Happy easter to all of my American readers! as a treat im dropping a douible release now and maybe even naother chapter later today, enjoy!
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[Combined Siege Camp at the base of Castle Pyke, 7th moon, 289AC]
The white of Jaime Lannister's Kingsguard plate caught what little sun dared peek through the cloud-choked sky over Pyke. Rain had come and gone throughout the day, and now the air hung with dampness, heavy with the scent of salt and smoke. The clangor of ships being unloaded echoed faintly through the camps, mingled with the distant cry of gulls circling the black, broken coast of the Iron Islands. Jaime stood with his helm under one arm, hair damp with sea mist, and fought the urge to smirk.
So much effort for so little a foe.
Balon Greyjoy, Lord Reaver of Pyke, had fancied himself a king. A king. Jaime could still scarcely believe it. What had the fool expected? That Robert would let him have his crown? That the realm would forget the Baratheon hammer had crushed the dragon, and now would cower before squid and salt?
Jaime turned from the cliffs and strode toward the great war tent, his white cloak trailing behind him like a banner of snow. He passed knights from the Reach and the Westerlands, mud-caked men-at-arms from the Riverlands, and Tyrell bannermen murmuring beneath damp plumes. Some nodded as he passed; others averted their gaze. Few greeted him. That was the way of things when you wore the white cloak. No bannerman, no inheritance, no cause but the king.
He reached the tent in time to catch the tail end of some dispute between Randyll Tarly and Paxter Redwyne. Something about fleet positioning, or ladders, or angles of attack. Jaime barely listened. He'd fought in enough battles to know that war councils were like mummer's shows, full of bluster, with all the good parts left for later.
Inside, the council had gathered. The great lords stood hunched over a canvas map stretched across a thick oaken table. King Robert Baratheon sat slouched at the head, warhammer beside him, drinking mug in hand. He wasn't drunk yet, but the shine in his eyes said it was only a matter of time.
Tywin Lannister, his father, stood at the king's right, arms crossed, golden lion gleaming on his crimson cloak. Jon Arryn, pale and drawn, looked tired as ever. Lord Tully leaned heavily on the table. Tarly, grim as always, glared at the map like it had personally insulted him. Redwyne looked out of place, a perfumed grape seller among wolves. Ned Stark stood silent and watchful, saying little but missing nothing.
And there was the boy.
Alaric Stark.
Lord of Winterfell. Warden of the North. Ten years old, with eyes too old for any child and a mouth set in the grim line of a man twice his age. He stood apart from the rest, hands clasped behind his back, long black cloak motionless even as the sea winds stirred the others.
Jaime had seen boy-lords before. Fools pampered by maesters and squires, given castles and titles while wet behind the ears. Alaric was different. He said little, but listened to everything. He hadn't spoken once since Jaime entered the tent, but he had yet to stop studying the map or the men around it.
The lords, for their part, ignored him entirely.
"A direct assault on the west bridge," Tarly was saying, jabbing a finger at the parchment. "Ladders here, here, and here. We force the gate, push through with heavy infantry. If we coordinate with Redwyne's ships—"
"Exposed," said a voice.
Not loud. But sharp. Clear. Like a blade drawn in a quiet room.
All heads turned.
Alaric's eyes were fixed on Tarly.
"Those bridges were made to kill us," the boy said. "Narrow, steep, and watched from above. Murder holes, slits for arrows. The Greyjoys want us to come that way. We'll lose hundreds."
Tarly scowled. "And what would you have us do, boy? Send ravens and ask them to open the gates?"
Robert chuckled into his mug, but said nothing.
Alaric's voice did not waver. "Collapse the tunnels beneath the outer keep. They draw seawater in to flood their larders during the siege. We collapse the supports and let the sea do the killing."
Silence.
Even Tywin looked at the boy then.
"That will take time," Tarly muttered. "Men. Engineers."
"We have both."
Redwyne blinked. "But the Ironborn—"
"Let them entrench," Alaric said, cutting across him. "The deeper they dig, the fewer paths they have to flee."
Tywin's mouth barely moved. "And if Balon uses that time to rally what strength remains?"
"Then he dies in a tomb of his own making."
The boy stepped forward, placing a single finger on the map. "Flood them. Starve them. Let the sea swallow them. You don't win a siege by bleeding men, you win it by breaking your enemy's will."
The lords stared.
Robert's smirk widened. "A sharp one, isn't he?" the king said, eyes glinting. "Like Stannis, if Stannis had balls."
No one laughed.
Jaime allowed himself a slight smile. Gods, this is going to be fun.
Redwyne folded his arms. "And while we wait for salt and tide, what would you have our forces do, boy? Sit on our hands?"
Alaric's reply was cold as the winds of the North. "I would have the Reachmen build the siege engines properly. I would have the Riverlords map the coastline and cut off every route of escape. And I would remind the Westerlands that a golden lion dies just as easily to an axe on a narrow bridge as a common man."
The tent went still.
Tywin did not move.
Jaime's smile deepened.
Robert drained his mug and slammed it on the table. "Done, then. The boy's plan has merit. We flood the tunnels and tighten the noose. And if Balon wants to drown in his castle, let him."
The council murmured assent, reluctant or otherwise. Tywin said nothing, but his gaze lingered on Alaric as if trying to decide whether to have the boy knighted or strangled.
The council broke apart in pieces, men departing in clumps, some muttering, others silent. Jaime lingered near the rear, still watching the boy.
Alaric remained at the map.
Jaime approached quietly, helm still under one arm.
"You made some enemies today," he said.
Alaric didn't look up. "Then they were never worth having."
"That sounded like something my father would say."
Now the boy looked at him. No fear. No awe. Just that same calculating stare.
"I'd rather not be your father."
Jaime blinked, then laughed. "Seven save us. A sharp tongue, a sharp mind. You'll be cutting heads off before your voice cracks."
Alaric turned back to the table. "I have already chopped off my fair share of heads, and yet, not all battles are won with swords, ser."
"No," Jaime agreed. "But those are the ones I prefer."
He left the boy there, standing over the map like a little king of bones and cloth.
Outside, the sky had darkened to a bruised violet. Thunder rolled distantly over the sea, and smoke curled up from the siege camps as fires were lit for the night.
Behind him, the tent flap stirred.
Jaime glanced once more over his shoulder, at the boy who had just outmaneuvered half the realm's greatest lords.
He's going to be a problem, Jaime thought. A ten-year-old with a plan and teeth. Gods help the Ironborn.
And god's help everyone else when he comes of age.
[Later that night, the Gathering Tent]
The feast was grand, bloated, loud, and reeking of the kind of false revelry only soldiers could summon before a siege. Banners swayed in the salty evening breeze, bright silks flapping high above the makeshift longhall built in haste by Tyrell engineers on the cliffs near Lordsport. Inside, torchlight danced against the polished helms of knights and the burnished breastplates of lords, their shadows long across the tent walls. The scent of roast boar and Dornish Red filled the air like perfume in a brothel, intoxicating and vulgar.
Ser Jaime Lannister stood behind the King's table, clad in white plate polished to a blinding sheen. His white cloak pooled behind him, immaculate, even in this makeshift campaign court. A few errant grease stains marred the tablecloth near Robert's end, and the king himself, red-faced, half-drunk, and already boisterous, had wine dribbling into his beard.
"Seven hells, look at you, Kingslayer," Robert bellowed, raising his goblet in mock salute. "The shining knight! The White Lion! Gods, you're pretty enough, I should send you over to seduce Balon Greyjoy out of his castle!"
The table erupted in laughter.
Jaime offered a tight smile.
"And here I thought you were saving all your charm for Rhaegar," Robert added, then leaned close, breath stinking of Arbor gold. "Tell me, Kingslayer, do you miss him?"
Jaime's jaw clenched. The laughter dimmed slightly at the edges. Tywin Lannister, seated three chairs down, said nothing. He rarely needed to. His eyes did the speaking.
"I miss the quiet," Jaime said, voice smooth as Dornish silk.
Robert's grin widened, but his eyes stayed on Jaime a moment longer than the jest warranted. Then he clapped Mace Tyrell on the shoulder and turned to jape about someone else, Paxter Redwyne's paunch or Randyll Tarly's beard, perhaps.
Jaime leaned his head back, letting the chorus of voices roll over him like waves. There were too many of them, lords and knights in bright armor, gold and silver and green and red, all feasting on borrowed time. Some wore smiles too wide for the moment, laughed too loud. Mace Tyrell, especially, swollen with pride and meat both, seemed to think this campaign little more than a tourney.
Lord Paxter Redwyne drank heavily, his face flushed as he boasted of his ships' maneuvering. Randyll Tarly spoke little, but his cold eyes roved across the gathering like a hawk over a battlefield. Hoster Tully sat stiff and straight, lips pressed into a thin line. He drank little.
Then there were the others, the silent ones. The men with the hard eyes.
Lord Jon Arryn barely touched his food, murmuring often with his squire. Stannis Baratheon stood by the tent flap like a pillar of granite, untouched by the revelry, his mouth drawn into a permanent scowl. Tywin Lannister sat beside Lord Redwyne and said little, though Jaime knew that silence hid a calculating mind that missed nothing.
But it was the boy who drew Jaime's eye.
Alaric Stark sat beside his uncle Eddard and Ser Torrhen Stark, the latter built like a statue hewn from Northern stone. The boy wore black and grey, wolf's head stitched in silver at his collar. His dark hair was tied back from his face, his features quiet, still.
(Picture of Alaric Stark at 10 —>)
He had barely touched his food. Every so often, he leaned in and murmured something to his uncle or Torrhen, and the older men would nod or frown, depending on the words.
He's thinking, Jaime realized. While the rest feast, that one's thinking about tomorrow.
There was no wine at Alaric Stark's place.
He looked like a wolf among dogs.
Jaime turned back to a goblet sitting on the King's table, poured for Jaime specifically. He had little taste for this sort of feasting. Once, perhaps, when he was younger, before the cloak, before the throne room, before the king who bled and begged on the steps of the Iron Throne. But now?
It was noise. Empty and vain.
He stood quietly as the feast dragged on, exchanging few words, observing. He knew how it would end: song, spilled wine, and a few lords drunkenly challenging each other to spar at dawn. But tomorrow would be no tourney. Tomorrow, the Iron Islands would burn.
[Pyke, early Dawn]
The next morning came with cold grey light and the keening of gulls. A mist hung over the shore, clinging to the stone like memory.
Campfires had burned low by the time the horns began to call the lords to council. The great pavilion near the siege works had been converted overnight into a war tent. Maps of Pyke lay unfurled on the main table, stones marking troop deployments, fire-throwers, and where the last of the trebuchets had been anchored on the cliffs.
Jaime stood behind King Robert as the great lords filed in. Eddard Stark was early, as always. Alaric came beside him, carrying a scroll and a small carved wolf. Ser Torrhen followed, nodding curtly to Jaime.
The air was sharp with salt and oil.
Jon Arryn opened the council. "The western cliffs are nearly mined. The final breach can be made before dusk if we begin the bombardment at full strength within the hour."
"Then let's be about it!" Robert said. "Blow the damned walls down and take the castle. I'll have that squids head before my next piss."
Mace Tyrell laughed.
"Bluster and powder," muttered Stannis.
Tywin remained silent.
"The tides will be high by midday," noted Redwyne. "Ideal for the fleet to circle and blockade. But a strong wind might scatter the forward flotilla."
"Aye," said Randyll Tarly. "We need discipline. No premature landings."
"And how do we stop Balon's reavers from escaping through the sea caves?" asked Hoster Tully.
Alaric Stark stepped forward.
"We collapse them."
The lords turned. Some blinked in confusion. Others simply ignored him, speaking over each other.
"The boy's got thoughts now?" muttered Mace Tyrell.
Jaime's eyes flicked to Robert, who was watching with faint amusement, a smirk tugging his mouth. Not cruel. Curious.
Alaric did not back down.
"We've scouted the caves. Their inner tunnels run close to the secondary cliff. With concentrated bombardment, we can trigger a collapse, sealing them in. There's precedent, King Theon Stark did the same in the wars against House Hoare."
"Historical anecdotes," Tywin said flatly, "rarely carry the weight of stone."
Alaric turned to face him fully. "As you say, my lord. But even a child knows when a foundation is weak."
The room went still.
Eddard's mouth twitched.
Tywin's face did not move, but Jaime noticed the tightening at the corner of his father's eye. A quiet warning.
Jaime nearly laughed. The boy had steel.
"Continue," said Robert.
Alaric nodded. "We use the last of the fire-pots and boulders to collapse the northern cliff face. At the same time, we draw their eyes by feigning a landing to the east. When the walls fall, we march from the west while Stannis's ships seal the harbor. They will have nowhere to run."
"And if the Ironborn strike from the shadows?" asked Randyll Tarly.
"Then we kill them in the dark," said Ser Torrhen Stark.
Robert slammed a hand on the table. "A fine plan. Better than half the shit I've heard this war." He turned to Tywin. "What say you, Lord Lannister?"
Tywin was quiet for a long moment. Then: "It will work."
Jon Arryn nodded. "Then it is done. Prepare the siege engines."
[Later that day, the beginnings of the assault]
Dusk fell like a shroud over the Iron Islands. Smoke twisted into the darkening sky as the trebuchets groaned, ropes taut, fire-pots glistening with pitch.
Jaime stood at the forward camp, the sea wind tugging at his white cloak. His sword hung at his hip. Behind him, the men were silent, waiting.
A horn sounded.
Low. Deep. The sound of judgment.
The first stone flew.
It arced like a comet, trailing fire, and struck the cliff with a sound like a god's hammer. The ground trembled. More followed. The northern ridge began to split, great chunks shearing away and crashing into the sea.
Then, with a deafening roar, the wall of Pyke cracked.
Stone and timber exploded outward in a burst of light and dust.
A path was open.
"Forward!" came the cry.
And the wolves ran.