[A.N: New Cover!
Goddamn a four month writer's block is a nightmare, I would make sure to make time almost every day to write, sit down in a nice coffee shop with a great cup of hot chocolate, open up the word file, and just stare at it for two hours.
But I'm back. This chapter might spur me into writing many more, or it might be another four months, I don't have a fucking clue.]
5 Chapters further in all my stories here:
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Chapter 65
Robb Stark
The night still stank of blood and smoke when Robb rode through the wreckage of the baggage train.
Wagons lay toppled or broken where they had been caught in the charge, oxen bawled in their harnesses, and the ground was churned to mud by hooves and spilled grain alike. His entourage fanned out around him. Behind them, the Green Men rode in a quiet ring, their cloaks dark with dust.
Around them, men set to their work. Some were cutting oxen free from the yoke, others righting wagons and dragging barrels back into line. What had begun as chaos was already being ordered into neat lines of plunder, Robb's men shouting to one another as they gathered spoils enough to feed a kingdom.
Marq let out a sharp whistle, unable to contain himself. "Gods! Look at it—there's enough here to keep half the Riverlands fed through winter. Salted meats, flour, wine—by the look of it, the Tyrells meant to fatten King's Landing for years, not months." He laughed aloud, shaking his head in wonder.
"One tenth of this baggage, and we could hold the castle for months against siege," came Roose Bolton's silken voice from the rear.
Robb inclined his head in agreement. It was a simple rule of war: a host behind walls could hold against ten times their number, provided their arms, discipline, and provisions held. His infantry were more than common levies—they were well-equipped, fiercely loyal, and drilled into order. With the spoils from this train, they could stand against fifty thousand Reacher peasants and not falter for months.
"As long as you and Daemon hold Bitterbridge, no great shipment from the Reach will reach King's Landing," Robb remarked. "But it is not enough. That is where you come in, Ser Marq."
"Your Grace?" Piper blinked, still confused as to why he had been summoned to the king's side, though he had not dared ask.
Robb turned his gaze on him. "You and Ser Patrek Mallister once led fifty men, and with those fifty, harried the Lannister host as they burned the Riverlands. You forced Jaime Lannister himself to break his post and ride—straight into the trap at the Whispering Woods. That is no small feat. How would you like to mirror it?"
Marq Piper's blood stirred at once. Reckless though he was, he lived for the chance of bold strokes and bright victories. Edmure Tully had been his sworn brother, and since his death, Marq's hatred for the Lannisters had only sharpened. Any hint of vengeance set fire to his heart.
"I live to serve, Your Grace!" he exclaimed eagerly.
"Good." Robb's nod was curt. "It is inevitable the enemy will seek new paths to feed their capital. By sea is safe yet too slow. The northern plains too contested. So, the best road lies elsewhere—down the Mander by riverboat, then east along the Blueburn from Longtable, and finally through the Kingswood with their baggage in tow."
"Your mission, should you choose to accept it," Robb said, his tone even but his eyes fixed on Marq, "Will be to take your riders into the Kingswood and raid any and all caravans bound for King's Landing."
He tapped the map where the roads threaded through thick forest. "The nature of the forest will force their relief efforts to travel in small, scattered groups. You'll not face an army—only columns no larger than your own. Strike them, break them, bleed them dry."
Robb's hand closed into a fist, then opened again, steady. "Still, there will come a time when the city sends real strength to root you out. When that happens, you are not to waste yourself in some hopeless stand. You will retreat—swiftly and clean. Understood?"
Marq's grin split wide, boyish fire lighting his face. He slapped a fist against his breastplate and leaned forward.
"A second Kingswood Brotherhood, is it? Aye, Your Grace—my men and I will make the Lannisters curse every step they send through those woods." His eyes gleamed with reckless pride. "Let them march their wagons fat with bread and wine. We'll have them bleeding in the brambles before they ever reach the city."
He straightened, his voice rising with bravado. "And they'll have no Arthur Dayne, no Barristan Selmy, no Jaime Lannister to come for my head."
"As planned, both Jon and Rickard will mirror our work in the Westerlands," Robb said. "Scatter across the Reach, besiege no castles, and spread as much chaos as you can."
His gaze shifted to Daemon. "Ten of the Green Men shall return with me to the Bastion. Of the rest, four will remain here with you, and Marq, Jon, and Rickard will each take two. Heed them well. The Green Men know the land as few do, and their sight makes them near to prescient. With their counsel, you'll escape snares and outmaneuver any danger."
When the commanders gave their nods of assent, Robb leaned back. "That is settled. Lord Bolton, Daemon—you will see to the defenses. Marq, Rickard, Jon—ready your riders. I'll remain to bring order to the baggage train. You are all dismissed."
'With this, I have bought us time to turn to other matters,' Robb thought.
The Reach—his greatest threat—would know nothing but chaos for the coming moons. His swift cavalry would sweep across villages and towns, stoking the ire of the lords and sowing unrest among the smallfolk.
To the west, the Stormlands loomed, soon to be bound beneath Stannis Baratheon's iron hand. Chastened by defeat, the man was unlikely to remain idle; with Florent in-laws to guide him, he would turn to the Reach, prying at their weaker houses, luring those desperate for protection or hungry for spoils.
And then there were the Dornish. Doran Martell's grip was steady, yet his people's blood ran hotter than the sun they lived under. Pressure, left unchecked, would demand release—and in that release, Robb saw opportunity.
This would serve a greater aim: to keep the marcher houses—Tarly, Oakheart, and their ilk—anchored at home, their swords turned inward. Nearly a fourth of the Reach's full strength would be trapped by their own troubles, unable to march north or east.
Then there was the matter of the Ironborn. With the Westerlands holding firm under Lannister rule, it was only a matter of time before the reavers turned their eyes southward. The Reach's fat coasts and easy prizes would tempt them soon enough, and every raid would cut deeper into Tyrell strength.
In the end, the Reach would always succumb to its oldest flaw: disunity. Even the Gardener Kings, with all their ancient prestige, had never managed to bind its lords together for long. How then could the Tyrells—mere stewards raised above their station—hope to do better, no matter how many marriage beds they warmed or alliances they wove?
***
Tyrion Lannister
The council chamber was already thick with heat and temper when Tyrion arrived, and at its center thundered Lord Mace Tyrell. The great bulk of him heaved with every word.
"Outrage!" he bellowed, slamming a meaty fist upon the table. "This is an outrage! To strike at Bitterbridge, to steal what was meant for King's Landing!"
He turned on Tywin with a theatrical sweep of his arm, his florid face growing redder still. "We pledged our swords—and this is the return we are given? Plundered convoys, murdered knights, Bitterbridge itself taken while we sit and wait? It is intolerable, Lord Hand! Absolutely intolerable!"
Tyrion slipped quietly into his chair, folding his hands atop the table, his mismatched eyes flicking from Tyrell's furious face to his father's stony one.
Were he not practiced at reading faces, Tyrion might have missed it—the flicker of anger that tightened his father's jaw.
"Are you suggesting, Lord Tyrell," Tywin said, his voice quiet but cutting, "that this loss lies at our feet?"
The thunder drained from Mace in an instant. "N-no, Lord Hand," he stammered, his earlier bluster shriveling. "I only spoke in anger at the loss. A… a misunderstanding, nothing more."
Tywin gave a slow nod. "Losses are the price of war. What matters is how we answer them. The city still requires food—and as agreed, that duty falls to House Tyrell. How do you intend to see it met?"
The chamber seemed to shrink as Tywin's words cut through the air. Mace's great chest rose and fell like a bellows.
"Well—yes, of course, Lord Hand. We… we still have stores in the Reach," he stammered, dabbing his brow with a silk kerchief. "My bannermen will gather what's needed and see it brought here. The Reach does not break its oaths."
Tyrion leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin. That first baggage train had not come cheaply. The Reach might be the breadbasket of Westeros—and one blessed with the longest summer in living memory—but a second convoy would mean dipping into far more sensitive stores.
Tywin inclined his head, voice flat as stone. "See that you do. The city will not starve so long as the Tyrells hold true. And make haste of it—delay serves only Stark." Tywin spat out the last word like a curse.
Mace seized upon the words like a drowning man at driftwood, bowing awkwardly before hurrying from the chamber as fast as his bulk would allow.
The chamber felt colder once the Tyrell was gone, though no window had opened. Tyrion lingered in his seat, staring at the wood grain of the table until the words came back to him, the ones he wished he had never heard: Jaime was dead.
The news had struck like a hammer blow when first delivered, and though he had schooled his tongue since, the weight of it had not lessened. Jaime—his golden brother, the shield he had never deserved, the one who had stood by him when no other did—gone. He would never hear that careless laugh again, never feel the quiet strength of Jaime's presence at his side.
For all his wit and armor of words, Tyrion felt hollowed out, a small, unwanted son robbed of the only kin who had ever shown him warmth.
His father's grief had taken another form. Tywin had not spoken of Jaime save in curt acknowledgment, but every word since had been honed sharper than steel.
And Ser Kevan—loyal, steady Kevan—was beginning to crack beneath the strain. The bags beneath his eyes sagged like bruises, his voice lower, wearier. One only lessened by news of Lancel's recovery.
Cersei had shut herself in her chambers since the news, her fury spent in three days of shrieking that left her voice scoured raw; now only silence lingered behind her doors, and though Tyrion had not gone to her—he dared not—he knew well enough that Jaime's death had broken her in a way no enemy ever could.
Tyrion sat, sadness gnawing deep. Even old quarrels seemed to have been swallowed, a hollow sort of unity binding the family now.
Yet Tyrion clutched his own guilt in an iron grip, shoving it down where it could not rule him. Jaime's death was a wound he had steeled himself for ever since the second Stark girl vanished.
Now was not the time for mourning—it was the time for action, for survival.
Stark's attack is bound to be discussed beyond the small council chamber, making these meetings close to useless.
Tyrion sighed and flipped open a heavy ledger. "Revenue from the pleasure houses has begun to increase…"
The words fell flat in the chamber, fading like the mutter of a man left talking to himself.