“If you have any final words, speak them now,” Ned uttered before a dozen men with nooses around their necks. He didn't know their names. He didn't know if they were of noble blood or not. What he did know was that they had unleashed nothing less than pure terror on a nearby village and snuffed out every life found inside. The men. The women. Even a baby in its crib.
They began speaking as one, and Ned couldn't understand a word that they were saying. He didn't speak Vaylarian. But it didn't really matter because the message was delivered all the same when a man spat at him in defiance.
It was strange the things that a man could grow used to. The spit barely registered, but he cleaned his face with a prepared handkerchief. Then, without another word, he kicked out the log that the man was precariously balanced on. The smug grin vanished in an instant, becoming strangled gasps with his legs flailing out to find something to stand on. The drop wasn't enough to kill them as the tree didn't have branches that were high enough that could hold their weight.
Ned didn't wait to watch the man's face start to redden and then darken further as he was strangled by his own weight. He simply move on to the next man on the branch and kicked out the log, making him drop. It was something else that he had gotten used to -- killing.
Their final curses didn't bother him. Nor did their whispered prayers and weeping when their composure broke. It became methodical. Normal. Almost boring in a way that he struggled with.
Stepping back from the last man hung on a branch, he watched him struggle and thrash for a long few seconds. There was a part of him that felt bad for the men. Their lives were being cut short, and he didn't even care enough to find a taller tree. He didn't care because of what he saw in a burnt husk of a village. One of many that he arrived far too late to save and he could only avenge.
“This is just part of a larger band,” Ned said, turning away from the still dying man. “Where are the rest of them?”
“North East, towards Myr,” Paul answered, falling in step next to him as they walked away from the tree with heavy branches. “They're mercenaries under their employ. Originally, they worked for Tyrosh.”
The information was expected. Almost every such band worked for Myr or they were enterprising bandits that were taking advantage of the chaos. It meant little, in the end. “Something has to be done about Myr,” Ned muttered darkly under his breath. “We are stemming the bleeding out here. We need to address the source.”
Being Myr's seemingly infinite gold that flowed into the coin purses of any would be mercenary.
“We can hardly mount a siege when there is an army of mercenaries poised at our backs to raze our food supply,” Paul replied. Ned could only grunt in response. It was true. Well reasoned. It was a conversation they had perhaps once a day, every day for over a month now. Yet, it was every bit as frustrating.
“My lord, we have a rider approaching,” A soldier called out to him. “House Tyrell's colors.”
Ned swallowed a sigh but nodded to the man. A few minutes later, a Reacher knight arrived on top of a warhorse. “Lord Stark. Lord Atreides,” the knight inclined his head to both of them but made no effort to dismount. A slight. Something the Ned found himself increasingly desensitized to. “I am Ser Reddington in service to House Tyrell. Lord Tyrell has learned of your valorous deeds and extends an offer for a luncheon with him and Prince Oberyn.”
That sounded like the very last thing that he wanted to do. Especially when he knew the reason for the invitation. “I'm honored, but the invitation is ill timed. The hunt we are on is half finished.” He said, making a gesture over his shoulder to the tree heavy with what were now corpses. “I have no time to make my way to your camp and still catch them.”
Ser Reddington's gaze lingered on the tree for a long few moments before it shifted back to Ned, “Lord Tyrell understands your dedication to your hunt, my lord. But your concern is unneeded. With me are a force fifty strong, and you have my word that the heathens of this land will be brought to justice.”
It would seem Mace Tyrell wasn't taking no for an answer.
“I see,” Ned replied. “Is Lord Tyrell's camp still in the same location?"
“It is, my lord,” Ser Reddington replied and Ned swallowed a frown.
“You have done your duty, Ser. Rest your horse and take refreshment if you have the need,” Ned said, knowing that he didn't have an excuse to refuse without slighting the Lord Paramount of the Reach. Ser Reddington inclined his head a touch more respectfully this time and led his horse away. Ned watched him go, and the sigh he swallowed bubbled back up. “They haven't moved.”
“Lord Tyrell seems to be a careful man rather than a bold one,” Paul acknowledged. “But he has reason to be.”
Ned grunted a reply, knowing that Paul wasn't wrong. The Disputed Lands were hells on earth, becoming a land of nothing but bandits, refugees, and terrified villagers who trembled at the thought of their village being the next to burn. All evidence to the contrary, they were getting a handle on the situation. His band of five hundred men was no longer the only one patrolling and hunting bandits. There were dozens of such patrols now, steadily bringing stability back to the farmland that was necessary to feed Tyrosh and Lys.
But it wasn't enough. They weren't doing enough. And it was called good sense and caution when the foundations of their support were being chipped away at day by day.
Washing himself with a rag, Ned mounted his horse. His second one of the campaign, a warhorse named Frost. His first had been skewered with a pike during a charge caused by anger overruling good sense. So, despite his frustrations, he swallowed them down.
It had been two weeks since the Reach army landed upon Essos, alongside the Dornish and Vale. The Storm and Riverlanders landed closer to Lys than Tyrosh, securing that swaths of territory under the purview of Prince Rhaegar. The Westerlands and Greyjoys hadn't committed a force yet.
Ned had expectations when they arrived. Tens of thousands of knights, all proclaiming that they were going to do the gods' work, only for there to be a large lull as they all awaited the blow that they knew was coming.
The Reach camp was easy to find, at least. It was well fortified with a palisade and a deep trench dug out around it. It was a vast camp, one able to fit tens of thousands inside with little difficulty. It seemed all the larger because it was attached to the Dornish camp, which was but a third of the same size. Beyond them both was the sea and their transport ships that now uselessly bobbed in the waves rather than be put to use.
‘It would have been easier to make one camp. More defensive too,’ Ned thought, urging his horse forward alongside a guard of fifteen soldiers. A small guard, but between them and Paul, he didn't feel the need to rob his men of any more strength during their hunt. ‘And the ships are kept here in case they need to retreat. They barely arrived, and they have a foot out the door.’
It wasn't a kind thought. Nor was it a fair one. Keeping the transports in position was a sound tactical decision. It was just that he doubted sound tactics had much to do with their continued presence in the harbor, instead of being used to transport troops or food to the cities under their occupation.
At the very least, the camp was well organized and active when he arrived some hours later, a servant waiting for their arrival to escort them to a tent that could only belong to Mace Tyrell. It utterly dwarfed the surrounding tents twice over, and if that wasn’t enough of an indication, then it being the house colors of House Tyrell on embroidered fabric would have been.
Stepping into the tent, Ned found two familiar faces. He did not interact much with either Mace Tyrell nor Prince Oberyn Martell during the Royal Wedding. He was the second son of the North, and as such, he was far beneath their notice. Something he wished would have remained true, especially when Mace stood up at his arrival.
“Lord Eddard!” Mace greeted him with a friendliness that felt entirely out of place. “What a relief it is to see you whole and safe!”
“From what I hear, he is not the one whose safety we should worry about,” Prince Oberyn remarked, a little smile on his lips. “Word of the Quiet Wolf has spread far and wide, Lord Eddard.”
Ned took a breath, “That would be because my father pays to spread the tales.” More often than not, he barely recognized himself in the stories told around campfires.
Prince Oberyn laughed, “But first there must be deeds worth exaggerating.” He remarked, and Ned conceded that point, at least. Still, the stories were exaggerated. He was hardly a force of nature seeking injustices to correct. Nor was he waging a one man war against slavery. “Which is more than I can say for us. Which leads us to why we’ve extended the invitation.”
Ned accepted an offered seat, suspecting what the conversation would be, “There has been word, then?”
“There has, my boy,” Mace replied with a deep nod. “Those savages have split their forces… and it would seem that we have received the lion's share.” His face scrunched with displeasure, and Prince Oberyn’s smile thinned into nothing.
“Two Dothraki khalasars are heading right for us. Thirty thousand screamers,” Prince Oberyn elaborated. “The third is twenty thousand strong, and it heads for our dear Prince Rhaegar.” That was a concern, but not as great of one that Ned had feared. That had been the three khalasars remaining whole and focusing on a single half of their army.
Mace sniffed, “Personality differences. The savages are prone to infighting, it would seem. The Khalasar Prince Rhaegar faces is under the control of Khal Bharbo -- he and his heir, Drogo, are not keen on the idea of sharing glory.”
“All the better for us,” Prince Oberyn agreed. “Still, that does not change the fact that thirty thousand Dothraki ride for us and they shall arrive within the week.”
Ned's gaze bounced between them before he spoke, “The Dothraki's greatest strength is their maneuverability. If we are to fight them at all, then it must be on a field of our choosing.” Ned had long since resigned himself to fighting the Dothraki, even before they had taken Lys.
While the Dothraki were barbarian horse lords that answered to no one but their khal and his ambitions, they were a formidable force. Almost entirely light cavalry, be they skirmishers or horse archers. There were a great many ways to defeat them in theory, but few held up in practice. The reason why the victories of the Golden Company and the Unsullied were so impressive was that they were some of the few who could put those theories into action.
To remain in formation despite a constant hail of arrows that lasted for hours on end? To not give chase during a feigned retreat? The careful and deliberate coordination necessary to hem the extremely mobile force in to deliver a devastating blow?
“Has one been chosen?” He continued, looking between the lords.
“There is one, but the Khal's would have to be blind and stupid to accept battle there.” Prince Oberyn voiced with a shrug. “It is to the west of here, near the shore. There is a sparse forest, and the ground becomes rocky and uneven. Very good for us. Very poor for horses.”
“Counting on our enemies to be fools seems unwise,” Ned acknowledged. “But if we cannot use the battlefield, then may I ask what is the plan? And for what purpose you asked for me?”
Mace sat uneasily in his chair, his gaze flickering to Oberyn, then back to Ned. “That would be… your brother in Tyrosh.”
Ned wished he could say that he was surprised, but he wasn't.
“If we cannot lead the Dothraki to a poor battlefield, then we must make do with an advantage of numbers. Thirty thousand Reachmen, and ten thousand Dornish spearmen… but I, for one, would feel greatly assured with a few thousand Northmen at my side. Especially when you all seem so capable.” Oberyn picked up when Mace faltered, offering a wink and a smile.
Ned wouldn't say that he disliked the Dornish Prince, but he didn't know how to handle him. He was very… himself.
“However,” Mace continued, “Lord Stark has been… less than gracious with his men.”
Oberyn's smile grew, “There are so many things that require his attention. The Bloodstone and its garrison. The city of Tyrosh. Patrolling the waters of the Stepstones…” he trailed off, his point delivered, and Ned could only sigh.
When the Seven Kingdoms arrived in force, Ned expected them to sweep over the Disputed Lands and to lay siege to Myr. To fully secure their foothold in Essos, to fortify it, and to prepare for the wave that was coming. Three Khalasars were only the beginning. They were the forces that the slavers would toss gold at to make the problem go away. When they failed, it was then that they would feel the true might of Essos.
Instead, Ned found… this. Factionalism of the highest order. Brandon denying the Reach and Dornish troops because they had undoubtedly denied something to him, so he was merely repaying the favor. Because, in Brandon and their father's eyes, should the Reach and Dornish falter, it was to the North's benefit. He imagined that Prince Rhaegar was having an easier time of it, given that he was the Heir, but the moment the lords and knights were out of eyesight?
There was this.
“I will do what I can,” Ned offered, but he knew he could make no promises. “But my brother's mind is his own. If we cannot count on his support for whatever reason, then we must plan accordingly.”
Oberyn tilted his head ever so slightly, much like a dog did when he found something of interest. Mace, however, openly looked nervous. He didn't receive the promise of reinforcements that he had obviously been counting on. Which wasn't to say that he wouldn't receive any -- Ned couldn't see his brother outright refusing him. But Ned did doubt that they would be able to overwhelm the Dothraki with pure overwhelming numbers.
“It seems to me that the Quiet Wolf has a plan,” Oberyn remarked lightly, making a gesture for a servant to bring forth a map. “A good one, I hope.”
“No such luck there, Prince Oberyn,” Ned admitted, looking at the unfurled map for a moment before he found the spot that was mentioned. He traced a finger along the parchment, the plan taking shape in the back of his mind. “I do, however, have a bad one.”
That earned what looked to be the first honest smile from the Dornish Prince.
And it only grew when Ned laid out his plan.
…
The city of Tyrosh was cut from a similar cloth as the city of Lys. It sat on a large island, with the city itself dominating it in its entirety. But, unlike their takeover of Lys, which had been relatively smooth, Brandon and his forces had arrived in the middle of a sack. Because of that, Ned arrived to see the burnt-out husks of buildings that were still being restored or torn down.
He arrived by a small vessel -- while the back of the pirate armada and sellsails was broken, that just meant that they scattered. Most fled the Stepstones, but there were still plenty that remained nearby, hoping to pick off ships in the hopes they would be heavy with supplies or wealth taken from the Free Cities.
“Ned!” Ned heard someone yell out the moment he set foot on the docks, and there was no mistaking Greatjon Umber. He stood a head and shoulders taller than everyone else, and there was a wide smile on his face as he approached with an escort. “It’s a relief to see you, lad. From the stories I hear, you weren’t going to leave enough fighting for the rest of us!” He laughed, and Ned allowed himself a small smile.
“Greatjon,” Ned returned, inclining his head. “Nothing to fear there. There’s nothing but fighting to be had in Essos.”
“That’s what I want to hear,” Greatjon said, clapping Ned on the back and half shoving him forward with the action. Greatjon was a bear of a man, and like one, he didn’t know his own strength. “When we arrived, half the fighting in Tyrosh was done. Now we’re looking to sink our teeth in the next big fight.”
Ned kept his thoughts off his face, but nodded along, accepting the escort to the palace that his brother had taken residence in. It was a grand building- grander than the Red Keep, in his estimation, but it wasn’t a castle. It was as large as one, including the castle walls, but it was a single massive building that had a hundred steps leading up to it with carved statues of slaves upholding a front balcony.
They passed underneath, and Ned found the palace to be a labyrinth in the truest sense of the word. By the time they took the fifth turn and third stairway to wherever his brother was, Ned was well and truly lost, and he had to hope that Greatjon knew the way. Otherwise, there was a real possibility that they’d never find their way out of the manor.
Brandon was behind a large set of double doors vast enough that three horsemen riding shoulder to shoulder could fit through with ease at the head of a round table that could seat thirteen people. A woman that Ned didn’t recognize was standing next to him. Closely. Close enough to be quite improper.
“Ned!” Brandon greeted him with a wide smile, and any thought of the woman vanished like smoke in the wind. Brandon… hadn’t been well. Not since the Royal Wedding some years ago now. He got better after his own wedding, but he still remained… solemn. Unusually serious when he used to smile and laugh easily.
It had been years since Ned saw his brother smile like that.
“Brandon,” Ned returned, a bit surprised. All the more so when he was swept up in a hug and patted on the back.
“It’s good that you’re here. Faster than I thought, too. Did you get the letter?” Brandon asked, making Ned still. When he shook his head, “Ah. No problem there, then, but what are you doing here if you didn’t get my letter?”
“Prince Martell and Lord Tyrell sent me,” Ned admitted, and Brandon immediately scowled. “That bad?”
“They’re too eager for glory, and it’s robbing them of their good sense,” Brandon replied, his tone sour. “The city is on the cusp of starvation. We’ve gotten by with shipments from the Seven Kingdoms and hauling in every fish in the Narrow Sea, but there's only so much room in a ship hull. The real issue is getting that food in the city, and they refuse to use their transport a few miles up the coast, doing nothing.”
That was about what Ned expected. As Mace and Oberyn told the tale, Brandon was simply being unreasonable and withholding troops.
“Worse, they won’t commit their troops to my command,” Brandon continued, catching Ned’s attention. Something that he noticed, because a roguish grin tugged at his lips. “Myr, Ned. I’m gathering forces up for an attack on Myr. And if the Reachers and the Dornish don’t want to be a part of that…?”
“Then let the Dothraki have them.”