𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 116: 𝖂𝖆𝖑𝖐𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖆 𝕿𝖎𝖌𝖍𝖙𝖗𝖔𝖕𝖊.
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Tens of thousands of men were spread across the fields west of Highgarden. Tents and supply wagons stretched for miles around the fortress of Goldengrove, while columns of smoke rose from hundreds of campfires.
Despite all that activity, morale was rather low, as the order to retreat had been given only a few days earlier.
An order nobody wanted to talk about.
Everyone continued with their duties as though nothing had happened, but the news had spread throughout the camp with the usual speed of rumors: for the first time, the Lannister-Tyrell alliance army had advanced to face the enemy and returned without fighting a battle.
Tommen Baratheon studied the map spread across the table while trying to maintain an appearance of calm and dignity, although he could still feel his hands trembling. Margaery remained seated to his right, while Mace Tyrell and Randyll Tarly occupied the seats opposite Cersei and Petyr Baelish.
Tommen sighed when he saw his mother sitting there despite not having been invited. It was not that her presence bothered him, but only a fool would fail to notice that his generals viewed her suggestions with considerable displeasure, and Cersei's mental state had not improved since she learned that Myrcella was now Vlad Drakul's hostage.
He could not blame her, either, since he himself had not taken the news well. He trusted, or rather clung to the hope, that Vlad would respect the ancient unspoken agreements that governed negotiations even in times of war and keep his sister safe, although unfortunately, his mother did not share that optimism.
His thoughts were interrupted when Margaery gently stroked his hand, encouraging him to pay attention to her father's report.
—The last recruits have arrived —Mace Tyrell announced with evident satisfaction. —Highgarden has assembled more than forty thousand men, our grain reserves are plentiful, and the scorpions purchased in Braavos are already being installed in the camp.
The Lord of Highgarden seemed very pleased with himself, and under any other circumstances, Tommen would have shared his enthusiasm, since forty thousand men were enough to reclaim the Westerlands.
If it were not for them.
Tommen looked away from the map and rose from the table. A servant had left a jug of wine on a nearby table a few minutes earlier, so the young king poured himself a cup and drained it in one gulp before returning to the others.
When he looked up at the gathering, he discovered that his mother was watching him with a slight expression of disapproval. Tommen knew she disliked seeing him drink, but honestly, he needed it at that moment, so he pretended not to notice her and continued listening to the reports.
—I have arranged for the forces to be divided into several separate groups —Randyll Tarly reported, pointing to different locations on the map. —We have also reinforced the patrols and increased the number of scouts, so that if we are attacked, we can avoid concentrating too many men in one place.
Tommen studied the marks his commander had drawn on the parchment. The measures seemed reasonable, and in fact, he could not think of any much better alternatives, but that was precisely the problem: he felt as though he were trying to stop a flood with his bare hands.
The three centuries since the extinction of the dragons had erased much of the terror those creatures represented from the memories of the lords. Most regarded them as distant legends belonging to an era very different from their own, while some dismissed them outright as Targaryen propaganda.
That was the problem.
The lords had never seen a dragon or fought against one, but they had spent more than two centuries fighting among themselves, and until then, victory had always favored those with larger armies, better supply routes, or more effective spies.
Now, however, the lords serving the young king had to devise strategies to confront what were, in practice, living legends, and judging by the faces around him, they were not doing a particularly good job.
Tommen suppressed the urge to sigh aloud before addressing his master of whisperers.
—Do we have any information about the enemy's movements, Lord Baelish? —he asked, striving to sound confident.
Littlefinger remained upright in his seat, with deep circles beneath his eyes, as he sorted through several scrolls containing reports. The truth was that the master of whisperers was not having the best of times, since reports from the territories under the Impaler's control were scarce and contained little useful information.
Furthermore, seven out of every ten spies he sent never returned, leaving him with fewer and fewer men to maintain his information network.
Added to that was the loss of brothels and taverns at the hands of a new and unknown player in the underworld, meaning this campaign was costing him not only men but also enormous sums of money.
Littlefinger rose from his chair and addressed the king in his usual measured tone.
—Unfortunately, Your Grace, the Lord Impaler maintains extraordinary security measures —he remarked with a slight grimace. —The information reaching us from the Westerlands is scarce; we have no reliable details about the movements of his troops, nor do we know where Princess Myrcella is.
As he uttered the final words, he fixed his gaze on Cersei. Ever since it had become known that the princess was in territory under Vlad's control, the queen mother had ceaselessly hounded him with demands and threats to find or rescue her, as though he could breach the defenses of the most dangerous man in the world simply because she ordered him to.
Cersei's jaw visibly tightened, although she said nothing, and Littlefinger seized the opportunity to continue before she could interrupt him.
—The only things I have managed to discover, at the cost of a considerable number of my best men, are twofold. He is erecting a series of monuments at various locations throughout the Westerlands —he continued, spreading one of the scrolls across the table. —Our reports speak of enormous stone pillars covered in strange symbols.
His hand moved across several sketches hastily drawn by one of his spies.
—We have confirmed the existence of one at Casterly Rock, another at Lannisport, and several more at some of the region's most important fortresses —he continued, pointing to several marked locations on the map. —We do not know their purpose.
Littlefinger handed a copy of the report to everyone present.
—The maesters I have consulted believe they might be religious or ceremonial monuments —he added, tracing the symbols with the tip of his finger. —Although there is not enough information to be certain.
He picked up another scroll and placed it on the table.
—We have also discovered large purchases of wood and iron, both in Westeros and in Essos —he continued in a calm tone. —The quantities are considerable, and merchants claim that prices far above market value are being paid.
Randyll Tarly leaned slightly forward.
—Is he building siege weapons? —he asked, examining the documents.
—That was what we initially believed —Littlefinger admitted, pointing to several incomplete drawings.
Several eyebrows rose around the table when Littlefinger pointed to the drawings in his report once more.
—According to our spies, the Impaler is building ships —he explained, frowning slightly. —What is puzzling is that the structures are being erected inland, several miles from the coast.
Cersei looked at Littlefinger with narrowed eyes and a tense jaw, clearly dissatisfied with the answer.
—So, after retreating from the battlefield like cowards, all we have to show for it is purchases of materials and stone monuments? —she snapped with evident contempt.
Littlefinger felt another headache threatening to settle behind his eyes. The conversation was all too familiar to him: for Cersei Lannister, there were only two possible outcomes, success or failure, and if she did not get exactly what she wanted, then she had failed.
Before he could answer, Randyll Tarly let out a disapproving grunt. The veteran commander placed both hands on the table and cast an unfriendly look at the queen mother.
—I do not appreciate your insinuations, my lady, and I certainly will not allow you to lecture me on how a war should be fought —he growled without taking his eyes off her. —You have never cared about anything beyond the color of your dresses, whereas I have gone to war and watched brave men die, men whose lives you so readily hold in contempt.
Cersei's face hardened before everyone present. Throughout her life, she had believed that the only reason she had never commanded armies or fought in a battle was that she had been born a woman, never stopping to consider that leading men also required talent, discipline, courage, and experience, qualities she took for granted that she possessed.
Her fingers gripped the armrests of her chair as she held Randyll Tarly's gaze.
—I may be a woman, but apparently I have more courage than every man in this room, since when faced with a winged beast, I was not the one who fled or ordered a retreat —she replied without concealing her disdain.
Randyll Tarly was about to answer, but Cersei spoke again, and barely a few seconds later, Mace Tyrell joined in as well. The argument quickly descended into a cacophony of shouts and increasingly blatant insults. Among those present, his mother usually argued more often with Olenna, but in her absence, she seemed determined to earn Lord Tarly's enmity.
Tommen nearly slammed his head against the table.
His mother had started another argument about matters even he knew she understood nothing about, and frankly, he was growing tired of it. He had spent the last few days attending similar meetings, and it seemed to him that they were all the same conversation repeated over and over again.
The voices continued ringing around him until, at last, he abruptly pushed his chair back and stood up.
That alone was enough to stop the argument.
—Enough —he ordered, rubbing his temple. —Leave us. I need a moment to think.
Silence gradually spread through the tent. Those present exchanged a few glances, reluctant to end the argument, and Cersei was about to make another venomous remark, but Tommen's stern tone silenced her.
—I said enough! —he shouted, almost yelling. —Get out of here, all of you!
This time, everyone understood the message.
—As Your Grace commands —they replied in unison.
One after another, they began leaving the command tent. Randyll Tarly was among the first to leave, followed by Littlefinger and Mace Tyrell, while Cersei remained still for a moment, until the young king's stern gaze finally drove her toward the exit as well.
Before long, the tent fell silent, and Tommen let out a long sigh.
Margaery watched him for a few moments with a gentle smile, the same diplomatic smile Lady Olenna had insisted on teaching her since childhood to inspire empathy in others. Of course, the Queen of Thorns' granddaughter knew more than a few tricks for influencing the young king, but on this occasion, he seemed genuinely overwhelmed, so she rose from her seat with a slight sigh, determined to set aside her games of influence for a while.
She picked up the jug of wine resting beside the maps, filled a cup, and placed it in front of him.
—What is really troubling you? —she asked as she returned to her seat.
Tommen remained seated, his elbows on the table and his fingers pressing against his temples.
What was troubling him? He almost grimaced in disgust at the question.
He was worried about Myrcella, the winter, the Crown's debts, and the thousands of men sleeping in the fields around Goldengrove, hoping he would not send them to certain death. But how the hell was he supposed to prevent that? He was barely managing to keep his sanity after what had happened.
He could still remember that day in great detail.
By the time they reached the western borders, they had already assembled an enormous force, with Highgarden's banners flying alongside those of the Crownlands, ready to reclaim the territory stolen from their homeland.
The scouts kept returning with the same reports: there were no signs of troops or fortifications blocking the roads. Looking back, Tommen understood that Vlad Drakul had not even sent men to meet them, because there was no need.
And now he knew why.
A shadow glided over the columns of men and horses, covering an enormous stretch of land as it advanced like a dark cloud. Thousands of eyes turned toward the sky, where the creature descended with its wings fully extended, so enormous that every beat stirred up dust and sent banners fluttering dozens of meters away.
As it approached, Tommen realized that every story he had heard throughout his life had fallen short.
The dragon was enormous, with a head almost as large as a horse and jaws capable of swallowing a man whole, while its bright yellow eyes swept across the army's ranks with an intense gaze. Tommen could not understand how a creature could have such human eyes.
When it landed in front of the army, the ground cracked beneath its feet, and numerous mounts backed away in panic, but even that was not what caught Tommen's attention most.
The dragon was covered in armor.
Metal plates protected practically its entire body without restricting its movements, and the metal around its joints seemed to bend as though it were nothing more than cloth, while strange symbols engraved on its surface emitted a faint bluish glow.
Tommen still remembered the silence that had spread through their ranks, with tens of thousands of men watching the dragon as it watched them. The creature remained there for a few moments, as though assessing the army before it, before releasing another roar that echoed throughout the valley and launching itself back into the sky.
Not a single man died, not a single arrow was fired, and not a single sword left its scabbard.
Nevertheless, nobody felt the urge to keep advancing. More than one soldier dropped his spear and ran in panic, although the deserters were stopped almost immediately. Randyll Tarly ordered a retreat, and the army resumed its march, only this time toward Goldengrove.
Tommen remained silent for a few moments after the memory had finally faded from his mind. At last, he picked up the cup Margaery had poured for him and took a long drink before setting it back on the table.
—How are we supposed to fight that? —he asked without taking his eyes off the wine.
Margaery interlaced her fingers on the table, giving him time to gather his thoughts.
—Dragons were difficult to kill when the Targaryens ruled, but it was not impossible —Tommen continued, shaking his head. —There are stories of dragons falling in battle, even if it was difficult.
The queen adjusted one of the books that had been displaced beside the maps while Tommen searched for the words to continue.
—But that... —he murmured, glancing at the volumes he had managed to gather. —I have consulted the maesters, and they all agree that the Targaryens never tried to cover their dragons in full armor because the weight prevented them from flying.
Tommen let out a tired laugh.
—And now Vlad Drakul appears with a dragon covered in metal from head to tail, rendering all the countermeasures we knew useless —he concluded in frustration.
Margaery picked up the jug and refilled the king's cup before setting it within his reach.
—Is that really what worries you? —she asked, tilting her head slightly.
Tommen took a few seconds to answer before letting out a long sigh. His wife was perceptive, he had to admit that much.
—I keep turning the same question over and over in my mind —he admitted, watching the wine in his cup.
His gaze drifted away for a moment.
—Vlad Drakul is known as the Lord Impaler, a man famous for his conquests and for destroying those who oppose him —he listed wearily. —He took the Westerlands months ago, destroyed Pyke, and wiped out the Greyjoy fleet, but he has done nothing since then.
Margaery leaned back against her chair, reflecting on his words.
—He has not attacked Highgarden or marched on King's Landing, nor has he demanded any surrenders or shown any interest in expanding his territory —Tommen continued, running a hand over his face.
The young queen leaned forward and rested an elbow on the table.
—You don't understand, do you? —she observed calmly.
—No, I don't understand what he wants —Tommen admitted. —If he wanted to conquer us, he should have tried by now. He has men, he has dragons, and, by the Seven, after what I have seen, I am not even sure he needs an army to kill us all.
The Lady of Highgarden lowered her gaze to the maps, carefully examining what she now assumed to be Vlad Drakul's territory.
—Every time I try to anticipate his next move, I end up asking myself the same question —Tommen finally admitted. —What is he waiting for? Is this some kind of strategy? Does he want us to stay here consuming supplies while winter approaches? Is he trying to demoralize us or make us start distrusting one another?
Tommen's unease was not difficult to understand. Even she, who had spent much of her life surrounded by power games, struggled to imagine a more complicated situation. Tommen was a king, the last heir of his family, and the man responsible for tens of thousands of soldiers, but he was facing an enemy capable of doing things that seemed impossible.
So this time, if she could help him, she would do so sincerely.
—Then ask him —Margaery replied with a small smile.
Tommen lifted his gaze from the maps and looked at her as though she had said something insane, although his expression quickly changed as he considered the idea.
—Ask him? —he repeated, frowning.
—Yes —Margaery replied with a slight shrug. —Send an envoy.
The young queen gestured with her hand as though she were presenting a play.
—Do what kings do —she continued, adopting a solemn tone. —Send a letter condemning the invasion of your lands, use all the grandiose language you want, and speak of sovereignty, justice, and royal duties.
A faint smile appeared on her face.
—Make it clear to the lords of Westeros that you have no intention of accepting the invasion of your lands —she added sarcastically. —Don't make it look as though you have been sitting on your hands.
She then picked up a cup of wine and slowly swirled it between her fingers. Tommen could not remember ever seeing her with that expression, and he had to admit that he found it enormously attractive.
—You don't want to send your men to die, but you can't just sit around doing nothing, either. Send envoys and publicly condemn Vlad Drakul —she continued calmly before bringing the cup to her lips. —Ask about your sister and find out why she is in the Westerlands and what he intends to accomplish.
The young king stared at her in disbelief. Was it really that obvious?
Margaery had just pointed out a solution so simple that it was almost insulting. Tommen nearly laughed at his own incompetence, although he was also glad to have a wife at his side who had known how to help him when he needed it most.
Margaery did not blame him for failing to think of it sooner. The Crownlands had grown accustomed to a firmer approach to politics during Robert's reign and under Tywin's influence, whereas in Highgarden, problems were usually resolved through alliances, compromises, and negotiations long before they escalated into massacres.
Even so, the future Queen of Thorns found it ironic that setting aside her determination to manipulate Tommen had brought her closer to him. For months, she had tried to earn his trust through carefully chosen advice and small nudges in the right direction, but that night she had decided to help him simply because she could see how overwhelmed he was, and the result had been better than any of her previous attempts.
Tommen pushed his chair back and stood up. The sense of helplessness he had been carrying over the past few days had not vanished, but at least he now had something to do instead of merely waiting and speculating.
He summoned his advisers again, making sure this time that his mother was excluded from the meeting, much to everyone's relief. Orders were issued quickly, and it was soon decided that the first envoy would depart for his family's ancestral castle, now serving as the seat of House Drakul.
He could only hope, for the envoy's sake, that the Lord Impaler's reputation had been exaggerated.
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Good evening, everyone! Sorry for the delay.
I'm completely exhausted from my new job. Let me just say that I'd love to find the person who invented split shifts so I could show them plenty of love and give them some really tight hugs. Split shifts are the worst fucking thing humanity has ever invented. It's like working fifteen hours while only getting paid for nine.
Anyway, putting my complaints aside, I haven't been keeping up with things as much lately because, as I mentioned before, I have a new job, training, and quite a bit of stress to deal with. The truth is that, while I can still write in my free time, I don't have much of it. I start work pretty early, so I usually have, at most, a couple of hours to write.
Still, I'll try not to disappear completely, and we'll see how I manage to balance everything.
On another note, this chapter is also a bit of an experiment, as I mentioned before. The previous chapter was an attempt to write a long conversation without making it feel repetitive or turning it into an exposition dump. This time, I wanted to try something different: writing a conversation involving more than two characters.
Normally, my chapters tend to follow a structure where a narrative passage explains what happened, followed by a conversation that serves as the climax of the scene. With this chapter, I tried to incorporate several conversations involving different characters and see if I could make group dialogue feel natural without becoming confusing or repetitive.
In short, this is an experiment to improve both the story and my own writing, since this is a hobby I care about and want to keep getting better at.
Thanks for reading, everyone! I appreciate your patience and support while I adjust to this new chapter of my life. I'll do my best to keep updating whenever I can, and I hope you enjoy the story. Take care, and see you in the next chapter!