Author's Note:
Happy 100 chapters, I can't believe we've finally made it here!
Make sure to leave any comments with concerns, questions, or suggestions, or whatever, and give me all of those sweet power stones, my beautiful readers!
[The Riverlands, Riverrun, 1st day of 3rd Moon, 299AC]
Within the Lord's Solar of Riverrun, instead of Lord Tully being present, as he was still bedridden, the newly crowned King Alaric II stood within the room, contemplating his next move as he looked down at the lord's desk.
Maps covered the table, layered, weighted at the corners, inked and re-inked so many times the rivers looked thicker than they ought to be. Stones marked positions. Carved wooden pieces stood for hosts. Lines scratched into the parchment showed where men had marched, where they had died, and where they might yet go.
Alaric stood over it all, one hand resting against the edge of the table, the other holding an ink quill between his fingers.
He did not look tired.
But he did not look overly triumphant either.
Dorren stood to his right, quiet as ever, watching the map the same way Alaric did, thinking on what's to come and what their next course of action should be.
"You've been standing there long enough to burn a hole through it," Dorren said at last.
Alaric did not look up.
"It would be easier if it could answer back," he said with a sigh as he looked up.
Dorren gave a faint snort.
"If it could, it would probably lie."
Alaric's mouth twitched slightly.
"Aye," he snorted. "I suppose that's true."
He set the marker down near Harrenhal.
"That's where it begins," he said quietly.
Dorren followed his gaze.
"Harrenhal," he said. "Or more hopefully, where it shall end, depending on whether the Old Lion moves or not."
Alaric shook his head once.
"No," he said, shaking his head. "I doubt it will end there. This war is still far from over."
A knock came at the door.
"Enter," Alaric called out, not even looking toward the door
The door soon opened, and a young guardsman stepped inside, bowing quickly.
"My lor- um, I mean, Your Grace," he corrected himself awkwardly. "A raven has arrived."
Alaric held out his hand.
The boy crossed the room and placed the letter into it. The seal was familiar.
The Direwolf of House Stark.
Alaric broke it without ceremony.
He read in silence, eyes scanning the contents thoroughly so as not to miss anything.
Dorren did not interrupt.
He never did, ever the dutiful younger brother.
After a moment, Alaric exhaled softly and passed the letter across.
Dorren quickly took the letter, reading the beginning lines of who it was from.
"Uncle Ned?" he asked.
"Aye," Alaric said.
Dorren's eyes moved over the lines again, slower this time.
"Uncle Ned and Commander Jory are doing well, it would seem," he said. "Better than I expected."
"They're doing exactly as I expected," Alaric replied, a faint smile upon him.
Dorren glanced up.
Alaric tapped the map near the Ruby Ford.
"He's holding there," he said. "Not pushing too far, not pulling back. Relieving the lands around him, restoring order where he can. And watching Tywin."
Dorren nodded.
"His scouts bring word that Tywin and his scraps still haven't moved," he said.
Alaric's gaze shifted back to Harrenhal.
"No," he said. "He won't move from their secured location. Not yet."
"Why?" Dorren asked.
Alaric did not answer immediately, taking a moment to sort his thoughts out.
"He doesn't know where to move," he said finally. "Every direction carries risk now. If they decide to go West, then the remainder of their host has to make a likely contested crossing at the Mummer's Ford or attempt to enter the reach and swing north to his lands, but that invites trouble since the Reach has declared for Renly."
Taking another moment to let his words digest, Alaric continued.
"North, and he walks into ground he no longer controls, likely falling to another assault by Uncle Ned and Commander Jory. Then that leaves the south, back toward King's Landing," He shook his head. "The south would be worse, either he makes it to that shit-smelling city, or he just might run into Renly's host, depending on how fast they leave the Stormlands."
Dorren folded the letter.
"So he sits," he said.
"Aye, he sits, for now," Alaric nodded.
He reached for a quill.
"We won't let him do that for long."
Dorren watched as Alaric began to write.
"Another raven?" he asked.
"Aye," Alaric said.
"To Uncle Ned?"
Alaric nodded.
Dorren leaned against the table slightly.
"What are you asking of him?"
Alaric did not look up.
"Not asking," he said. "Im outlining his next orders."
Dorren smirked faintly.
"Of course you are."
Alaric finished the letter, sanded it, and sealed it.
"He or someone he trusts shall be tasked with going to the Vale," he said.
Dorren's expression sharpened.
"The Vale?" he asked. "Why now, Lord Arryn's mad trout of a widow has locked that place down in silence since his death?"
"Because, for this war to officially be won, we will need more than just our forces and the scraps from the Riverlands, there still exist Stannis and Renly, who have pressed their claims to the Iron Throne, and now, the North has officially broken away, they would never leave us alone for that simple act," Alaric said.
"The Vale has stayed out of this war so far," Dorren said. "Why would Lysa Arryn change that now?"
Alaric met his gaze.
"Because the war is no longer something she can ignore," he said. "Not with Tywin pushed back and the Riverlands stabilizing. If they sit idle now, they're choosing a side whether they admit it or not."
Dorren crossed his arms.
"And you think they'll choose us?"
"I think they'll choose survival," Alaric said, marking the last known location of Stannis' host and Renly's Host. "And we're the better chance at that."
He handed the letter back to the guardsman.
"See that this is sent immediately."
"Yes, Your Grace," the boy replied, bowing awkwardly, then leaving.
Dorren watched the door close.
"You're spreading this war wider," he said.
Alaric turned back to the map.
"It was always going to spread," he said, turning toward Dorren. "Better that we decide where and what the variables of this war do."
[Later that day, the Great Hall of Riverrun]
The Great Hall filled quickly.
Word had gone out, and the lords came as they always did, some eager, some wary, some already forming arguments in their heads before they had even heard what would be said.
Alaric stood at the head of the table when they entered.
He did not wait for silence.
He did not wait for everyone to settle, across the many tables, maps, strategies, and logistics already lay strewn about.
He began as they gathered.
"This is how we shall hold the Riverlands," he said.
The room quieted immediately, his very presence shushing the murmurs.
Not out of courtesy.
Out of necessity, and a healthy bit of apprehension of the two massive wolves sitting behind him, ever watchful.
Brynden Tully stood to one side, arms folded, his eyes already on the map. Edmure hovered nearby, his expression more open, more uncertain. Lord Clement Piper stood stiff-backed, his son Ser Marq just behind him, watchful.
Lord's Wyman Manderly, Rickard Karstark, Jorah Mormont, Galbart Glover, along with Ser Harald, Dorren, Rodrik, and Domeric each took their place.
Alaric placed his hand over Harrenhal.
"The Old Lion and what remains of his host have gathered here," he said. "And it would seem that for the foreseeable future, they have elected to stay there."
Blackfish spoke first.
"That's a bold claim," he said. "He's not the sort of man to sit still if he thinks there's any advantage in moving."
Alaric nodded at the Blackfish's words, Ser Brynden being one of the few men gathered among the Riverlords who Alaric actually holds some respect for.
"Aye, that is true, he's not," he agreed. "Which is why we remove any would-be advantage."
He moved his hand west from Harrenhal toward Pink Maiden.
"We shall fortify Mummer's Ford," he said.
He placed a marker there.
"Six thousand men," he continued. "Under Lord Clement Piper."
Clement straightened slightly.
Alaric did not look at him.
"Nominally," he added, not caring for any of the whispers that rang out at his blunt words.
A ripple went through the room.
Ser Marq Piper's expression did not change.
Alaric's gaze shifted to him.
"You will hold the crossing," he said.
Ser Marq stepped forward a fraction.
"I will, with my very life," he said.
Clement opened his mouth, then closed it again.
Alaric met his eyes.
"You'll carry the banner," he said. "Your son will command the field."
There was a pause.
Then Clement nodded once, conceding any rising argument he may have had after seeing there would be no further words on the matter.
"As you say," he said.
Alaric inclined his head slightly, then moved on.
"Six thousand more remain here," he said, tapping Riverrun. "Under Lord Edmure and Ser Brynden."
Edmure blinked.
"Remain?" he said. "Shouldn't we send as many of our men as possible to fortify the crossing at Mummer's Ford to prevent Lord Tywin from reaching his lands?"
"No," Alaric said.
Blackfish's eyes narrowed slightly.
"You're dividing our strength to hold as many points as possible, keep the lion secured," he said.
Alaric nodded in agreement at his words, "I'm placing men where they will need to be in the event of a flight west."
He pointed to the Ruby Ford.
"Ned and Jory hold here," he said. "They're already doing what I need them to do, relieving the surrounding lands and keeping Tywin from moving anywhere north around Harrenhal."
He looked back at Harrenhal.
"Which means," he said, "that Tywin is not free."
Jorah spoke then, his voice low but carrying.
"He's contained," he said.
Alaric shook his head.
"For now, yes, but we shall see what becomes of him depending on Renly and if he elects to continue prancing through the stormlands."
The words hung in the air before he continued.
"We're not fully trapping him," Alaric continued. "We're making it so that wherever he moves, he loses."
Blackfish studied him.
"And while we do all that," he said, "what will you and your men do, King Alaric?" The word king sounded off to all of the Riverlords, but none spoke out against it, knowing better than to try with so many northern lords around them.
Alaric's hand moved west.
The markers were fewer there.
The land less defined.
"I'm taking the war to the Westerlands," he said.
The room shifted.
"How many men will we bring, your grace?" Karstark asked, a feral smile spreading on his face.
"Fifteen thousand," Alaric said. "Eight thousand foot. Seven thousand horse."
A murmur rose.
"That means we will launch a full-scale attack into the lion's lands," Glover said.
"Aye, while the rivermen hold any possible crossings he could make, we shall burn, loot, and ravage his precious lands," Alaric replied, Tempest and Cinder snarling behind him, adding to his growing image.
"From the numbers you told us, I assume they exclude the wounded we've amassed?" Lord Manderly inquired.
"They shall stay," Alaric said. "A thousand and more. They'll recover here, and those who are fit to stand and take up a weapon will help bolster the defense here until we return."
Edmure stepped forward.
"You're leaving us with six thousand to hold Riverrun?" he said.
Alaric met his gaze.
"You'll have more than that soon enough," he said. "Your Riverlords should return to their lands. And they should rally what men they have left. You'll not be alone."
Lord Blackwood nodded slowly.
"That much we can do," he said.
Lord Bracken gave a short grunt.
"Aye," he said. "My lands won't hold themselves."
Alaric inclined his head.
"Then go," he said. "Take back what's yours."
There was no ceremony to it.
No flourish.
Just a simple command.
As various lords, northern and riverlander, began to file out of the hall or make idle chatter with one another, Alaric turned to his newly made Spymaster, Oswald
Oswald did not stand with the others.
He rarely did.
He lingered near the edge of the room, half in shadow, his eyes distant in a way that unsettled those who noticed it and intrigued those who did not.
Alaric turned to him.
"What have you seen?" he asked.
Oswald blinked once, as if returning from somewhere far away.
"More than I would've thought possible before," he said simply.
Alaric waited.
Oswald stepped forward slightly.
"The birds fly further," he said. "The wolves run longer. The smaller things… they seem as if they listen better."
A few of the lords in the vicinity shifted uncomfortably.
"What changed?" Blackfish asked, staying behind to continue looking over the maps.
Oswald's gaze flicked briefly toward the sky.
"The world did, ever since the coronation and that odd comet tore through the sky," he said with an eerie smile.
Silence followed.
Alaric did not press him.
He did not need to.
"Use it well," he said instead.
Oswald nodded.
"I intend to, your grace."
Later, when the hall had finally emptied and the maps were once again theirs alone, Alaric found himself standing with Dorren and Rodrik.
The noise of the council had faded.
What remained was quieter.
Rodrik leaned against the table, his arms crossed, his expression thoughtful.
"That's a lot to put on them," he said.
"It is, but if they can't do even this much, then the Riverlands are in store for another century of chaos," Alaric replied.
Rodrik looked at him.
"And if they fail, what will that mean for us?" he asked.
Alaric met his gaze.
"Then we adapt," he said.
Rodrik snorted faintly.
"That's your answer to everything."
"It works," Alaric said with a light shrug.
Dorren watched them both, then shook his head slightly.
"You trust them more than I thought you would," he said.
"I have to, if we want to enter into the west and inflict true damage, then we have to leave our backs to them," Alaric replied.
Dorren's brow tightened.
There was a pause.
Rodrik shifted.
"My father would've liked this plan of yours, taking the fight to the lion's lands," he said quietly, a faint smile forming in memory.
Alaric's expression softened, just slightly.
"He would've surely had something more to say about it as well, he always did," he replied with a small laugh.
Rodrik huffed at that, loosening his shoulder that had been tightened unknowingly.
"Aye," he said. "Probably that you're half mad for trusting the trout even a sliver."
Alaric smiled at that.
"I suppose he wouldn't be wrong in that regard," he said.
Dorren stepped forward then, resting his hands on the table.
"We're taking the fight west," he said. "Into their lands."
"Aye," Alaric said.
Dorren studied him.
"You've wanted that for a while, now haven't you, brother?" he asked with a wry smile.
Alaric didn't deny it.
"They brought war to the north," he said. "Now we return it, and it's only fair that I bleed them dry and take anything that isn't bolted to the ground."
Rodrik laughed, a full laugh this time, imagining the scene of Alaric ripping a golden adornment from the walls of some poor lord's solar.
"When do we ride?" he asked.
Alaric looked at them both.
"Tomorrow, I wish to make west as quickly as possible, there still lies the issue of how to get past the Golden Tooth," he said.
[The next day]
The courtyard was alive with movement.
Men gathered.
Horses saddled.
Armor checked and rechecked.
The wounded watched from the sides, some bitter, some relieved, all aware that the war would move on without them for now.
Alaric stepped out into it, his cloak settling around his shoulders as his gaze moved over the host that would ride with him, his two companions, Tempest and Cinder, as always were beside him.
Fifteen thousand hardened sons of the North, now fully blooded and tested.
Not the largest army he had commanded.
But one that he would use to crush his enemies nonetheless
Dorren joined him at his side.
Rodrik soon followed.
Beside him came Domeric Bolton, speaking quietly with Rodrik, the two of them sharing something that looked far more like friendship than anything their houses might have suggested.
Alaric watched them for a moment.
Then he turned west.
"Form up, we march at once, it's time the Old Lion learns his lands are far from as invincible as he would think they are," he said.
The horns sounded, and men roared in approval around him.
The North was now moving west, and with them, Winter was Coming