Chapter 91
TYRION LANNISTER
For years and years, Tyrion had watched Cregan toil without any break as he tried to steer the realm in a very specific direction. The realm had seen many Kings before it. It had seen brilliant kings, patient kings, pious kings, cruel kings.
Yet this was the first time that the realm had found itself a cautious King.
Cregan worked harder. Harder than any King before him, and he asked his advisors to work just as hard, and now the time of war was upon them. Or better yet the times of wars was upon them.
They had all rejoiced upon hearing of the Burning of the Cheesemonger, and though it was a cruel fate for a man he had never ever met. Tyrion rejoiced in the fact, that through that one fire, the King had made stopped an entire war of its own.
Many whispered about the dishonor, and the cowardice of the act. Yet Tyrion thought of them as fools, who could not see all the blood spared by one well thought out ploy.
Yet, even the greatest plans fail. And Euron Greyjoy, nearly ruined all of Cregan's work in one single stroke.
Few in the realm knew about the assassination attempt on the King and Queen, by Euron Greyjoy and Lord Connington, and despite his return to Kingslanding Cregan refused to comment on the status of the two men, answering simply that they had been handled.
Not Dead nor alive. But handled.
Tyrion would have pushed for more, yet the realm had greater worries. Greater needs.
Greater Wars.
"Must you really ride to battle yourself?" he asked, and the King had just survived an assassination attempt, and yet now he prepared himself to ride along with the bulk of his armies, all the way to the North.
"You have already sent your brother, and your father. You could simply let them take care of this," he asked, and the young King shook his head as he looked at the map of the Seven Kingdoms, hanging on the board showing the position of the armies headed to the Wall.
By now, the entire realm knew of the White Walkers, and the Second Coming of the Battle of Dawn. Each and every lord was ordered on the threat of treason to gather and send men to the Wall, despite their religion or origin.
It was the greatest call to arms that the Seven kingdoms had seen in centuries, and by his own estimates more than eighty thousand men marched towards the Wall as they spoke.
Of these Eight thousand, nearly forty were well trained marshalled soldiers, and the other forty thousand were all experiences levies. And this number was beyond the Black brothers already serving at the Wall.
"This is it Tyrion," and the Kings voice was soft, as he answered him without sparing a glance.
"This is my war," he added, as he began to attack pins on the map, marking the silos, and the garnaries that the Crown had stocked up over the years. All for this moment.
"And you could fight it just as well from here," Tyrion implored, as a sane and wise Hand would.
"You are the King. You are the pillar of the realm. Your place is here. Let others fight your battles as you delegate from the capital," but Cregan was not convinced.
"I must go," he whispered, and he was unmoved by his words. And for all his cunning, Cregan was still a Stark. And he had seen no family as stubborn as the Starks of the North.
"You shall rule in my stead," he said looking him in the eye, and Tyrion sighed as he nodded.
"So be it," and the two of the King then sat down, as Tyrion took out his flask and poured himself a few sips.
"So, it comes down to this?" and the King nodded, as he poured himself some wine as well to settle his nerves, and he had not missed how the King wore gloves to cover his hands, and Tyrion had caught glimpse at the skin and how it was scalded all the way up to his elbows.
"Yes, it does," and this was the war that mattered more than anything. A war not for throne or riches but one for survival.
"Braavos wrote to us a few days ago," and Tyrion had been surprised by the letter, and their little gamble had paid off.
"While they have not offered us men. The Free City has offered gold, and grain. The Free City shall support the Iron Throne in the war and offers thirty ships of grain and half a million gold dragons to show their support," and while it was a substantial sum, and the letter had mentioned that the Free City would not shy away from offering more, if the need ever came.
"That is generous of them," the King added, and Tyrion nodded.
"Indeed it is," and while they had prepared well for the war, the sheer size of the army that they gathered, and speed at which it was being mobilised meant that, they would burn through a lot of grain and food.
One of the first rules of war that he had been taught was how an army would always march with its stomach, meaning that behind an army would often be massive carriages, and retinues carrying the food and tents and all the other necessary people and equipment that an army would need.
Cregan had sought to eliminate this liability, and the Iron Throne had spent years building up garnaries in the North, and Riverlands making it so that any of their armies could simply march forward with little care for food.
Other necessary people, like smiths and whores were integrated within the army, and while it was not conventional, few things about Cregan Stark ever were.
"Do you ever fear that we might just lose this?" Tyrion asked, and he had been unable to sleep for days when he had first learnt of frozen men, and armies riling up in the True North.
He was haunted by nightmares, and that made him realise the reason behind the studious and cautious of the King.
"Everyday," Cregan answered, his tone thin and somber like that of an old man. And given how tirelessly he had worked, he might just be an old man.
"I am tired Tyrion," Cregan Stark admitted as he swirled his glass, as he stared at the map.
"Then stay," he suggested again, hoping that the young King would see reason.
"This war has weighed me down ever since I opened my eyes after the fall that took my leg from me," the King began, surprising him again for Tyrion did not know what to think of that.
"What?" Tyrion gasped, and he had heard of how their King had injured his leg upon falling from a tree when he had been young, but he could not imagine the sheer implication of that one incident.
"I woke up, estranged to my own family and home carrying a burden that haunted my sleep. I wanted to share it, and yet I could not for the idea that the monsters from old folk tales often used to scare children were real was entirely unfathomable," and Tyrion could not even imagine what he must have felt, as a child burdened with such knowledge.
"So I stayed quiet, hoping, waiting for an opportunity to tell someone until I nearly saw chaos and war engulf the entire realm, and felt that I had to do something. That I had to act for I had been burdened with a great purpose," and now those grey eyes met his own.
"This war is my calling," and with that, he was interrupted by a knock on the door as a servant came in and added.
"Your grace, the men are ready to ride," and the King nodded.
"I will be there," and the servant went away, as Cregan Stark rose from his chair, with steel in his eyes, as he picked up his blade and tied it to his belt.
"I win this war, and I can finally rest," and so that was why he rode.
Not for glory. Not for fear.
But because of burden.
"I pray that we prepared are prepared enough for this war," and the King's face turned solemn, as he nodded.
"We are..."
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BEJEN STARK
Benjen Stark was tired.
He tired and cold and in pain like he had never been before. His arms stung, with every swing, and he could feel the wetness of blood, on his skin, as he cut through another white with his blade, as the man beside him tore into a wolf with his club.
The Sun was about to set, and the line of Black and White guarding the ever daunting Wall at their behinds continued to grow thinner and thinner, as the once white ice at his heels turned a dreadful scarlet, for thousands of Black brothers now lay there dead an unmoving as Benjen swung his blade, and cut apart the white trying to claw at his leg.
And amidst that battle, the sound of horn from behind came as relief as Benjen realised that the Free Folk had finished their journey. That the gates of the Wall were being closed behind them.
"THEY ARE CLOSING THE GATES! THEY ARE CLOSING THE GATES!" he heard his men shout, and he glanced back, and saw that indeed the giant steel gates that had been opened for them were being closed up, and the lifts were all being lifted back up.
"WE WON! WE WON!" men celebrated around him, yet the fighting continued.
"LOOK AHEAD!" suddenly a man called out, and Benjen's eyes moved forward, and amidst the spreading darkness he saw a single shadow ride across the Hill. He could not make out much, but this was no simple white.
He rode a horse, and the blue in his eyes was so dark that he could see it from yards and yards away,
"It's him! It's HIM!" whispers came out, and Benjen felt a chill run down his spine, as he saw a literal storm of blue and white gather behind this newcomer, telling him exactly who it was.
"The Night King," he whispered, and this was their opponent. This was the lynchpin of this war. The Head of the Snake, and it was in front of him.
Yet, as he glanced around him, he saw that their numbers had been reduced to a few hundred, tired and injured men waiting for death. They could not hold back this storm.
"AGHHH!" and suddenly he heard a scream from his side, and saw a skeleton shatter as a familiar face came forward.
"You don't lose your head during a war, Lord Commander," and it was Qorin Halfhand, standing there, blood covering his face as the First Ranger joined him as the Whites all began to backaway, waiting for the horde to catch up.
"You are still alive," Benjen teased, as they formed a line for one last time.
"Aye, but not for long," the Old man grunted as he moved his cloak to show a dagger pushed into his side, as blood caked his clothes.
"Well, I could say the same," and so could everyone else, and suddenly he saw the air shift as something rushed through the skies surprising them all, as a loud bang shook them all.
"WHAT THE HELL!"
"WHAT WAS THAT!" and the sound came from behind, as Benjen turned and saw a men screaming at the gates.
"What is happening?" he asked.
"It's the gate! The Night King's hit the gate with a ice spear," and he could heard the panicked cries from behind, as the men began to turn nervous, as he saw another object pass through the air at blazing speed as another loud bang tore at their ears from behind.
"AHHH!" "HHAAAA!" and he could heard the screams and shouts, and for all the things that they had planned for this was not one of them.
"What do we do now, Lord Commander?" came another familiar voice from the side, as he turned and saw Mance Rayder push himself towards him, and the King Beyond the Wall had lost his arm, and was using a stick to walk as Benjen stared at the incoming horde.
"Tell me your King made a plan for this," and he had.
Not for the Night King's assault but for a horde, for he had suspected this.
"It's time," he said to Qorin, who chuckled.
"Well, I was getting tired of the pain anyway," and, with that Benjen slowly pushed himself towards a place where a black flag was pushed into the ground, as Qorin grabbed a torch and passed it to him.
"What are you doing?" asked Mance Rayder, as Benjen pulled out the flag, and with it he pulled out a small rope bound to its end, as Qorin took out a wineskin, and downed a massive gulp.
"Ahh, I will miss the wines," he said offering it to Mance.
"I never thought I would share my last drink with the King beyond the Wall," he said, drawing a gasp, as Mance took the wine and downed a gulp himself.
"So, he did plan for it, didn't he?" and Benjen nodded as he let the warm wine burn down his gullet before he began to pour it on the rope.
"He did," and this was their one last trap. One last gamble to gain as much of an advantage as they could against this ungodly enemy that aimed to end all of humanity.
"There are only three things that kill the undead," he whispered, as Qorin passed him the torch, and Benjen's hand did not shake, nor did his heart hold any doubt as he lit the end of the rope with the torch, and saw it burn down.
"Valyrian Steel, Dragonglass, and Fire," and he stood up again, just as the massive horde crashed into the line of White and Black, as he closed his eyes and waited for his death.
"My Watch has ended..."
BOOOM! BOOOM! BOOOOM! BOOOOM! BOOOOM!
.
.
.
And the fire that erupted was so large that it felt as if the very Sun had exploded, and it burned and burned, taking with it the dead and the undead without any care. It was a fire fuelled by over thousands upon thousands of wildfire pots that had been placed in a dug-up trench over half a decade, and as they burnt away the ambitions and the desires of the undead King, armies of the North and the King all gathered at the Wall for the Second Coming of the Dawn.
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