep back."

"Winter is coming, even without the Others," Melisandre's smile turned forlorn. "It's the way of life. The old withers and dies, making way for new growth. But if you want proof that the Others have abandoned the fight, look no further than this."

Val followed her finger, pointing towards the crimson petals of an autumn flower nestled just by the wall of Duncan's house. 

"What does frostfires have to do with this? You can find them everywhere where the sun shines."

"The Cold Ones shun the warmth of life and seek to snuff it out," the priestess' green eye gleamed, reminding Val of a warm day, while the red one remained cold and lifeless like the ruby encrusted in her staff. "Even their mere presence is often enough. Yet, life is not so easily squashed. Frostfires are the most fragile autumn flowers, yet they spread like weeds in the Warg's Grove and outside the gates. The flowers sprang to life everywhere wights and Others fell, even amidst the brittle ashes lingering after the Alchemist's unnatural flames."

Pigsbane patted his bulging belly, burped loudly, and tossed the fishbone to Red Jeyne, who deftly snatched it from the air, but Helicent came over to scramble for the treat. "Well said. By the looks of it, we'll get four, maybe five warm moons before the cold returns anyway, Others or not." 

Shaking her head, Val headed up the hill towards the Keep; the hounds hastily followed in her trail, forgetting their fighting, both crunching on the fishbones they had managed to win. 

Knowing the Cold Ones wouldn't return was a relief, but this meant the struggle for survival was over. And while it was a good thing, the lands were dangerous, and it would leave everyone at Warg's Hill in a tenuous position. Fighting against the Others was what united everyone under Jon, but what would happen now that they were gone?

Val didn't know.

Of course, nobody was foolish enough to fight or challenge Jon directly after he had fought, led, bled, and won for them, but the unknown was daunting on its own. It was no longer just the two of them either. Sure, Dunk would take care of Dalla and her son, but Val didn't want her Calla to be like her–wandering through the Haunted Forest and struggling to survive.

She passed through the Hall only to find Calla lazily sprawled by Ghost's enormous snowy head, giggling as she tried to tug at his whiskers. The enormous direwolf didn't seem bothered, nor did the other canines, when Calla reached out her chubby arms, attempting to tug on their shaggy tails as they circled her. The direwolves had drastically reduced in numbers, not because they had perished in the fighting but because they were going out hunting.

Over half were always out, prowling through the forest in one deadly giant pack that could easily take down even mammoths.

"She's going to be powerful," Leaf murmured. There was something that looked suspiciously like envy in her golden eyes as she gazed at the babe. But Val quickly dismissed the thought; the Singer had sworn to take care of the child before the Old Gods and would do so no matter what, and Val had no qualms about letting her watch over her daughter. "The wolves… they consider her one of their own. But it goes deeper than that, on a far more primal level. If one of the bitches whelped, Calla would doubtlessly be weaning with the litter."

"Wolf-raised," Val chuckled. "It would not be a bad thing."

"Perhaps. But power and beauty are a dangerous combination," the Singer's words turned sorrowful. "The blood of the dragon is strong in her too."

"So what if those dragonlords looked like my daughter?" The spearwife asked fiercely. "Will someone come after her just because of her colouring? If so, perhaps it is truly a curse."

Leaf gave her a wan smile. "Many blessings are a double-edged sword, especially those related to magic and blood. Not all of us have the favour of the Old Gods to shield us from it all."

Val didn't like what she heard, but she could tell it was honest.

"Where is my husband?"

"In the grove."

Sighing, the spearwife gently wrapped her daughter in her warm fur hide, earning herself a wide, toothless smile as Calla reached out to grab her hair. Val took her time to feed her daughter, who suckled as greedily as always, before making her way to the grove, the little one nestled in her arms.

Of course, she wasn't alone, as a shaggy retinue of direwolves lazily followed in her steps.

As always, the so-called godswood was teeming with life. The air was heavy with the happy chirping of snowshrikes, and crimson frostfires peeked from beneath the melting snow.

Jon was just before the Heart Tree, hands clasped in silent prayer. He must have heard them approach from afar because he stood up and gave her the softest smile that made her belly flutter. At that moment, all of Val's woes melted like snow in the sun. With her husband here, there was nothing to fear.

***

5th Day of the 6th Moon, 299 AC

Garlan Tyrell, the Crownlands.

After fighting at the Rushing Falls, Garlan considered himself lucky to avoid the following battles. He was more than ready to fight. He was good at it, even. But it wasn't the fighting that worried him, but the aftermath. In mere moons, any civility, honour, and chivalry had been discarded like the scanty gown of a wanton whore.

Where was the glory and valour in cruel butchery?

Alas, Garlan had been foolish to think fighting had been the worst. Allying with pirates and rapers was one matter, but Renly and his father sent him to negotiate with the Lord Reaver of Pyke himself.

His sweet cousins had been offered to the reavers like cattle to a merchant. To add insult to injury, the offer had been made with his mouth, and now Desmera, Elinor, and poor Lenora were to spend the rest of their lives in the Iron Isles, married to Ironmen scum like Drumm, Volmark, and Harlaw. A small part of him was glad that he had wedded Leonette already, or else he would find himself abed for life with one of the reaver dames.

He had seen Asha Greyjoy and wanted nothing to do with her coarse, ribald ilk for more than a day, let alone the rest of his life. But he was a knight, and being a knight meant serving your liege, no matter how much you misliked it. 

For good or bad, Garlan was forced to travel aplenty after the battle he fought. He had crossed thousands of miles by now, whether by boat or horse, but it brought him no joy this time despite his love of travel and adventure. There was no time to enjoy the scenery; the pace was often gruelling, but the physical exhaustion eased him to sleep even when his restless mind wandered.

He still remembered riding to King's Landing for the Northern Tourney. Seven games–and each was spectacular in its own right, even the boulder lifting. It was a more peaceful, cheery time. It had been summer, with all of its prosperity, along with the warmth and humidity and golden fields of wheat and barley stretched around the kingsroad as far as the eyes could see. 

Yet autumn had come, and with it, war.

The loud cheer of the tourney crowd was replaced by the battle cries and whimpers of death and agony. Grim armies, slaughter, and fleeing smallfolk were now a common sight instead of churning festivities. Instead of rivers of wine and merriment, only blood and death flowed through the land.

The green pastures had turned yellowy, and the enormous herds of cattle roaming around it were nowhere to be seen. They were all doubtlessly eaten clean by the Lannister army, and what little remained was swept up by his father. The golden fields had turned black and barren, scorched by the fires of war, and the lively Gold Road was empty save for scouts and a myriad of guarded supply carts. 

Now and then, his gaze settled on the fallen, emaciated corpses filling ditches by the road. Hundreds of thousands had been expelled from King's Landing, and their fate seemed grim, though a sizeable number had managed to flee to the Reach and the Stormlands. 

Armies left only death and desolation in their paths.

Garlan knew that, but seeing it for himself was another matter, especially when everything had been thriving not even a year prior. He wanted to weep, but no tears were left.

He had the pleasure of hearing some of the begging brothers preaching along the way.

"The Seven punish us for our sins," one man, merely skin and bones covered up by worn-out rags, preached fervently. "The end times are nigh! Brother and sister lay together, spawning abominations, awakening those foul demons lurking in the northern darkness! Men turn to men for comfort, and lords have begun consorting with heathens, slavers, and sinners. The Father shall smite them all down!"

It wasn't long before a group of outriders wearing Baratheon colours came down upon the man and took him away in chains, probably never to be seen again.

His travelling companions, Sers Bayard Norcross and Willam Wythers and their two squires, seemed just as disheartened as Garlan. 

"I don't like this," Wythers muttered, rubbing his balding head. "Ironmen cannot be trusted."

"Neither can the slavers of Essos," the Norcross knight sighed. "I heard the damned Tyroshi have turned around and are attacking Tarth and Cape Wrath."

Ser Willam scoffed. "It was some pirate prince of the Stepstones in the last inn, the Myrmen in the one before, and… what was it three days at the Dancing Lady?"

"Corsairs from the Basilisk Isles, supposedly," was the dark reply. "It doesn't matter. They're all scum that deserve the noose." 

Garlan agreed with both of them. Yet he was not a common knight or man-at-arms but the Queen's brother and the Hand's son. "We can only follow our liege's orders."

"Aye. But it doesn't mean we have to like it. Should've chopped off that squid's head right there instead of giving him a beautiful maiden. It's like giving roses to a swine."

"Bah," Ser Bayard spat. "If the Greyjoy boy lost his head here, his father would probably be raiding our shores, and the war would look far worse than it does now. I mislike it as much as you do, but we had plentiful foes in this war before adding more to them."

The Wythers knight waved dismissively, "As if the Ironmen can beat the combined naval might of the Reach. The craven reavers are only good in attacking defenceless villages and empty holdfasts by surprise."

"I wouldn't discount them at sea," Garlan warned. "I have heard Lord Paxter say that the battle of Fair Isle would have been lost without Lord Stannis' leadership." And Lord Stannis was no more now.

Worse, his daughter turned away and publicly denounced Renly, and nobody could blame the girl for the Tyroshi attacking her vassals. Shireen Baratheon's success was entirely unexpected, and many pinned the victory on the Lord of the Tides or the Onion Knight. Garlan had heard some even call her a vile witch, a heathen sorceress in the inns along the way.

Some hearsay was outright ridiculous, like, "The wolf lord passed on by Dragonstone on his way before the Seven themselves saw to drown him. My Da swears Stark imparted all his dark knowledge to the king's niece, corrupting her!"

Others even claimed Robb Stark shifted into a giant direwolf and ate people alive.

It seemed hypocritical. Victory was welcomed as ordained by the gods, and their cause was proven righteous. But defeat? Defeat meant that their foes surely used dark powers and were fiends who crawled out of the Seventh Circle of Hell.

It wasn't long before they neared King's Landing. The stench of smoke, shit, and piss wafted from afar, if not as intense as he remembered. Then, the enormous army and the countless tents could be seen like a sea of ants surrounding the sandstone walls from every direction by land. The myriad of colourful banners in the skies, a grim contrast to the greyish walls, protected from above only by the defiant figures of the roaring lion of Lannister and the crowned stag of Baratheon.

Another group of outriders rode out to meet him this time. He recognised most of them–Ser Edric from Appleby and Anton of Rushford were old acquaintances—but his friend was missing.

"Where's Ser Mullendore?" Garlan asked.

"He perished from his wounds in one of the assaults," came the sombre reply.

He turned forlorn then. How many of his friends, kin, and family would perish by the time the war ended?

With a heavy heart, Garlan glanced at the surrounding tents as the men escorted him to his father while his travelling companions were dismissed. The men no longer looked cheery and confident, but as his father had said, the Seven-Pointed Star could no longer be seen fluttering in the skies above. It, along with the High Septon and his retinue, had gone North with the enormous combined fleet of Hightower, Redwyne, Chester, Grimm, Hewett, Serry, Cuy, Costayne, Buwler, and Blackbar. Of course, the bulk of the warships had already sailed ahead; they rushed to catch the warm moons of the North–four more if the Maesters of the Citadel were correct.

For good or bad, even the Ironborn and the zealots were carefully separated. Garlan had heard that Greyjoy only allowed the Reachmen to resupply on Blacktyde, for Lord Blacktyde had fostered in Oldtown for nearly a decade after the Ironborn rebelled. Baelor Blacktyde had even converted to the Seven and had chased away the Drowned Priests off his island, making him the least likely of the reaver lords to cause trouble for the Reach.

While Garlan would never say it outloud, he considered the Northern campaign–or Northern Crusade as the zealots had begun calling it, to be a waste of time and resources. They should have used the fleets and the additional manpower to flank the Riverlands or the Westerlands from the shore, essentially crippling their military power. Alas, while it would be the wise thing to do, few proposed it, rarely and without enthusiasm.

One of the thornier problems was Robb Stark and his mounted force. While the royal councillors and the Reach Lords were loud and bold at the disparagement of his meagre force of scarcely twelve thousand lancers, none proposed to go and face him on the field. Garlan knew why: if the numbers turned against the Young Wolf, he had the mobility to run away and strike somewhere else. Besides, Oakhart had already written to His Grace, expressing his confidence in fighting–or at least tying up the Northmen until the war ended.

Naturally, John Oakheart's words were taken seriously. The man had proven himself a sharp commander, and he would have his numbers supplemented further by a second muster of the Houses along the Ocean Road. 

And thus, with the Crownlands already struggling to support two large armies, the Northern invasion was hatched. Yet Garlan inwardly wondered how much was this attack on the North going to help the war and how much it was purely for his father, Lord Greyjoy, Hightower, and the High Septon's interests. Renly's decision was easier to figure out; he had begun to grow suspicious of the Faith's rising power, and his open dislike of House Stark and Northmen was hardly a secret.

Alas, while the highlords and kings planned, the main struggle was done by common folk, men-at-arms, levies, outriders, and knights. 

Garlan's heart grew heavier as he heard murmurs about night raids, building more trebuchets, and rotting corpses. It could be the light was playing tricks on him, but he couldn't help but notice that their faces looked gaunted and their bodies thinner. The explanation came to him quickly enough–lack of food. Or, well, not lack of it, but supplies were definitely being rationed, for no longer could he spot men eating out in the open, like before. 

Within ten minutes, he found his way to the sprawling Tyrell pavilion threaded with golden silk with floral patterns across the hems, second in size only to the royal one, if barely.

His father, garbed in his green silken surcoat embroidered with a golden rose, sat at the head of a large table laden with food and ate voraciously. Though, Garlan couldn't help but notice that the guards outside were far warier than before, and his father's sword and shield were by the table. 

"Garlan," his sire greeted him, raising a cup doubtlessly full of Arbor Gold.

"I have completed my task, Father-"

"No need for pleasantries between the two of us in private," a meaty hand waved him over. Unlike the grim faces of the men outside, his father still had his jovial smile plastered on his face, but it failed to reach his eyes. "Come, sit, my son. Soothe your parched throat with proper wine and fill your hungry belly with a choicer selection of meats."

His stomach growled at the sight of the steaming rib-eye steak, and his nose twitched at the succulent aroma wafting from the table. War and autumn had made the pickings slim even in the Reach; not even the inns offered good fare, no matter how much gold he offered. Sighing, Garlan helped himself to some proper food for the first time in weeks. 

"I thought House Tyrell's coffers were strained after paying five hefty dowries?" It had been part of the alliance with the Iron Isles. Not many lords were particularly excited to send off their daughters in the arms of the Ironborn. Still, his father had promised to cover a good part of the dowry, preferential positions at court, and other honours in the war to get the deal moving without a hiccup.

"War is an expensive endeavour," his father sighed. "Losing even more so. The campaign in the Westerlands was going to pay most of it, you know? Even without sacking Lannisport, Lord Oakheart had gathered enough wealth to fill our coffers nearly twice over. Of course, only a quarter of that would go to us as per agreement, but it would be more than enough. Alas, now he has to defeat the Young Wolf to see another gold coin from the Westerlands."

"Isn't it better to send him reinforcements instead of shipping men to attack the North?" Garlan asked, despite already suspecting the answer. The succulent piece of steak on his plate tasted heavenly, but it no longer brought him any joy.

"We're already sending men his way. Six thousand more, and another four thousand are in training. Lord John doesn't have to defeat the Young Wolf; only keep him blocked as he claimed he could do." Clever. Enough men to tilt the scales in Oakhart's favour but not too much to dissuade the Young Wolf from engaging. "Thankfully, Stark will be busy defending the Western shores for another moon, and he has to wrangle into order with what remains of Tywin's bannermen, giving Oakheart plenty of time to prepare defences and different tactics. If the Old Lion weren't hiding behind his walls, we would've crushed him with our horse. Of the fifty thousand men we have left, half is cavalry."

"...We lost sixteen thousand men already?"

His father finally grimaced. "More, but we replenished some of our numbers from the local lords that bent the knee. The rest filled our war chest instead. Eleven thousand perished crossing the Blackwater Rush, three thousand were lost in skirmishes across the Crownlands, and seven thousand died since we sieged the city. One assault, trying the gates, and at Tywin's night or morning raids. The damned man burned all of our siege equipment in a sudden attack early at dawn. They almost reached the royal tent and managed to kill Merryweather."

Doubtlessly, his father took the chance to cull the enemies of House Tyrell during those battles. It would explain why the Florent and Peake camps were barely a third of what they were the last time he had been with the army. Both had plans to contest House Tyrell's powers in the Reach before, and that was more than enough for his father to be wary, for old ambitions died hard. Doubly more so now, for Shireen's mother had been Lord Florent's niece, and Peake was married to a Lannister if one from a cadet branch.

"So… that's why everyone's so tense," Garlan sighed. "What is that talk I hear about corpses?"

"We're generously sending the bodies of Tywin's men back to him," was the mocking reply as his father took a large gulp of Arbor Gold and wiped the grease off his chin. "And some of those citizens that he expelled who died on the roads. Now that we've tested the city walls and gates and found them well-defended, we can only hope for a plague. The thrice-cursed Lion built a makeshift wharf facing the Blackwater Bay, and we have no way of burning this one, so food still tickles into the city, no matter how little, and our spies already said the city has more than enough supplies to last at least a year." 

Which would be enough time for Harrenhal to fall and Tully to ride down and threaten their flank. Even if Stark and Oakheart remained stalemated during that time, their chances of taking the city without a pitched siege or a bloody slog to swarm the walls and streets were slim.

Which meant more deaths. 

Suddenly, his appetite disappeared, and Garlan pushed away the plate of half-eaten steak.

"Then… how do we win?" 

"If the gods smile upon us soon, a plague will spread in King's Landing." That explained why the rotten corpses were being saved and lugged over the walls instead of boulders. It was a vile thing hidden under the pretence of piousness. Garlan could already hear the Septons preaching. If the plague started, it would be the will of the Seven, and they would merely aid it along. 

His father continued with a cough, "But I'm afraid that might take far more time than we have, for Tully will not stay at Harrenhal forever. A team of sappers and miners arrived three days prior and are now digging under the cover of the night to avoid scrutiny. Within a moon, we will collapse four gates in the hour of the ghost."

"My blade is yours to command, Father," Garlan proclaimed, even if the words raked at his throat. He trusted his father to lead them to victory, for the stakes were too high. With the stakes turned so high and bitter enmity formed, defeat would be a fate worse than death. 

"Very good, my son," his sire smiled, and his eyes softened. "I will give you Sers Androw Crane, Gyles Rowan and a thousand knights with their retinue to deal with the Blackfish. He's getting bolder and bolder in disrupting our supply lines."

A thousand knights with retinue meant just as many squires and thrice as many men-at-arms and lancers, if not more. Knowing his father, it was definitely more. Yet the perspective of dealing with the prickly and overproud dragonblade wielders and possibly hundreds of tourney knights made him frown inwardly. Gyles Rowan and Androw Crane would easily be mistaken for arrogant if they did not have the skills to back it up. Some of the tourney knights were even worse, boasting and overproud of their skills but with little to show for on the battlefield.

"It shall be done."

While this was clearly a test, it was doubly so an honour. It warmed Garlan's heart that he was chosen to lead such an important task, not some other capable men like Lord Tarly, Renly's Rainbow Guard or many skilled knights or second sons who had proven themselves. Perhaps Garlan could find a smidgeon of honour measuring his valour and wits against a seasoned knight such as the Blackfish now that he was in charge. 

***

9th Day of the 6th Moon, 299 AC

Arianne Martell, Plankytown

As heiress to House Nymeros Martell, Arianne couldn't bring her lovers inside Sunspear lest she invited her father's wrath, so she snuck to the Shadow City or one of the inns she had purchased in Planktytown.

Of course, a visit to Plankytown had other uses, like visiting Garin, her childhood friend and milk brother, who kept her abreast of the happenings within the Orphans of the Greenblood and other baser rumours. 

Well… this time, it was only about pleasure.

Arianne ran her nails down Gerold's steadily rising and falling muscled chest, feeling quite satisfied, even though both of their naked bodies glistened with sweat. 

"How's my brother doing in the yard?" She asked coyly. Quentyn had managed to deal away with the bandits around Vaith but came back very battered and wounded, missing a finger on his left hand. Still, his success eased some of the tension Arianne had noticed in Sunspear's court, though her father still refused to address the issue with the plotting Yronwoods, and rumours of banditry in the Marches continued.

But Quentyn's victory did not satisfy Doran Martell, and her poor brother was forced to spend almost all his time in the yard sparring or the library to learn more about warfare, tactics, and strategy. Though her brother seemed to be more serious about it than before. More focused and outgoing–Arianne had even heard rumours of him visiting the Sandy Sept and the Orphans of the Greenblood!

A silver eyebrow mockingly rose at her question. "Interested in another lover just after we fucked?"

"Quent?" Arianne gagged. "We are not the House of the Dragon here despite that drop of blood we got from them." Even if they were, her plain-looking, skittish brother would not be her choice of lover. 'Not nearly as skittish since fighting the bandits,' she amended her mind.

"Yet you have the fire of a dragoness in you." His voice was husky, and Gerold began peppering her neck with kisses that made her skin tingle pleasantly. "But to answer your query, your brother is not doing terrible."

So he wasn't doing great, either. Alas. For the first time ever, Arianne was invested in Qunetyn's success because it seemed she would have to rely on her brother in martial matters. Of course, unless Trystane grew up to be a lauded warrior. Yet, for good or bad, her youngest sibling had yet to show a special talent for anything but dancing and singing.

Still, the war in the Stepstones had grown fiercer, and ultimately, the pirate lords were not truly united enough to resist the undivided attention of one of the Daughters, especially with Matteno Pandaerys, who had proven himself a capable fleet captain with three swift victories under his belt. The Lyseni had already conquered Red Water, Scarwood, the Guardian, and half a dozen smaller Isles, and her father had reached out to Myrish sellsails for assistance for a hefty sum.

Arianne shook her head, feeling torn. Should she visit Ellaria and her younger cousins in the Water Garden as promised, or did she have enough time to climb atop her eager lover and go for another round?

Yet the decision was taken from her when the door was opened with a bang.

Gerold leapt from his bed naked as the day he was born, already reaching for his sword in the rack, but Arianne froze just as she pulled the sheets to cover herself. 

"Drop that toothpick, boy," Areo Hotah's thick voice rumbled dangerously, making the Darkstar freeze. Arianne could immediately tell something was wrong, for this was the first time she had seen the Norvoshi warrior discard his ceremonial bronze scale shirt in favour of heavy steel, and the long axe was drawn in his hand as if calling for blood. The dozen Martell men-at-arms behind him all sported grim faces and were similarly armed–for war. "Princess, your father demands your presence in Sunspear immediately." 

"What happened?" Arianne hated that her voice quivered.

"The Lyseni attacked the Water Gardens."