How Barristan had managed to assemble the bannermen and top knights so early in the morning Aelor would never know, yet when he entered the private dining hall they were almost all already in place, struggling through a breakfast of fresh fish from the docks.
Struggling was the apt term, as most of them were moving sluggishly slow and Lord Byrch seemed to be more asleep than awake, but they were there in body if not in mind.
Aelor waved them down as they tried to rise upon his entrance, taking his seat at the head of the table and returning the chorus of greetings from his bannermen.
A servant brought him his own dish of steaming cod and a flagon of ale, and Aelor ate quickly and quietly as the men around him returned to nursing their hangovers, chuckling to himself when Lord Renfred Rykker entered and was met with a round of good nature ribbing.
He sat beside Aelor, giving his longtime friend a shove in the shoulder when the Targaryen smirked at him.
He looks happy.
Good.
The world needs more happiness.
After several minutes, he cleared his throat.
“My lords, we have received word from the Vale.” Each of the lords and knights, no matter their stage of sickness from the night before, instantly gave him their full attention.
“Jon Arryn has called his banners.
We are at war.”
Each of the men took the news calmly, nodding their heads.
Lord Cleyton Byrch, apparently more awake than he seemed, spoke first.
He was a burly man though a shade short, a few years shy of thirty with a belly already beginning to grow portly.
He kept his blonde hair short and his face clean shaven, with brown eyes and a slightly large nose.
Though loyal to Aelor, he could be ambitious and arrogant, as well as perpetually paranoid about losing what was his.
That paranoia had driven both of his younger brothers, the handsome Balman and rail-thin Morgan, to leave Byrch Hall, and Aelor had taken them in as household knights in his personal retinue.
It served both Lord Byrch and the Dragon of Duskendale well; Lord Cleyton could rest easier without his irrational fear of treachery from his brothers, and Aelor got two very capable swords.
“What are your plans, Your Grace?”
“That’s what we are here to discuss, my friend.
I have sent a raven to King’s Landing informing my father of what has happened, though I expect Varys already knows.
The King will call his own banners of course, and the raven summoning me may well be on the way.
I intend to already be marching by the time it arrives.”
“The peasant levies have only just began training, Your Grace,” cautioned Lord Donnel Buckwell of Antlers.
Malessa’s father was in his forties, of average height and build with a head of balding black hair peppered with gray and a drooping mustache.
An honorable man, he had earned his knighthood in the War of the Ninepenny Kings, and while he was no strategist or master with a blade, he was solid and steady.
Buckwell’s new goodson answered for Aelor.
“We can train as we march,” Renfred said with a nod to the other men.
“We have the men to do so.
Call a halt an hour or two before dusk and drill them until nightfall.
By the time we reach an actual battlefield they’ll be as ready as they’re ever going to get.”
“Levies are unreliable no matter their training,” Lord Cleyton countered.
“The knights and retinues are the only force we can depend on.”
Ser Barristan spoke from his standing position behind Aelor.
“That is true, Lord Byrch, but with proper support levy spears can turn a battle.
While most of the peasants have never held a weapon before we armed them as you arrived, they can learn.”
Ser Manfred, his voice like stone breaking and his face scowling as it always was, spoke for the first time in Aelor’s memory without cursing every other word.
“They will fight as a wall.
Alone, the fuckers won’t know which end of the spear to stick where and in whom, but together they’ll do fine.”
“What are our numbers?” Asked the quiet Lord Elwood Harte, short and thin with a few stray copper hairs he tried to pass for a beard.
Nineteen, he had been a Lord since he was two years old, when a round of illness had taken his Lord father and most of his household, leaving the young toddler Elwood as the sole survivor of House Harte.
“We have over six thousand men total,” answered Ser Barristan.
“The majority are trained men-at-arms or knights.”
“A relatively small army,” Aelor admitted, “but we are already assembled.
The Vale is only just beginning to muster, and Lord Arryn will have to smuggle Eddard Stark north and Robert Baratheon to the Stormlands to rally their own bannermen.”
“We can strike first,” piped in Ser Balman, notably standing as far from his older brother as he could.
While they were relatively civil to one another, there was no love lost between the two eldest Byrch’s.
“We should hit the Valemen or Stormlords before they can assemble.” Aelor had been thinking along the same lines, as had most of the other knights and Lords present judging by the wave of nods that followed Ser Balman’s proposal.
“They stand a better chance once they unite,” agreed Rykker.
“We hold the advantage of having the largest force already amassed and equipped.”
“The King will insist on your presence in King’s Landing, Your Grace,” cautioned Ser Barristan.
“While Ser Balman’s suggestion is credible, your father will expect you to reinforce the capital first.”
Aelor nodded.
“And so I shall, though I will not remain there.
We will march to King’s Landing, training our levies as we go, and swell our numbers once there.
Then we march through the Stormlands.
I intend to scatter as many Stormlord hosts as we can.
If we take them piecemeal, we may be able to end this rebellion before it begins.”
“The King may not approve, Your Grace.”
“The King started this war, with no small amount of help from my brother.
I intend to end it, whether he approves or not.” Aelor rose to his feet, prompting the others to do the same.
“Go to your men, my lords.
War is upon us.
We march for King’s Landing by dusk.”
…
Elia Martell knew Rhaegar Targaryen better than almost anyone, and even she hadn’t seen it coming.
When her husband had won the tourney at Harrenhal, unhorsing his own brother in the final tilt after both Targaryens had broken twelve lances on the other’s shield, Elia and the entire realm had expected the heir to the Iron Throne to crown her the Queen of Love and Beauty.
It wasn’t pride or a notion of her own beauty that made her believe so; it was simply expected of a victorious tournament winner to crown his wife.
That was how it had always been, and how it always would be.
So when the Crown Prince of Dragonstone bypassed the royal box, bestowing the crown of winter roses on the head of the Stark girl, Elia had been duly surprised.
While her union to Rhaegar had not grown into one of love, it had been a happy one, at least for Elia’s part.
She had thought Rhaegar to be happy as well, all the way until the day it was revealed that he had stolen Lyanna Stark.
The Princess of Dorne had had no warning, no word from Rhaegar before or after hand to soften the blow.
Truth be told, she still hadn’t wrapped her mind around it fully.
Her concern was more for her children than herself.
Rhaenys was only two namedays old and Aegon was still an infant, so the scandal of their father’s betrayal of their mother wouldn’t dawn on them for years yet.
The war that it alongside their grandfather’s lunacy had started, however, threatened them here and now.
The Vale had called its banners, and it only stood to reason that the North and Stormlands were doing the same.
King Aerys had called his own after a terrifying rant that had included the King burning the messenger alive with wildfire, but Elia wasn’t sure how many lords would answer.
Her goodfather’s epithet of the Mad King was well deserved, and Jon Arryn was well respected across Westeros.
She was quiet but she certainly wasn’t stupid; if this rebellion were to win, her children would be threats to whomever the traitors chose as king.
And in the game of thrones, threats were removed.
Violently.
“Elia,” called a rich baritone, and the Dornish Princess’s heart stopped when she turned to face it.
For just a moment Elia thought her husband had returned, striding towards her confidently.
But no, this man was a few inches taller and a fair bit broader through the shoulders and chest, a beard growing on a face that, while still attractive, didn’t quite possess the haunting beauty that Rhaegar’s did.