Golden Tooth, The Westerlands
Jaime Lannister had arrived at the Golden Tooth the day before. Now he was sitting in Lord Lefford's solar, reviewing the latest reports.
The Blackfish had still not gathered his full strength at Riverrun—only ten thousand men so far. That should have been good news, but there was another news—another almost ten thousand Riverlords had assembled near Maidenpool.
Tywin Lannister entered.
Without any delay, Kevan spread a fresh map across the table. Tywin stood over it, eyes sweeping over the inked terrain of the Riverlands.
"We don't have time to waste," Tywin said. "The Vale lords will need a fortnight to cross into the Riverlands, because they had a clash with mountain clansmen. The Blackfish is still gathering his strength. That gives us a narrow window."
He pointed to Riverrun first. "Jaime, take your host and strike Brynden Tully before he is reinforced. Harass his supply lines, destroy anything they could use later. Inflict damage, then fall back to the Golden Tooth. Don't get drawn into a prolonged fight."
Jaime nodded, arms folded. "What about Maidenpool?"
Tywin's hand moved across the map. "I'll take the my host and move east to deal with them. Once I have scattered their force, I'll take Harrenhal and make it our base. It's well placed. From there, we can strike at the Riverlords, the Vale, or Renly's forces if they finally begin to march."
Kevan looked up from the map. "Renly's army is still dragging its heels on the Rose Road."
"For now," Tywin said. "But I've heard that Randyll Tarly had harsh words with Renly about the delay. If the lords begin to grow restless, he may be forced to act."
The mood in the room was grim.
Jaime stood. "I'll begin marching on Riverrun. I will hit them before the Vale arrives, and bleed them."
Tywin gave a curt nod. "Strike fast. Then fall back. This will break their momentum."
Jaime didn't argue. He left the solar to ready his men. The Riverlands would burn before the sun set on another week.
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Riverlands
(Jaime's host)
Jaime Lannister rode beneath the lion banner of his house. The wind was filled with ash. He had already ordered to burn every village which they encounter.
His father's orders had been clear: cripple their ability to feed and house an army. And make them bleed.
And he had done as his father had ordered. Six days out from the Golden Tooth, and they had broken two levies that were raised by minor Riverlords—one was shattered when they were caught half asleep by a dawn assault. The second had dug in on a wooded ridge and has resisted longer, but Jaime had flanked them with light cavalry and watched their lines crumble like old parchment under rain.
Now he was moving towards Riverrun, cutting across fields and forests in a wide arc, seeking to block reinforcements before they could reach Brynden Tully's host.
"Look behind us," Addam Marbrand said that evening, nodding toward the trail of black plumes in the distance. "It's a long way back to the Golden Tooth."
Jaime didn't answer. He was staring at the sky. Blackfish hadn't moved from Riverrun. There had been no probing attacks, no ambushes.
That wasn't like him.
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They made camp that night on high ground, a dry ridge half a league away from the Red Fork. Jaime had doubled the scouts, and tripled the perimeter patrols. Still, there was an unease, that twisted his gut.
Blackfish was old, yes. But he was not a fool and slow. He was not blind. He was not the kind to sit idle while the lands around him burned.
The answer came the next day.
They had attacked a supply train—twenty wagons of grain and salted pork, crawling along the riverside road. It was guarded by no more than thirty men, heading straight for Riverrun.
The Lannister vanguard were charging down the slope. Archers were following the staggering lines behind the horsemen. Jaime was near the front with his sword already out.
Then the trees came alive.
Archers hidding in the riverbank brush rose and loosed a hail of arrows before the charge reached the wagons. Screams rang out as horses went down hard, skewered mid-stride. Then the road cracked open—trap pits beneath the dirt, covered with boards and branches, dropping several armored riders into their deaths.
One of the wagons exploded in flame. It's canvas was soaked in oil. It was a signal.
Then came the cavalry—light and fast, streaming from the woods to the east, short spears flashing in the morning light. Blackfish's men, were two hundred strong.
"Back!" Jaime roared, his horse nearly crashing into a wagon as he wheeled around. "Regroup by the ridge! Sound the horn!"
The field turned into a chaos. Lannister men tried to form a line, but were cut down by swift-moving Riverland horsemen. Then a boulder trap—tethered to logs above the road—was loosed, smashing into a knot of infantrymen like a hammer into meat.
But luckily the Lannister men kept holding the line. Ser Addam rallied the flanks. Ser Forley Prester ordered the archers into wedge formations and returned fire into the brush. Jaime was bloodied, and led a countercharge that drove a wedge through the Blackfish's lighter cavalry.
Steel rang against steel. Men were screaming. The wagons were abandoned—two were set in flames, the rest were scattered.
By the time the horn sounded retreat, nearly five hundred of Jaime's men were dead or dying.
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That night, as the Lannister host limped away from the killing field, Jaime stood over a ditch filled with the dead.
"Blackfish has bled us a lot in one ambush. Many of our men are injured," Addam said quietly.
"Not enough," Jaime muttered. "These tactics will not save his host at Riverrun."
They rode on, moving toward Riverrun itself.
The scouts confirmed what he already suspected—one of the Blackfish's camp lay east of the Red Fork. They were still not fully reinforced. In fact his banners were fewer than expected. Jaime assumed his father's mad dogs' chaos had done its work, scattering some of the lords and tying others up defending their keeps.
That gave Jaime one final opportunity.
"Prepare the men to attack," he told Addam. "We will hit them, and then retreat to the Golden Tooth. Let the Blackfish lick his wounds."
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The Lannisters descended through the fields, without any horns or drums. Just the sound of horses breathing and boots crunching the grass.
The Riverlords' advance camp was poorly defended—tucked between a copse of trees and the muddy edge of the river. Their fires were low and sentries too few.
Jamie led the vanguard himself, but this time he was helmless, the crimson lion was fluttering behind him. He wanted them to see. Wanted the Blackfish's men to know who had come.
The slaughter was swift.
Tents were burned. Archers loosed fire arrows into the brush. The cavalry had swept the flanks. The Riverlords who fled toward the river found it blocked by Ser Addam's horsemen.
At least two thousand lay dead. Supplies were torched. Dozens had been taken as captive. Not one cart was left standing.
But again—no Blackfish. And the number of men were less too. He has to talk to his scouts.
Jaime dismounted, walking slowly through the smoke. A dead boy lay at his feet, maybe fifteen. Still clutching a sword too big for his hands.
"Where is he?" Jaime asked, not expecting an answer. "Where in seven hells is the Blackfish?"
Addam stepped beside him. "I am afraid, we have to fight our way back to the Golden Tooth."
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The retreat began that afternoon. They moved quickly, wounded were loaded into wagons, what loot they could carry was taken. Behind them, the Riverlands was burning.
As Addam predicted, Blackfish had started attacking them.
He hit them at dusk—archers from the trees, saboteurs setting supply carts ablaze. Each night brought fresh attacks: poisoning their supplies, missing scouts, horses let loose in the dark.
By the fourth day, they were low on water. Men were forced to march on foot. Some had to be left behind. Jaime didn't sleep more than an hour at a time.
When they finally passed the ridge west of the Golden Tooth, Jaime turned back and looked at the haze on the horizon.
"More losses than I had planned. We have lost about two thousand men," he said to Addam.
"Yes. But we have struck them hard," Addam replied. "Their camp won't recover soon. And will get time to deal with Reach."
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Riverlands
Blackfish ground his teeth.
Three camps were lost. Thousands are laying dead. Stores had been torched, and wagons are still smoldering in the fields.
Those damn Freys are again late.
Thankfully, the Vale lords would arrive soon.
It was time to dig in. Time to build the defenses, dig trenches.
Lannisters had killed a lot of his men. But they had also paid for it.
And he would make damn sure that they would pay again.
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Riverlands
(Tywin's host)
The Riverlords had gathered near Maidenpool—barely ten thousand between them.
Tywin's scouts found that their camp was sprawled across the Trident's banks, they were loosely arrayed, and poorly patrolled.
The assault was swift—his center drove into the center of their camp while the flanks were swept along the treeline to carve through their retreat. Ser Harys Swyft oversaw the center's steady push, while Ser Tytos Brax led the right, cutting off their escape routes.
The Riverlords fought, but they broke before sunset.
Lord Jon Mooton was wounded and dragged from the field. Lord Clement Piper escaped with only a few riders, heading toward Maidenpool. And many others were left to rot.
Their grain stores were seized. And the rest were torched.
Within five days, Harrenhal opened its gates without a fight. The garrison had heard the tales of the burning of the Riverlands.
Tywin made the castle his command post. He sent ravens to Kingslanding and Golden Tooth. His children would need to know that he had secured Harenhall.
When the Vale lords would finally arrived, they would find that their allies have broken, and it would take time to regroup.
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The message was brief, but the numbers were speaking louder than any cry. Two thousand men lost. Supplies abandoned.
Tywin did not speak for a long time.
Kevan sat across from him in the solar of Harrenhal. Tywin's fingers gripped the letter, before he finally handed it over to his brother without a word.
Kevan unfolded it and read, his brow furrowing slightly. "Jaime has dealt a heavy blow to the Blackfish."
Tywin spoke "Does this look like a heavy blow to you?"
Kevan hesitated, then set the letter aside. "We have lost men, yes. But Blackfish paid a huge price for it."
Tywin's voice was ice cold. "I told Jaime to harass, kill and retreat—not blunder into a prepared ambush like a hedge knight chasing glory."
"Send no reply to Jaime's letter," Tywin said, his tone final.
Kevan blinked. "None?"
Tywin's eyes narrowed as he fixed Kevan with a cold stare. "None. Let him wonder what I think of his failure."
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Dragonstone
Melisandre's words began to take root. The fires of faith were spreading, one soul at a time.
As days passed, Stannis's men began to look to Melisandre with more respect. The guards at the gates whispered of her miracles, of how she had healed the sick with her prayers, of how the fires of R'hllor had guided them when they had faltered. One by one, the men who had been loyal to Stannis Baratheon had began to turn to her, seeking comfort in the burning light of her faith.
Selyse devotion to her husband had remained, but it was now intertwined with her worship of R'hllor.
Sunglass, Guncer, and the others—who were once skeptical, once reluctant—had come to speak with her in private. They whispered of their dreams, their fears, and the way the flames danced in their minds, promising victory, if only they would hold true.
In the nights that followed, Melisandre would visit the walls of Dragonstone, speaking to those who were lost, those who were uncertain. With every word, with every gesture, her influence grew. The fires spoke to them. And they listened.
They all listened.
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Stannis had waited. And waited. His fleet was half destroyed by the storm, and now, with Renly's banners in the South and Tywin Lannister attacking the Riverlands, he was helpless. There was nothing left to do but wait for the next step.
The door creaked open. Melisandre spoke in a soft voice "You should not be alone, Your Grace."
Stannis turned sharply to face her. Melisandre stood in the doorway. The ruby in her choker flickered with a pulse in the dim light.
"I am alone by choice," Stannis replied coldly. "I do not need you here, Melisandre."
Her lips curled into a knowing smile. "Your Grace, you are always in need of something." She took a step closer. "And the flames have whispered to me. You are not meant to be here. You will find your way. Your path, Stannis Baratheon, lies beyond this island."
Stannis's eyes narrowed. "Enough with your cryptic words."
Melisandre did not flinch. Instead, she approached the table, where map and the wooden tokens lies. "The flames are clear, Stannis. There is more to your war than you see. You will fight when the time is right. But it will not be in the way you imagine. Your victory will not come through blood alone."
He clenched his fists. "And what, then? What is it you want me to do?"
"The people," Melisandre said, her red eyes were glimmering, "they are seeing the truth now. More come to me every day, seeking salvation in the flames. They are afraid, yes—but they also seek purpose. And you, Stannis Baratheon, are the one who will lead them. You will unite them with the fire."
She gestured toward the window. "Your men, they follow you—yes, but they also need something to believe in. They are not following a man. They are following a symbol. And you, Stannis, are the symbol of that fire."
Stannis stared at her. "And what will you do, Melisandre? Use them for your own ends?"
"Not for my ends," she said, her voice barely a whisper now. "But for the greater good. For the one who will lead this world out of the coming darkness."
Stannis shifted uneasily, though he did not show it. "You mean—"
"Not yet," she interrupted with her piercing gaze. "But when the time comes, you will know. Until then, you will continue to gather strength, to prove your worth. And we will grow here, in Dragonstone. More will come. More will turn to the light."
Stannis looked at her, torn between doubt and desperation. "The people are fickle. They will follow anyone who promises them something. What makes you think this will hold?"
Melisandre smiled. "The flames do not lie, Stannis. They know those who will follow, and they know those who will fall." She paused, then added softly, "And they burn for Azor Ahai."
Stannis glanced at her, the edge of his bitterness sharpening. "Your god will not claim the throne, Melisandre. I will."
"No," she spoke with patience. "You will. And when you do, they will see you as the true king. The flame will guide them to you."
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Stannis Baratheon stood before the hearth. The shadows were dancing across his hollowed face. His cheeks were sunken, his eyes ringed with sleepless dark. He hadn't eaten that morning—again—and it showed.
Melisandre sat in the high backed chair near the fire, the ruby in her choker flickered with a pulse in the firelight. She did not speak.
Stannis's voice came at last, low and hoarse. "How many ships, Davos?"
"Twenty three," Davos said, standing just inside the chamber door, hands behind his back. "Nine seaworthy. Four of them large enough to carry proper men at arms."
"Only four." Stannis's mouth twisted.
"The rest are fishing boats and traders. Small, slow, and soft in the hull."
Davos said no more. Arguing with Stannis never helped. He had already turned his wrath inward, and the red woman would stoke it with quiet words and fire.
Stannis muttered, "I held Storm's End for Robert when the Tyrells were feasting outside it. Eating well, and drinking better. And now Renly parades through the Reach with Mace Tyrell, licking his boots. He feasts with traitors, and they name him king."
Melisandre spoke in a smooth voice. "The false kings gather like weeds. And they will be dealt with when the time comes."
Davos stiffened. He didn't like the way she said it. Nor the way Stannis nodded, weary and obedient.
"We need ships," Davos said firmly. "Crews. Gold. Sailcloth."
Stannis walked to the map strewn table, where the wooden tokens marked cities, fleets, and lords who had yet to declare. He rested both hands on the table's edge.
"And how do we get those things, Lord Seaworth?" he asked without looking.
Davos hated the title. It still didn't sit right, not when the garrison called him "onion knight" behind his back and the highborn sneered behind closed doors.
"We have to send envoys to Braavos, to Pentos. Even Myr, if we must. Promise pay, promise the spoils of war. I believe I can convince Salladhor Saan if I visit him myself. He has got ships, and men who know how to fight on the water."
Stannis grunted. "He is a pirate."
"He is a pirate who loves gold. That makes him useful."
"And he would steal from us the moment our backs are turned."
"He is already stealing from us, Your Grace. Every week we wait, the price goes up."
Stannis looked toward Melisandre. There was weariness in his eyes, but hunger too.
"He would ask for more than gold."
"Let him," Melisandre said softly. "What he takes matters little. He cannot touch your destiny."
Davos stepped forward. "And what is that destiny?"
Stannis's voice came sharp. "To sit on the Iron Throne."
Davos looked only at him, ignoring the red woman. "You've yet to win a battle. What good is prophecy without men to fight for it?"
Stannis's jaw tightened. "Men will come when they see the truth."
"They won't see anything if we rot on this island while Renly has the Stormlands and the Reach, and Tywin bleeds the Riverlands dry."
"You think I haven't thought of that?" Stannis snapped, whirling. "You think I enjoy this? Begging smugglers and foreign traders like some back alley peddler? The storm destroyed half our fleet, Davos. Half. And damaged many of the remaining ones. The lords of the Narrow Sea are cowards hiding behind their walls."
He turned back to the map. "I've sent word to Lys. There is a bastard there—Lysaro. He claims that he can find me six ships. I've offered trade rights to Myr for pitch and cloth."
"You agreed?"
There was a long pause.
"Meet this Salladhor Saan," Stannis murmured. "Strike a deal. But don't let him rob us blind."
Later that day, Davos climbed the winding stairs to the rookery. He found Matthos there, reading through ravens' replies. His son looked up, pale and tense.
"Father," he said. "There is reply from Pentos. Illyrio Mopatis has declined. He says it would offend the Lannisters to aid us."
Davos grunted. "Cowards, all of them."
"And the rest, they want more gold," Matthos added. "Twice what we offered."
Davos rubbed a hand down his face. "And yet we still send coins to Red Priests and Priestesses."
Matthos hesitated. "Do you truly think she serves R'hllor?"
Davos turned toward the window. He looked at the charred old sept.
"I think she serves herself," he said quietly. "And His Grace is listening to her more and more, every passing day."
That night, Stannis stood atop the battlements. Melisandre was beside him, as always. They stared out over the dark water.
Far in the distance, a single ship approached.
"The night is dark," Melisandre said softly.
"And full of terrors," Stannis answered.
But it wasn't the darkness he feared.
It was the waiting.
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Winterfell, The North
Aryan stood over the table. Behind him, quill was scratching against parchment. Arianne was sitting near the fire, writing some letters for him. The room smelled faintly of hot wax. There was a knock on the door.
Aryan said, "Enter."
Jaqen entered his solar.
"My lord," he said simply.
Aryan didn't look up. "That fool Renly. He is more useless than I thought."
He moved a black token—representing House Lannister—southward. It rested at the borderlands between the Reach and the Westerlands.
Aryan's gaze flicked toward Jaqen. "Have the men I asked you to send to the Westerlands reached their place?"
"They have," Jaqen said. "They are ghosts already. No one knows they are there."
"Good," Aryan murmured. He moved another wooden piece, just beside Bitterbridge.
"Tell them to strike at the lands of House Caswell. Have them wear the armor of Polliver's men. Let the sigils be clear—some worn, some freshly painted. Enough to make it seem like the attackers were Westerlanders."
Aryan's voice was low.
"Burn the fields. Salt the wells. Kill the people brutally. Leave some survivors—but not many. Let them go to their lord, and tell them the horrors they saw. Let the Reach believe the Westerlands have turned their wrath upon them."
"Order our men to vanish after that," he added. "And return to the North."
Arianne looked up from her letters. "Hmm... it will given them a reason to hate each other more than they already do. If enough blood will spill between the Reach and the Westerlands, the Reach Lords will never tolerate that. Renly will either have to stand with the Reach or risk losing them entirely. He will be forced to act."
Aran said "He wants the crown, but he doesn't want the cost."
Jaqen inclined his head. "The message will be delivered."
Jaqen left as swiftly as he came.
Arianne asked, "What about Stannis?"
Aryan's lips curled faintly in a smile. "Still on Dragonstone. Listening to Melisandre. She keeps him leashed. And he thinks himself her master. He will move toward Kingslanding when he gathers enough ships and men. And he'll march—just in time to plunge into a storm."
Arianne's gaze dropped to the flaming stag carved from obsidian. "Have you created contingencies in case he wins?"
He turned from the map to look at her fully. "Yes, my love. They are in place."
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Arianne shifted slightly, her leg sliding over Aryan's, and she spoke amusedly. "Aryan," she murmured, "how in the seven hells did you managed to get Val into our bed last night?"
He smiled. "She wanted to steal me before she came south of the Wall. Thought I would be hers, whether I liked it or not."
Arianne snorted softly, her fingers tracing idle circles on his chest. "And yet her face ended up between my legs before the end of the night. Not quite the conquest she imagined."
"From my view, she didn't seem to mind."
"She didn't," Arianne agreed. "She was wild with both of us. I liked that."
He dragged his fingers slowly down her spine, enjoying the way she arched into the touch.
After a moment, he asked "You're never jealous?"
Arianne laughed—soft and sultry. "Of other women?" Her lips brushed his collarbone. "Please. I have you. All of you. They're just guests. You're mine, and everyone knows it."
Aryan teased. "You sound awfully confident."
"I was a princess of Dorne," she said haughtily, meeting his eyes. "And I know you are mine. They might warm our bed for some nights, but it's me you always hold, it's me you love."
His fingers curled in her hair, drawing her for a kiss. "I'll never tire of you, my love," he whispered.
"Mmm," she breathed against his lips. "Good. Because you're not getting out of this one."