Chapter Text
8th Day of the 6th Moon, 299 AC
The Captain-General, Volantis
Sieges were a messy affair.
For the defenders, it was a test of resolve, a trial of will, and a game of waiting and numbers, as uncertainty hung upon their heads like a headsman's axe. The fate of those behind the walls should a city fall was tragic at best. Yet the attackers were not spared the risk either–laying siege broke armies and shattered causes.
Ser Barristan had never had to defend a siege before but could imagine the woes that went into the defenders' minds.
Would the food last enough?
Was a relief force coming?
What would happen should the attackers breach the walls?
The city of Volantis was formidable with its high, thick walls and had to be sieged from both sides of the main sleeve of the Rhoyne's delta. With its sprawling harbour, the city was built to withstand a hefty siege until the dragonlords arrived. Yet the dragonlords were not coming; they were gone for centuries, and Barristan knew a wall was only as good as the stalwart men atop it. It started to seem like they would have to storm the city proper, and the engineers began building trebuchets, siege towers, and battering rams as the Golden Company prepared itself for a bloody assault.
This would have been the case if one of the city captains hadn't sent out a messenger under the cover of the night, promising to open the western gate in exchange for freedom and safe passage to the Summer Isles for him and his men.
Treachery was not honourable. Rewarding it even more so. It went against every knightly belief, against the core tenets of chivalry. It went against the oaths he had sworn. But Ser Barristan knew better than most that some vows were but words in the wind.
After some hesitation, Barristan decided to accept. He had broken his vows before.
In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the young and the innocent. In the name of the Maiden, I charge you to protect all women.
Words are wind.
Rewarding treason was not the honourable thing to do, but it would preserve thousands of his men. Thousands of the swords that would defend Aegon's rightful claim. But where was the honour in squandering his allies just to assuage his own consciousness? Where was the treachery of a chained man yearning for freedom?
The line between right and wrong had blurred long ago, but regardless, he could not afford failure here, no matter the cost.
"Ser Barristan the Old," they called him. Perhaps it was true. Four kings he had served, and three of them he had failed. But even an old, waning man like him had grown tired of failure. In the end, it was but another stain on the not-so-white cloak of Ser Barristan the Old.
And so, here he was, fighting on the city streets as the first rays of the sun seeped from the east, just when the defenders rotated shifts. But any change of shift was useless when the traitors had already sold out the city.
The tiger cloaks were utterly unprepared, and any defence they tried to muster was poor. Unlike the calm and sunny sky above, the cobbled streets of Volantis were filled with violence and death, and the old knight was once more in the thick of it.
Ser Barristan jerked away from the spearhead aimed at his gorget and lunged forth. The rippled tip of his sword drew a quick yet lethal arc in the air as it landed on the tiger cloak's knee, just between the greaves and the silvery chainshirt that looked far more ornamental than functional. But then again, these Essosi fools wore gauntlets with cumbersome steel claws jutting out of their knuckles. The heat didn't help much. Even Barristan was forced to replace his heavy armour for a half-plate, for every pound on his back felt twice as heavy here.
Needless to say, the blade severed the leg clean. The tiger cloak crumpled on the ground, dropping his spear with a scream, but the following thrust of the old knight's sword gored him through the visor, and the man no longer writhed.
Barristan couldn't help but stop and admire for a moment as Elegance's pink ripples looked even more mesmerising when coated in crimson. The dragonsteel sword was perfectly balanced and even easier to use, even though it had taken him some time to get accustomed to it, for the weight was the same as the sword he previously used while the blade was longer and thicker. So sharp was the blade that he managed to cut through a hauberk, a steel pauldron, and a gorget, but it required the correct angle and far too much strength. Such brutish methods were reserved for the young and the vigorous, whilst greybeards like him had to rely on skill, finesse, and experience.
Besides, he had already developed his fighting style over four decades of arduous practice, and changing it was a fool's errand. The hot and humid air in the city felt heavy on his lungs, and any abrupt exertion tired him out even faster than he had been used to.
It was almost surprising how common Valyrian Steel blades were in Essos, especially here, in the lands of the First Daughter of Valyria, the richest, most prosperous, and closest of the Freehold's colonies. Barristan had taken this sword off a Volantine commander hailing from the Vhassar family in Volon Therys, and during their campaign against Volantis, the Golden Company had acquired twenty-one more.
Truth be told, a battle was no place for such musings, if this could even be called such. Pockets of Unsullied tried to block the advance of the Golden Company, but there was no unified commander to lead the effort. And without someone to coordinate the defenders, they became nought but headless chickens, if still dangerous like a dying tiger lashing out with its mighty paws. The main streets were wide enough for a score of carriages to ride abreast, so the eunuch soldiers were surrounded and taken down from the side or the rear.
"Captain General," Aegon's voice gave him pause. The former white cloak looked up to see his squire, unfazed by the heat despite his heavy armour, pointing with his heavy gauntlet at their foes, who seemed to have lost any semblance of fighting spirit. "The tiger cloaks are either fleeing or surrendering."
The young man was everything Varys had claimed he would be. Charming, learned, well-mannered, mild-tempered, lacking even an ounce of arrogance or the dragon's madness or rage, and knowledgeable of both Essosi and Westerosi history and customs. It showed that a maester had wholeheartedly poured his heart and soul into moulding the boy into a gem. Only his swordwork left some to be desired, but under Barristan's tutoring, he quickly took to that, too.
The old knight's gaze moved to the surrounding streets as the men of the Golden Company advanced in a well-disciplined fashion, leaving the cobbled streets littered with corpses. Only those who threw down their weapons were spared.
"The slave soldiers make a poor army, or one of their captains wouldn't have defected so easily." Barristan shook his head, clearing his mind. "We already crushed their best at Volon Therys and then on the plains halfway to Volantis."
Aegon's form stiffened then, and his helmet turned to the smaller alleys where some soldiers were already trying to break into the houses to plunder. Before long, a woman's wail echoed from the shattered door.
"Shouldn't we stop them?"
"Perhaps we should, but it would not be wise," Barristan's voice turned pained. "Soldiers are willing to stomach the casualties storming cities, towns, and castles for the promise of loot. Doubly so for sellswords. Sieging a city is a cruel, brutal, and risky affair, and the more it drags on, the more hatred brews in the hearts of men."
"But these women have done nothing to deserve this," Aegon pointed out.
"Have they truly? Who do you think gave birth to the Volantine men? Who do you think harbours a grudge in their hearts for the loss of their sons, brothers, and husbands? Who do you think whispers in the ears of their husbands? Who do you think owns slaves here? Women can be as vicious as men, and some wouldn't hesitate to stab you given the chance."
Aegon stiffly looked at his bloodstained gauntlets.
The old knight sighed and squeezed his shoulder. "It is good that you have mercy and kindness in your heart. Never lose them, Aegon. But there is a place for mercy and kindness, and this is not it. I can order them to halt and reform, for the city has yet to fall fully, but sacking a taken city is one of those unsaid promises of war. If I deny it, they will be disgruntled–rebel even. The terms of our contract with the company are clear."
Becoming the Captain General of the Golden Company was an… experience. The previous commander had also been their quartermaster, Harry Strickland, who had agreed to support Aegon after quite a lot of haggling. However, most of the coin was paid by Mopatis, who seemed quite influential with the exiles. Still, the negotiations turned fierce, and Barristan felt he was fighting over the price of fish with a fishmonger on the market, not negotiating with a knight.
But some knights had struck down pregnant women, brutally despoiling them in the process. Others killed little, innocent children without even batting an eye. Then, there were those who murdered the kings they swore to protect. But could Barristan judge the Kingslayer when he had lost more kings than Tywin's son had?
Those were the regrets that often plagued him as he tried to sleep. But now was not a time for regrets but action.
Ultimately, the Golden Company would fully support Aegon in exchange for wartime benefits like plundering and honours, titles, lands, and positions at court upon his victory, but Barristan would have to be the face to lead them, lending his reputation to their cause.
He would have objected sourly to lending his name to sellswords some years prior. But now… now he was just the soiled white cloak who failed to keep another king alive, dismissed with humiliation. There was nought left of his name but tatters and shame; if the Golden Company wanted it, they would have it. For Aegon.
But all those were woes for much later–the city had yet to fall, no matter how unprepared and disorganised the defenders were.
"When I take the crown, I will change things," Aegon declared, his purple eyes blazed with resolve.
He unstrapped his helmet, revealing a glistening pale face and silver-gold hair matted with sweat. If there were doubts about his identity as Rhaegar's son, they melted away when the old knight had seen him for the first time. While resembling Rhaegar, Aegon reminded him far more of another man, his great grandsire Aegon. Barristan had seen the portraits drawn of the Unlikely in his youth, and Aegon looked exactly like his namesake with his sharp eyebrows and the turn of his cheek. The way his brow scrunched up when deep in thought was all Rhaella; it was as if the wolf maid had left no trace on her son.
"But for now, you're just my squire. Like leading, ruling is a daunting endeavour, Aegon, where the lives of your subjects and all the men sworn to your service rest upon your shoulders," Barristan warned. "It's a matter of reason and force, not passion. I have even heard the same words come out of your father's mouth, but we know what happened when he let his emotions rule him. Alas…"
"I know, Ser." The young man grimaced. "I know. But the people of Volantis have suffered more than enough."
"The world is harsher than one would like. Yet time has shown me that the gods punish such vile acts sooner or later," the old knight patted his shoulder and pulled up his visor. "It did work out in our favour. The red revolt saw three of their commanders assassinated, and the replacement was indeed lacklustre. Even a team of elite and well-disciplined soldiers trained since they could walk will be lost if led by a lackwit commander. Fighting spirit and capable leadership are indispensable for any army."
And the tiger cloaks were anything but. Even the best of them–the Unsullied hailing from Astapor sported ironclad discipline but lacked the passion that drove men to victory. Warriors fought for riches, women, glory, lands, or honour, but what use did a slave eunuch have any of those?
"Well." Ser Rolly Duckfield walked over. The yellow duck on his shield looked battered, and his blade glistened with red, but Aegon's sworn sword looked in high spirits. He leaned over one of the corpses, peeled off his glove and rapped his knuckles onto a tiger-shaped helmet. "Most of these seem to be only good for… well, looking good."
"Volantis was supposed to be a fierce power," Aegon sighed. "The greatest in the world after the Freehold fell, even–after the House of the Dragon, of course. During the Century of Blood, they conquered Lys and Myr and were about to take Tyrosh, but Lys and Myr rose in rebellion, and Braavos and Pentos sent fleets to aid them. Even Argilac the Arrogant ventured into the Disputed Lands and crushed the great host threatening Myr. Yet that barely halted Volantis for less than a decade, and they only retreated when the Conqueror burned their fleet besieging Lys."
"Sounds like nothing we faced here," the young knight shrugged, standing up. "The ones at Volon Therys were the most challenging to fight."
"They were already weakened by that corsair king from the Basilisk Isles and the revolt that saw the Red Temple burn. How many have been said to have perished?"
Aegon's form stilled, doubtlessly grimacing beneath the visored barbute, and his usually melodic voice came out hoarse. "Over two hundred thousand. Enough that rumours claimed the red couldn't be washed off the streets for moons. The First Daughter was said to have five slaves for every freeman, but it was down to four to one after the red revolt."
"This is a moot point if the Black Walls of Volantis do not fall," Barristan reminded coldly, pulling down his visor. "Enough chit-chat. There is a battle to finish, and we promised to meet with Griff on the Long Bridge."
10th Day of the 6th Moon, 299 AC
The city had fallen without a hitch, but the thick gates of the inner city had been closed in time. Or, well, things had gone well. As well as sacking a city could be, that was. A few temples were desecrated and looted, most of the merchants had been slain, their wealth plundered, and many fools had died resisting. A city the size of Volantis would take weeks to plunder properly, but the freedmen of Volon Therys had undertaken that arduous task while the Golden Company had taken the choicer cuts from the loot.
It was an interesting conundrum. While the men of Volantis fought for their gold and homes, none were willing to fight for their city, for even a freeman civilian militia would have seen the defender's numbers bolstered by tens of thousands, making the whole battle for Volantis far bloodier.
'Chaos and the lack of discipline was truly the death of an army,' Barristan mused. It was akin to the dragonsteel on his hip–the man who carried it was an amateur in the way of the sword. What good was manpower if there was none to wield it wisely?
One of the things the old knight liked was the Golden Company's discipline; they easily kept orders, broke, or set camp faster and smoother than most Westerosi lords. It was like leading an experienced army, not greedy sellswords–which they factually were. His discomfort of doing all of this was eased because they didn't call themselves sellswords but a brotherhood of exiles, and what was Barristan but an exiled white cloak?
Discarded in disgrace like an old, rusty sword. But he had more fight left in him still, old or not.
"You cannot take the Black Walls of Volantis by force," the triarch, a plump man with pale skin and silver hair clad in golden silk, said when they negotiated at dawn the next day. He looked like one of those merchant's sons in King's Landing who had never lifted a finger for anything in their lives–four mute slaves carried his litter, and his feet never touched the ground, as per tradition.
It was easy to see why he would claim such a thing. The Black Walls of Volantis were a marvel of the Freehold. Seamlessly fused black stone tougher than diamond, looming above everything at over two hundred feet tall and a third as thick, putting even Harren's folly to shame.
"You barely have five hundred Unsullied," Jon Connington had pointed out coldly. The exiled lord had taken command of the company's heavy lancers and used them wisely. "All of the city's war supplies are in our hands, and nothing stops us from hacking down the gates and breaking the portcullis. Aye, it will be bloody until we get past the second inner gate, but we have far more men than you have stones, arrows, or boiling oil. And when that happens, you can expect no mercy. The men and children will all be put to the sword, and the women will be despoiled like common whor*s."
The next day, the three triarchs surrendered in exchange for keeping a quarter of their wealth and receiving safe passage out of the city. Two-thirds of the Old Blood left for Lys, Qarth, and Slaver's Bay, while some lingered, hoping to ingrain themselves with the Golden Company or preserve some semblance of power.
Taking the city was busy work, and restoring order was cumbersome despite the Company's discipline due to its sheer size and population of nearly two million. Having hundreds of thousands of freed slaves who had little idea what to do with their freedom didn't help the matter one bit, but that particular burden was left to Strickland and the freedmen from Volon Therys.
To his surprise, some of the lingering noble families tried to request an audience with him. Barristan was buried in offers for his marriage as a string of Valyrian beauties were paraded before him. However, many of the maidens were quite reluctant, and Barristan's heart still had not moved from that woman, who had perished two decades prior, and love was a young man's dream.
Ah… how things could have been different if he had won that tourney that day. Perhaps the smiles would not have died. Alas.
Some of the maidens caught Aegon's eye, especially one Talisa Maegyr with her long silvery hair and innocent purple eyes, the daughter of one of the main powers behind the now vanquished Tiger Party of Volantis. Still, seeing the young woman sneaking Rhaegar's son hesitant but warm smiles, Barristan pulled his former squire aside.
"Don't be fooled by a pretty smile and a nice pair of teats," he advised. "A king has to marry for duty, not love. Your hand in marriage is a far more powerful tool than your skills with a sword could ever hope to be. A good warrior could fell dozens of knights and win plenty of respect, but the right marriage can grant you a kingdom, and the wrong one could see your foes double."
Aegon reluctantly agreed, doubtlessly reminded of his sire's mistake. Barristan could understand what went through his head. While faint, he still remembered what it was to be a young man and how the flames of desire were nigh impossible to extinguish.
It wasn't long before the city was under proper control, and they gathered once no more problems cropped up.
"Who would have thought that freeing slaves would be so profitable," Black Balaq, the commander of the archers, said in a rare moment of wordiness. His skin was as dark as tar, yet almost every inch of it was covered by golden rings, chains, bracelets, and jewellery, supposedly because it was a tradition of the men of the Golden Company to wear all of one's worldly wealth on their person. A golden band or ring signified a year of service in the Brotherhood of Exiles. His goldenheart bow was replaced by a dragonbone one, and a newly looted dragonsteel curved blade with a gilded handle encrusted with a sapphire rested on his belt.
The upper echelons of the Golden Company had gathered deep into the Black Walls, occupying the now-empty Triarch's Palace, a building that outsiders had not seen for centuries. The sheer amount of gold, imperial jade, goldenheart wood, gemstones the size of a goose's egg and Valyrian Steel ornaments easily put Casterly Rock's famed opulence to shame. Barristan had never seen so much silk, lace, velvet, and dark Norvoshi wool in one place; there were whole tapestries and carpets made of the rarest fabrics one would struggle to find even if they had the coin.
Even the damn floor of their great hall was hewn out of impossibly smooth pink marble of Asshai and glazed porcelain, showing an elaborate mosaic of the defeat of Garin the Great as three hundred dragonlords scoured his army to cinders outside the walls of Volantis. The table and the chairs they sat on were no lesser–hewn from the infamous black-barked tree of Qarth, a blue so dark it looked black and encrusted with emeralds and diamonds.
"Paid once by the traders and freedmen of Volon Therys, paid thrice in loot, and one last time by the Old Blood of Volantis for mercy," Godorys Edoryen, the company's steward, sported a wide, satisfied smile. "There's enough wealth for all of us, even the most common soldier, to retire to Lys or the Summer Isles thrice over in a life of decadent luxury. Or," his voice grew lustful, "we can plant our banner here and rule Volantis as kings."
His proposal was not met with the enthusiasm the man expected.
Tristan Rivers, a senior serjeant, snorted, "You might hail from Volantis, but most of us are from Westeros, my friend. What of those tiger cloaks that decided to defect to us? Besides, there's too many of us, and there can only be one king."
Many defeated slave soldiers and the freed craftsmen had ultimately requested to join the Golden Company and were welcomed with open arms. It was little wonder they had taken such a choice; all they had known their entire life was service and fighting, and being a sellsword offered both alongside freedom. They had basic training and discipline, which helped greatly; thus, the Company's numbers had swelled to sixteen thousand.
Of course, the slave soldiers that did not make the cut were given to the freedmen in Volon Therys, who loved to employ every able-bodied man. The now freed city helped them, fielding another thirty thousand men, though while highly motivated to fight against Volantis, they were only slightly better than levies. Once the chaos settled down, those freed slaves would most likely return to the fields they worked for their masters, this time owning the land.
"Let us not forget the mess we must fix," Harry Strickland shrewdly interjected. "All of the city and the hinterlands ran on slavery, but we were already paid to break Volantis and free the slaves by the people of Volon Therys. It will take a generation for the unease to settle and to find a way to run the place without shackles and splitting the lands into proper fiefs… assuming we remain unopposed. No, my friend, there is only one place we're willing to sink our roots in. Let the freedmen rule after we graciously give them their freedom, for we are generous. Beneath the gold, the bitter steel!"
"Beneath the gold, the bitter steel!" A forest of hands arose, holding cups filled with exotic wines looted from the Triarch's cellars that could beggar most Westerosi lords.
Barristan couldn't help but notice that despite wearing all of their wealth on their person, many seemed to favour their new dragonsteel swords over gold and precious stones. Or perhaps it was because they had plundered too much to carry. After the sack of Volantis and the surrender of the Triarchs, no commander or serjeant in the Company lacked a Valyrian Steel weapon. Even some of the captains acquired short arming swords or axes, and the old knight would admit he lost count of how many such weapons had been looted in this campaign, but the number had easily grown over half a hundred.
Never had he seen so much Valyrian Steel in one place as this room.
"What next, then?" Malo Jayn asked gruffly. The man was thickset and looked as prickly as his perpetually scowling face suggested. However, Barristan would admit he was dangerous with a morning star but had shunned looting a Valyrian Steel blade in favour of a pair of elaborate dragonsteel gauntlets.
Harry Strickland rubbed his hands, "We have plenty of options. First are the Norvoshi, who want to employ us to fight against Qohor."
"Sacking the city a second time wouldn't be too challenging," Tristane Rivers pointed out lazily. "If Bittersteel did it, so can we. Doubtlessly, Qohor wants to employ us too, though."
"Indeed. Well," the paymaster continued after the laughter died out. "The Golden Lion also offers generous pay for rising swords against the flowery stag king. Dorne's offer was not as lucrative when they inquired about fighting against Lys and saving their hostages. Lastly, the Myrish promise us a king's ransom to deal with their slave uprising that has shattered seventeen sellsword companies."
Franklin Flowers choked on his wine, and even Barristan would have done much the same. While he originally dismissed sellswords, he could now begrudgingly acknowledge that many of them were skilled warriors. Companies could be especially dangerous with skilled commanders otherwise, they would not survive so long in these lands.
"Seventeen?" Dick Cole asked, his voice dripping with disbelief as a half-eaten slice of exotic meat the old knight couldn't recognise hung from his mouth, smearing his bushy beard with reddish sauce.
"How can some slaves defeat seventeen sellsword companies?" Malo Jayn tilted his head, still frowning. "I could understand if it was Unsullied, but they never rebel. Was Myr closefisted enough to hire some fledgling fools like the Brave Companions hoping to save coin?"
"The Maiden's Men, the Jolly Fellows, the Long Lances, the Windblown, the Bright Banners, the Stormcrows, the Second Sons…" With each word, the faces around the table grew paler. Even Ser Barristan knew most of those companies were veterans who had existed for decades, some even centuries, and each sported at least more than seven hundred men.
"Impossible," Tristan Rivers shook his head as he patted Franklin's back, helping him cough out his wine stuck in the wrong pipe. "Some no-named peasants cannot defeat all of those, even with the help of the Wolfpack or the motley group of hunters calling themselves the Ragged Marksmen. Something is amiss here. Maar?"
"Indeed," the Lyseni spymaster said. With the classical Valyrian looks and clean, unblemished face and lithe androgynous body, Barristan had mistaken him for a slim maiden at first. "There has been word of a new force employing Dothraki and disciplined heavy infantry marching down from Pentos under a wolf banner."
"And why didn't you notify us?" Connington asked darkly. Even now, he maintained his facade as Griff with his hair dyed blue, despite Aegon discarding the dye and the nickname. Yet Rhaegar's son had not announced his presence, and to everyone, he was to be just Barristan's silver-headed squire, though a select few commanders Connington and Strickland trusted were in the know.
"Who would care about just another company with not even fifteen hundred men under its banner?" Lysono shrugged lazily.
"Can you describe their banner?" Strickland leaned forward, idly fiddling with his golden bracer composed of thirteen wristbands. He had another with twelve on his other forearm, signifying a quarter of a century of service in the Company.
"That's the thing. There is so much hearsay about their coat of arms that I am unsure which one is true. Some say it's a rabid beast covered in blood, a wolf the colour of frost on a field of crimson, a wolf leading a whole menagerie of wild beasts like flaming horses, green mermen, mooses, cats, stags, lions. Even a berserker riding atop a shaggy beast while wielding twin axes. Some even claim they saw a grey wolf running on white-"
"Stark," Connington barked out. "This can only be Stark with his heathen bannermen!"
Barristan was taken aback; the words were spoken with an iron surety, laced with a loathing that he did not think the exiled lord was capable of. He was far from the only one surprised; even Aegon shuffled uneasily. His understanding of the North and House Stark was lacklustre from what the old knight understood. No amount of reading and tales helped him; even Haldon the Halfmaester and Jon Connington weren't that knowledgeable of the last bastion of the First Men, and Griff held little love for the wolves or their tree gods.
Besides, reading about the vast, rugged land of snow could scarcely do it justice, for words inked down on some old roll of parchment paled before seeing the place with your eyes and struggling against the cold even in the heat of summer.
It had surprised Barristan to discover that the exile took great offence to the Old Gods. The harsh life far away from home had made the man turn to the Seven for comfort.
It was quite ironic for the Griffin Lord had seemed tolerant of the myriad of faiths here in Essos, yet when it came to the Old Gods… Perhaps it had something to do with the Wolf Maid?
"Didn't Stark drown in the Narrow Sea?" Tristan Rivers asked, frowning.
Griff scoffed. "Wolves are natural swimmers. Besides, axes, mooses, and horses are all Northern banners, and shaggy beasts, snow, and ice are best found in the North. Lions and stags for his page, Tommen Baratheon."
"That's a wild claim," Strickland noted, face turning neutral. "How can you be so sure based on some hearsay?"
"I can feel it in my bones," Connington said, his voice turning to a whisper, yet his pale eyes were alight with hatred. Barristan understood now. This man had supped himself on anger and fury, slept with zeal and hatred as his sole companions for years, nesting over them as a hen would over her eggs, hoping to hatch. "They all remember the Rebellion for Robert's rampage on the Trident, but none would have been possible without the Old Falcon's guiding hand, and Stark's tactical brilliance - the rebel army was mostly Northmen, and Stark commanded the cavalry as you should remember, Barristan."
And Barristan remembered that day as clearly as it had been yesterday. After years of contemplation, the former white cloak couldn't even say if the battle would have gone differently if Robert had been slain in that duel on the banks of the Trident. Yes, the loyalists wouldn't break as quickly, but neither would the Northmen, Valemen, and Riverlords who made up the rebels.
It would continue to be a bloody slog in the shallows until one side gave out, and it could go either way. While Rhaegar had superior numbers, the rebels were all bloodied in battle and sported high morale.
"I have studied the wolf's tactics and battles a thousand times in my mind, and this reeks of him, if far more daring than I would expect."
Alas, it seemed like with Robert and Jon Arryn's death, all of Connington's hatred had turned to the last living head of the Rebellion.
"I say it's time." Strickland turned to Barristan with a half-smile. "So… what shall we do, Captain General?"
All of the gazes turned to him, and Selmy's shoulders felt heavy; the burden made him sweat even more than the heavy, damp air in the city. It made him feel even more uncomfortable than staying guard outside Rhaella's chambers at night.
The senior commanders knew of his role, and leading the campaign against Volantis was so that he could prove himself just as Aegon needed to be bloodied. It was a test of daring and skill that was supposed to forge them together into brothers in arms. It helped that Mopatis and the Spider supplied plenty of gold, precious information, and rare supplies and gifts that opened many previously closed doors. The cheesemonger's wealth and connection were the only reasons they had managed to take control of the Golden Company so swiftly.
Was he ready to wage war against all those he had fought side by side with for decades? With those he had shared bread and salt, joys and woes? A glance towards Aegon told him the boy wasn't ready. Even at nearly one and eight and bloodied with three victories under his belt, the awkwardness and uncertainty of youth clung to him like a shadow.
Yet the moment was ripe, and word trickled in through Varys and the fat magister that Westeros was teetering at the brink as the war grew bloodier and crueller, exhausting both sides rapidly, and the chance to claim the Iron Throne would never be better. Martell's offer could never have come at a more opportune time.
Rhaegar's son might not be ready, but he would never be. After serving four kings, Barristan knew nobody was truly prepared for the burden of command and the weight of a crown, but they all grew into it.
Or they broke.
"Aegon. It is time." The old knight only prayed that the young man was ready to rise and carry the burden. Barristan and many more were prepared to stand and shoulder the weight alongside him. Even after two decades, the memories of the dragon might have faded, but they were far from forgotten.
The junior serjeants looked at the young knight with confusion, doubtlessly wondering what this was about. Even the captains and commanders gazed at him appraisingly. For a fledgling knight and a squire, he had made a good showing in the last moons while fighting side by side with everyone else. But that was hardly enough to win their respect as a commander, let alone a king.
His brow was heavy with indecision, though Rhaegar's son looked unbothered by the heat, like his father, while everyone else was sweating, even wearing thin silks. After a painfully long moment of hesitation, Aegon's pale face hardened, and he stood up. Yet it was distasteful and overly arrogant to declare yourself king.
Jon Connington also realised that and slammed his cup, coughing, gathering the gazes of all.
"Men of the Golden Company," the exiled Griffin Lord began. "Some of you might remember me despite my dyed hair."
"Aye. The drunk Griffin, who supposedly perished in his cups," came the snort from the far end of the table. "You look alive to me, I'd say, if dyed in blue."
Angry red flushed Connington's neck, but he ignored the jibe. Amused chuckles echoed in the hall, much to the man's consternation, though his stiff face eased after taking a deep breath.
"Yet it removed the watchful gazes from my person, allowing me to raise the one true king of Westeros. Behold, Aegon Targaryen, son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark, and rightful heir to the Iron Throne!"
The proclamation was not met with the expected cheer, though Selmy prepared himself for that. Still, he winced internally at seeing Aegon turn crestfallen.
"Many laid claim to the Iron Throne before and failed," one of the younger captains, Caspor Hill, asked. "I must profess that he seems capable, if a bit young, but that's no reason to enter that bloodbath in Westeros. Why would we follow this Aegon?"
At least nobody questioned Aegon's status as a trueborn, and even Septon Eustace's testimony of the marriage that Connington carried in a lockbox was not brought forth. However, Barristan couldn't help but wonder if it was because they simply wouldn't care if Aegon was born on the wrong side of the sheets.
"Because he promised to lead us back home," Harry Strickland was the one to respond before even Selmy could speak up. "Because our contract is already paid, and upon success, all of us will see riches, lands, honours, and a place back home. Is this not what we always wanted?"
The former captain stood up then, pulling off an elongated wrap Barristan had often seen him carry around like a family heirloom, released the bindings, and knelt before Aegon, offering it above his head in a sign of submission.
"Is this…." Ser Barristan blinked, looking at the ruby inlaid in the pommel. The regal-looking hilt could not be mistaken for any other, and as a young boy, he had seen paintings of this sword hundreds of times.
Aegon only had eyes for the blade as he slowly reached out his hand and took the sword. He yanked it out of the silver-inlaid sheath with a single, almost rushed pull, revealing dark smoky ripples. Despite seeing dozens of dragonsteel swords, Barristan could tell this one was unique in more ways than one.
"Blackfyre." Aegon's voice trembled as he turned to Strickland, his face a mixture of awe, disbelief, and confusion. "You would grant me the Sword of the Conqueror, the Blade of Kings?"
The silence in the room was so thick that all the captains seemed mesmerised by the dark, smokey ripples that seemed to drink in all the light. They looked at Aegon as if they had seen him for the first time and found them to his liking, previous distrust or apathy completely forgotten.
"Black or red, a dragon is still a dragon, especially if willing to bring us home," Strickland looked up, a smile creeping up his scarred mouth, a trophy of his first battle against a fledgling Dothraki Khal. "Aegon!"
"Aegon!"
The cheer picked up in strength, like a rising autumn storm, as more and more captains and serjeants stood up and laid their blades at Aegon's feet. Even the younger ones seemed to be infected by the roars, their previous hesitation and distrust forgotten.
"Aegon king!"
11th Day of the 6th Moon, 299 AC
Arya Stark, the Northern Mountains
She soared through the sky when the sun rose again. A part of her could feel the shaggy four legs prowl through the trees below, hunting for prey. The two of them were a perfect pair together. She was the eyes in the sky, and the wolf chased smaller prey out in the open.
It was their featherless sister that bound them together, and even now, a part of her mind lingered within. Together, they could accomplish many things–they had even hunted down a cave bear. Her claws had raked out the beast's eyes while her companion had torn out the thick throat, allowing both of them to feast for days.
Even an old shadowcat, a wild boar, and two mountain lions that had smelled the easy feast were successfully chased away. At night, her vision was poor, but her companion's acute sense of smell and sharp hearing were indispensable. Once the sun arose, she was the queen of the skies and could spot the barest movement from afar.
She soared and soared through the sky again, vigilant for any trouble–or prey. Then, she saw something to the west. Two legs pushing down hollowed-out tree trunks to the shore from the stormy waters. Some of her didn't care; they often did that, even if those were far more numerous and clad in their metal coats.
But another part, the connection with her young two-legged sister, stirred. There was recognition and horror at the sight of the bone hand painted on the red banner.
Arya awoke, her back swimming in a cold sweat. It wasn't the first time she had dreamt of flying in the skies or prowling through the trees, but this was the most vivid. Lena claimed it was skinchanging, but Arya never felt she could control anything; she was more of an observer than anything else, even if she could feel her companions' raw, if simple, thoughts.
Yet none of her dreams were so unsettling.
Groaning, Arya rubbed the sleep away from her eyes, stood up, pulled on a thick tunic, and threw her heavy fur-lined cloak over her shoulders to stave off the chill.
The Northern Mountains were far better than she expected. True, it was chillier than she was used to. Yet, the endless chirping streams, the calm of the pine forests that stretched all across the foothills, and the deep blue lakes swarming with salmon were a raw beauty, especially after most of the trees had shed their leaves and the ground was covered by a beautiful carpet of gold and russet.
The place was harsher and far poorer than Winterfell, and Arya lamented the lack of her comfortable feather bed, but the clansmen living here made up for all those woes. While the snow had stopped, the warm months of the year saw the chill that lingered in the air until night. The merciless surroundings bred hardy folk; none cared about trivialities like ladyship and only employed the minimum common courtesies, and her lessons lessened but didn't disappear.
They were led by Sara Snow, the niece of the Old Flint, who suffered no-nonsense and was even sterner than Lyra Mormont. She was a stout woman in her late thirties with a scarred face–a gift from when she killed a wildling raider trying to steal her when out hunting. But Arya did not complain, for this wasn't as bad as she expected. Arya could now go out to hawk, hunt, and ride through the mountain trails, quenching her wanderlust and thirst for adventure.
She was not alone, of course. Her mother had sent a dozen of Winterfell's finest veteran men-at-arms led by Shadd, a master huntsman who showed Arya plenty of tricks and how to track prey and watch out for trouble. He even taught her how to work a bow atop horseback, which her small recurve was particularly good at. Arya found that she had a talent for mounted archery - which confused her, considering her initially poor showing with the bow.
Perhaps it had to do with her talent in horseback riding. It wasn't ladylike, but who cared?
Sighing, Arya pulled on the shadowskin cloak her father had gifted her before leaving for the South, trying to take in the long-faded scent. Just remembering made her half angry, half sad. Some days, she couldn't even look at the striped cloak of black and white without crying. Arya would give all her things in a heartbeat to have her father back. But he was lost at sea.
In the end, no matter how angry or sad, she always found herself either wearing the shadowskin cloak or hugging it to sleep.
"Didn't sleep well?" Lena Harclay's hoarse voice greeted her outside her tent. Myrcella had decided to send her lady-in-waiting with Arya so she wasn't lonely. Arya would begrudgingly admit finally warming up to the girl, who wasn't annoying or tittering like the other maidens that hung around her sister. Even better, Lena knew plenty about the mountains and the clansmen and showed her around. Of course, it helped that all the clans, from the small ones like Redclay to bigger ones like Knott and Burley, welcomed her in their halls.
"I had a bad dream this time," Arya admitted.
"One of those?" Her friend asked knowingly.
After a heartbeat of hesitation, she decided not to keep what she saw to herself. Ava and Nymeria were down to the Bay of Ice, near Wull lands, and seeing Drumm banners was a problem. Ironmen did not belong in the North.
"I need to speak with Sara," she decided and headed towards the part of the camp where the Flints stayed. The young Torrhen, the boring grandson of the Flint Chieftain and her age, was already up and about, carving a piece of oak into what looked like a crude figurine of Ava.
"Lady Arya," he greeted reverently. For some reason, Arya didn't like the look of him, though she couldn't figure out why. "You're up early this morn."
"I need to speak with your aunt," she said grimly, and Torrhen dropped his smile and ran into his tent.
Five minutes later, a drowsy Sara Snow, her head looking like a bird's nest, walked out just as Shadd emerged, stretching in the morning chill.
"What is so urgent early?" The clanswoman hissed, looking like a cat with its tail pulled. She was always like that if someone woke her before her preferred time–half an hour after dawn.
"I dreamt of longboats coming down the coast of the Bay," Arya said in a small voice. "They sported Drumm banners."
She expected her words to be outright dismissed or waved away, but Shadd and Sara turned flinty, and any trace of drowsiness washed away.
"Numbers?" The Stark man asked.
"At least fifty longboats I could see split into three locations."
"Torrhen, tell Ulryk to get his arse and ride down to Stonegate Keep," the fierce woman started barking out, and the Flint clansmen began to scramble. "Tell Meron to get his arse off his cot and ride to Breakstone Hill and tell them the thrice-cursed reavers are here. Up, up, you sleepy sods!"
Within a minute, the whole hunting camp was a swarm of activity as everyone rushed to get ready to move as quickly as possible. Arya, however, didn't like the implications.
"...Why don't we attack the Ironmen?"
"Lady Arya," Shadd's face grew pained. "Your mother would have my skin if anything happened to you under my watch."
"But we can attack one of the smaller camps," Arya noted in a small voice as Nymeria silently padded out of the pine trees, her shaggy silvery shaggy tail waving in anticipation. "A quick hit and run, and I will sit from the back, I promise. We have nearly fifty men with us, and it will be safe! They will not expect to be spotted so early on?"
At her last question, Shadd closed his mouth, looking like he had swallowed a fly, and Sara Snow paused, looking at her with interest.
Word slowly tickled from the far east. The path of death and destruction Khal Drogo left in his wake had finally moved most of the reserve forces of Yi Ti's empire. Most of the military strength was invested in the Five Forts, repelling the Grand Invasion. The dark forces that had slumbered in the city of K'dath and the Grey Wastes for millenia had joined hands for the first time and even mastered the elusive shrykes that inhabited those wastelands.
Many scholars had dismissed the savage, flesh-eating half-lizard men and their poisonous bites as just an old fable, but the traders hailing from the Jade Sea all said the same thing. Hundreds of thousands of the beasts swarmed Yi-Ti's defences under the command of the malignant masters of K'Dath. Many called them deathbringers, but none could agree on what those elusive dark sorcerers looked like. Some claimed they were nothing more than shades that crawled out from the eternal darkness, while others said the deathbringers were naturally born when the depths of human depravity merged with the dark powers of the world.
Khal Drogo's rampage was about to crumble all of the supply lines and bring down the war effort for good, and the Azure Emperor was at its wit's end. Things were looking grim until Purple King Jao Song, the governor of the eastern province, proposed to give his beautiful twin daughters, known as the Pearls of Jinqi, for wives to the Khal, along with a generous "gift".
Rumour said that Drogo was so satisfied with the tribute–especially the twin beauties– that he even agreed to help the Five Forts and banish the dark maegi when Jao Song raised the topic after the wedding.
The war between Norvos and Qohor grew bloodier, and the sea conflict between Ibben and Lorath worsened as both sides began to raid whaling and trading settlements around their shores.
For the first time in decades, Braavos and the Sealord were indecisive, unsure if they should involve themselves in the wars that raged everywhere around them. Even rumours creeping from Pentos worried Ferrego Antoyon; the Sealord sent envoys south to ascertain their validity. They returned after a moon, plumper and happier than before, claiming nothing was wrong in Pentos, aside from the city's council of magisters worrying over war spilling within their territory.
For good or bad, Ferrego decided to wait and see, though the Braavosi smithies started working deep into the night, churning out hauberks, swords, and spear tips on the Sealord's coin. However, many were unsure if he wanted to arm the city further or sell it for greater profit to those knee-deep in conflict, and to my greatest shame, I, Lazyro Zelyne, were among the second.
Now, some might say, and rightly so, that I am paying too much attention to the happenings of Essos in my diary, which was all about the Sunset Lands. But in the year 401 After the Doom, the war that had gripped the world was like a spider's web, the interests of many factions in Essos and Westeros interwoven in one giant unbreakable tangle.
Eddard Stark's infamous rampage in the Ashen Plains had earned him plenty of infamy. His enemies called him The Butcher of Winterfell, the Bloody Blade, and the Icy Fiend, for he and his Northmen had left nearly thirty thousand warriors dead in his wake within a single moon with a far lesser force, by my estimate. Such losses and efficiency were unheard of, and many claimed Stark employed dark First Man magic as none could ambush or flank him, and he could always find a weakness in his foes and strike them when they were least prepared, something he did with ruthless efficiency.
Many had previously considered the seemingly silent, taciturn man who preferred peace to war as weak, but such notions were quickly disabused. The Myrish freemen trying to suppress their slave's revolt were not spared either. Manses, villages, towns–all were sacked, leaving no soul behind save for the freed slaves.
And the slaves loved him. The Breaker of Chains, Slaversbane, and the most popular "Kepa" they called him. Father, for he was stern, just and fair.
Nobody expected the First Daughter of Valyria, who threatened to devour a third of Essos on its own during the Century of Blood, to fall so easily after a single revolt. Looking back on things, it was a combination of factors. The warlike Tigers party had not held any significant power in three centuries, and the Elephants had eroded the city's military in favour of expanding trade and lining their own pockets.
Their prided fleet was burned and looted by the Corsair King Anor–who didn't live to enjoy his spoils for long, for his jealous brother slew him in his sleep within a year, hoping to take most of his riches for himself. Lastly, the Golden Company had been at the right place and the right time near the Orange Shore to crush the expedition force sent to take down the rebelling slaves that had taken hold of Volon Therys. After dozens of campaigns during the last decades, the exiled Westerosi led by the infamous Ser Barristan the Bold easily crushed the famed Volantine tiger cloaks, who had not seen any fighting for over two centuries, not once, not twice, but thrice.
All those were proven connected to the Sunset Lands one way or another, though none more so than the Lyseni, who had struck at the undefended Water Gardens, sacking the beautiful retreat that stood practically defenceless on the Summer Sea's beach and taking all of the highborn–lowborn folk hostages.
Dorne was wroth, but there wasn't much they could do, for all of the naval might of the Dornish was already aiding the pirate lords of the Stepstones–the fact that had initially invited Lyseni retaliation. It didn't help that House Martell was shown weaker than ever, and its prestige took a heavy hit when so many bannermen lost kinsmen who were supposed to be under their prince's protection.
The hostages taken were a hot commodity back in Lys, too, as the Grand Admiral Matteno Pandaerys decided to auction them off on the first day, exchanging the bothersome dealings with the logistics and negotiations of holding hostages with a quick coin that allowed him to return to the war at once. All hostages but one–Nymeria Sand, the Red Viper's bastard daughter. Some speculated the bastard girl had caught his eye, for her younger sisters were not kept, but Nymeria was already visibly with child, yet the Grand Admiral treated her like a princess and a dear guest, not a hostage.
Shireen Baratheon's fleet loomed closer and closer to Tyrosh, and the city attempted to muster a second fleet by pulling in more sellsails and gathering their raiding parties, but the stormy seas delayed the confrontation for over a moon. To many's surprise, the young Lady Scars found safe harbour and was warmly welcomed by the Estermonts of Greenstone, her paternal grandmother's House.
The fate of Renly's Rebellion turned even more uncertain as fortunes began to turn despite Greyjoy declaring for him. With great effort and thirteen marriages, Queen Margaery Tyrell had managed to weave a web of alliances and cajole most of the recalcitrant Stormlords into calling their full muster. Not all answered the second royal call, but ten thousand swords would gather within two moons, and four thousand more levies would be trained at Bronzegate.
Alas, the rest of the war was not going as well. The siege of King's Landing had come to an impasse, and the besieging army struggled to source sufficient provisions from the now-scoured Crownlands. Ser Cortnay Penrose met great trouble while sieging Rook's Rest, as Clawmen were constantly sallying out from Crackclaw Point, attacking his outriders, assaulting his supply lines, and even daring to try his camps at night.
Things weren't going well for the city either. Signs of disease had begun to spread amongst some of the Lannister men. Many began complaining about headaches, persistent chills, high fever, and pains in their limbs and stomach. Religious zeal grew on both sides of the war, and rumours of Joffrey sacrificing Septons to the Heart Tree spread suspicion within the city.
Renly's rebellion continued to grow even bloodier across the board.
Robb Stark had slayed Lord Errold Sunderly of Saltcliffe, his two sons, and his reaving parties, who had dared venture along Ocean Road, which put a bloody end to the Ironmen's distraction along the Westerlands shore.
When the first Reavers descended upon the North with their fleet, they faced stiff resistance. Goodbrother, Orkwood, and Ironmaker had tried to storm Flint's Fingers and Bear Isle, but their foes were prepared, and they suffered humiliating defeats, losing their lords and most of their captains. The situation looked so ugly for Balon Greyjoy that he sent Victarion and the Iron Fleet to raze Flint's Fingers while leading three hundred longboats and a hundred galleys to Bear Isle himself.
Lord Drumm had also been slain by a lucky arrow soon after landing on the Northern Mountain's shores. The Clansmen had not expected the Ironmen, but a lucky hunting group had spotted the reavers and ambushed them with the help of an enormous direwolf; rumour even had it that Arya Stark was the one who had landed the lucky shot in the Bone Hand's eye.
The North was considered well-prepared for the Ironmen's attack, but its vast size worked against the kingdom. Myrcella Stark had called the Northern banners, but the muster was slow with all the cavalry and the experienced commanders south with the Young Wolf. Most of the Northern Houses had taken their capable kinsmen with them to war, and a sizeable number of veterans had been considered lost in the Narrow Sea with Eddard Stark, leaving only green boys and greybeards in charge of the significant number of footmen.
The only House with full strength was Glover of Deepwood Motte, but he did not prove himself a great commander. Despite his preparation, Galbart Glover had some success repelling two raids from Botley before the Ironborn managed to land and besiege his castle.
Meanwhile, the young Artos Dustin, Lord Dustin's second son, had gathered his strength along with all the swords Benfred Tallhart could muster at the mouth of the Barrow River to repel the invaders-
Excerpt from 'Lazyro Zelyne's thoughts on the Sunset War'
