Arya was a bit lonely. Only a few people knew that Princess Shireen was travelling with them. With her distinctive scarring, she was to stay in the cabins and have a heavy hood over her at other time to prevent her identity from being revealed. At least the journey by sea to White Harbor was unique and interesting. Travel by ship was a thrilling experience and she loved watching the seemingly endless ocean. Her relationship with Sansa was better than it had been in a long time. So naturally, as soon as they arrived in White Harbor, they were split up again. Sansa was to wed Willas Tyrell. The two sisters had hugged each other and promised to write letters, but Arya felt an ache in her chest. Most of the Stark guards who had travelled with them were going with Sansa, along with Jeyne Poole. So, Arya was a bit lonely. She still had Syrio though.
They had practiced while on the journey; the rocking motion of the ship made things more difficult, though it seemed not to phase Syrio one bit.
"This is the home of a water dancer; the waves are our cradle," he had said.
Arya had persevered, and she felt herself become more agile, accurate, and accomplished. Her ability to keep practicing for long stretches of time without growing exhausted had also improved, and she luxuriated in the feeling of relentless energy she could call upon when needed.
After splitting with Sansa, she was taken to Winterfell by Manderly guards. Seeing her home again had filled her with happiness, and Nymeria gave out a loud howl upon the sight. An answering howl came from within. Shireen clapped her heavily gloved hands at the howls, eager to meet another wolf. As they passed the gate, she saw her mother for the first time in what had seemed to be forever.
Arya practically leaped from her horse and ran to her mother to embrace her in a hug.
"Oh, my sweet child! Oh Arya, I've missed you so."
Catelyn kissed her cheeks and hugged her for a lengthy period. After being released, her youngest brother embraced her.
"I didn't think anyone would come back for me," he said in a small voice.
Arya ruffled his hair and promised they would play soon. After a few more heartfelt moments, Catelyn cleared her throat.
"We have visitors, Arya, and they have been looking forward to meeting with you."
Arya was curious but held her tongue as they entered Winterfell proper. Waiting for them were two strangers. A young woman and a boy who appeared near his maturity. Arya looked at them the way Syrio had taught her to look.
The woman was short and slim with green eyes. Her brown hair was knotted behind her head, and she wore a long knife at her belt. The set of her body allowed Arya to instantly know she knew how to fight. She wore a genuine smile on her face and appeared happy to see her.
The boy was also short and slim, and clad entirely in green. He was no warrior and had no weapon by his side. His expression was guarded, and he was examining her just as she was examining him. His eyes flickered to Nymeria and then to Syrio.
"This is Jojen Reed, heir to Greywater Watch. And his sister Meera Reed," Catelyn introduced.
Arya accepted the introductions and then introduced Syrio as her Water Dancer instructor. Her mother's mouth tightened at that, but Arya had been told by father that she would be allowed to continue her lessons.
"You can pet Nymeria; she won't bite anyone who isn't a threat."
Meera gladly did so. When Jojen approached, Nymeria gave a soft whine and looked at her, which made Arya's brow furrow in consternation.
"It is all right, Nymeria."
That was sufficient and Jojen joined Meera in petting the direwolf.
"What brings you to Winterfell?" Arya asked.
Jojen and Meera exchanged glances.
"Our father wished for us to be fostered here for a time," Jojen began. "He was close friends with your father, and they fought together in Robert's Rebellion."
He's hiding something.
Meera laughed, "Don't let my brother's formality make you think we are dull. I have always wanted to see Winterfell and its glass gardens. We also knew that Rickon might be lonely without his siblings."
A lie.
Arya enjoyed the welcome feast. Winterfell was not as crowded as it usually was, but she could see that the guard was still strong. It had several new faces, but they all looked competent. Well, at least for guards. Shireen had been introduced privately to Catelyn and took her food in her room with her guards. After her meal, she went to her room; it had been left almost just as she remembered it. It was cleaner now and had some new dresses of the style her mother liked her to wear.
A knock revealed Jojen and Meera.
"Arya, we wished to speak with you," Meera spoke.
"The hour is not yet too late – come in," Arya replied.
Jojen looked somber and uncomfortable. "Arya, I wish I could explain properly, but I do not have the words. You aren't supposed to be here. Bran is. And Bran needs to go north beyond the Wall. But he is in the south, and Rickon is far too young. You need to go with us."
Meera gave a groan. "Brother, have you taken leave of your senses? This is how you approach Arya?"
Arya blinked in surprise. Jojen was being earnest or was a world-class mummer. He was giving every indication he believed what he was saying with each utterance. What was going on?
"Why does anyone have to go beyond the Wall other than the Night's Watch?"
Jojen took a deep breath. "I dream of things, Arya; they are dreams that come true. Always – well, almost always. When I was young, I almost died of greywater fever. As I slept, a three-eyed crow came to me in my dreams, and ever since, I could dream of the future. And those dreams speak of the need for a Stark to travel beyond the Wall."
Arya frowned. That sounded like the Red Priestess and her magic.
"Are you followers of R'hllor?"
Meera sputtered. "Now that was not the response I expected."
Jojen shrugged, "We are not, but there may be similarities. Just as some men walk on a road, others travel by wheelhouse, while still others ride a horse."
"And some don't take the road at all," Meera said lightly, "but still arrive at the same destination."
"Just so." Jojen replied.
Arya's heart skipped a beat. When Jojen spoke those words in the precise way that Syrio spoke them, she knew within her bones that she would be listening intently to whatever they had to say. She had only just gotten home, but it looked like she was in for another journey with new companions.
***
Edmure Tully knew things could be worse, but it was hard to focus on that. He had been taken captive – again. The promises and plans of Petyr Baelish had faded away with the night assault that had shattered the Vale's host. As he spoke with others and witnessed the execution of the Lords of the Vale who had been there in the Eyrie when Lady Myrcella had been 'condemned,' he realized that his sister had absolutely destroyed her own honor and that of the house she had wedded into.
It was a bitter realization, and one that filled him with shame. He also had failed to uphold the Tully name. Twice made a captive with no successful battles under him. Edmure knew that he would be a laughingstock, if he managed to survive until the war was over. He had not been informed of how the war at large was going, but he saw the Frey banners in the camp and had been part of two drastic defeats. If Lady Myrcella's side won, the Tullys would no longer be the overlords of the Riverlands. That title would go to the damnable Late Lord Walder Frey.
He and the other prisoners were escorted back to Harrenhal. He was treated coldly, but respectfully by the guards. They did not make much idle talk with him, but they gave him adequate food and water and did him no harm. When they arrived at Harren's folly, he met with Ser Gladden Wylde, the Stormguard member who oversaw the fortress.
"Welcome back, my lord; shall I prepare the usual rooms for you?" Gladden jested mildly.
Edmure gave a sigh and responded in kind, though without much energy, "Oh yes, 'tis always a pleasure to return to those impressive accommodations."
"Edmure, you aren't much liked because of your sister, but I know it wasn't any of your doing. You were a captive at the time. Lady Myrcella gave instructions that you be treated well, save to ensure you cannot break free or cause mischief."
"Thank you, Ser Gladden."
Edmure settled in. He was treated rather well. He joined the others when they feasted at night. He learned more about the conflict at large. His heart was joyous at the death of Kevan Lannister, but then greatly saddened by the capture of his good-brother, Eddard.
Poor Cat.
Stories of how Lady Myrcella had survived were told and retold. Each one more ridiculous than the last. It did gnaw at him – how had she truly done it? She was intelligent, maybe even smarter than the likes of Petyr or his dead uncle, the Blackfish. Was there some trick? His imagination failed him, but the outlandish stories were even less likely to be true than anything he could come up with.
Time passed while he was in Harrenhal, and it was not terrible. He had even been given a pair of books to read. Ser Gladden did see to his every comfort, even offered a whore to visit him. Edmure had taken him up on the offer, and he spent a few nights in the arms of a woman he did not know.
One day, his ever-present pair of guards received word from a page to take him to Ser Gladden. They did so, and Edmure was seen into a solar that the man used as his office.
"Wine?" Gladden asked.
"Never wise to say no to wine," Edmure replied.
Gladden watched as he drank and then exhaled slowly.
"Lord Edmure, I regret to inform you that your father is dead."
Edmure closed his eyes and let the pain wash over him. He knew his father had been dying, but he had hoped to see him one more time. He had both hoped and feared, because he did not want to confront his family with his failings.
"No man wishes to hear news of this sort, and I swear to you, Lady Myrcella had no part in what happened."
Edmure opened his eyes in confusion. "What happened?"
"Your father was murdered; we've been told there was some mummery about it. Someone who could mimic the gate captain's voice allowed killers in, and they committed murder. Slew several servants, a few guards, and your father in his bed."
Edmure didn't understand. Their enemies had to suspect that his father had not been well if he wasn't commanding the Riverlands forces. Why go to the trouble of murdering an old man? Was Tywin behind it? Was it spite? Or was it the Freys? Was his own life in danger? If he died alongside his father, technically the Riverlands could be inherited by Cat's children, but they were viewed as Starks, not Tullys.
"Take the bottle back to your quarters if you desire it, my lord. As far as your captivity is concerned, nothing has changed. Well, I suppose if Lady Myrcella is inclined to ransom you, the cost may be higher, but no such word has arrived with the news."
Edmure did not wish to weep in front of Ser Gladden so hastily took his leave and the bottle of wine back to the room that was his prison.
***
Asha Greyjoy was enjoying herself quite a bit. Garlan represented a fun, if probably impossible, challenge to seduce. The raiding and the following invasion had gone extremely well. Her fully sacking all of Fair Island had proved to all she was just as capable as a man to lead Ironborn into battle. Her crew had left laden with wine, gold, and salt wives. Now she was working with the Tyrells, and the mainland of the Westerlands was being stripped bare of resources.
Farms and ranches had been looted of cattle and crops. Garlan Tyrell had stipulated they could not put everything to the torch or carry off women, but her father's orders had been clear – devastate as much of the Westerlands as possible – so they were thorough in the destruction whenever they could be. Mines were taken and then support structures broken, causing cave ins. They even despoiled wells when they could do so away from the Reach's men.
Not all was going swimmingly though. The Tyrell noble's hanging of the Ironborn had not sat well with Victarion, her uncle. though not for the reason most would think. They had disobeyed his orders to comply with the Tyrell rules, so death was a fine penalty, but it wasn't the greenlander's decision to make.
If Victarion could, he would teach Garlan a lesson for that, but after having seen Garlan fight, she doubted it would go the way her uncle desired. Nor did the Lord of Highgarden's brother take chances. His men always outnumbered the Ironborn on joint raids and attacks.
They were preparing to take down a walled town, no true fortress, when a messenger came and found her.
"Lady Asha, news from the Iron Islands! Your father, the King of Salt and Rock, is dead."
"What? How?" Asha had not heard he was ill, and it wasn't as if the Lannisters could mount a seaborne invasion of the Iron Islands.
"He fell from one of the swaying bridges. His body washed up on the rocks."
Asha thought fast. Her father had proclaimed himself "King of Salt and Rock" but had not declared rebellion against the Iron Throne, nor had he sworn fealty to Stannis. He had chosen a middle ground to raid as he saw fit, with the opportunity to bend the knee later. Some of the Iron Isles would wish to fully break from the Seven Kingdoms.
Asha wished to rule the Iron Islands, though she would prefer to rule as the Lady of Pyke as opposed to the Queen. She wasn't a fool. Once the succession war was over and done with, the Iron Islands would not be allowed to remain independent. It was not within the nature of Stannis to allow that. And if the other side won, the Old Lion would never forgive them for what they were doing to the Westerlands.
Problems would arise; not everyone would be content to have her rule. Uncle Victarion would no doubt seek rulership, and the dolt would likely inflame the Ironborn sense of pride and declare himself King if they followed him. Her brother Theon might also try to push a claim, and he was currently with Stannis. Outright refusing him as heir would bring them into conflict with the likely winner of the war.
Fuck me, this is ridiculous. I should rule the Iron Islands, but too many hands are set against me.
"Has my uncle been informed?"
"Messengers were also sent to him."
A thought dawned upon Asha. If a kingsmoot was called, it would require the majority of the captains to affirm a selection for leader of the Iron Islands. In a head-to-head conflict with her uncle or her brother, she could lose. But in a three-way split, she could pit Victarion against Theon. With her own name added, she would find some loyalty, and it would likely prevent any of them from getting over 50%. If she could inflame rage in Theon would-be supporters with Victarion's supporters, the hate could allow her as a compromise selection.
She smiled. That would be extremely difficult to pull off, but she would try.
"Have ravens sent to likely places where my brother Theon Greyjoy may be. Tell him a kingsmoot will be called for control of the Iron Islands. Send other ravens to my Uncle Rodrik. Tell him I want his support for rulership over the Iron Isles."
The Ironborn were done with the Westerlands for now. Some of the greedy would stay, but every captain would want their own voice to be heard. Her father's death had come as a surprise. His loss was no great grief, though she would mourn. Asha's greatest issue with it was the timing; it could not have been poorer.
***
Something strange was going on, and I didn't know what. My grandfather had suffered defeat in the field and had limped back to King's Landing. According to him, the host under Stannis now outnumbered him and had pursued. At the same time, the remnants of the Tyrell host, which was sizeable itself, were also converging upon King's Landing. The problem was that both armies were moving timidly, when speed was likely to favor them more.
There were rational explanations for this. Perhaps one or both armies had sickness rampant through their camps. Perhaps some enterprising nobles from the Stormlands were pulling off tactics similar to what I did earlier in this war. Maybe. But I felt an itch that reminded me of when the armistice allowed the Republican forces to flee off the mainland. This wasn't that similar a situation, but the feeling of some unexpected blow to come permeated through my body.
I was advancing with around 2,000 horse well ahead of the main body. My outriders reported that the Tyrell host would be crossing the Blackwater Rush any day now. It looked like I could make it to King's Landing before they could complete the encirclement of the city. But they should have already been in place if their commander was worth a damn. Of course, with the situation as it was, the sluggards would finally complete the encirclement after I got into the city but before Ser Barristan arrived.
To make matters worse, yet another Tyrell host was marching down the Gold Road. Intelligence on them was less distinct, but Tywin indicated they had passed by Deep Den about two weeks ago. If they marched quickly, it could be as little as two additional weeks for them to arrive. Dorne was also making moves as their host opted against staying to besiege the Dornish Marchers, or storm those fortresses. Though they were likely even further behind the secondary Tyrell host. To make matters even odder, the Ironborn were also leaving the Westerlands in droves. They had my grandfather's kingdom on its knees, and now everyone was departing?
Lord Lefford had written that he was resecuring most of the Westerlands, but it was slow-going, as bandits, free riders, and the Ironborn remnants were still preying on towns and villages not captured by the Reach and the Iron Isles. He also wrote of the possibility that it was an elaborate ruse to lure his host out of Golden Tooth, so he was being cautious. It was commendable that he was thinking of that possibility, but it left them in a bad way.
Tywin did not escape the battle with much of a force left. He had been more than decimated. Ser Cortnay wrote that some 2,000 had made it to Storm's End, which was a tragically low percentage of the forces Lord Beric had under his command. Ser Cortnay had also gathered an additional 2,000 levies to go along with the 1,000 men-at-arms and knights he had been left with at Storm's End. 5,000 men was not an inconsequential number, but it was quite limited in what could be done with them.
My grandfather had been harried and harassed, and his army had melted away after their shattering. Numbering less than 6,000 they were all he had beside another batch of 2,000 hastily-trained Gold Cloaks, who would fight no better than conscripted levies… at best. It was truly an awful turn of events that I held the largest single host under my brother's cause, and I had split it.
Stormlords, Crakehall and a few knightly Westerlands houses, the Freys, a hodgepodge of Riverlands levies, and free riders who rallied to my banner as I marched south were my host. It was odd, but I had gained more men than I had lost after I split from my grandfather. All said and done, I numbered nearly 20,000, though that was split between Harrenhal, the foot under Lord Barristan's command, and the men I had tasked with ensuring food continued to make its way to King's Landing. Ser Barristan moved with the bulk of my foot and enough knights and outriders not to be caught unawares, standing at 14,000 strong. With my 2,000 horse, we combined to a total of 16,000.
Per Ser Cortnay and my grandfather, Stannis had the bulk of the North and the Riverlands horse; however, they had suffered heavy casualties as well. Tywin estimated that at least 12,000 were advancing on King's Landing, and that they were reinforced by a small Dornish contingent as well as some Essosi mercenaries. Like my situation, Stannis had won in the field, which meant that free riders and sellswords would be rallying to his banner. We had no way of knowing if he had additional reinforcements by sea he could call upon, either from Dragonstone or shipped from White Harbor.
I always preferred to assume the worst in terms of enemy numbers, and then could leave room to be pleasantly surprised later. Stannis could have upwards to 16,000. The Reach could add 15,000 and their 2nd host another 20,000. Dorne with 15,000. That put the might Stannis could call upon at 66,000 men. To face them, we had 24,000. Terrible odds.
However, at least 35,000, the Reach army coming from the Westerlands and the Dornish host, were not in the immediate vicinity of King's Landing. Ser Barristan should be able to arrive sooner than either of those, which would put us at 24,000 against 31,000, and that was doable. Having defenders' advantage would make attack all but impossible.
"It doesn't make sense," I spoke out loud to Ser Brienne and Ser Theo.
They were out riding with me. I had left Ser Jaspar and Ser Barlow with Ser Barristan. They were to help command, while the protection of myself went to Ser Brienne, Ser Lum, Bronn, Ser Lyle, and Ser Perwyn.
"What doesn't?" Brienne asked.
"They had overwhelming numbers, 30,000 or maybe only 25,000 if I err on the high side. Against the paltry force my grandfather has remaining to him? Taking the city would be easy; the Red Keep less so, but Stannis would win. The excessive caution shown by my uncle seems odd. He's allowed us time to arrive to bolster the defenses."
Ser Theo made a hmming sound. "You sense a trap, my lady?"
"Possible, but for whom? If the Tyrell host completes the encirclement before Ser Barristan can arrive and after we get into the city, he's trapped an extra 2,000 foes. He wouldn't know that I was personally leading this force; it seems odd to make such an effort."
"Perhaps Stannis wishes to decide it all at once?" Brienne suggested. "He could be waiting until the full might of the Reach and Dorne can join him."
I was vexed. That could be it, but it still felt wrong. I was missing something, and I didn't know what it was. Part of me wanted to avoid going into the city at all; it was a bad place to be trapped. But I also wanted to get a better understanding of what the defenses were like and how I could help improve them. It was a bit arrogant, but I had more of a strategic military mind than grandfather or any of his advisors. If anyone could hold the city, it would be me. Oh, and I could check on my little brother and how he was holding up.
I had made my choice – I would go into the city and have Ser Barristan follow. In the event that Ser Barristan was cut off, we would see what forces were arrayed between us. I was proud of the strength of my host and was confident in their ability to strike harder than their numbers would suggest, even without my direct command.
We rode to the city, and none barred our way. Lannister guards were at the Dragon Gate, and they opened to allow us to pass. As we entered the city, throngs of smallfolk gathered along the main street to the Red Keep. They shouted, cheered, and screamed in adulation. It was rather disturbing. Ser Bonifer would have been enthused by their passion, but I had left him back with Ser Barristan.
"MYRCELLA!"
"THE MAIDEN!"
"PRINCESS!"
"STORMQUEEN!!"
Their enthusiasm for me was bordering fanatical, which was better than an angry mob, but despite my calm outward mien as I waved back the crowds, I was beginning to go from discomfited to outright fearful. Love and hate were two sides of the same coin. This sort of unbridled passion could quickly turn into a lynch mob with a single misstep. For the moment, it was an advantage.
Arriving at the Red Keep, I caught sight of Tommen. He wore a crown and was clad in red and gold. A beaming smile sat on his face. Despite the lack of ceremony and still barely in sight of the crowds, he rushed forward as I dismounted in the courtyard. He collided with me in a hug and squeezed.
"They said you died! I'm so happy you didn't."
"I feel the same way, Tommen."
We conversed a bit while we walked in. Tommen of course asking me what really happened in the Eyrie. I replied with a smile, "Some foolish people threw me down a mountain. But as I fell, a flock of birds took a liking to my dress. Dozens tried to pull it away from me, and their combined efforts slowed me down enough to land with only a few bruises."
Tommen was naïve in many ways, but he clearly didn't believe me. I handed Ser Arys off to Tommen. The last remaining Kingsguard should be the one to guard the king. I let Ser Arys know that he could also borrow a couple of my Stormguard if he felt it was necessary.
Moving into the Small Council chamber, I spied my grandfather, Ser Addam Marbrand, Grand Maester Pycelle, and Varys. My grandfather sat, back upright, but his face held far more lines than it had once had. Varys smiled pleasantly at my arrival, and Ser Addam gave me a nod.
"Lady Myrcella, welcome to King's Landing," Tywin addressed me.
"Thank you, grandfather. Where should we begin?"
The business of the small council was war. Grandfather and Ser Addam provided me information about the defenses of the city and what forces we had remaining. Varys shared information from his 'little birds' and spoke of troop movements as well as other tidbits of information.
"Lord Varys, is there any sign of sickness among the armies that are marching on us?"
"Nothing of note, though with large groups of men on the move, there will always be some."
"Any ideas then why my uncle has not pushed forward with the Reach host and attacked the city before I could arrive?"
"My little birds are sadly not all-knowing, but if I were to guess, I would say that the Reach's current commander, Lord Merryweather, is frightened of the Lord Hand."
A reasonable explanation, but it did not change the sense that I was missing something. We moved on to other concerns. The city defense itself was unimaginative but solid. Men were positioned at each of the gates. The plan was to hold them as long as possible, but once one fell, the soldiers were to all fall back to the Red Keep. There were a few areas where wildfire jars were stored in places with roofs rigged to collapse, which would cause the jars to break and erupt. It was only a few areas, and not a lot of wildfire. The goal being deadly surprise and then creating overwhelming caution in the advancing enemy.
There were other surprises, such as Addam's dismounted knights having prepared ambushes on the Street of Steel. Archers on the roofs of some buildings and other little stratagems designed to bleed any advancing force. They had done a decent job of looking for ways to enact a heavy toll. The more I looked at it, the more I realized it was more of a spiteful last stand than a true hope for victory.
"Why are we holding the city at all?" I asked.
Pycelle sputtered, "Ahem, Lady Myrcella, this is the, ahem, center of governance. Holding the city and the Iron Throne is a powerful statement of our…"
"Hogwash. There isn't a single levy or knight who is influenced by who holds King's Landing. This is an albatross around our necks."
Varys's eyes widened. "What do you propose then?"
"Keep the plans in place that we have now; if Merryweather completes the encirclement, it would be difficult to break out. If they try to sack the city, we defend as best as we are able. Once Ser Barristan arrives, with the greater part of my host, we launch a two-pronged attack on Merryweather. I am confident we can win, and from there we retreat north. Stannis may circle around to aid, but this still gives us our best chance. Once Stannis takes the city, it will be his headache."
Tywin's green-gold-flecked eyes looked at me. "And then? The odds are still bleak. If we fight in the open in the Riverlands, we are just as outnumbered."
"Maneuver warfare. Without an anchor which we must hold, our options multiply. I've proven that making use of terrain can frustrate the enemy and that surprise attacks can defeat numerically superior foes. The Riverlands will be my – our playground. Harrenhal has enough supplies for all our armies well into winter. And it is far more defensible – not that I intend to allow us to be bottled up there."
"Ser Garlan is marching on the Gold Road, and he has known naught but victory in this war," Varys threw in. "While I hesitate to weigh in on military matters, this does not seem a feasible solution. The city has its defenders, and your own reputation has stirred the hearts of the citizens of this city. Use them and hold the seat of power in Westeros." He gave a little giggle. "I also must admit that my use as Master of Whisperers is limited if my little birds don't have an established place to send word of what they see and hear."
Varys was the one that Baelish had mentioned as the only other decent player in this Game of Thrones. Was he suggesting I try to use the massive population of the city as a fighting force? They wouldn't have weapons of any real utility and certainly no armor. They would be massacred by even a line of levy spearmen. But did he know that? I didn't want to look askance at dutifully given advice, but I also wasn't sure I trusted him.
Ser Addam frowned. "Fighting on the run is harder than fighting with your back against a wall. We'll see our host melt away; look at how many fled after Lord Tywin's retreat. We didn't lose all those men to death and injury; many more decided to run away. If we leave the city, we'll see more desertions."
Grand Maester Pycelle added his croaking voice, again against my plan. "I must, ahem, agree. Attempting to move the court away from here puts our King at risk. The realm needs stability, and I have every confidence that Lord Tywin can hold this city."
"Everyone out, save for Myrcella," Tywin spoke.
Pycelle tried to protest, but a single look from grandfather sent him moving faster than I'd ever seen him go. Once the others were gone, Tywin steepled his fingers and looked at me.
"There is much that could go wrong with your plan."
"There is much that will go wrong if we stay. Trapped and cut off from food, every day will bring more men to my uncle's cause. The Dornish and Ser Garlan will strengthen them beyond reasonable ability to defeat. If Stannis was wise enough, he would realize he didn't even need to assault the city. Food and supplies would run out, the Arryns could rebuild their host, more reinforcement from the Reach could be mustered, and more sellswords hired from Essos."
Tywin contemplated my words and kept his gaze on me. It was said that his stare could unnerve most without uttering a word. There was a weight to it, yes, but eyes were just eyes. The whole 'windows into the soul' nonsense was just that – nonsense. What mattered was the mind behind those eyes and I was that mind's lifeline and possible answer to a winnable solution to the war.
"What of the Stormlands?"
"Will be in fine shape. Stannis is from the Stormlands – he will not allow wanton destruction and rapine to take place. The fortresses there have ample provisions and supplies, and storming them will be costly. Storm's End is all but unbreachable, and I have every confidence that Ser Cortnay will hold it and ensure that your son is safe."
Tywin waved his hand dismissively at that.
"Very well. In that case, we will move to defend the city until Ser Barristan arrives. Do you believe they will attack?"
"Knowing that Ser Barristan is coming, they will likely wish to resolve matters before he arrives. The plans made in the defense of the city are good, but they could be better. A more flexible hit-and-run, house-to-house fighting favors my Stormguard, as formations become diffused due to the architecture of the city. The plan with Ser Addam on the Street of Steel is brilliant. I intend to replicate it with personally chosen squads led by the Stormguard and myself."
Tywin titled his head a minute fraction. "That sort of risk seems unwise."
"You saw me against that shadow. I'm sharp-eyed and will make every effort to ensure I survive. Since I will be splitting my men into small groups, I lack enough leaders I trust to make the proper calls."
Tywin's eyes flickered with something. "If I had not seen what you can do on that day, I would never allow it, but I am not a man to disbelieve his own eyes. Get with Ser Addam and make preparations both for the defense if they attack in the short-term and for the evacuation of King and members of court."
Something had changed in my grandfather. I was not sure if it was the defeat in the field, the death of Jaime, or the death of his brother. Truth be told, I welcomed a more tractable Regent and Hand of the King than his reputation suggested he would be.
"As you requested, Lord Stark has been unharmed and treated with courtesy. His stubbornness means that we won't get him to send his banners home."
"I thought not, but we must look past this short-term and see what a lasting peace would look like. Once my uncle is dead, we can hash out a peace. Imagine a scenario where Stannis falls in battle, we offer to wed Tommen to Shireen, and the men can go home to attend to the harvest before winter."
Tywin nodded, "Stannis is the hindrance to any sort of peace. I am glad you agree that he must die."
"There was never any other solution once he proclaimed my father's children were bastards. Another man might recant and accept the Black if they were defeated, but not him. There is no bend, so he will have to shatter. I will speak with Stark and then visit my mother."
"Cersei is not well."
I shrugged, "Losing a child cannot be easy, and I certainly will not listen to any advice she may have. It is entirely her fault this damnable war came about."
Tywin nodded, and I went to attend to my business. I had way too much to do and very little time to accomplish it.