“Gods be good,” Ned uttered, his guts curling into knots as he bore witness to what he could only describe as savagery. His horse shifted uneasily underneath him, and somewhere behind him, he heard someone empty their stomach. So revolting was the sight that no one had it in them to make a jest. Ned was tempted to follow suit.
“The Disputed Lands are vital to the Free Cities,” Paul answered a question that Ned didn't ask. “Myr knows that better than anyone.”
The words made sense to him, but Ned struggled to understand them. He, along five hundred others, had ventured forth into the Disputed Lands. A scouting mission to gauge Myr's reaction to the swift falls of Lys and then Tyrosh as much as it was about securing vital food production. The Royal Fleet was rapidly securing the Stepstones, with Brandon sending off ten thousand Northerners to secure the Bloodstone. Yet while that would help alleviate some pressure, the fact remained that they were in a deep deficits to feed the population of two major cities without the Disputed Lands or trade.
Before they had even arrived on shore, Ned and his scouts had seen smoke on the horizon. They rode off as fast as they were able, either to save the farming village or to avenge them, but by the time they arrived… it was long since too late.
The fields were burning, the heavy stalks of wheat reduced to blackened char. There wasn't a single building that was untouched by the fire, leaving behind only smoldering ashes. Yet, that wasn't what churned his stomach as he drank in the sight that would haunt him to his dying day. It was what had been done to the villagers.
Hundreds of them had been massacred. Their corpses were gathered in piles and burnt. Some of them might have been alive when they were set on fire, because he could find no other answer for how some charred corpses seemed frozen in a vain attempt to escape the pile of bodies they were buried under. Men and women laid naked in the streets, their bodies ravaged before they were murdered. Others hung from rafters, their bodies stripped of flesh, missing limbs, or were disfigured to the point that they barely resembled human beings.
They entered the outskirts of the village, and he saw nothing had been spared. No men, no women, or children, even the dogs and cats laid butchered in the dirt streets. There wasn't a single living soul in the village.
Yet, the cruelty, as gratuitous as it was, wasn't mindless. A message had been delivered to Ned, and any other man from the Seven Kingdoms. A warning of what fate would befall them. And a warning to any slave who dared to dream of freedom.
Ned arrived in the village square, a legion of flies buzzing around a pile of corpses, whose blood soaked the dirt so thoroughly it became a red mud. Horror and disgust welled up inside of him alongside righteous fury. There was an ache in his bones that demanded vengeance. One that made him grit his teeth against a command to find whatever tracks that they could and follow them to the ends of the Earth if needed to bring such animals to justice.
Instead, when he did speak, it was in a slow even tone. “We're two days too late,” Ned acknowledged. The maggots infesting the dead flesh told him that. “It won't be just one band. It'll be dozens. Maybe even a hundred.”
“They seek to deny us an army as much as supplies,” Paul agreed, his expression impassive. At least that's what it would seem to those that didn't know him well, but at this point, Ned thought he knew Paul better than most. There was a cold anger that was expressed with only his eyes. Not even he was untouched by such savagery. “They would start with the farms closest to the coast and move inward. Myr is as isolated as we are by this point. They'll use the time to gather what grain and foodstuffs that they can to hold out for a siege.”
Ned nodded, the words mirroring his own thoughts. Such butchery wouldn't be performed without sufficient desperation. He had learned about the Disputed Land's rich history -- how for centuries, despite countless battles being fought between mercenary companies, there was next to no pillaging or razing the farmland. There was no treaty that said as much, but it was a simple gentleman's agreement that the farmland would be more valuable if they weren't constantly rebuilding villages.
The result was that when territory traded hands, it was more of a form of aggressive tax collection.
‘This is because of us.’ Without them escalating the war, the Disputed Lands would have carried on as normal. The people of the village probably hadn't even thought anything was amiss until the first blade was drawn and they were confronted with the true horrors of war.
“They seek to weaken us and our message,” Ned agreed with a lump in his throat. There were so many rumors that it was genuinely impossible to separate fact from fiction. As some would tell it, Pentos and Volantis were either experiencing slave revolts, had been overthrown by the slaves, or the rebellions had been crushed. One thing was clear -- no such revolts would happen if the people fighting them didn't think they could win. And when tales of such brutality spread, that would make the faint of heart waver and kill any momentum such a revolt could gain.
Then, louder, Ned continued, “Say a prayer for them, but we ride on. We will honor them by stopping this from happening to the next village.” His heart felt like a stone resting in his stomach, but he was the first to urge his horse away. Yet he couldn't help but feel like the burnt out empty sockets of the dead were following him as he led his men onward.
…
Rhaegar felt like himself again. His wounds had mended, the situation in Lys had stabilized to a degree that open revolts didn't seem likely. More than that, the rest of the Seven Kingdoms were steadily mobilizing and promises of support were flowing in as fast as the ravens could bring them.
“The Reach promises forty thousand men, ten thousand of them knights. The Vale promises twenty thousand and five thousand knights. Dorne offers ten thousand spearmen, but the Riverlands are committing thirty thousand levies,” Rhaegar felt a certain thrill at the numbers. “Of course, the North has already committed forty-five thousand.”
The militia was growing in Lys and Tyrosh. Ten thousand former slaves in each city were being trained and drilled with more willing to carry on the torch until the promise was fulfilled -- every chain was broken in Essos.
“Our greatest issue will be logistics soon enough,” Rhaegar continued, the chain mail that he wore under his doublet clinking lightly, but after so many weeks, he had long since gotten used to sounding like a full coin purse every time he moved.
“You say that like it's already not,” Robert muttered between gnawing on a chicken bone like a dog before tossing the bone onto a silver plate alongside the others. “The noose is starting to tighten, Rhaegar.”
It had been two months since the North seized Tyrosh. While taking Lys had been a spark that set off a casket of wildfire, the fall of Tyrosh was the explosion itself. To the Seven Kingdoms, it was a sign that their cause was just and the gods were in favor of the war.
To Essos?
It was a warning bell that was heard across the continent. The far off cities in Slavers Bay; Meereen, Yunkai, and Astropor, or even the far off city of Quarth, it would be months before Rhaegar would learn of their reaction. What that reaction could be, Rhaegar prepared himself for the worst. But, if both Pentos and Volantis were beginning to stir was any indication, Rhaegar expected that he would be at war with the entire continent before the year was out.
“Volantis will have its election shortly. I imagine that for the first time in generations, the Tigers will have the majority,” Rhaegar acknowledged. Volantis had an interesting form of governance -- each year, there were elections between two parties. The Elephants, who favored trade and the Tigers, who favored war. It had been more than a century since the Tigers had the majority, and the First of the Daughters seemed to be waking up from its slumber. “However, they fight with slave armies. For every freeman in Volantis, there are five slaves. They won't take rash action.”
Robert looked particularly glum that he had finished devouring a chicken down to the marrow and now his eyes wandered for something else to snack on. Rhaegar pushed him a bowl of grapes. “I'm starting to think that we have a different sense of rashness over in the Seven Kingdoms. Volantis is a big fucker. When they get going, they can field an army of what? A million bloody soldiers? At that point, throwing a few hundred thousand at us feels quaint.” He popped a grape into his mouth, “Any word on the Westerlands or Greyjoys?”
“The Westerlands are committing five thousand knights. No word yet on the Greyjoys,” Rhaegar sighed. His father truly made a mess of things with Tywin Lannister. The Lord of Casterly Rock was willing to watch them all flounder and die before he would even consider sending a dedicated force.
“Fucking squids,” Robert grunted. “I don't like ‘em, but I like ‘em a whole lot less when they're quite like this.”
The Iron Islands were without doubt the best sailors in the Seven Kingdoms. They were also pirates, almost to a man on their small islands off the coast. Perhaps they had overplayed their hand with the Royal Fleet and Pirate armada -- maybe they intended to sweep in as saviors at the last moment, or wanted the Crown to come begging on their knees with hat in hand. In any case, Robert was right. The Iron Islands were being eerily quiet.
“It'll be another month before reinforcements arrive. I expected Volantis to act before then.” Robert continued, “And Pentos is under Braavos’ thumb. Allegedly. Best case is that they sit this one out, but that doesn't seem likely to me. Especially if Braavos commits anything to our supposedly shared mission of ending slavery. They say anything worth hearing yet?”
“Unfortunately, no,” Rhaegar confirmed, pulling out the slip of a letter that was full of platitudes and praises but completely empty of commitments. “We've won a few easy victories, but they understand taking the cities and holding them are different. They'll wait until we have our foothold.”
“Myr and the Disputed Lands,” Robert grunted. The last of the Three Daughters, and the one responsible for setting the Disputed Lands on fire.
Eddard Stark and Paul were chasing down the cut throats. They were doing a damned good job of it too by all accounts. But their efforts were overshadowed by the fact that the Disputed Lands were a mercenary's home away from home. The sellsails and pirates had scattered across the Narrow Sea, but the sellswords just went home. If they weren't accepting Myr or Volantis’ coin, they were just pillaging to their hearts content.
It wasn't a question of how well Eddard or Paul were doing safeguarding their interests in the Disputed Lands. For every sellsword or bandit they slew, ten more were ready to take their place.
“Then it comes down to Myr, then,” Rhaegar acknowledged. He would like to say that Myr would fall just as easily as the first two, but there was a painful key difference Myr had from its sister cities. It was located on the mainland instead of an island.
An island was more insulated, and that was why their habits with Lys and Tyrosh had worked. They were harder to reinforce as ships became a requirement to attack in any great number and such numbers of ships would be spotted long in advance. On the mainland, they would have to put the city to siege and that would allow mercenaries and other cutthroats to sneak forward and harry their men.
“A siege,” Robert agreed. “We won't get lucky three times.”
“No, we won't.” After two of the Daughters fell in rapid succession, Rhaegar imagined that the city would be locked down tighter than the Maidenvault. Boldness nor guile would win the day with Myr. Instead, it would be the slow grinding effort of a siege. One that would take years, in all likelihood. Something that would completely kill their momentum because Myr boasted a population of one and a half million people that dwelled within its walls. It wouldn't be a case of leaving a token force -- an entire army would be necessary to besiege the city.
“However, we cannot have Myr be our sole target,” Rhaegar continued. “We need to seize the Disputed Lands. And we must prepare a bulwark against whatever Volantis sends our way.”
Robert tossed a grape into the air and let it fall into his waiting mouth. He chewed thoughtfully for a moment. “Then let the North and Dorne cover themselves in glory. That'll put a boot up the arses of the rest of the Kingdoms.”
To that, Rhaegar offered a thin smile.
“The raven is already in the air.”
…
Oberyn Martell was a man of passion, be it between the sheets or upon the battlefield. There was simply and ever present itch in his blood that started to drive him mad when he sat still for too long. His elder brother, Doran, was cut from a very different cloth. There was a stillness in him that Oberyn lacked. As a boy, such a thing had bothered him to no end -- he couldn't understand Doran's excessive caution anymore than Doran could understand his rashness.
Now, a man, Oberyn took solace in how he and his brother were different. Even if it did drive him mad at times. Because, sometimes, his endless delays made a miracle happen.
“Ahh, Elia!” Oberyn threw his hands out wide, delighted to see his little sister back where she belonged -- the watergardens of Sunspear.
“Oberyn,” Elia greeted him in turn, accepting the hug before laughing as he swept her off her feet. “I'm happy that you waited long enough for me to see you off.”
He offered a roguish grin, “Of course, I would.” He said as if the very thought that she thought otherwise offended him. “Your husband seems to be doing well enough on the other side of the Narrow Sea, and by this point, he seems well used to the delays.”
Elia offered a thin smile, “It is those delays that had his father sending me here.” That would explain her presence. Delighted as he was to see her, it was unusual that she wasn't in Storm's End. The Lord Hand likely thought that Doran would be more inclined to give the long anticipated order if their younger sister would to ask.
Oberyn offered a thin smile, “You know our brother, Elia. Once something is set in motion, he hates it. The men are gathered, the ships prepared, and now all we wait for is ideal sailing weather to make our way to Tyrosh, and then Myr.” That, and Doran wanted to know exactly what Myr would bring to bear. Despite what the Young Dragon might have written about Dorne, ten thousand spears was a considerable commitment of men. Losing them would cripple Dorne for a generation.
For that reason, Oberyn did understand the cause for his brother's caution. It certainly didn't help that for all of the passion and cries that resonated throughout the Seven Kingdoms, many of the high lords were hesitating before they took the plunge.
Elia wasn't surprised, simply patting his hand to show that she understood.
Taking a step back, Oberyn’s gaze flickered to those who were in attendance, and he delivered a sweeping theatrical bow that would have earned a clout around the ear from his brother and father both. “Lady Ashara,” he greeted the famed beauty of the Seven Kingdoms. It truly did feel like madness at times that of all the men who had sought her hand, a gruff and silent northener was the one to win it. “A pleasure as always. Eager for one last summer in Dorne before retreating to the frigid North?”
“Fulfilling my duties to my princess,” Ashara replied, a thin smile on her face that didn’t quite reach her eyes. It rarely did when men were attempting to woo her, all the more so after the announcement of her engagement. “Though I will admit, I will miss Dorne. As well as the people here,” she allowed, knowing that Oberyn was not only a harmless flirt, but a helpless one as well.
“As Robert tells it, we’ll be seeing each other for birthdays and holidays,” Elia mused with a grin that told Oberyn that she didn’t mind the childish idea. “I don’t think he cares much that there are two kingdoms between us.”
If anyone could say anything about Robert ‘Stormlord’ Baratheon, it was that he accomplished what he set out to do.
Oberyn smiled, gesturing for his sister and her lady in waiting to follow. He had concerns about Robert prior to the marriage. He didn’t seem to be a bad sort -- a fine enough drinking companion and he certainly knew how to party, but as a husband for his beloved little sister?
He had his doubts, but Ellia seemed quite happy with the match. And that was enough for him.
“Both your husband and husband to be will be returning soon, won’t they?” He chatted with them as they walked the halls of the water gardens, heading towards Doran’s solar.
“By the end of the year,” Ashara answered with some relief. “Wedding aside, I think it would be good for him. The war has been… trying.” Elia offered a silent nod, and there was a loud silence at the admission. The stories had already started drifting across the Narrow Sea -- tales of barbarism that made his flesh crawl if they were even half true.
“They’ve more than earned their rest, by all accounts,” Oberyn acknowledged. Robert and Eddard would return to the Seven Kingdoms for a spell, and by the time that the second wave of troops ventured to Essos, they’d likely be the head of them. Ashara nodded her gratitude, but the conversation was brought to a gentle end as they arrived.
A few quick knocks at the door confirmed that it was him, and Oberyn heard Doran’s gruff voice through the thick door, “Enter.”
With careless disregard, he tossed open the door and Oberyn immediately recognized the gleam in Doran’s eye. He saw it frequently as a child. Usually, right before Doran ran off to tell their mother what trouble he had been getting into.
“Brother,” Ellia greeted Doran, the two sharing an embrace while Oberyn stood back. It was nice to have the family together again. For what might very well be the final time. Doran would become the ruler of Dorne. Ellia would take her place as Lady of the Stormlands. As for Oberyn, he would likely spend the next decade in Essos.
It was a tender moment that was brought to a swift close when Doran pulled back, and presented the proof that he had apparently been waiting for to justify his caution. Oberyn prepared himself for it when he accepted the slip of a note delivered by a raven.
‘Volantis has mobilized the Dothraki. Three khalasars ride to the Disputed Lands.’