[A.N: Not another four months after all, huh?
I hate, hate, hate writing filler chapters like these ones. I know that they have nothing happening in them, but when I skip them and try to write the next chapter it just doesn't fucking work. In addition to that, this is the part of the second arc that I'm actually the least enthused about writing, so I'm sorry if you find it as equally boring as I do.
Sadly, I must consider parts of the plot that should be covered, even if I hate writing them as much as you do reading them.
Also keep in mind that Olenna doesn't have sight of the big picture, and she's not really adept in the matters of war.]
5 Chapters further in all my stories here:
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Chapter 66
Robb Stark
Robb rode alongside the baggage train, ten green men at his back, their banners snapping above the sea of canvas and smoke. The tent-town stirred as he passed, soldiers and camp followers surging to glimpse him, some crying his name, others dropping to one knee.
When at last they crossed beneath the carved timbers of the Weirwood Bastion, the clamor swelled into a roar.
"The Young Wolf!"
"King in the North!"
"King of the Trident!"
"Robb the Direwolf!"
"The gods sent him!"
"He'll tear the lions apart!"
At the gates of the Bastion, Robb was met by the High Steward, Stevron Frey. The man's eyes were heavy with sleepless rings, yet joy lit his face as he bowed low and clasped his hands together in welcome.
"Your Grace," Stevron declared, his voice carrying with unusual brightness, "That is enough foodstuffs to sustain the refugees through months! Medger Cerwyn will bless your name a hundred times over—for the master of coin need not spend a single stag on bread until the next harvest."
Robb gave a curt nod. "Preserve whatever will last. Distribute the wines, salted meats, and exotic fruits among the men—prioritize those who have fought in the past battles."
Stevron bowed his head in agreement.
"And the refugees?" Robb pressed.
"The train of them seems endless," Stevron replied, his voice weary but steady. "We've even begun receiving folk from the Crownlands and Westerlands, fleeing the chaos of war. Their numbers have at last begun to dwindle, and my men grow more skilled at managing them, so my burden is eased somewhat. Still, their tempers breed trouble—crime has risen of late, and Lord Tully has been forced to swell the watch by another five hundred."
Robb nods, the first five hundred should have been acclimated to their new roles, adding to their number shouldn't pose any major issues.
They scaled the uppermost tower, until they reached a room repurposed to be his solar.
"Send for a servant to fetch Brynden, if you will." Robb answers as he sits behind his mahogany desk. "And keep up the good work."
The rising sun shone at his back through a paneless window, at the distance, the whole stretch of land was covered with tents as far as the shore of the God's Eye, with men and women moving merilly through the makeshift streets, with a few buildings coming into shape, mainly forges, tanner houses, warehouses for storage, and some houses.
The Red Comet shone over his head like a halo.
He used the idle time before Brynden's arrival to put pen to parchment, sending letters to secure supplies and provisions, to promise or arrange support against bandits and enemy outriders, and to strengthen ties with lesser lords. A single letter, Robb knew, could carry weight enough to bind a minor house firmer than any sword.
At length, Brynden arrived in the solar. He had set aside his usual tattered, utilitarian garb for a doublet in his house's colors, a custom pin fastened at the breast—one marking him as Hand of the King. With a weary groan, he nearly collapsed into a chair and poured himself a cup of wine.
"While you were out there stealing glory, I was left to wrestle with pompous lords and sniveling sycophants," he complained. "Now it's your turn."
"Not quite," Robb replied. "On the morrow, I will take two hundred green men."
Brynden nearly choked on his wine. "What? Where?"
"The Vale," Robb said evenly. "Then the North. It is not yet time for bold action. We must wait until the harvest is gathered and the Riverlands secured. As the seasons turn, our enemies will weaken. When they reach their breaking point, that is when we march on King's Landing."
Brynden's mouth curled into a scowl. "And what, pray, has that to do with running off to the Eyrie?"
"The Vale is but the first step," Robb answered. "I must also ride to the Wall. The Night's Watch warns of a host a hundred thousand strong—wildlings massing to invade."
Brynden stared, his wine forgotten halfway to his lips. "A hundred thousand?" he echoed, incredulous. "Seven hells, boy, that's no raiding party—that's a kingdom on the march."
He set the cup down with a thud and rubbed at his eyes. "And you would leave me here, in this damned chair, to play at Hand of the King. I was bred for the saddle, for the sword—not for endless councils and parchments, and lords prattling of precedence." His mouth twisted in sour humor. "A poor choice of hand, if truth be told."
"There was no other candidate," Robb said. "You are of the Riverlands, and so may speak for them as a kingdom. Were I not here, you would stand as their lord paramount—thus your place beside me lends my crown its rightful weight. More than that, you carry a reputation that commands respect enough to wrangle stubborn lords, whether southern or northern."
"I digress," Robb said, leaning forward. "I asked you here for word of the Vale. You were the Knight of the Gate—you must have led raids against the mountain clans, no?"
"Aye," Brynden replied, cautious. "What of it?"
"When Tyrion Lannister left the Vale, he took with him the Stone Crows, the Burned Men, the Moon Brothers, and the Black Ears," Robb explained. "I need to know what paths lie in their old territory—paths that would let me and two hundred men bypass the Bloody Gate and slip into the Vale."
Brynden frowned, confusion crossing his weathered face. "I do not follow. Those paths are perilous, and just because those clans abandoned them does not mean others won't be lurking. And if your aim is the Eyrie, I may not be able to throw open its gates—but I hold enough sway to see you through the Bloody Gate itself."
Robb shook his head firmly. "If my aunt would not support us before, she will not now. I have no need to reach the Eyrie. I mean to bypass it—and do so without notice."
Brynden's brow furrowed. Robb could read the thought behind his uncle's eyes: he feared that Robb would resort to his usual stratagem, striking at a castle under cover of night. Even if Robb triumphed, it would mean an assault upon the Lady Regent of the Vale—his own aunt. The stubborn Vale lords, who scarcely tolerated her rule as it was, would offer him no support for such an outrage. Worse still, they might even turn to his enemies.
"I suppose I can do that," Brynden said at last, though reluctance lingered in his tone. "Give me a map, and I'll mark the paths for you."
Yet the truth of those passes was plain enough. Unlike the goat track that had let Robb's host slip into the Westerlands, these were neither secret nor truly useful. They were narrow, well-known to the Vale lords, and choked with mountain clans. At best, they admitted only a handful of men; at worst, they were deathtraps under constant watch.
But Robb had no intent of storming the Eyrie—or any castle, for that matter. His purpose lay elsewhere. One man held the reins of a kingdom, scheming ceaselessly against him and his kin—a man with the resilience of a cockroach and the cowardice of a rat.
It was time for revenge.
***
Olenna Tyrell
"When I pushed you out of my body and held your wrinkled, wretched form in my hands, I dreamed of what kind of man you would become." Olenna took a slow sip of tea, her face an impassive mask. "You could have been a knight, a general, a scholar—Seven help me, I would even have accepted a drunkard for a son, if only he weren't a coward."
Her words made her fattened son flinch. He opened his mouth to reply.
"Think before you speak, cretin." She hissed, her eyes flashing. "If your next words aren't some variation of 'sorry,' 'apologies,' or 'I'll do better,' I swear by the Seven I'll beat your behind with a stick." She jabbed a finger toward one of her twin guards. "Or have one of these buffoons do it."
Mace's face flushed red with shame, anger, and frustration. And despite her sharp tongue, Olenna felt a twinge of guilt. She might be a great lady, a cunning plotter, and an adept matchmaker, but no one could accuse Olenna Tyrell of being a good mother.
She reached out, cupping his cheek. Mace almost flinched at the touch.
"You put too much stock in reputation, son." Her voice softened—soft for her, at least. "That old lion may seem intimidating with his silent stares and oh-so-gruesome actions, but never forget you are a Lord Paramount in your own right. You rule the Reach. You are his equal."
Mace blinked up at her, confused. Praise from his mother was a rare and precious thing.
"Most importantly," Olenna murmured, twisting his cheek gently, "we hold his balls in a grip. The men who fight his wars? Ours. The food in his belly? Ours. The ships he floats? Ours. The power—"
"Ours," Mace finished for her, eyes hardening with resolve.
Olenna gave him a soft slap on the cheek. "It seems something does seep through that thick skull. Your weakness may have cost us some advantages, but we still hold the reins. Go now. Speak to the Imp. Tell him we must ration until my nephew's fleet arrives."
"What of the Northmen?" Mace asked. "They've raided our lands! Surely there must be retaliation?"
"Bah!" Olenna almost spat, but her mouth was too dry. "Let Willas handle those savages. What matters now is the marriage. As long as Margaery wears the crown, everything else can be managed."
"But—"
"No buts!" she snapped, cutting him off with a raised hand. "I don't care about the rumors from those unwashed monkeys making a fuss. The greater threat comes from within. We must hold the reins of this city. Understood?"
Mace hesitated, as if weighing rebellion, then finally nodded and left.
Olenna remained seated, her thoughts turning. Tywin Lannister had begun playing the game in earnest. Yet for all his bluster and ruthlessness, he was still a man, and no man could believe himself outwitted by a woman.
A step back, then. Hide behind smaller plots while the larger one moved into place.
She must secure her granddaughter's hold on the throne.