Chapter Text
PROLOGUE, ACT I
Lord Moryn Roxton, Lord of Bandallon, sat in his solar, reading over some of the week’s ravens. The usual inquiries were, frustratingly, ever present. Land disputes amongst what little bannermen he had to begin with, wayward soldiers content to ignore the King’s law, and the weekly correspondence between Lord Leyton Hightower and his youngest son Ser Humfrey. Moryn was fond of his former squire, now ward, and was sure to not break the seal, reminding himself to deliver this to Humfrey’s rooms at a later time.
There was one letter which stood out from the rest, however. The one who’s seal was emblazoned unmistakably with the snarling direwolf of the Starks of Winterfell. The last time he had seen this sigil was six years ago, on the surcoats and shields of the brave northmen that led the siege of Pyke. For a few moments, I wondered if it would be the last thing I ever saw. The direwolf of Stark brought back many memories, not all positive.
. . .
281 A.C.
Moryn could not believe his luck. Or lack-thereof. The Sword of the bloody Morning, damn him to all the seven hells. It was a sunny day in the tourney grounds, the looming shadow of Harrenhal doing little to darken the mood of the crowd. Lords, ladies, knights, and maidens from across the Seven Kingdoms gathered to watch Ser Arthur Dayne in his first tilt. And I, his first victim. Splendid. Moryn had at least hoped to win one or two tilts, maybe against one of those rodent-faced Freys, or maybe one of the ever arrogant Knights of the Vale. A shame the Fat Flower isn’t jousting. I’d have challenged him immediately. Sending Mace to the dirt would make any loss worth it.
But fate was not on his side. Ser Arthur had challenged Moryn personally. “I prefer to test my mettle against those with true talent, not waste time fighting some arrogant lordling with more pomp than skill,” he’d said. One does not simply decline the challenge of a knight of the Kingsguard, especially one given with such respect. Damn him, he makes it so difficult to dislike him.
In the end, he broke one lance on Ser Arthur’s shield, before being sent to the dirt the second time around. As losses go, it was not a particularly painful one. He hadn’t fallen awkwardly, thankfully not twisting a limb a way it was not wont to go. He would hurt on the morrow, no doubt, but at five-and-twenty, and an anointed knight, he’s been hurt worse. Clarice would want to take care of him, and that could be nice, he supposed. Getting up, he was careful not to look at the box holding his fellow lords of the Reach. I may not be liable for my actions if I see that smug look of satisfaction on dearest Lord Tyrell. The consequence of his efforts drew his eyes to the royal box, where he caught the eye of Prince Rhaegar. The prince had been watching him curiously, but once eye contact was made, lifted his chalice in mock salute with a smirk on his face. Cheeky fucker. Moryn gave a mock bow in turn, drawing a laugh from the prince, and from Ser Arthur, returning from his victory lap. “What say I ransom the horse, and you serve the wine tonight?” he suggested, a smirk on the white cloaked knight's face.
“As you say, ser.”
The competitor’s clasped forearms, and Moryn rode off to his tent, to remove his armour. His squire, Florent’s lad, Imry, set to aiding him. Normally the lad was quite talkative, but seeing his master get thrashed so easily must have stolen the words from his mouth. Once finished, Imry went to find a silent sister, who would ensure he had no serious injuries, other than wounded pride. After an uncomfortable encounter with one of the old crones, whose disapproval of seemingly everything about Moryn was quite apparent, he went to join the rest of the Reach lords in their box, only to be stopped just outside his tent by a knight of the Kingsguard, whose helm was adorned with the black bat of the tourney hosts.
“Is aught amiss, ser?”
“Other than your jousting skills?” Ser Oswell Whent said. “You could smell a bit better, I suppose. You’re to finish watching the joust with royalty, after all.”
“Royalty?”
“Prince Rhaegar to be specific. Ser Arthur Dayne as well, though he is only considered royalty by himself.”
That’ll really stick it to the Fat Flower.
“Are you telling me to bathe then, ser?” Moryn said with a small smirk. He liked this knight.
“Telling you? No. You’re only to be seated next to the future King of Westeros. A perfume of sweat and horse shit is perfectly appropriate. Suggested, even, my lord.” Ser Oswell Whent drawled, clearly getting impatient. Still patient enough for smart arse sarcasm, it seems.
“Allow me to bathe quickly, and I shall join you in a quarter-hour.” Moryn suggested. “Alright?”
Ser Oswell left him with a nod, and Moryn sent Imry to get a basin and some water. “Cool, not cold, but definitely not hot, alright?” he said, before sending the boy off. After bathing, and dressing in his best sky blue surcoat stitched with the interlocking saltire of rings that denotes House Roxton, he exited his tent.
“Ready, my lord?” Ser Oswell asked.
“As ever, ser.” Moryn said. Suddenly a wicked thought crossed his mind. “Actually, might we extend this invitation to my wife as well? I wouldn’t want her to miss such an opportunity.”
“I can have a messenger—”
“I should like to collect her myself, ser.” Moryn interrupted with a pointed look and a smirk towards the Reach’s seats. “If that is alright.”
Ser Oswell let out an exasperated sigh. “As you say, my lord.” He murmured. He gestured with his hand. “Lead the way.”
The two men made the trek towards the reach box, while a match between a Frey and a Manderly took place. “A rodent and a whale," Ser Oswell grumbled. “truly a captivating tilt.” The two chuckled as they climbed the steps and entered the stands. Is this petty, dishonourable, and beneath me? Yes. Would father be disappointed? No doubt. Do I care? Not at all. Once Lord Mace caught sight of Moryn he raised his chalice, gaining the attention of all the lords of the Reach.
“Well ridden, Lord Moryn.” He exclaimed jovially, voice laced with sarcasm. “You may be the first reachman to ever lose to a dornishman in a joust!” All seven chins jiggled as he laughed, joined in by the entire Tyrell family, bar Lady Olenna, who rolled her eyes at her son’s antics, and most of the other lords of the Reach. After taking a chalice of wine from a serving girl, Moryn put on a fake smile, raising his glass to Lord Tyrell. “Ser Arthur is a fearsome opponent, my lord.” He said, “And I can now drink as much as I wish for the remainder of the joust!” That elicited a few chuckles from some other lords.
With eyes still on him, he scanned the box for blonde hair and brown eyes, and made his way to his lady wife, Clarice Roxton née Osgrey. A woman of one and twenty, pretty in a plain sort of way, a daughter of House Osgrey, a house of landed knights. He made a show of kissing her hand, complimenting her, and, while side-eying Lord Mace, he went in for the kill.
“My lady, his grace the crown prince has graciously extended me an offer to watch the rest of today’s tilts by his side.” He intoned, enjoying the way Mace’s perpetually pink cheeks slowly started to deepen in colour. “I would be honoured if you would join me.”
“My lord, it is I who is honoured.” Clarice said, with a knowingly sly smile on her face. Turning to Ser Oswell, she offered her hand and said, loud enough for Mace to hear “Lead the way, good ser!” The three exited the box, Clarice barely holding in her laughter, and once a safe distance away, she erupted.
“That was one of the most petty things I have ever seen!” Clarice said, laughing.
“I couldn’t help myself, I’m afraid” Moryn responded, with a small chuckle.
“Yes, yes. You’ve one-upped the Fat Flower, congratulations.” Ser Oswell drawled. “You’re late enough as it is, can we please make our way over now, or have you another person you wish to lord this over?” That sobered up Moryn and Clarice real quick, and they made the rest of the trek in silence.
Once at the entrance to the royal box, Ser Oswell passed them along to another white cloak, who introduced himself as Ser Jonothor Darry, before taking up Ser Jonothor’s spot guarding the entrance to the royal box. The sound of Ser Jonothor’s armour alerted most to their presence, including the King and Queen. Aerys glared at Moryn, eyes alight with paranoia, and pointed a gnarled finger, whose nail was as long as Moryn’s forearm. “Who are you to presume to enter my box?” He grumbled, almost lazily. “The dragon has no equal! Back to the small folk with you!”
Moryn and Clarice shared a confused look, until a man Moryn’s age, tall, lean, handsome, with bright silver-gold hair, stood.
“Don’t fret, father.” Prince Rhaegar said. “Lord Roxton is here by my invitation.” “So you can conspire to steal my throne in mine own box?” Aerys countered lazily “You’ll never get it, you ungrateful boy! I should’ve smothered you in your crib, you upstart…” he trailed off, muttering under his breath, still uninterested in the conversation at hand. Rhaegar looked just as unfazed, as if conversations like this were a daily occurrence. Rhaegar’s wife, Princess Elia, invited Clarice to sit with her, while Rhaegar had Moryn sit next to him and an off-duty Ser Arthur.
“I apologize… I didn’t mean to… forgive me…” Moryn stuttered, not sure what he had done to be tied to Aerys’ absurd accusations.
“It’s quite alright, my lord.” Rhaegar said. “You’ve done nothing wrong. He’s like that sometimes. You needn’t worry.”
“Thank you, my Prince.” Moryn said, relieved, but still very confused.
“I’m the one who should be thanking you, losing to Ser Arthur so easily.” Rhaegar joked. “I’ll not have to face you in the yard. I wasn’t looking forward to our tilt.”
“Ser Arthur made quick work of me, my prince.” Moryn agreed. “Alas, I now have the great honour of being a royal cupbearer for the night, so everyone wins, it seems.”
“Royal cupbearer?” Rhaegar asked, confused. “You’re only to pour Arthur’s wine, I’d thought”
“Ser Oswell has led me to believe that Ser Arthur considers himself royalty.” Moryn replied, an overly serious tone contrasting with the mirth in his eyes. “Is he not, in fact, royalty?”
Rhaegar and Arthur chuckled, and Rhaegar made to reply, only to be cut off by Arthur. “Whenever I spar against royalty” Arthur drawled, emphasizing the word, and elbowing Rhaegar in the ribs. “They end up on their arse. So what else could that make me?” At that, the three men erupted in laughter.
. . .
Moryn was roped into serving Arthur’s wine the next two nights, if only for the phenomenal company that Ser Arthur and Prince Rhaegar made. While none were quick with a smile, Rhaegar had quite the clever wit to his jests, and seemed to grow more comfortable making them about Moryn as the nights went on. Moryn learned a lot about the silver prince, and about the Sword of the Morning. He learned that Rhaegar’s and Elia’s marriage was not one of love, but of duty. That, while good friends, they did not desire one another. It was almost as if Rhaegar had described the relationship between Moryn and his own wife, Clarice.
Clarice and he had tried, at first. The birth of their son and heir, Lorence, was a blessing that brought them closer together than ever before. But try as they might, feelings did not develop. It had been 6 years since Lorence, and they had not had another child yet. Moryn knew Clarice wasn’t desperate for another child, and he was not either. They would eventually have to start trying again, as having only one child is not responsible in furthering the house. An heir and a spare, the saying goes.
Moryn asked Rhaegar a question that he is fond of asking other highborn. A question he uses to determine the true character of a person. “If you were not crown prince, if you could completely ignore any duty or responsibility, and do whatever you heart desires, what would you do?”
Rhaegar thought a long moment, maybe ten seconds, before responding.
“I own a tower, located along Prince’s Pass, that I purchased about 4 years back. I was riding from Starfall with Arthur, and I fell in love with it. The isolation, the wilderness, it seemed like a place I could go should I ever wish to be completely alone. The sunrise from the top of the tower is immaculate, the sky is awash with colours I did not even know existed. When I am king, and Aegon’s reign is secure, I shall retire. I shall give up my crown, and power to my son, and live out the rest of my days in my Tower of Joy. I should like that, I think. So if I could be free of my duties and responsibilities, I would expedite that plan.”
Moryn came away from these conversations with a great fondness for the Silver Prince. He believed him a kind, intelligent, honourable man. He would make an incredible King, and though it is treason to think such, he couldn’t wait to see the day.
On the third night of the jousts, Rhaegar did not show. Arthur claimed he was serious about winning the joust, foregoing the wine and company for sleep, in order to be well rested. Moryn found similar kinship with Arthur, as he had with Rhaegar. He could see why he and Rhaegar were fast friends. They were very similar. Quiet, honourable, good men. Arthur had more of a biting tongue, from his Dornish blood, perhaps. Arthur had shared a story of how he and Princess Elia had fancied themselves in love as children, but Elia’s mother Dorea Martell, the princess of Dorne, had refused the match, as Arthur was only a second son. “She was ten-and-four, I was ten-and-three. We were young fools.” Arthur said. “We laugh about it now. How ever gentle, sweet, and kind Princess Elia lit her mother’s favourite gowns on fire when she found out!”
Arthur was on duty the fourth evening, and so Moryn retired to his rooms early. He had made friends with two of the most well respected men in the realm, without even meaning to. Clarice will think me a fool not to try to use them to advance my station, he mused. No matter. He fell asleep that night, feeling happier then he had in a long time. He was set to leave the morning after next, and he had enjoyed himself far more than he had expected to. Instead of spending the tournament getting ribbed on incessantly by Lord Mace, he had made friends with royalty. Depending on who you ask.
On the fifth day, Rhaegar Targaryen, the Silver Prince, and Moryn’s good friend, won the joust. Moryn and Arthur, who had been unseated by Rhaegar earlier that same day, cheered loudly as he unseated Ser Barristan Selmy in the final.
And yet, their smiles died, same as everyone else, when Rhaegar rode past his wife, to crown the Lady Lyanna Stark his Queen of Love and Beauty.
. . .
“What in all the seven hells was he thinking?”
Clarice gave him a thoughtful look. “I don’t know.” She said quietly. “Not even Elia knows, I think. Lady Lyanna was furious. I overheard her being questioned by her oldest brother, the one the prince beat in the joust.
“He spoke as if she had seduced the prince. She didn’t like that. I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone, let alone the heir to a great house, receive a tongue lashing to the degree Lady Lyanna gave her brother. It was extraordinary, really.”
“Lyanna didn’t know what was about to happen?”
“No.” His wife said. “She spoke of being friendly with the prince during their few conversations, but the crowning surprised her as much as it embarrassed and enraged her.”
“This could start a war, Clarice.” Moryn said solemnly. “Robert Baratheon, Lady Lyanna’s betrothed, is said to have a temper, and should something more occur between her and the prince…” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don’t see this ending well, Clarice. Not at all.”
. . .
They began their return to Bandallon the next morning, seen off by King Aerys and Queen Rhaella. Rhaegar was not to be seen, nor was Elia. As they said their goodbyes, Ser Arthur gave him a solemn nod from his place in front of the Queen. Moryn returned the nod, and their small retinue set out in the direction of the Kingsroad. Moryn had made the decision to leave before the festivities had concluded entirely. This day would be devoted to the archery and axe-throwing competitions, while the next would be allotted to a horse race and a competition of singers. There was also to be a mummer’s show after the competition had been concluded, as well as a massive farewell feast.
Moryn had correctly assumed that Lord Mace, and consequently his simpering sycophants that he called “lords of the Reach," would wish to stay for the farewell feast. So by leaving early, not only could they reach Bandallon quicker, they would be blissfully without the company of Mace Tyrell, and his family. Lord Randyll Tarly had similar ideas, apparently, and so the two Reach lords joined their retinues for the journey home.
Lord Randyll was not someone Moryn would call a friend. Or even someone he liked. The man was hard, cruel, and unforgiving. While Moryn held no love for Tarly, he greatly respected the man. An elite battle commander, and an extremely talented combatant that Moryn would never wish to cross blades with. Say what you will about the surly man, but I’m glad he’s on my side, should war occur.
. . .
The Tarly retinue had long since broken off from the Roxton one, and made their way back to Hornhill. Moryn had spoken to Lord Randyll four nights after they had made their way through Kings Landing, after he had some time to brood over the events of the tourney.
“Should the prince presume to continue to court Lady Lyanna, and stoke Lord Robert’s ire even further, this could mean war, my lord.” Moryn spoke firmly.
“It could.” Randyll agreed. “Lord Robert is naught but a green boy whining over stolen goods on his own, but he could potentially bring with him the might of not only the Stormlands, but the North, the Riverlands, and the Vale as well. It might be wise to inform your bannermen of the possibility, Lord Moryn. Hastily trained armies bred from desperate calls to arms do not win wars. Well trained and well taught men perform best. I know I will be informing my bannermen.”
“A wise cause of action, my lord.” Moryn agreed. “I think I shall do the same.”
. . .
Moryn smelt the sea first.
Before the grey walls and tall towers of Bandallon, home, could be seen upon the horizon, the refreshing saltiness in the air calmed his mind, as it always did coming home. I wonder how big my little boy is. Lorence was near seven now, and the light of Moryn’s life. “He’s the very image of his lord father," they would say, and Moryn always took pride in agreeing with them. Lorence has Moryn’s brown hair, preferring to keep it short like his father, and Moryn’s deep blue eyes, always alight with mischief. How one so guarded and quiet as myself created such a charismatic little devil I will never understand. That was a lie of course. Lorence had his mother’s penchant for mischief, finding humour in near every situation. If I came home short an arm, Lorence would ask me how I had forgotten it.
What worried Moryn about his boy, was his growing similarity to his father. Even in the last two years alone, Lorence’s mischievous side has dimmed, slightly enough that most don’t notice. A father always knows. Moryn wondered if Lorence was beginning to feel the burden of being the heir, something Clarice and he had tried to shield him from for some time. He still had his lessons, of course, but they always tried to encourage him to enjoy his childhood. It is not a crime to act a boy, when one is a boy. Manhood is harsh, unforgiving, and cruel. Let him enjoy his childhood first.
Now that Moryn’s squire, Imry Florent, was ready to earn his spurs, Moryn had a mind to write Lord Leyton Hightower, and ask to take his youngest son Humfrey on as a page, and later a squire. He had met the boy in Oldtown, on trips regarding trade and alliances, and was fond of him. Easy smiles, outgoing natures. He and Lorence are cut from the same cloth. Let Lorence find companionship with another highborn. It’s not as if he’ll be getting siblings any time soon.
As he entered through the opening gates of Bandallon, he could see him. His son. My boy. He was practically vibrating with excitement, clearly being held back by Maester Toman. I suppose I’ll quit teasing him. He dismounted his horse, handed the reigns to a stablehand, knelt down, and opened his arms. With a cry of “Father!”, Lorence broke free from the maester’s hold, and ran full barrel into him, embracing him tight. Moryn hugged his son just as tightly back. I will never tire of this, not even when he is a man grown. He heard a murmur, muffled by his shoulder.
“Come again, my boy?”
“I missed you.”
Moryn placed a kiss upon the crown of his son’s head, ruffled his hair, and responded. “I missed you more. Let’s go greet your mother, shall we?”
. . .
The raven came after six moons.
To Lord Moryn Roxton, Lord of Bandallon.
As your liege lord, I command you to raise your levies, and march with all haste toward Highgarden, and join your strength with mine own.
Jon Arryn, Robert Baratheon and Eddard Stark have declared war on the crown, and like the leal servants to House Targaryen that we are, House Tyrell shall come to the aid of the rightful rulers of Westeros.
Long live the King,
Mace Tyrell
Lord of Highgarden
Lord Paramount of the Reach
Warden of the South
Moryn has never been more grateful than he was, for heeding Lord Randyll’s advice. Since he had returned from Harrenhal, he had been bringing smallfolk from the neighbouring villages into the castle for lessons from the Bandallon master-at-arms, Ser Unwin Osgrey, uncle to Moryn’s wife. Ser Unwin led lessons for two hours at a time, teaching the basics of combat with sword, axe, and lance. Anyone talented enough to achieve the moniker of ‘Ser’ could slay any one of the smallfolk being trained, but this small amount of training would lead to a far more superior force than any that could be raised and marched ‘with all haste’. Blundering oaf. I doubt he will even bloody his sword once the entire war.
And so, only four moons after being reunited, Moryn had to say goodbye to his son again. Two nights before leaving, he dismissed the servants to put Lorence to bed himself. After dinner, he led his son to the heir’s chambers. Been a while since I’ve been in here. He made sure Lorence had changed into his nightclothes, shut his window, and took a brush and a lemon to his teeth to clean out the remnants of honeyed chicken and roasted vegetables from the night’s dinner. He tucked him in, and broke the news.
“Lorence.”
“Yes, father?”
“I’m afraid I have to leave again.”
“Where are you going now? Are you going to join the war? Are you bringing Orphan-Maker? Will you kill a hundred men? Could you bring me back a present?”
Moryn smiled at his son. “I am going to join the war.” He replied calmly. “Lord Tyrell, my liege lord, has called his banners. As sworn bannermen of House Tyrell, it is our duty as Roxtons to obey our liege lord.”
“But you don’t like Lord Tyrell.”
“Whatever gave you that impression, my boy?” Moryn asked. A blind man could see it, methinks.
“You said to Ser Unwin that he’s so fat that the whales in the Whispering Sound would think him their kin.”
Moryn couldn’t help let out a laugh at that one. Well, it’s true.
“You’re correct. I do not like him.” Moryn admitted. “But that does not matter. I will answer this call to action anyway. And why is that?”
“Because we are sworn bannermen of House Tyrell.” Lorence parroted proudly.
Moryn put on a proud smile. Not something I find hard to do with him. “Very good. You’ll make a fine Lord of Bandallon one day, son.”
“Not better than you.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure.” Moryn said, with a small smile. “You must keep up with your lessons with Maester Toman and Ser Unwin, and you’ll be the best lord Bandallon has ever had the honour to house. Alright?”
Lorence nodded. Moryn pulled his son into a hug. “Listen to your mother, Lorence. She knows best.” Moryn said. He pulled back to look his son in the eye. “We are Roxtons, and family links us as much as the rings on our surcoats. No bond is stronger, for blood is thicker than water. Remember that, my boy. Remember that, and all will be well.”
“I will, father” Lorence murmured sleepily, as they separated. “I promise.”
Lorence fell back onto his featherbed, eyes already closing. Moryn pushed some of his son’s hair out of his face. Lorence repeated it one more time before he fell asleep.
“I promise.”
. . .
The Roxton retinue passed under the gleaming white walls of Highgarden. He was one of the last to arrive, which was unintentional. Whether or not Mace sees that way is another thing. The fact that they had met up with the Florents on the way was not going to help his case. The retinue was greeted by Lord Tyrell’s son and heir Willas. The ever prickly Florents immediately took offence, even after being told that Lord Mace was in the process of calling the lords to a meeting. Willas played his part well, saying all the necessary things, offering bread and salt, and even not showing any offence at all to Axell Florents obnoxious half-slights. That be his grandmother’s influence. The men set up camp between the Tarlys and the Fossoways, and Moryn was whisked away to the meeting. The less Mace is involved in any battle plan, the better.
Upon arriving in the council chamber, Moryn noted he was one of the last to arrive, barring Lord Alester Florent and Lord Mathis Rowan. I would’ve thought Mathis would be among the first to arrive. They were joined by the two tardy lords around the table and map, Lord Mathis offering a short but incredibly sincere apology, while Lord Alester offered a quick “my apologies.” Typical.
“My lords.” Mace began. “The rebels have won a battle at Summerhall against the Stormlords loyal to the crown. Lord Fell was slain in combat by Lord Baratheon, and lords Grandison, Caffren, and Lord Fell’s own son have all joined the rebels.” Dark wings, dark words indeed. “Our scouts tell us that Lord Baratheon means to take his forces north to link up with Jon Arryn and Eddard Stark. I believe that, should we move posthaste, we can surprise them here—” he moved the figurine representing their forces upstream from Highgarden “— at Ashford. Should we catch them unawares, we may be able to destroy the spearhead of the rebellion, before it has even truly begun. What say you, my lords?”
It was a good plan. The rebels would be riding on the high of victory, and wouldn’t expect an attack from the west so quickly. If they could be caught unawares, a victory at Ashford could severely damage the rebel effort. There is absolutely no way this was Mace’s idea. This has Randyll Tarly written all over it.
“It is a good plan, Lord Mace.” Moryn said, sounding as confident as he felt. “Should we catch the rebels unawares, this could be a knife in the heart of the rebel cause.” Mace seemed surprised that Moryn was on board so quickly, and narrowed his eyes at him. Moryn held his gaze, beseeching him with his eyes to understand the truth of his words. It seemed to work, especially with Lords Rowan, Oakheart, Fossoway, and Cuy offering their agreement to the plan immediately after. Lord Tarly stayed oddly quiet, only saying, “A fine plan, my lord. It will work.” when prompted by Lord Tyrell.
Once the plan was agreed upon, the matter of where everyone was riding came into discussion. Lord Mace immediately granted Lord Tarly the command of the vanguard, and himself command of the rear. To the surprise of absolutely no one. Lords Hightower and Rowan received command of the left and right flank respectively, with Lord Florent leading the middle.
“Who would you like riding along side you in the van, Lord Tarly?” Mace asked.
Lord Tarly immediately looked to Moryn. “I’d have Lord Roxton as second in command, and Lords Oakheart, Mullendore, and Redwyne with me as commanders, my lord.”
Mace stared at Lord Tarly for a moment, as if he couldn’t quite believe Moryn would receive such an honour. He acquiesced in the end. “Very well, my lord. Do as you see fit.”
The remaining lords were assigned their roles, and everyone cleared out of the room to seek sustenance at the feast. Lord Tarly stayed behind a moment, studying the map intently. Moryn took this as an opportunity to speak with him.
“Lord Randyll”
“Lord Moryn”
“Might I ask why you assigned me a position of such esteem, when there are houses of greater acclaim you could have afforded the honour?”
Lord Tarly looked up from the map and studied Moryn a moment, before responding.
“Belonging to a house with a great history or fame means nothing in battle. In battle, men are men, highborn or low, great house or landed knight, trueborn or bastard. I care not if some lord feels he deserves the honour I have bestowed upon you, and neither should you. I know your merit, I know your honour, and I know of your skill in battle. There is no other man, except perhaps Lord Hightower, that I would have by my side in the vanguard. And if you had your levies trained as we discussed on the road from Harrenhal, that is all the more reason. I trust you to do your duty, and do it well, and that is the only reason I need.”
“As you say, my lord.” Moryn responded, not quite sure how to respond to such praise. “I bid you my thanks then.” Lord Tarly merely nodded in response, and Moryn took his leave. Tomorrow we ride for Ashford.
. . .
The battle went nearly according to plan. Nearly.
Rebel scouts were caught and killed, and they managed to take the rebel host unawares. Under the command of Lord Tarly, the van cut through the front lines of Baratheon's army. At one point, Moryn had been knocked from his horse, and found himself in one-on-one combat with a man who’s surcoat displayed the two white fawns of House Caffren. He recognized the armour of Ser Bryce Caffren from Harrenhal. The lad was a talented swordsman, there was little doubt of that. He had come fourth place in the melee, after all. Moryn made use of his strength, and of the edge of House Roxton’s Valyrian steel longsword Orphan-Maker, attempting to slice the Caffren boy’s armour to shreds.
Getting confident, Moryn began to add more strength to his strikes, attempting to end it quickly. Caffren was slowing down, the few cuts delivered through his armour taking their toll. However, during one of Moryn’s less controlled strikes, Caffren blocked, and with Moryn off balance, delivered a cut to his right hand, severing his fingers. Orphan-Maker fell to the grass from whatever remained of his right hand, but before he could draw a dirk with his left, Caffren slashed down at Moryn’s right elbow, relieving him of his arm from the elbow down.
Moryn let out a scream, and dropped to his knees, but with his blood up, and adrenaline pumping through his veins, he felt far less pain than one should, considering the circumstance. Caffren made the mistake of thinking Moryn beaten, as he stepped back and smiled at Moryn.
“Ah, but it is not your arm I want, my lord.” Ser Bryce said, regarding Orphan-Maker’s smoky black blade on the grass next to Moryn. “It’s your sword.”
Those words brought him back to a conversation he had with Arthur, one of those nights in Harrenhal, forever ago. A story Arthur had told him about the Kingswood Brotherhood, and the Smiling Knight.
“Then you shall have it, ser” Moryn replied, picking up Orphan-Maker with his left hand. He had not spent much time working on swordplay with his left, but he had clearly spent more than Ser Bryce believed, judging by the expression on the young man’s face.
He leapt into battle, hacking and slashing, more controlled than he had been, but not nearly as controlled as he had been with his good arm. Ser Bryce knew it too, once he got over the initial shock of Moryn not being useless with his bad arm. He started slowly beating Moryn back, strikes growing quicker and stronger. I’m going to lose, he thought frighteningly.
Backing up farther and farther, he let his thoughts wander.
What did he have to lose?
Bandallon, the way the smell of the sea drifts through the windows on a summer morning
He stopped moving backward
Ser Unwin, those easy smiles, those kind brown eyes
He attempted a quick riposte, putting Ser Bryce Caffren on his heels
Clarice, with her penchant for laughter, jokes, and kindness
He dealt Ser Bryce a wound to his shoulder after a feint and three quick strikes.
Lorence
His smile, his laughter, his hugs, his kindness
What did he have to lose?
Everything
With a quick feint to the neck, he stepped to his left, and delivered a hard slash to Ser Bryce Caffren’s right calf, Orphan-Maker ripping through the steel, cloth, skin and muscle like paper. The knight fell to his knees. Moryn ended it quickly, separating Caffren’s head from his shoulders, his strike hard and true.
I won.
I won. Lorence, I won.
Lorence…
His vision darkened, and he fell to the grass, to the sound of horns blowing.
. . .
Moryn awoke in a tent that was not his own. He made to rise from the bed, using his right arm as he had his whole life, only to stumble when nothing was there to bear his weight. He managed to right himself before he fell onto his… his…
Oh no…
The memory of the battle came back to him all at once. As did the pain. It still did not hurt as much as he felt it should have, but due to the grogginess in his head, he assumed he was hopped up on milk of the poppy.
Enough to put three horses to sleep, it feels like
He was not near as big as three horses, and so he let it take him back to sleep.
. . .
When he awoke the second time, he was not alone. A silent sister was wrapping a bandage around his stump of a right arm, but this time, he felt the pain.
And he screamed.
Through the fog of the intense pain coming not only from fingers he no longer had, but also from the stump of an arm which he did still have, he noticed that the silent sister had the gall to look affronted at his screaming in her ear. That thought quickly left his mind, as it was replaced once more, by pain. The silent sister mixed some milk of the poppy with some water, which he drank eagerly. Within moments, he felt himself falling back to sleep.
. . .
The third time he awoke, he still felt the pain, but it was lessened by a large degree. He could not feel the effects of the milk of the poppy, so he assumed that his body had healed to the point where he could be coherent.
And so, Moryn got up, drank greedily from a pitcher of water, and exited the tent. It appeared they were still in Ashford, camped outside her walls. He re-entered the tent, dressed in the clothes by hid bed, gathered his belongings, nobody had made off with Orphan-Maker, thank the Gods, and began looking for Lord Tyrell’s tent. Since he looked for the largest and most garish tent, he did not look long. He made his way over to a green tent with gold trimmings, twice the size of any other.
The two guards outside noted the sword at his side, the sigil on his jerkin, and his bandaged up stump of a right arm. After staring at him in reverence for a short moment, one poked his head inside and announced Moryn’s presence. After receiving a response, the guard moved the tent flap aside, and Moryn stepped in.
He was greeted by a flowery scent, incenses by the unlit brazier the culprit, no doubt. The war council table was set up to his left, occupied only by the commanders of the army. Lord Randyll nodded at him, Lord Hightower shook his good hand, a look of respect in his eyes, and Lord Rowan said, “If half of what I heard is true, my lord, your story will go down in legend.” Moryn humbly accepted the praise, citing potential exaggerations and half-truths that could make a story sound more impressive than the truth. “Nonetheless, Lord Roxton, we’re glad you’re still here.” Lord Rowan said resolutely.
“That we are.” Lord Mace piped up. “You and I do not see eye to eye, Moryn, but you are one of my finest battle commanders, and it would not do for you to die on the field. It is good to see you walking again, my lord.” All Moryn could do in the shock of being paid a compliment by Mace bloody Tyrell, was offer a nod and a murmured thanks.
“How long has it been since the day of the battle, my lords?” Moryn inquired.
“Four days, Lord Roxton.” Lord Tarly answered. “It is good fortune you have awoken on this day, as we are gathering the lords tonight at dinner for a council, to plan our next move. While we took Baratheon’s host unawares, he managed to retreat with nearly his entire force. It was a good punch to the mouth, however our work is far from finished.”
“Your input shall be most welcome tonight, my lord” Lord Hightower added.
“Then I shall be there” Moryn responded. “If I might beg your leave, I should probably have a healer inspect my arm. It would not do to neglect what little of it I have left.”
“Of course, my lord.” Mace said, letting out an insincere chuckle.
. . .
“Seeing as he took his entire army north, and has left Storm’s End completely unprotected, I see no other course than to lay siege to his home.” Lord Mace said, as he addressed the lords of the Reach. “Lord Redwyne, you will return to the Arbor, and bring your fleet to Shipwrecker Bay, where you will not let so much as a seagull through, understood?” Lord Redwyne nodded. “The remainder of the army shall ride for Storm’s End, where we shall besiege the castle. Baratheon’s green boy of a brother holds it, and he will yield soon enough once he sees the might at which we threaten his home with.”
The entire army? We have more than seventy-thousand men, and you want to use all of them to besiege one castle!? Are you simple?
I have to say something
“The entire army, my lord?” Moryn questioned passionately. “If you wish to scare a green boy into yielding, forty-thousand at the very most would be more than enough, especially with the Redwyne fleet in the bay. The remaining troops would be a boon to the other loyalists in the Riverlands, or-or the Crownlands, even.”
“I do not wish for my home to be caught unawares, Lord Roxton.” Mace intoned. “I will be sending fifteen thousand men to protect Highgarden. Lord Redwyne will need five thousand men to man his ships, so a force of fifty-thousand will besiege Storm’s End. We must have this castle. If I have to overcompensate a little, it is a risk we must needs take. That is my decision, and my decision is final.”
“Do you actually mean to help the Targaryens keep the throne, or are trying to play both sides, Mace!?” Moryn fired back, his voice raised.
“We have declared for House Targaryen, and so we shall fight for House Targaryen!” Mace fired back. “I hardly think besieging the home of the rebel leader is ‘trying to play both sides’, Moryn.”
“You command the largest army in the Seven Kingdoms, and you are using near its entirety, to lay siege to one castle! I name it folly, nothing less, nothing more!”
“Moryn, watch your tong—”
“Have you forgotten who gave you the home you are so desperate to protect!? Have you forgotten the reason why House Tyrell are no longer no more than lowly stewards!? Have you no loyalty!? Have you no honour!?”
“ENOUGH!”
Both Moryn and Mace were on their feet, breathing heavily, staring daggers at each other, while the other lords watched in shock.
“You do not have to like my command, Moryn, but I am your liege lord.” Mace spoke forcefully, his seven chins jiggling with every syllable, his skin tone approaching burgundy. “Should you not obey my command, your life is forfeit. So shall you comply, or shall I send for the headsman?”
Moryn regarded Mace cooly for a moment, before sitting down.
“I will do as you command, my lord.” Moryn said in a tone so cold, he himself nearly didn’t recognize it.
Mace just grunted, before dismissing the Lords of the Reach from his tent.
. . .
Ten moons in to the Folly at Storm’s End, as some lords had taken to calling it behind the Fat Flower’s back, they received the news. They were dining on a feast of roasted duck, boar, and mutton, with all manner of side dishes and appetizers. All within sight of those inside the castle walls. Taunting starving men, can you sink any lower, Tyrell?
A rider with the sigil of House Baratheon came with the message. Lord Tyrell thanked him, and sent him on his way, before reading the message to the table.
To Mace Tyrell, Lord of Highgarden
Prince Rhaegar is dead. I saw to it myself, when I crushed his ribcage with my war hammer. His blood and rubies now litter the Trident. The man who kidnapped and raped my betrothed is in the ground, his cause along with him. By the time this is delivered to you, Lord Eddard Stark will be a few days ride from King’s Landing, where he will take city, and gain his own revenge, for the unlawful murder of his kin.
I now offer you the same mercy I offer any enemy I defeat. Bend the knee, forswear any allegiance to House Targaryen, and you will be allowed to keep your title of Warden of the South, as well as your other lands and titles.
Robert Baratheon,
King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, the First Men
Lord of the Seven Kingdoms
Protector of the Realm
“We must ride to King’s Landing with all haste!” Lord Rowan declared. “We must protect the last of the Targaryens!”
“I don’t know about you, Mathis,” Lord Hightower grumbled. “But I am not rushing to the defence of the Mad King. I fought for Prince Rhaegar, and now my King is dead.”
“But his wife and children remain in the Red Keep, Leyton!” Moryn exclaimed. “Even if we cannot hold the throne, Baratheon will butcher them like animals! We must do all we can to protect them.”
“I agree!” Said Lord Rowan.
“I, as well!” Added Lord Ambrose.
“Our duty is to our king.” Lord Tarly stated. “Our king, and his heir reside in the Red Keep. I agree with Lord Roxton and Lord Rowan, we should ride to King’s Landing as soon as possible.”
“My lords” Mace Tyrell began. Here we go. “This message states that Lord Stark will be at King’s Landing’s gates in a few days. It would take us nigh on a week and a half to reach the city. In all likelihood, even should we leave now, we will be too late to be of any use to His Grace and the Prince’s wife and children. I propose—”
“And whose fault is that, my lord?” Moryn cut in. Mace just glared at him, before clearing his throat, and continuing.
“I propose that we continue to lay siege to Storm’s End. We have nearly starved them out. They shall be surrendering any day now, I have no doubt. Once we have Stannis Baratheon and his little brother in our custody, we can use them to make assurances for the remaining Targaryens.”
His proposal was met with unhappy, but not unsurprising silence, which Mace took as agreement.
“Splendid. Let us get back to the feast, shall we?”
In the midst of all their arguing, the news had yet to sink in. The Prince is dead. Rhaegar is dead. His heart ached for his friend, even if he had only known him less than a week. A great man lies dead in a river, because the Fat Flower wouldn’t abandon the Folly of Storm’s End. His mind wandered to another part of the letter. Kidnapped and raped? Never in a hundred thousand years. The Long Night would come again before Rhaegar Targaryen kidnapped and raped a woman. Yet that had been the story which propelled the rebellion forward. Was Robert Baratheon so petty, to have spread this fabrication, because he’d been rejected by the woman he loves? Moryn had never spoken one word to Robert Baratheon, and so he could not say.
But he was sure on one thing. It was clear Rhaegar had loved Lady Lyanna. The more he had thought about that day, that joust, the moment when all the smiles died, the more sure he was that Rhaegar had loved Lyanna. While everyone in the crowd was silent, or whispering, or laughing, in Baratheon’s case, Rhaegar had eyes only for her. It was a look he had never seen on Rhaegar, not even towards his wife. It was a looked Moryn assumed, until then, was saved for his own children alone.
It was a look of absolute, undying, devoted adoration. A dragon could’ve finished Balerion’s work on the castle walls, and Rhaegar would not have noticed. His eyes were only for his she-wolf. Kidnap and rape? Moryn scoffed to himself. Rhaegar would rather die than see Lyanna kidnapped and raped, by his hand or another.
She left with him willingly, or I still have two hands.
. . .
A moon later, Stannis Baratheon had still not yielded the castle. And judging by the banners spotted making their way to Storm’s End, he would not have to. As soon as Lord Eddard Stark appeared on the field, bearing the banner of a crowned stag, Lord Tyrell dipped his banners.
“His Grace King Robert offers you mercy, should you ride to King’s Landing and bend the knee.” Young Lord Eddard said, few missing the venom in his voice when he said the king’s name. “We shall rest here for the night, and on the morrow, I leave to go find my sister. I suggest you leave as well, in the other direction, my lords.” There was some grumbling, some murmurs of agreement, but Lord Stark’s proposition was met mostly with silence. He turned his horse around, and bid his men set up their tents.
Later that night, Moryn requested an audience with Lord Stark from one of the guards at the front of the Stark camp.
“Who’s askin’?” The guard asked, his northern gruff and blunt manner of speaking refreshing to Moryn’s ears.
“Lord Moryn Roxton, Lord of Bandallon. I befriended Prince Rhaegar at Harrenhal, and I may know the whereabouts of your lord’s sister.” Moryn said, speaking through the guards initial attempt to interrupt him once he mentioned the Silver Prince.
“If you waste milords time with this, southerner, gods only know what he’ll do to you.” The guard warned.
“It is no waste, I promise you.”
The guard checked him for weapons, then bid him follow, and led him through the northern camp, to the lord’s tent. The guard poked his head in, and Moryn heard him say. “I got a one of the southron lords here, milord. Says he was friends with Rhaegar. Says he might know where your lady sister is being held.” An inaudible response came from within, and the guard moved the tent flap aside.
Stark was seated on his bed, in only his tunic and his breeches, deep circles underneath both of his eyes. Those eyes held none of the fatigue betrayed by the rest of his face, as they were alight with anger. “This had better be worth it, Lord…”
“Roxton, Lord Stark.”
“Lord Roxton. If you waste my time, there won’t be a place in all hells I won’t find you.” Stark spoke with a cold fury, making him seem older than his nine-and-ten years. “Speak the truth, my lord, and nothing but.”
And so he did.
He told Stark of a tower in the Prince’s Pass, spoke of the Prince’s love of its isolation, and peace. Spoke of Rhaegar’s desire to retire there, to relinquish his crown to his son once he deems him ready. “It’s not only off the beaten path, and extremely isolated, but he adores the place, my lord. Said if he could ignore all of his duties and responsibilities, he’d retire to the Tower in an instant.”
“He kidnaps and rapes my sister, and hides her in a Tower, where only he would know where to find her.” Lord Stark questioned, his eyes still holding that cold fury. His temper is like a blizzard. Cold, and unforgiving. “This is what you’re telling me?”
“My lord.” Moryn began, knowing Lord Stark would like this part of the conversation even less. “Have you ever met the prince?” At the shake of Stark’s head, Moryn continued. “I would’ve considered Prince Rhaegar a good friend of mine. And I do not associate myself with men who rape and kidnap girls. Trust me, my lord—” he held a hand up at Stark’s attempt to interrupt. “Trust me, when I say, Rhaegar would never kidnap your sister, and would never rape her. The man I knew would never dream of doing such things.” Stark tried to interrupt again, but Moryn held firm. “Not all men hold to a northerner’s rigid honour, though perhaps more should. Do not trust what you think you know of Rhaegar.”
“And yet he absconds with Lyanna, who was betrothed to Robert, with no explanation as to why.” He countered incredulously. “You don’t mean to suggest she went willingly, do you? Lyanna may not have been happy with the betrothal, but she would never betray her house and her family. She would never act so…” he trailed off, saying the last part to himself, his fury melting away.
“Careless?” Moryn offered softly. “Impulsive? I do not know your sister, my lord, did she ever act this way?”
Lord Stark was quiet for a long moment, his eyes glistening with unshed tears, before quietly choking out an answer.
“Yes.”
“I know not of her feelings toward Rhaegar, my lord.” Moryn continued. “But I do know that Rhaegar was madly in love with her. The Long Night would come again before he would see Lyanna Stark kidnapped and raped, especially by his own hand. Ask any who knew him, my lord. They will tell you the same. Love knows no borders, listens to no agreements. We would do anything for the ones we love, yes?”
The younger man met his eyes, the icy cold fury long since melted away. They showed only sadness now, the deep painful sadness, of a young man who has lost everything far too early. He nodded, finally allowing the tears to spill out.
“I thank you for your information.” Stark choked out. “You may take your leave now, my lord. Good night.”
“Of course, Lord Stark.” Moryn said quickly, wanting to leave the man to his ghosts. He turned to leave, but turned back before reaching the tent flap.
“If I am wrong, my lord, and everything I believe about Rhaegar is false, then I fought on the wrong side of this war, and I beg your forgiveness.”
Stark held his eye contact for a moment, before nodding and turning away from him. Moryn turned, and exited into the cool, night air.
. . .
After bending the knee to the Usurper, for he was naught else, Moryn rode home as quickly as he could. No inns, no rest stops. Riding throughout the day, sleeping until first light, then riding again. When the familiar smell of the sea hit his nostrils, Moryn nearly cried. I’m not leaving my family ever again. Damn Mace and his damn oaths. He can burn in all seven hells. The gods might even make a good roast of him.
When he made it through the gates, he did cry. His son jumped into his arms, telling him how much he missed him, and that broke the dam. After a hug from his son and his wife, they both seemingly noticed that he was not quite back in one piece. His wife wore a concerned look, however the mirth in Lorence’s eyes was unmistakable.
“Did you forget the rest of your arm somewhere, father?”
. . .
A raven arrived not two weeks later, from the crown, inviting the Lords and Ladies of Westeros to a royal wedding. The joining in matrimony of His Grace King Robert Baratheon, and Lady Cersei Lannister. An accompanying letter stated what was left unsaid in the wedding invitation. That Lyanna Stark had died of fever, in a bed of blood, in an isolated Tower in the Prince’s Pass. Lord Commander Gerold Hightower, Ser Oswell Whent, and Ser Arthur Dayne all perished protecting their prince’s captive. Of the party of seven northern lords, only Lord Eddard Stark and Lord Howland Reed survived, and are bringing Lady Lyanna’s bones home to Winterfell.
Moryn’s heart ached, for the dead and the living. For the sarcastic Ser Oswell Whent. For a good friend, and true knight in Ser Arthur Dayne. For an innocent young girl, who had no idea the trouble she caused until it was far too late. But most of all for Lord Eddard Stark. A man who, not one year ago, had a well respected father, a dashing older brother, and a wild yet beautiful younger sister, all of whom are with the gods now. He has a wife who was meant for another, a title which was meant for another, but most of all he has grief, grief that would cripple lesser men.
Grief of that magnitude isn’t meant for anyone, and yet he must bear all of it, all the same.