A Soldier Adrift: Captain Westeros

He was not the only man in the chamber wary of Robert’s response, but Ned seemed to spare little concern to any possible violence.

“Two months ago, we received a letter from Rhaegar claiming it to be a lie,” Ned continued, not breaking eye contact. “He claims that she is not in the Red Keep, that she is kept elsewhere, far enough away that he could not have taken her foot and presented it to his court.”

“Presented to his-.” Rage robbed the Stormlord of further words, and his fingers squeezed the armrests of his chair, setting wood to groaning.

“One of them is lying,” Ned said. He glanced at Rickard. “Father has claimed the liar for himself.”

“Anger will not help you here Robert, remember our talks,” Jon told him, concern in his eyes. “Focus on what you can achieve.”

Slowly, Robert sought to master himself. “Where is she. Did Rhaegar lie. Is he working with Aerys.” Despite his efforts, he still spoke from between grinding teeth.

“Rhaegar says he does not know, but that he has men loyal to him in her guard,” Brandon said, his own anger worn openly. “He says he works to find her, but as he plays games, the war goes on.”

“Connington is with him,” Robert said suddenly, as if just remembering. “He said he worked to aid him in a task that would help the Stormlands. But why did he not…” he looked down at the table as he trailed off.

“War is not the time to trust in ravens,” Hoster offered.

Robert only seemed to half hear the words, fists clenching and unclenching around his armrests. He blinked, looking up at Ned. “Three months,” he said. “We have been riding together for weeks. You said nothing.”

“Aye.”

“Why.”

“You already wanted to turn east,” Ned told him. “The risk was too great.”

There was a long pause as the two foster brothers stared each other down. At length, Robert broke it.

“You had no right,” Robert said, low and quiet, like the last moment of silence before thunder.

“If I had told you when we met, you would have marched directly for King’s Landing,” Ned said flatly, uncowed. “With no supply line, no support, and Stannis likely already besieged.”

Robert erupted from his seat, roaring. “IT WAS NOT YOUR CHOICE TO MAKE!” His lips were drawn back in a snarl, fury and hurt writ across his face. “My men are mine to command! Why, Ned?! Why didn’t you tell me?!?”

“Because in your position, I would have marched on King’s Landing.”

Robert stared at him, still, and then the wind seemed to go out of his sails. He slumped back down into his chair. “You should have told me,” he said, voice tired.

“It was wrong of me,” Ned acknowledged, “but no, I shouldn’t have.”

The stormlord didn’t react to Ned’s words, and the tension in the room seemed to ease, at least slightly.

“If we had lost you, Robert, we would have lost the Stormlands, and possibly the war,” Jon said, appealing to him.

Again the stormlord didn’t seem to hear the words. “Aerys sends a foot he claims to be Lyanna’s, and you do nothing,” he said softly, eyes unseeing.

Rickard stirred, a fell sound rumbling in his throat. “You think I received what might have been my daughter’s foot…and did nothing?”

The northman’s words pierced the daze that had taken Robert, and his gaze latched onto him.

“Every defeated noble who fought for Aerys was given a choice,” Rickard said. “They could abandon their oath to him, or they could lose the same foot he claimed to take from Lyanna.”

“The heart trees were well watered,” Brandon said, and a satisfied smile sprawled across his face.

For all he had been prepared to intervene, Steve knew with bitter experience that when friends were at odds, the last thing they wanted was outside interference, but as he absorbed what had been said he could no longer stay quiet. “You maimed prisoners?” he asked. “‘Defeated nobles’ that you captured - and you maimed them?”

Rickard inclined his head. “Their king claimed he hurt my daughter. If they were so loyal to him, they could share the consequences of his deed.”

“And you were all on board with this?” Steve asked, looking around the room. Jon met his eyes steadily, but Hoster was frowning, shaking his head.

“It is not our place to tell our peer how to lead his men,” Jon said. There was no indication of any approval or disapproval on his face. “Lord Rickard would have been within his rights to have them executed.”

“Just because you can doesn’t mean you should,” Steve said, heat entering his voice. Elbert gave him a look of kinship, but he was the only one.

“Fine counsel that would be for them, before they chose to ride against me,” Rickard said. In contrast, there was no heat in his voice, no investment at all in the disagreement he was faced with.

Steve leaned back, one finger tapping on the armrest of his chair as he fought a sigh. “What he did was terrible, even as a false threat, but you can’t go down to their level. It says more about you than it does him.”

“This is who we are. The Winter Kings did not become kings because we were ‘honourable’.”

“When you capture a foe, you have a responsibility to treat them well,” Steve said. “You don’t maim or torture. If they’ve done something terrible, you lock them up, you execute them if-” he made a cutting gesture with his hand, old memories bubbling up.

“They did do something terrible,” Rickard said. “They supported the man who cut off my daughter’s foot.”

“Or so he claimed,” Steve said. He crossed his arms, lips pressed in a thin line. The campaign through the Reach was not the first time he had given the order for executions, but the crimes he had punished in the War were far worse, had brought him closer to acting as the Starks had - but he still hadn’t crossed that line, even with the victims of their crimes before him in a pit they’d been forced to dig themselves.

“Or so he claimed,” Rickard agreed. “That was enough.”

The soldier stared the northman down, unblinking, and the northman returned it. “Did you keep maiming prisoners, after Rhaegar told you it wasn’t Lyanna?” he demanded.

“No,” Rickard said, though from the way his sons shared a look it wasn’t quite as clear cut as a decision to stop because the threat might have been a lie.

Steve lost the battle to keep from sighing. “...we have to be better,” he said, knowing that he wasn’t getting through to Rickard but unable to keep from trying. “If you fall to their level, eventually you’re to someone else what they were to you.” Even if Aerys had lied, there was still some poor girl out there who had lost a foot to the charade. Somehow he didn’t think there would be any armies out for revenge on her behalf.

There was no agreement forthcoming, but nor did Rickard deny his words, only looking back to his hands, letting the conversation die.

Before the silence could grow sour, Hoster spoke. “There are some who would call you unwise to be so uncompromising with a Warden, especially one who has offered you so much,” the riverlord said, probing.

Whatever response he was expecting, it was not a barked laugh. “Back home, I have a reputation,” Steve said by way of explanation. “I’ve been accused of being a bit too stubborn for my own good when it would’ve been easier to let things lie.”

“So we are starting to see,” Jon said, and there was more than a hint of dryness to his tone.

“Forget about the dragon lovers,” Robert said. He had taken the time to master his temper, his fury reduced to a harsh scowl. “What else has Rhaegar said about Lyanna? How close is he to finding her?”

Brandon scoffed, running a frustrated hand through his hair.

“Two nights past, another letter arrived speaking of his progress and of how the lack of fighting in the Crownlands had allowed him to confirm that she was not within them,” Jon said. “However, he also made reference to another letter, one that we have not received.”

“Then that means…” Robert said, trailing off as he sought to make sense of it.

“There’s fuckery afoot,” Brynden said bluntly.

Hoster elbowed his brother. “If Aerys has learned that Rhaegar is communicating with us, he would be…displeased,” he said.

“Aye, and Varys isn’t to be underestimated,” Jon said. “Which means the King may well know, and be planning for Rhaegar’s search.”

“Not to mention whoever was behind the attempt to kill us as we escaped the Red Keep,” Elbert added.

“There is much at work that we do not see,” Hoster said. “Much that we need to discover if we are to avoid being used by those behind it.”

The riverlord wasn’t wrong, but Steve didn’t like their chances of investigating in the middle of a war, even if the mention of intercepted mail had him wary.

“No, fuck it all,” Robert said, shaking his head. “Fuck all of that. When do we march for Harrenhal? Their games won’t matter when we have King’s Landing besieged, and I’m not sitting here waiting for Rhaegar to find Lyanna.”

Jon’s forehead creased, but only for a moment. “Three days, as we discussed. We have regrouped from the last raids, and there have been no signs of more.”

“With Hightower’s gamble with the chevauchée failing, we completed our stockpiling of supplies as well,” Hoster said. “We are ready.”

“Then what are we waiting for?” Robert demanded. “You don’t mean to tell me we’re going to wait for Rhaegar.”

“No,” Rickard said.

“He did request it,” Jon said, “but we are not inclined to grant such a request.” He gave his more outspoken foster son a look. “Even if we were, I would doubt our ability to convince you of it.”

Robert snorted, a glimmer of cheer returning to his face, even if only for an instant. “Then let’s get at it.”

Jon smiled at him, before glancing at Hoster and Rickard. Both men gave him a nod. “There is little left to deal with today that cannot be delegated,” he said. “We would release the rest of you, if you do not wish to stay, Robert.”

“Aye,” Robert said, already rising. “The needful is done, and Ned owes me a round in the yard.”

A more expressive man might have grimaced, but Ned only shook his head, rising with his friend. Brandon and Elbert were quick to follow, and Keladry was already getting the door.

Steve rose in turn, following them. He glanced back as he left, and more than one of the older lords were watching him. Even with everything else on their plates, it was clear that they weren’t so foolish as to dismiss him, or take him for granted, despite the cultural tug of war going on between them and their disagreements.

He could live with that. He’d just have to remind them why once they reached Harrenhal.

X x X

If Steve had found the pace marching with eighteen thousand Stormlanders to be slow, it was downright torturous when they had to coordinate with another fifteen thousand Northerners, ten thousand Riverlanders, and ten thousand Valemen. The four armies marched implacably south, moving to besiege what some called the greatest fortress on the continent.

Not all would end up at Harrenhal itself - there would be more to the siege than simply setting up shop around the fortress. Supply lines had to be protected, nearby holdfasts had to be invested, and roads leading south had to be guarded, lest another royalist force think to break the siege. It was all planned and accounted for in an impressive display of logistics and organisation that put paid to any idea that war was simply a matter of riding up to the other guy and hitting him harder than he could hit back.

The ninth month of the year 282 AC began and dragged on as the rebels continued their march south, and for all that there was little to do but march, that did not mean that nothing was done. With so many bored men left to their own amusements, that meant that first and foremost amongst these was gossip. Steve was keenly aware of his exploits spreading through the armies, and the only fortune to be found was the fact that many seemed to think them at least somewhat exaggerated, regardless of those who swore to have witnessed them. Less fortunate was the spread and revival of the Peake limericks, followed by the marching songs that Steve was somehow at fault for. More than one village was terrorised by rank after rank of passing men singing of Thunder Gods and Scab King Aerys, and soon the men of the other armies had to have their own songs as well. The rivermen could not seem to agree on the lyrics, but Willem and Yorick had once again found themselves co conspirators, this time from the Vale, and created another offering.

“We come from the Mountains we come from the Vale,

We’re hearty we’re tough we’re strong and we’re hale,

Mad King Aerys what have you done,

Seven grant you mercy cause we have none,

You’ll scream you’ll shout you’ll plead you’ll yell,

When we’re through with you it’s straight to hell,

Who’re we?

Men of the Vale,

What’re we?

Hearty and hale,

No care for honour, no mercy for you,

It’s the gallows on offer, swift and true.

Mad King Aerys your rule is through,

The debt you owe is now come due,

Ten thousand lances riding fast,

Lancing swift right up your arse,

Who’re we?

Men of the Vale,

What’re we?

Hearty and hale,

We come from the Mountains we come from the Vale,

We’re hearty we’re tough we’re strong and we’re hale.”

Sometimes, Steve felt like he had made a huge mistake in introducing marching songs to Westeros, but at least the men seemed to be having fun. He could accept that.

What he was less able to accept, however, was a consequence of his actions against Peake. Perhaps it was the limericks that had spread, or perhaps someone had ratted him out, but apparently an old foe of the Peakes had heard of it all, and now they sought to reward him for it. Over the course of a week, Steve was forced to decline offers of gifts that he really didn’t feel were warranted. They began with a finely made sword with a sapphire in the pommel and only escalated with each denial. Eventually, the lord responsible, one Wyman Manderly, was taken aside by Ned, and the offers stopped. Steve thought that was the end of it, and turned his attention to more important matters, such as his discussions with a man who had escaped a job as a tanner when he joined his lord’s guard. He should have known better.

Ned had not been warning Manderly away. The delivery of a crate by a man with the Manderly colours of green and aquamarine stitched on his clothing put an end to Steve’s polite refusals when he opened it to find within half a dozen richly bound books, a lovely dark leather quiver full of arrows fletched with the finest goosefeather, a pair of outrageously soft calfskin boots, and a fishing lure skilfully carved with horsehair fascinators. The pouch addressed to Steve holding jewellery flattering to a woman of Naerys’ colouring was almost not worth mentioning. He accepted his defeat with grace, and wrote Wyman a thank you note which, after consultation with Ned, included a recipe for a pasta.

The march began to draw nearer to its goal, and Steve took care of what tasks needed doing. His troops were put through their paces, his shield was given a new cap for full coverage once more, and he sketched a charcoal image of Naerys with her nose buried in one of her new books. A final reconnaissance in force was sent out, and Steve began to finalise his thoughts on his approach to the coming siege. No fortress was impregnable, especially not one he had once been a guest within. It was thought the siege would be a long one, and he was determined to avoid it.

Then, as the ninth month began to wane, Brynden and his men returned with news.

Harrenhal was empty.

X

Harrenhal was as imposing as Steve remembered it, though there was something eerie about seeing such a large castle with its walls undefended and its gates wide open. The roads bore evidence of heavy traffic, though it was not fresh, and from their position on a nearby hill there seemed to be no banners flying from the enormous towers within.

“How did he manage this?” Robert was asking, waving a frustrated hand at the castle. “Where were our scouts? Napping?”

“Hightower was still screening us only last week,” Brynden said, giving the younger man a side look. His mount stamped a hoof, snorting. “If you knew of a way to pass them, or to divine the future, you might have said something.”

“Brother,” Hoster said, warning, though he was also eyeing Robert.

Robert growled, but didn’t argue further.

The group of knights and nobles continued to eye the fortress, suspicious and wary. Some were more concerned with the forest a ways behind them, as if it might suddenly disgorge the missing royalist army.

“How many men did he spend on raiding?” Elbert asked. “He lost ten and three thousand under the God’s Eye, even if many were sellswords. Perhaps there were few men left to flee?”

“There are royalist river lords unaccounted for, and Crownlanders beside,” Brynden said, not shying from the truth. “He must still have a considerable force. Eight thousand, at least.”

“Enough to threaten any one army, but only if they wandered off,” a lord with a silver eagle on his purple shield said. His face was gaunt, but there was strength in his shoulders, and Steve had met his nephew Jeffory at the Riverrun weddings.

“Hightower wouldn’t,” Hoster said. “He was always cautious.”

“So is Ned, but he still had the stones to fight four battles in a day,” Robert said, smirking at the one Stark that was with them.

“Ned always had sharper teeth than you’d think,” Brandon said, returning the smirk.

The words restored some of the bravado and cheer that news of the deserted castle had banished, at least amongst the younger members of the twenty or so men on the hill. It did not change the situation they found themselves in, however.

“You don’t think…Maidenpool?” a lord with a surcoat bearing a white tree on black asked.

“Abandon Harrenhal for Maidenpool?” another lord instantly retorted. This one wore a rampant red stallion on yellow and brown. “He would be a fool.”

“Lord Blackwood, Lord Bracken,” Hoster said in warning, and if Steve thought his voice was that of a weary school teacher, he kept that to himself.

The two lords were glaring at each other, but the first lord - Blackwood - soldiered on. “Harrenhal is mighty, but perhaps overmighty for a force of eight thousand, and isolated besides. Maidenpool would tax them less, and offer resupply by sea.”

“Resupply means little when we could pen them in and have our way cleared to King’s Landing,” Bracken said. “Perhaps you should think of more than what lays directly before us before you speak.”

“Enough,” Hoster said, sterner this time, but still the men glared, Blackwood opening his mouth to return the insult.

“We can discuss this later,” Brandon broke in. “We came to see the castle for ourselves, and now we waste time. The sooner we get on with it, the sooner we can plot our next steps, wherever they might lead us.”

“Aye, let’s go,” Robert said, looking about a moment away from prodding his horse forward to ride straight at the castle.

“Should we not be wary of trickery?” a lord asked. “There are many here whose deaths would serve the foe greatly.”

“Bah,” Robert said.

“I can scout ahead,” Steve volunteered, a few horses behind the front of the pack. “Make sure they haven’t pulled anything since Brynden scouted it out.”

Hoster made a considering sound. “That may be wise,” he said. “Do you think to take some of your own men, or to work with my brother’s scouts?”

“Nah, I’ll go alone,” Steve said. “Easier to get clear if they’ve got something clever planned.”

“You don’t mean to simply fight whatever force might be hidden within?” Beron asked. Like Steve, he was a ways back from the front of the group with all the more influential lords.

“I have to leave some fun for the rest of you,” Steve said, straight faced, and more than one listener seemed to be unsure if he was joking.

“Hurry back Steve,” Robert told him. “I want to know what’s going on here.”

“I would be satisfied if you went no further than the Flowstone Yard,” Hoster added. “Once we know the way in is clear, we can consider inspecting the towers.”

Steve wasted no more time, manoeuvering his mount free of the group and heading down the hill, towards the escort of retinues the lords had brought with them that day. The armies still marched, but news such as Brynden had brought demanded immediate investigation.

To the confusion of the lords he did not turn down the road towards the open castle gates, but continued on to the retinues. One rider saw him coming and rode to meet him.

“Ser?” Robin asked, coming to a halt. His new quiver and arrows were worn proudly across his back, his previous equipment adjusted to sit easily at his mount’s shoulder.

“Keep Brooklyn company for me,” Steve told him, hopping off his mount and handing over the reins. “I’m taking a look inside the walls and I don’t want to risk her.” If they had somehow rigged the gate tunnel to collapse, he liked his chances of getting out on foot better.

“Yes ser,” Robin said. Brooklyn was already walking around to stand beside Scruffy, again showing the value of having Toby working with them. “Hell of a birthday present for Lyanna.”

“Shame it couldn’t be in better circumstances,” Steve said, easing his hammer out of its harness, letting it slip down so he was holding it just below the head. “Did you finish your gift?”

“Last night; Walt helped me with some of the details,” Robin said. He couldn’t help but smile goofily, betraying his youth. “I think she’ll like it.”

“I’m sure she will,” Steve said. He stretched his legs out, getting some blood flowing through his hamstrings.

“Good luck ser,” Robin said, and then he was left behind.

Steve’s jog quickly ate up the distance between their observation point and the walls, and in no time at all he was nearing the open gates. He stopped before them, bending his senses towards the thick walls and the gate tunnel that led through them. He could hear the beat of his heart, blood pulsing evenly, but that was all, save a nearby bird, flapping from spot to spot as it pecked for worms. There was no shifting of hidden men, no low conversations. Nor could he smell anything out of place, no oil waiting to be set alight, no fire to boil sand or water to dump on any who would approach.

Onwards he went, passing under the shadow of the wall and through it. The murder holes were dark and silent, no gates closed behind him and there was no sudden movement ahead. Perhaps Harrenhal really was as deserted as it seemed.

When he emerged into the interior, he found that it seemed even larger than his last visit, now that there was no hustle of tourney goers or tent village sprawling over the lawn. The Hunter’s Hall was devoid of the cheer that he had found there, and the stables were still and empty. Deeper within, the towers were as tall and weathered as he remembered, their melted stone still speaking in testament to their history.

The stone and the emptiness and the history was not what held his attention, however. That was held by the lone marquee tent that waited on the lawn, under it a table and three men seated at it.

Steve approached it at a walk, seeing no need to rush. His ears were pricked for the sound of arrows in flight, and he stretched as he went, hiding a glance at the walls behind him, but they were as empty as the rest of the fortress seemed to be, save for the tent. The sept was still as he passed it, quiet as the grave was.

When he neared the tent, Steve found that he recognised the three men. One was Lord Walter Whent, the man who had hosted the tournament that had seen Steve profit so well, and given him the horn that still hung from his hip besides. The other was his steward, and the third was Maester Baldrich, who had overseen so many of the events and dealt with the aftermath of his ambush during the melee.

“Lord Whent,” Steve said, looking him over as he entered the shadow of the marquee. He was not armoured, wearing a fine doublet of black and yellow, the only consideration to the situation a sword at his hip. “Nice day for it.”

“Lord America,” Whent said, looking him over in turn. “You are not who we were expecting.”

Steve shrugged. “When the enemy does something you weren’t expecting, it pays to be unpredictable.”

Whent gave a huff that suggested amusement, but was completely lacking in humour. “Has your horn served you well?”

“It has,” Steve said. “There’s a few Reachmen who aren’t too fond of it after my time there.”

“Better Reachmen than Riverlanders,” Whent said. He let out a sigh, setting aside pleasantries. “Will Lord Tully be joining us?”

Steve gave the place a final look around. There was no sign of any ambush, and the lawn was really starting to become more of a field, with no sign of any great number of men crossing it to hide atop or within the walls. Whatever was happening here, it wasn’t a trap.

“Yeah,” he decided. “Lord Baratheon, too. I’ll warn you, he’s not in a great mood.”

“He would have reason,” Whent said, not quite gloomy. He shook it off. “Perhaps the news I have to share will improve it.”

Steve eyed the man, but neither he or the men with him seemed inclined to expand. He gave them all a nod, and made to return to the rebels.

X

There was not enough space for all the rebel lords at the table, and Steve was not offered a seat, though he was invited to stand menacingly behind those whose stature earned them one. Lord Whent was a lonely figure on his side of the table, supported only by his steward and Maester Baldrich, while across from him sat his Lord Paramount, the Lord Paramount of the Stormlords, Brandon Stark, Elbert Arryn, and half a handful of riverlords. Another half dozen stood as Steve did, watching over the proceedings.

“Lord Hoster Tully,” Walter started formally. “I surrender my castle to you. Harrenhal is yours.”

“Lord Walter Whent. I accept your surrender, good-cousin,” Hoster said, just as formal. Then he leaned in, fixing Whent with a gimlet stare. “Where is your household?”

“I sent them to Maidenpool, alongside Lord Gerold,” Walter said. “My wife and daughter will take a ship to Braavos from there.”

Blackwood made a sound that had Bracken fuming, but both were ignored.

“He means to hold Maidenpool against us, then,” Hoster said. The freely given information had him leaning back, reassessing Walter.

“Antlers and Loamhedge as well,” Walter said. “He means to hold a line from Maidenpool to the Kingsroad against your armies.”

“He hasn’t the men,” Brandon said. “We’ve been bleeding him for months.”

“He has eight thousand riverlanders, twelve thousand crownlanders, and seven thousand sellswords,” Walter said. “The Crownland garrisons to the south have been stripped near bare.”

“A bluff,” Robert accused.

“One you could call easily,” Walter said, unbothered by the words. “Send your scouts, and you will see that I speak the truth.”

“Why tell us this?” Elbert asked. “You could have left with them, and caught us off guard with your numbers. If you do speak the truth.”

Again, Walter was unperturbed by the accusation. He retrieved a sealed letter from his jacket and slid it across the table to Hoster. “Both sides have their version of events,” he said, glancing at Steve, “and we can only do as our oaths command. That does not mean I have enjoyed being set against my liege lord or my Riverland fellows.”

Hoster had opened the letter and was reading it swiftly. It was not long, and after a moment of consideration, he handed it off to Robert.

“Prince Rhaegar has put out a call for a Great Council,” Walter continued. “He would see this conflict end with reason, not further bloodshed.”

The news was greeted with interest by most, murmured discussion covering the growl Robert made as he almost tore the letter with clenching fingers. Steve was able to glimpse a few words - received, amongst, Red, described, divine - but Robert wasn’t exactly holding the letter still, and then he was handing it off to Brandon.

“This changes things, does it not?” Jason Mallister asked, from near to the end of the table. “King Aerys’ position is weakened, and he holds only Maidenpool.” His gaunt face was considering, turning over options.

“And the Stormlands,” Beron said pointedly from his position standing near Steve.

“And the Stormlands,” Jason admitted, “but if Rhaegar thinks diplomacy is possible, then surely Lady Lyanna has not come to further harm?” He glanced at Robert, but he didn’t seem to have heard any of it, brow furrowed in deep thought.

Walter stirred at that. “Further harm?” he asked. “Did you not receive-?” he cut himself off at the look that Hoster was giving him, and winced as he looked over the various lesser lords who were part of the meeting.

“No,” Hoster said, “though your son is of course unharmed. He is a guest at Darry, and soon Riverrun.” His words received one or two strange looks from those not in the know about Rhaegar’s claims of Lyanna’s safety.

Steve was watching Whent, though. The man was in the know about Rhaegar’s intentions, and he was suddenly more curious about the content of the letter he had handed over.

“Hightower wants to repeat his strategy,” Robert said, interrupting as he set a heavy fist down on the table. “Only instead of Harrenhal, he wants to delay us with three smaller strongholds, force us to split up now that we’ve finally grouped up and marched.”

“We would be vulnerable to any army coming from the south for as long as the sieges lasted,” Elbert said, seated beside Brandon. “If we did not see them coming, we could lose an army. Likely Loamhedge, on the Kingsroad.”

“Then is it not best to avoid the risk, and let them come to us?” Bracken asked. He was at one end of the table, next to Jason.

“And give the Dornish or the Reachmen time to march north? Let the Westerlands find their courage?” Blackwood demanded from his seat at the far end. “You would have us surrender the initiative, and our courage alongside it. I fear no siege.”

“Of course a Blackwood would confuse vainglory with courage,” Bracken snapped back, and for a moment it seemed they would rise so they could argue without shouting past half a dozen odd lords.

“No decision will be made without the presence of all rebel Wardens and Lord Paramounts,” Hoster said sharply. “Until that time, you are welcome to discuss your thoughts with Lord Baratheon.”

Both men looked to Robert, and on seeing his glower, decided to hold their tongues.

“I have had my remaining servants prepare lordly quarters, and I have bread and salt to offer if you would take it,” Whent said to break the pause.

“Aye,” Hoster said. “We would.” He looked to his son-in-law. Brandon had squashed the letter in one fist, crumpling it something fierce. “There is much to consider, besides.”

The meeting came to an abrupt end, the news Whent had shared giving them a great deal to react to. A rider was sent to share the word with the other rebel leaders so their armies could account for the change, and those that had ridden to Harrenhal set about making themselves and their men comfortable, bringing them within the walls and to the Kingspyre tower.

The other leaders would not be arriving until much later in the day, and there was little to do except wait until that time. Steve kept himself busy by putting Robin through his paces, martial and mental, and by doing some sightseeing, returning to this or that place that he and his companions had spent time at during the tournament.

It was almost dusk when Jon and Eddard arrived at Harrenhal, and they were immediately locked away in talks with Robert, Hoster, and Brandon. The rest of the rebels judged that such talks would last long into the night, and that their presence would not be needed. For the most part, they would be right.

As the moon rose, a thin, sickle thing, a servant came to Lord America’s rooms, summoning him to the meeting. Higher up the tower, a solar had been commandeered, and a man taller and broader than Steve himself stood guard at the end of the hall that approached it, out of earshot. He recognised the man from the melee final, for all they hadn’t fought, and the man, Walder, waved him onwards.

When Steve joined the lords in the solar, the mood was easily divined. Brandon was furious, pacing along a bookshelf by one wall, while Jon and Hoster were holding a rapid, hushed argument across the room. Ned was still seated at the central table, eyes blazing in silent anger, while Robert was slowly crushing a metal goblet to a misshapen block with a single hand. There was a tray on the table that had a collection of food on it, none of it touched. Steve’s entrance drew their attention, breaking each man from what occupied them.

“What is it?” Steve asked, concerned. He had left Naerys surrounded by an army and protected by Kel and Walt and the rest of his company besides, but he knew better than most how unsafe war could be.

The lords seemed to share a glance, before reaffirming a decision already made. Jon stepped back to the table and pushed a scrap of parchment across it into Steve’s reach. It appeared to have come from a larger bundle still across the table, but it seemed that that piece was the most important.

Giving them one last searching look, Steve took the paper and unfolded it. It was no letter, only a scant handful of words, but on reading them, Steve understood immediately why they had reacted as they had.

‘He lied. It was always Rhaegar.’