"The mercenary king across the Narrow Sea?" Eddard confirmed his wife's answer. "How could I not know about that? The sailors arriving at White Harbor have all been spreading tales of his exploits. He is a king across the Narrow Sea now. Myr, Tyrosh, the Disputed Lands-people call him a new conqueror."
"He is only a bastard..." Catelyn murmured cautiously. The word was like a cold blade, stabbing at her once again.
"A king's bastard is no ordinary man. The old king's bastard Daemon fought King Daeron back then!" Eddard recalled the past. "This boy has military strength, and he also has the Targaryen brother and sister in his hands. Sooner or later, he will make his move."
"It seems I will have to face war!" Eddard sighed. "I never imagined it would be against Robert's bastard rather than the wildlings beyond the Wall."
"War!" Catelyn could not help trembling.
Chapter 83: Southward
"Draw! Loose!" Winterfell's master-at-arms instructed Bran to shoot. House Stark's second son raised his bow, but his arrow went a little wide of the bull's-eye.
The onlookers laughed-Eddard's heir Robb, his foster son Theon, the "bastard" Jon, and the others. Across the yard, Lord Eddard and his wife were watching from an upper gallery.
Theon, heir to the Iron Islands, was the oldest among them. When he was ten, King Balon's rebellion had been crushed, and his two elder brothers had been killed, leaving him heir to House Greyjoy and the Iron Islands. Lord Eddard had then brought him to Winterfell as a hostage and foster son, raising him for nine years.
"Keep your aim steady! Calm your mind!" Jon told Bran softly.
Bran glanced at his bastard brother and settled his nerves. His next arrow traced a beautiful arc and struck the bull's-eye.
Jon applauded, proud of his younger brother. He was lean, with a long face, brown hair, and gray eyes. In that respect, he looked more like a Stark.
"Well done, our good knight!" Theon laughed heartily. He was known for his arrogance and cynical smile. He was a handsome nineteen-year-old with a slender build and dark brown hair.
"Very good, Bran! An archer who keeps his courage will shoot well." Robb came over to Bran as he spoke. Tall and broad, Robb was growing every day, but he looked like a Tully, with fair skin, auburn hair, and House Tully's blue eyes.
Knight! What a proud word! Jon thought glumly. In terms of skill, Robb had more strength with a lance, but Jon's swordsmanship and riding were among the best in the castle. Yet vast as Winterfell was, there seemed to be little room for him.
"Have you heard about that?" Theon asked mysteriously. "The king's bastard is now the mercenary king across the Narrow Sea. He has a great many troops-Unsullied, Screaming Warriors, and freed slaves!"
Jon pricked up his ears as well. He had heard about the mercenary king, who was said to be undefeated in battle and equally outstanding with a lance, a warhammer, and on horseback. Jon felt a little envious. They were both bastards, but the other man had already escaped his past and made something of himself.
"If the king fought his own son, that would be too..." Robb instinctively regarded it as an affront to propriety and blood ties. Kinslaying was a grave sin cursed by all the gods. Besides, given the king's age and the rumors that he was growing ever fatter, Robb genuinely feared he would be killed.
"That is only what people say." Winterfell's master-at-arms twisted his mouth. "It is all boasting from those cowards across the Narrow Sea. When it comes to courage and strength, who can match us northerners?"
Jon's gaze drifted toward the gallery opposite, where Eddard and his wife stood discussing something he could not hear. Bastards grew accustomed to reading faces, and Jon had finally realized that something had been troubling them these past few days.
"When the day comes for Robb to inherit Winterfell, Bran and Rickon will surely make good bannermen for him," Eddard said.
Lady Catelyn was proud as well. She loved seeing her children united. Yet at this warm moment, the sight of the bastard who bore more of House Stark's features inevitably displeased her.
Catelyn had never been able to feel affection for the bastard. This was the one thing she could never forgive Eddard for. And Jon was always there, always an eyesore. Worse still was his appearance: he resembled his father more than any of Catelyn's children did, looking more like a true bearer of wolf blood.
"Robert would not come in person without a reason. I have a feeling he will ask me to go south," Eddard told his wife as they discussed the king's approaching visit.
"South?" Catelyn considered it. "These are troubled times for the realm. Old Jon is dead, and Robert's bastard is with the surviving Targaryens. Whether for personal reasons or practical ones, he needs his brother's help!"
"I have thought the same! I may refuse him. I believe my duty lies more in the North, here. I have no wish to go south." Eddard pondered it.
Catelyn fell silent. Unlike her, who had grown up in the warmer surroundings of Riverrun, the people of the North always carried something bleak and cold about them. They worshipped the Old Gods. House Stark was born to live amid ice and snow, accustomed to winter.
"That may be so, but he is the king now, and a king is not an ordinary man. Defying him will surely put us in danger."
"He loves me more than his own brothers!" Eddard insisted. "Even if he curses me, we will be good brothers again a week later."
"That was before, not now." Catelyn had no desire to keep arguing with Eddard. Everything would have to wait until the king arrived.
"Still, I only said I might refuse. If Robert truly asks me to join him in war, I think I will go. The last time I went south was during King Balon's rebellion. This rebellion may be no less formidable than Balon's," Eddard said firmly.
"He is only one of Robert's..." Catelyn kept her voice calm, trying not to utter that word.
"I advised him back then, but he never listened to me when it came to wine and women. And now, here is the result." Eddard's mouth twitched. It was a bitter irony, a cruel joke: the king's unrestrained desires had earned him an enemy.
"Is the situation really that bad?" Catelyn felt a chill rise within her, like the legends of the icy White Walkers. She knew that the wars between the kingdom of the Three Daughters and the Targaryen Dynasty had been bloody and prolonged.
"Myr, Lys, the Stepstones, the Disputed Lands-that is three-quarters of the old Triarchy's strength! And there are the Targaryens as well, those two orphans," Eddard said. "If Robert's son is that impatient, he will imitate the old kingdom of the Three Daughters and blockade the coast of King's Landing. Then we will have no choice but to fight him."
"That is the strength of two city-states!" Catelyn reasoned. She knew little about the Free Cities, but she knew they had always been wealthy. The combined wealth, resources, and fleets of two city-states were no trifling matter.
"It is easier to rebel against a brother than a father. Since Robert intends to leave the Iron Throne to Prince Joffrey, he ought to face the danger across the Narrow Sea."
It seems going south will be hard to avoid! Catelyn thought. Rather than have King Robert commit kinslaying, it would be better for the other lords to carry out the deed.
"Going south would not be entirely bad!" Catelyn said. "The children are growing older. Sansa and Arya-finding good matches for them in the south would be best." Greater hopes stirred in her heart. When it came to honor and glory, surely nothing could surpass the royal family. Besides, Robert and Eddard were old friends, and King Robert needed Eddard's support. Yet Catelyn felt that such glory was too dreamlike and did not dare ask for it.
"Jon!"
"He can go anywhere, but I do not think keeping him at Winterfell is a good idea."
Eddard gave Catelyn a helpless look and said nothing more.
Chapter 84: A New King
The king's procession moved along the road like a river of gold, silver, and steel. More than a dozen standard-bearers held golden banners aloft, embroidered with the crowned stag of House Baratheon.
The procession numbered roughly three hundred, made up of proud bannermen, knights, sworn swords, and freeriders. The Queen's luxurious wheelhouse slowed their progress still further.
King Robert's party reached a rugged stretch of their journey: the Neck. Only by following the winding causeway could the knights slowly make their way through the endless black mire, a passage that would take more than ten days.
"What a wretched journey!" Joffrey said, looking at the endless black mire before him. He was tall and very handsome, with blond hair, fair skin, green eyes, and upturned lips.
The Neck was indeed a harsh place. Dense thickets stood perpetually soaked in rotting marshes, with curtains of fungus hanging from their branches. Huge flowers bloomed in muddy pits and floated on stagnant pools. Quicksand surrounded the causeway, venomous snakes lurked in the woods, and lizard-lions floated half-submerged in the water.
"Harsh as this place is, this is the only route to Winterfell. The causeway is the safest place, so never leave it," said Tyrion, the misshapen dwarf riding behind Joffrey. "I have only read descriptions of this place in books. Having the good fortune to see it myself is a rare opportunity."
"Why must we travel a thousand miles to this godforsaken place? It is so cold and remote," Joffrey complained. Beside him rode a knight with a burned face: his "dog," Sandor.
"My dear nephew, a king's lands make no distinction between hot and cold. They are all the king's subjects."
"It is probably about that bastard again," Joffrey muttered.
"A bastard with power is no mere bastard. Across the Narrow Sea, you would have to call him king!" Tyrion said bluntly.
Tyrion was indeed as ugly as his nickname suggested. His head was disproportionately large, his forehead prominent, and his face unattractive. One eye was black and the other green. His long, straight hair was so pale a gold it was almost white, while brown and golden hairs mingled in the beard on his chin.
"A king is fearless. He does not need to waste words. I will execute him with my sword and my lance." Joffrey pursed his lips. "What is that bastard worth? I have no desire to hear him crying."
"A battlefield is a battlefield. If you lose, you will not have a chance to run crying to your mother. As far as I know, your sword is nowhere near as tough as your mouth."
"Hmph!" Joffrey looked at Tyrion, then spurred his horse ahead. "One day, I will show you what it means to be a king."
"My lord, the prince will not forget that you mocked him like this." Sandor looked down at the Imp. His black armor seemed to cast a dark shadow, its color that of soot. He lowered his visor, which was shaped like a savage hound snarling with bared teeth.
"Good. Being a king takes more than talk. You are the dog who stays at his side every day, so you had better remind him," Tyrion replied.
Tyrion's elder brother Jaime, a White Knight, rode up beside him.
"Do you also think the king across the Narrow Sea is about to start a war?" Jaime asked. Unlike the cold Tywin or Cersei, Jaime had a relatively friendly relationship with his brother.
"I was fooling Joffrey. You did not believe it too, did you, brother?" Tyrion said with a smile. "I think that if the mercenary king still has his wits about him, he will calmly watch the situation and build up his strength. Would those slavers and mercenaries really be so willing?"
"The crowns of Myr and Tyrosh may be sweet, but those thrones are not easy to hold. Once the king leaves his kingdom and suffers defeat in a war of expansion, his realm will crumble like sand slipping through his fingers, just as Silver Tongue's did."
"Even so, the armies across the Narrow Sea are a threat to us," Jaime said. "One bastard is bad enough, and there is also that Targaryen brother and sister."
"Indeed. The mercenary king is consolidating his strength. Once he has finished, the Twin Cities Alliance will choose its moment to land."
"We must be ready!" Jaime said. "If the enemy across the Narrow Sea truly lands, I will have to draw my sword, just as Ser Duncan the Tall did in his day."
"But the enemy across the Narrow Sea is still a thousand miles away, and the king insists on making the long journey to Winterfell. He still trusts Stark more. Everyone knows House Lannister's relationship with Lord Eddard is far from good. That is all I will say."
"Hmph! I am not afraid of Eddard Stark. The Mad King was a disgraceful tyrant, yet they saddled me with the name Kingslayer."
Years ago, Jaime had killed the Mad King and the Pyromancer. He had simply sat on the Iron Throne with his bloodstained sword laid across his knees, quietly waiting for whoever came next. Then Eddard Stark had ridden into the hall with his men and declared that the throne belonged to Robert Baratheon.
When it came to grudges, Jaime and Eddard had always been at odds.
Atop Tyrosh's Black Wall, the Archon of Tyrosh and the governors looked out at the surrounding trenches. The inner city was encircled so tightly that nothing could get through. Their green, purple, and red hair and beards looked especially vivid upon the wall.
The besieging riders had planted spears along the trenches. Mounted on them were the heads of Khal Zhako and his son, along with those of several Dothraki Screaming Warriors and Myrish rebels.
In such terror, the people of Tyrosh waited through their days and nights.
The cheekbones of the Tyroshi nobles jutted sharply. Hunger and fear made men haggard. They could endure for a while, waiting for reinforcements that might come, but none ever arrived.
"The ratio of slaves to citizens in Tyrosh is roughly three to one," the Archon of Tyrosh said. "Volantis has even more slaves than we do, perhaps five to one. Will the Volantenes keep waiting under these circumstances?"
"Volantis and Lys are still hesitating!" The governor beside the Archon of Tyrosh wore an equally anguished expression.
"If we keep holding out here, we will only starve to death!"
"Prepare. Gather the last of our men. If Tyrosh is destined to fall, we can only submit to the will of the Three-Headed God." The Archon of Tyrosh sighed.
Tyrosh had never been a city that could hold out forever. They had submitted to Silver Tongue once, and now they could submit to a stronger warrior. As the siege dragged on, the rebellion in Myr was quelled and the Dothraki Khal destroyed, and support for surrender within Tyrosh's inner city grew.
Now they faced either starvation or an assault. Storming the city would be extremely difficult, but if the enemy did manage to break in, it would inevitably bring greater reprisals.
We can only build up our strength and feign compliance, the Archon of Tyrosh thought. Without outside help-from Braavos, Lys, Volantis, or even Slaver's Bay-Tyrosh was doomed to fall.
"Archon, the gates! The gates have been opened!"
"What!" The Archon of Tyrosh felt dizzy, sensing that the most terrifying possibility had already come to pass.
"Some merchants could no longer endure this torment. Those surrendering have opened one of Tyrosh's gates."
"Attack!" Jorah roared. Over his plate armor, Ser Jorah wore a green cloak bearing a bear standing upright.
Jorah swung his sword, rediscovering the feeling he had known years ago. For a moment, no one could match the valor he had shown during the Greyjoy rebellion.
Chapter 85: The Standing Army
As Jorah Mormont charged into Tyrosh's Black City, he felt dazed, as though a lifetime had passed. This was not his first dealing with the Tyroshi.
Back on Bear Island in the North, Jorah had bought luxuries to please his wife, Lynesse Hightower, who came from the wealthy Reach. He had spent all his money and ended up penniless. To repay his debts, he had broken the laws of the Seven Kingdoms and begun selling poachers to the Tyroshi as slaves.
When the matter came to light, Eddard, House Mormont's liege lord, sentenced him to death. Jorah had neither joined the Night's Watch nor calmly accepted his execution. Instead, he had fled to the Free Cities with Lynesse.
Perhaps it was my fault, bringing her to poor, harsh, remote Bear Island without giving her any chance to prepare herself, Jorah thought bitterly. He still thought of the woman who had abandoned him.
"The past is past!" Jorah raised his sword, as though severing the memories he could not bear to revisit. He drew a deep breath, surveyed the streets of Tyrosh's inner city, and set about securing the situation.
Jorah led the elite soldiers of the Wolf Pack. With its gates opened, Tyrosh's Black City was weak and helpless.
Though Tyrosh's Black City was well fortified, its nobles no longer had the courage to defend it to the end. The Myrmen had failed, the Dothraki Screaming Warriors had failed, and reinforcements still had not arrived.
Gendry looked at Tyrosh's Black City towering into the sky. Valyria's extraordinary technology was still sheltering the people even now.
Valyrian fortifications generally had oval walls of fused black stone. The Black Wall of Volantis was said to be the most magnificent, far taller than Tyrosh's. It stood two hundred feet high and was so thick that six wagons, each drawn by four horses, could race abreast along its top.
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