Bran Stark continued to have his dreams. Some he could deduce hints from, but most often he had no idea what they could mean. As always, he shared them with his father. He made sure not to leave any details out, but when they could not determine what it could mean, they did not act on it. These latest ones, though – those concerned him greatly.
"Father, these dreams were vivid, and they felt important."
Eddard Stark's face looked weary. They were setting a rather punishing pace to get to the ships as quickly as possible.
"Go on then, Bran."
It was just the two of them, and so Bran explained his latest dream.
"I saw two dreams of things falling to the earth. One was a burning comet of fire; it crashed into a blackened castle. The other was the moon – only, it was the moon during certain times when it is like a crescent. I don't know what they mean, but the blackened castle could be Harrenhal or the Wall in the north."
Eddard shook his head.
"These visions… I know they seem important, but what can we do with them? It may be time for you to be sent to Winterfell. It is foolish for my two eldest heirs to be with me in a war camp."
Bran chewed his lip. He did not want to be sent away. It was more than just the dreams he had. Even while awake, he could sense things from Duty, but also from Grey Wind. During the 'Battle of the Maidens,' he'd been able to sense what was happening; he'd known how the battle unfolded and that Robb had not perished with certainty. He didn't have that same feeling for his other siblings and their wolves. He could only sense the direction they were in.
"Maybe, maybe I'll get better at understanding them with practice, father. I also saw lions burning in a field of flowers. They thrashed and set ablaze the flowers around them. I think– I think that means that the Lannister and the Tyrells are going to fight – and soon."
"We don't need your visions to know that," his father lightly admonished.
"I had the same dream of the manticore again, but that isn't the one that worries me. It is the one of two wolves bleeding, surrounded by dragons. I don't think Sansa and Arya are safe on Dragonstone."
Eddard's eyes widened. "They were bleeding? I need more details – what harmed them?"
"I couldn't tell, they were both wounded – they were alive, but wounded. I know that you don't trust them fully, father, but please, get Sansa and Arya away from that island."
"That isn't easy, Bran. The princess has taken a liking to the two of them. It will also make some suspect our loyalty if we seek to move them."
"But they are in danger!"
"We don't know in what way, and perhaps this is some sort of symbolism, or maybe it is more benign. You've been taught the basics of what occurs to girls' bodies when they reach womanhood. Maybe both of my daughters will flower while on Dragonstone."
Bran did not think that was what his dream meant. He balled his fists at his sides.
"Please, father, this is important – get them away from the island."
Eddard frowned. "I'll speak with the King; perhaps he can be convinced to have his daughter taken to Whiteharbor and then Winterfell. While we do control the seas, Dragonstone does not have a strong garrison. He may be convinced, but I can make no promises."
Bran smiled; his father was finally acting on one of his visions. He was happy, and hopefully it would mean that his sisters would be safe. He also imagined that his mother would be overjoyed to have the girls home, as would baby Rickon and his direwolf. More and more, Bran began to believe that it was important for the direwolves to be around each other. They were bonded in some way that went beyond the physical.
"Thank you, father, I was also taught a new trick by Dacey; she says that it is hard to pull off, but that I have the quickness for it."
Bran regaled his father with his improvement in hand to hand. Dacey Mormont was no Ser Barristan, but she was cunning and quick and did not mind showing him some of her tricks. Bran hoped that the old knight was well, even though they were now on opposing sides. He wished the same for Tyrek and Myrcella. He could only hope that this war would end soon.
***
Edmure Tully had done his duty – none could say otherwise. Despite his desire to protect the Riverlands, he had dutifully obeyed the King. He had not challenged the Old Lion in the field, even as unspeakable things were done to his people. He knew men talked outside his hearing. Oh, they no doubt gave him some credit; speaking of how Edmure knew the limits of his capability. How Hoster's son could not defeat the 'great' Tywin Lannister. It sickened him, but he remembered his house words, and did his duty.
Then his friends fell. Boisterous Marq Piper and the always steady Karyl Vance. He mourned them still, but again, he did his duty. He took command of the least important part of the army and went to hold Harrenhal. His good-brother had told him that holding the central location and having the largest part of the King's army was a critical role and an honor, but Edmure thought differently. The war would be won soon, and Edmure would have done nothing of note but get his own friends killed by backing their plan.
To add to his humiliation, he had, against his good-brother's advice, spoken with the wretched girl. Edmure did not know why Stannis was so convinced that that sharp-tongued miniature Cersei was Robert's child. She was a Lannister to the bone. The Stormlords thought so little of him, that taunts would get him to go against the orders he had from his King. Would his people think that he did not act more boldly because he did his duty? Or would they say that he was cowardly and a shame upon Hoster Tully's legacy? Edmure drank from his cup bitterly, for he knew which.
The ransoming of the two knights was a balm to his frustration, though they had little of useful information to share. They swore that they had been treated well and had even dined with Lady Myrcella on two occasions. Save for a lack of privacy, they had been treated with honor.
Ser Barristan's influence, no doubt.
Yet, the actions at the parley befuddled him. Ser Barristan was not there; instead, the puppet master had been Lord Alesander. House Staedmon was a noble house of the Stormlords, but hardly the most influential one. It didn't make sense.
"Clement," he called to his dead friend's father, "why do you think they were so desperate to face us in the field?"
"It could be a few things, my lord. Orders from the Old Butcher, or maybe just desperation. They know that they can't take Harrenhal, and they can't move further north or they could be cut off in truth," the older man answered.
The burly Northern lord spoke up, "I don't know enough about your southern intrigues, but I bet that the little princess has a bit of real say. Lord Stark told us all that her tongue and wit were sharp. But she's still a child and a girl. She has a soft heart. She gave back Bran Stark without a ransom, she released Nestor and the other Vale knights, and ransomed your men back to you. Nay, it may not have been a trap at all; I think she really doesn't want to pillage your people. I think she may even desire to lose over being forced to do that."
Edmure thought about Lord Karstarks words. Would the Stormlords really be willing to let a soft heart govern their strategies?
"If that is so, why the barbed japes and taunts immediately after returning our knights? Even now they howl outside of arrow range, beat their drums, blow their horns, and scream their taunts of how we are but mewling cowards."
It had been another humiliation. The pride of the Riverlands had already been strung, and these petty taunts were an additional and unnecessary cruelty. Not the actions of a soft-hearted girl or of the most honorable knight in the realm.
Tytos Blackwood drained his cup as well. "A pathetic attempt to draw us out. Maybe a continuation of the low schemes they pulled on the march. Not having a good night's sleep was a wretched experience."
Lucas, his son, nodded in agreement. "Now that was a damned Lannister scheme if I've ever seen one. The Stormlands have never fought that way. The fools don't realize how thick these walls are; I can barely even hear them from here."
Edmure and the other lords were currently dining in the Kingspyre Tower, the largest of the five half-ruined and melted towers of Harrenhal. The vast fortress was one of the great absurdities of the world. How many hundreds, if not thousands, died constructing this? The people owed their fealty to the knights and lords above them, but in turn the lords had a duty to not abuse those under them. Yet, Black Harren had cared not one bit for the people who died in creating this oversized castle.
It was an impenetrable fortress, able to stand against any force of arms. It did not save him from the fire of dragons. A fitting fate for a cruel lord, Edmure thought.
He turned back to the conversation and nodded toward Lucas. "That is one thing I am looking forward to in this place – good sleep!"
The other lords toasted to that. As they drank and enjoyed a moment of respite, Edmure was glad that they had ample wine stocked. House Whent had not stinted in making sure that they were adequately provisioned. When the King had ordered his army split, the baggage train had primarily gone with Edmure. Stannis and the horse were moving toward incoming supplies and friendly territory, so they had less of a need. Despite the vast host sheltered within Harrenhal, they had provisions for months if not years. For now, they were enjoying fresh meat, wine, and even fruit. He knew that, as the siege prolonged, the quality of the food would lessen; it would remain as filling, but not nearly as tasty.
Edmure was more than a little drunk when he stumbled into the bedchamber his servants had made ready for him. Despite his frustrations with the situation and what had been done to the Riverlands, it did not take him too long to drift off to sleep.
The heir of Riverrun was not able to rest for long before he was awoken by panicked shouts.
"Wake! Everyone to arms! They have seized the gate!"
"Hurry!"
Edmure stumbled out of bed, still half drunk. A knight came in, "My lord! Somehow a force has made it into the walls; Lord Bracken and others are rallying the men and trying to take back the gate."
He was confused; he couldn't think. Take back the gate? That was impossible – he had ordered both the main gates and the eastern gate to be heavily guarded.
"Sword! I need a sword!" One of the squires came rushing in with a blade in its scabbard.
Edmure did not take the time to don his armor, instead just grabbing something to cover his smallclothes as he exited into the balmy night. The sounds of fighting were heavy, and he was met with pure chaos. Many men had been garrisoned in the towers themselves, but also in the courtyards outside of the towers, for even Harrenhal could not so easily fit 20,000 soldiers. Those tents had been laid out away from the gates and furthest from the noise and taunts. Edmure saw streams of half-armored men race toward the massive gatehouse that held the central gates of Harrenhal.
Before Edmure could even give any orders, he saw the enemy men already on the inside of the gate and holding it open for a cavalry charge that crashed into the bleary-eyed Riverlands soldiers. The numbers were too great for the charge to completely push through, but it allowed for many more of the Stormlords to gain entry. Here, the massive size of the gates worked ill for the defenders. A normal castle gate would only be a few meters wide at most, but Black Harren had had his massive gate thrice that size.
Edmure made his way toward the fighting and saw Bolton spearmen forming up into ranks. He passed them and saw Lord Piper, atop a horse, shouting out orders.
"Lord Clement! What is going on? What has happened?"
"They've taken the gatehouse; their front is all knights, some mounted and some on foot – we cannot seem to force them back!"
Edmure's sleep and wine-addled wits impaired him, but not so much that the problem wasn't like a punch to the gut – knights fully armored and armed, fighting together in an unbroken line, were the greatest power of Westeros. Within the chaos of the fight, there were knights fighting with levies, some armored, some not, groups of people running and fighting with people who they may not be familiar fighting next to. The bedlam exacerbated everything.
"LANNISTER!"
"BARATHEON!"
"MYRCELLA!!!"
The enemy surged forward, pushing the beleaguered defenders of Harrenhal back, creating even more room for more of their allies to push in. Arrow fire began raining down, and Edmure saw a man not five feet away take an arrow to the shoulder.
Edmure was at a loss – how was this happening?
"My lord, you need to rally the men; get some armor on. We've lost the opportunity to drive them from the gatehouse quickly. Too many of their men are now inside and fighting. Get men up on the wall before they've spread from the gatehouse," Lord Clement instructed.
Edmure nodded. All that made sense. Piper then grabbed him by the arm, "Most importantly, do not let the men break. Do no risk your life in battle – if you fall and word of it spreads, we will be lost. Our men are already teetering at the edge of despair!"
He wanted to argue, but there was no time, and he was the heir of Riverrun. He needed to rally his people. Edmure pulled away and began to shout out orders.
***
Jaime was still displeased with the overall strategy as the battle began. Joffrey was 'leading' the Gold Cloaks. In a standup fight, they were basically levies. He had to hope that the Hound and his three Kingsguard brothers would protect his son. He didn't have any real affection for the boy, but Cersei would be wroth if he was injured or killed.
For his part, Jaime was leading the cavalry on the northern flank, to the right of the center. He knew that Lord Beric was on the southern side, to the left of the center, and that their plans were similar in nature. As the Tyrell force advanced, they were to swing further north and then circle back to strike the flanks of the opposing force. Due to the density of the woods, most of his knights did not carry lances. The terrain was simply not suitable for a massed lance charge.
Jaime had already begun to sweat due to the gilded armor that covered him head to toe. He knew that he stood out – he wanted to. Let them know that they faced the Lion of Lannister. Even the ringmail his steed was equipped with glittered.
"Is this your first battle, Peck?"
Jaime's squire, whose full name was Josmyn Peckledon, was a dutiful boy, but boring and shy.
"It is, ser."
"Battle is one of the few times a man truly feels alive. Enjoy it, but keep your wits about you."
"I will, ser."
The Tyrell banners were visible now. Sunlight streamed in, scattered by the trees and leaves of the summer growth of the Kingswood. Where the light hit upon armor, it glittered; while not as bright as Jaime's, the Tyrells' armor was also polished to a shine.
Jaime gave the signal, and his host rode north and then west, angling toward the advancing Tyrells. Not unexpectedly, they were soon met with knights on horseback to challenge their attempt to flank. Tyrell, Serry, and Willum heraldry were displayed, and Jaime ordered the charge.
The clash was sharp and furious, a glorious battle in Jaime's eyes. His overwhelming strength knocked an opposing knight from his horse with a single blow from Jaime's blade. He blocked an axe with his shield, and the two mounted groups became locked in a whirling brawl.
Jaime looked for worthy adversaries to kill. Grinning underneath his helm, he saw Theodore Tyrell fighting ably against a Westerlands knight. Jaime spurred his horse, slashing through a lightly armored foe, likely a squire.
"Tyrell! Face me!" Jaime challenged, and he saw the body posture of one of Mace's many cousins turn defensive.
Thedore slashed about him and called out, "There's the Kingslayer! Kill him!"
With that, several knights tried to do just that. Jaime expertly maneuvered his horse for advantage and stabbed one of the horses in the eye, sending the pain-maddened steed into convulsions. The head of the Kingsguard took swift advantage and stabbed the Serry knight underneath the pit of the arm, parting the mail with the sheer force of his blow.
Another struck out with a mace, and Jaime dodged in his saddle; the blow glanced off his pauldron instead of his helm. The next few moments were a whirl of frantic slashing, hacking, dodging, and horsemanship. Within minutes, Jaime had slain Thedore Tyrell and Lord Willum. With their fall, the Tyrell knights were beginning to break.
That was when he saw the smoke. Looking to the south through the trees, fires were being kindled with flaming arrows. Jaime grew uneasy; fires in a dry forest at the height of summer carried risk. The air was fortunately more stagnant than windy, but that could change. An explosive sound carried over the shouts of battle as bits of bark and branches were thrown through the air, alight with greenish flames.
Wildfire – that was why father had us march to the edge of the Kingswood and then spent half a day marching back into the woods.
The Reach knights already on the verge of breaking now scattered as Jaime urged on his men to give chase. Jaime cut down fleeing foes, and, after another minute, he heard two more explosive flames roar to life. He concluded that wildfire must have been scattered in trees, maybe even buried in certain places, and once any flame drew near, it would set off the volatile substance. Everyone knew that wildfire was dangerous, Jaime more than most.
It was a substance that could not be quenched by water; only sand could reliably smother the flames. Jaime had slain the Mad King over his plot to burn King's Landing, and now it was being used in the Kingswood. His stomach churned as he slew.
It was difficult to tell the overall flow of the battle, but now war cries had been replaced with screams and shrieks of pain, as even the worst battle wound paled to the agony of burning flesh. More explosive ignitions occurred, and to Jaime's growing horror, several of them were further east, where the Gold Cloaks were arrayed.
Joffrey
Fists clenched within his gauntlets, he roared out orders. "Go, all of you follow the plan and attack the Tyrells; I need to see to the King!"
Jaime pulled on the reins of his mount and angled south-east, toward the clash of the Tyrell Vanguard and the Gold Cloaks. As he rode, the smoke grew thick, and the fires raged more and more out of control. He dodged fleeing men, both Tyrell and Gold Cloaks who ran, oft,times without even a weapon or shield in hand.
His horsed whinnied and shied away as the holocaust raged around them. Jaime cursed before he saw another fleeing Gold Cloak.
"You! Where is the King?"
The man ignored him, and Jaime struggled with his mount to pursue. He finally forced it forward and cut off the man's retreat. Jaime leapt off his horse, and it ran off and away from the thickening smoke and flames.
"I'll gut you myself if you don't answer me!"
"I… I don't know. We were battle'n them, and it wasn't going well, and then fiery arrows started raining down on the both 'o us. Then the Seven Hells opened up, and we had to go! I didn't see the King, I swears it, m'lord."
Jaime cursed again and let the man leave. He tried to make sense of where the original battle line may have been and where it was likely Joffrey was now, but in the bedlam, it seemed hopeless.
"The King!? Where is the King?" he shouted, hoping that someone would answer, but all he heard were the screams of the dying. His eyes stung as rivulets of sweat ran down his face underneath his helm. He ripped it off and threw it to the ground.
His eyes stung, and his lungs began to ache as he coughed. Jaime had to get out of the area; if Joffrey was in the conflagration, he was lost. Jaime moved, but now on shaky limbs. He moved, attempting to go back the way he'd come – only… which way was that? The ground began to shift beneath his feet as he wavered. A cough wracked his body, and his balance left him as he stumbled to the ground.
Jaime tried to rise, but the world was spinning, and he felt so tired, so weary, he just wanted to close his eyes. Thoughts of Cersei flashed in his mind, beautiful Cersei. He had to get up. He got to one knee and tried to rise, tried to hold onto his all-consuming desire to get back to his sister. With a surge of effort, he climbed to his feet, only to collapse back to the ground; the stench of burning flesh and ignited wood filling his nostrils as blackness overtook his vision.