16 Chapter 14: Reverberations - Part 2

Kings Landing, 9 days after the Battle of Starpike, and the day after the escape of Barristan Selmy

As he made his way towards the small council chambers, Varys was surprised to see Grand Maester Pycelle sitting at the head of an empty table in one of the kitchen rooms, with a half-eaten platter of food lying in front of him, seemingly forgotten. Pycelle had a rather vacant and morose look about him.

"Is everything well, Grand Maester?" Varys asked, feeling an unexpected bout of sympathy for his colleague. He was one of the very few people in Westeros who had been aware of the disaster of Starpike and knew how much stress the citadel and the order of maesters were in after that event.

"Hmm … oh, Varys," Pycelle shook himself out of his stupor and looked at the eunuch in surprise. "Hmm, I am as well as I can be during this situation. How about you? How proceeds the search for our escaped Kingsguard?" the old man asked, pausing for a while, as he poured out two glasses of wine, and pushed one towards the eunuch, who accepted it gratefully.

"None too well, I am afraid," the master of whispers replied balefully. The escape of Barristan the Bold had hit them all like a thunderbolt out of the blue. Robert Baratheon had thrown a most vicious tantrum when he had learned of the news. The entirety of the Gold cloaks had been let loose like a pack of wolves upon the city, but the famed knight was nowhere to be found. Even now, soldiers of the Rebellion were out scouring the entirety of the crownlands searching for the man.

"It seems, that we are fated to give bad news upon bad news to the king today, I fear we may not survive this day," the old man sighed, even as he pointed towards a certain scroll lying in front of him.

"Oh, more bad news you say?" Varys questioned, his eyes coming alight with curiosity.

"Not for the King, but rather for Lord Tywin," the grand maester spoke in a rather dispassionate tone.

"Now, you have indeed piqued my curiosity," the eunuch nodded, as he refilled the old maester's wine glass.

"Well, I am not certain if you have received this message yet from your little birds, if not, I am certain it will make its way to you regardless," Pycelle replied with a grim smile. "Kevan Lannister is dead."

The wine glass in Varys's hand froze just as it neared his lips. "Dead or murdered?" he asked shrewdly, to which Pycelle's eyes shimmered with the light of approval.

"We do not know yet," he replied. "Lord Marbrand states that Ser Kevan was killed when his horse became violent after he sat upon it, and it entered a mad frenzy. Ser Kevan was thrown down, and may have yet been saved, but the beast in its frenzy brought the hoof of one of its legs right on top of his skull and crushed it. A man may survive many things, but a crushed skull is not one of them," the old maester observed.

"Indeed," Varys nodded, "And what says Lord Marbrand? Anything else," his mind was running through lists of various possible suspects already. Pycelle shrugged, "Nothing much, only that once the beast was put down, they checked the saddle, and found that someone had stuck a small shard of steel underneath the saddle. As soon as Ser Kevan had seated himself on the saddle," he paused and sighed deeply, "you can see the results yourself. Though this does give rise to further questions," the old man finished.

"Yes, whether that steel piece was left there by design or by accident? And if it is by accident, then I am no eunuch," Varys scoffed.

"Quite," Pycelle nodded. "And what about you, Varys, you seem to have had quite a bit of bad news yourself recently. Whatever will you do?"

"Funny you should say that, Grand Maester. I am thinking that for once we should compare our notes and see whose news is the lesser danger. Too much bad news can get the messengers killed, and our new king is not a kind man."

"Hmm," Pycelle became silent, and then, he nodded in agreement.

2 hours later,

"Varys, report," Robert Baratheon glared at the eunuch, who seemed completely at ease despite the danger he was currently in. The small council was on knife-edge after the escape of Barristan Selmy, and the King's temper was minute at the best of times.

Attending the council were Robert Baratheon, Tywin Lannister, Grand Maester Pycelle, Ser Gyles Rosby who was the master of coin, Greatjon Umber who was the second—in—command of the Northern Army, Ser Lyn Corbray in his capacity as the acting commander of the Vale Army in the absence of Jon Arryn and Yohn Royce, and Hoster Tully, the Lord Paramount of the Riverlands who had yet to return to the Riverlands.

"Your grace, my people have conducted a most thorough search of the city, and I regret to say that Ser Barristan Selmy is no longer in Kings Landing," the eunuch replied with a small bow, as he finished his report.

"One man, you cannot find one man? What good are you, you ball-less fuck, if you cannot find one man with an entire army's resources?" Robert asked in a black rage, while the others exchanged nervous glances.

But the insult washed over Varys like water on rock. For someone who had survived the temper of Aerys Targaryen himself, Robert Baratheon's temper was like that of a child's.

"We have not failed completely, Your Grace," Varys simpered. "We have identified how he managed to escape and most importantly, we now know who it was that helped him escape. We now have the name of the traitor who performed this act of blasé treachery against your person," the eunuch concluded, while Robert paused.

"Good, that is progress," the king grudgingly nodded. "Who was it? Who is that damn traitor?"

Everyone leaned forward to hear the answer.

"Young Sandor Clegane, Lord Tywin's cupbearer was clearly recognized helping Ser Barristan escape," Varys reported matter-of-factly being very careful to avoid the old lion's gaze.

"Impossible!" Tywin muttered being unable to help himself, as everyone turned to look at him dumbfounded. The old lion of the west looked as if somebody had slapped him in the face, a most alien look upon his visage that no one present could ever remember seeing before.

"You are mistaken, Varys! The Clegane's are loyal to me! They can never betray me," Tywin thundered angrily, pounding his fist on the table to emphasize the point.

"Ser Gregor is loyal, I believe, but not his younger brother, My Lord," Varys spoke softly. He then began to proceed explaining the cycle of events which he had reconstructed after gaining the knowledge of said events. He spoke of how all the gaolers of the Black Cells had recognized Sandor Clegane walking inside the Black Cells with a gaoler and had come out after an hour with the man. Then, during the night when one of the gaolers had gone in to give Barristan his meals for the night, the knight had not responded at all. Concerned, the gaolers had opened the doors of the cell and had tried to wake up the sleeping man, only to realize that it was not Barristan that was in the cell, but one of their own, wearing Ser Barristan's clothes. As a corpse to boot. He provided signed testimonies of all the men who had been involved in the discovery and offered to call them in as witnesses. Robert waved it off, as he went through the signed confessions, and his rage steadily grew.

"Treachery! What is the meaning of this, Lannister?" Robert roared with anger, while Tywin floundered, his face purpling with rage and shame, it was hard to say which emotion reigned supreme.

"I am loyal to you, your grace!" Tywin retorted harshly. "I do not believe that my cupbearer no less, can commit such a grave crime, the eunuch is mistaken. He is casting blame on my servants to escape censure! No one in the west would dare to betray me!" he spoke out, the last phrase was almost a challenge to himself, it appeared to everyone else.

"Then where is he?" the eunuch's silky voice cut through the silence, like knife through butter, "if so sure you are of his loyalty, My Lord, it would not be a great task to have young Clegane present himself to answer these questions, surely?"

Tywin froze, unable to believe that the eunuch of all people was backtalking to him. He was not used to such a thing.

"You dare backtalk to me, you wretch?" the old lion growled.

"We are in a meeting, are we not?" Varys simpered, "I have every right to state my opinions like everyone who has been invited, and you forget one thing, My Lord," here his voice hardened, "You are not the Hand of the King here, not anymore, and as such, I have no obligation to be subservient to you here. You are a Lord of the Realm, and I am a member of the Small council. Here, we are both equal in rank," he finished maliciously, while Tywin's face blackened with rage.

"Heh, well put, for one who has no balls, you have more courage than most, Varys," Robert chuckled, amazed that someone had the gall to backtalk to the feared lord of the West and turned to Tywin. "Well, Lannister, let us get to the bottom of it. Summon your cupbearer, I will have the truth of this," he ordered, while Tywin composed himself, glaring sharply at the eunuch. He would not forget this insult.

Ten minutes later though, he forgot all of this, as he stared at his page and roared in anger, "What the hell do you mean by 'he is gone'?"

"Explain, now," he whispered, even as he trembled in anger, while the poor page barely managed to keep himself from soiling.

"He left the city last night, My Lord, as you ordered," the man replied haltingly, while Tywin froze as everyone in the room held their breath.

"Are you mad? I gave no such orders," Tywin trembled in shock as he mouthed those words.

"He had your written orders, My Lord, stamped with your seal. As such, we permitted him to take 2 horses from the stables without question and gave him enough provisions to last for a week's journey," the page replied very quickly, and brought out the letter in question and handed it to the old lion who snatched it and began to read it quickly, while the page was dismissed to oblivion, and thanking the gods for small mercies.

As Tywin read through the document, all air seemed to deflate from his person, and he sank listlessly in his chair. That more than enough seemed to make a point to everyone present, that this was indeed unexpected to the Lord Lannister.

"It would seem that Lord Tywin is indeed blameless, Your Grace," Hoster Tully interjected, "it is clear from his posture, that this act of treachery was the boy's alone. To have forged his Lord's seal, and then to accomplish all this, this must have been planned quite a while back," the wily old Lord of the Riverlands tried to smoothen down the conversation. Tywin was a man ruled by his pride, and would not suffer it challenged too many times, not even by a King. They still needed the West after all.

"I concur," the eunuch replied. "Our men report that Sandor Clegane passed out through the mud gate last night on horseback with another man who was not clearly identified. It is now evident, that man could only be Ser Barristan and no one else."

"Very well," Robert conceded, "Pycelle send out ravens to all. A bounty of ten thousand dragons is to be placed on the heads of Sandor Clegane and Barristan Selmy each."

"As you will, Your Grace," the maester nodded, and made a note on his parchments.

"Any more ill news, to report today?" the King asked, to which the eunuch looked at the Grand Maester and nodded subtly.

"With your permission, Your Grace, I have some dire news to report," the old man spoke, as all eyes turned towards him.

"Yes, Pycelle," Robert Baratheon said authoritatively, "Proceed."

Grand Maester Pycelle shuffled as he looked at the small council. The last few days had been tensed and had been taxing on his nerves greatly. The ravens had flown fast and furious between him and the citadel for the last few days, especially since the debacle at Starpike. Apart from Varys, he doubted if anybody else had even realized the significance of what this battle portended. Most probably not.

For once, he had been forced to assiduously work in his capacity as the Grand Maester of the citadel. Quite literally, the citadel had been overwhelmed with the requests for assistance sent by the Hightower host after their destruction under the hands of the Dornish Army.

Arranging for enough healers and acolytes to be sent, along with the required quantities of medicines had stretched the citadel's resources to the breaking point. Tensions were running high in the Reach. And he had been forced to oversee all of it. And added upon it was the pressure of explaining this to the small council. He really was getting too old for this.

Not like that damned eunuch, he groused. The eunuch lives for times of chaos such as these. He shuffled and stood up.

"My Lords, in our last meeting I warned you of a potential problem of no small proportions. That problem is with us now, and it is growing larger. I speak of course, of the Army of Dorne."

"Has the boy-prince managed to win against the Tyrell's, Pycelle?" Tywin Lannister asked, with a rather harsh growl, still upset by what had been revealed earlier. The answer however, surprised him.

"Yes, My Lord, he has."

All sense of levity and ease disappeared from the table at once. Most of the Lords at the table looked at him with blank and dumbfounded stares. All except Robert Baratheon, Greatjon Umber, Varys and Tywin Lannister, who sobered up remarkably fast.

"They won!?"

"This must be a joke, Grand Maester!"

"Are you quite sure!?"

"Silence," Robert Baratheon ordered as he raised a hand to quell all noise. As everybody quieted down, he looked at Pycelle and ordered, "We need details of the battlefront, now!"

"Yes, Your Grace," Pycelle nodded and sat down, and opened a sheaf of parchments and began to read through. "First, the order of the battle, the Dornish under Prince Quentyn deployed roughly 12 to 15 thousand men, against whom the Hightower host deployed 15 thousand men as well. Roughly half their entire force."

"Rather forceful of old Lord Leyton, was he really that worried about the boy-prince?" Gyles Rosby mused, as others became pensive as they heard about the number of soldiers deployed.

"Who all partook in the battle? Any notable casualties or tactics that we need to be made aware of?" Greatjon Umber asked, at which Pycelle shuffled his papers, and nodded.

"From the messages that I have received, The Tyrell side vanguard was commanded by Lord Branston Cuy, as overall commander, with Lord Alester Florent serving as the commander of the Cavalry forces with most of his family members leading them. On the Dornish side, the vanguard was commanded by Lord William Dayne, the Lord of Starfall and the brother of Arthur Dayne, as well as Ser Manfrey Martell, the castellan of Sunspear."

"And the outcome?" Hoster Tully asked, his face hardened with a gimlet eye.

Here, Pycelle uncharacteristically sighed and covered his face with a palm, and replied, "The Hightower host was destroyed beyond recognition. Of the seven main commanders of the Tyrell Host, four of them were killed. Lord Branston Cuy, his nephew Ser Emmon, Ser Colin Florent, Ser Merrel Florent were all killed. House Cuy has been exterminated. With the death of its Lord and his nephew, there are no living heirs left for House Cuy. Similarly, House Florent also lost half of its members in the host that were present. More than 21 minor houses of the Reach have been eradicated. Of the 15 thousand men of the Hightower host, more than twelve thousand five hundred men are dead!"

There was a sudden crashing sound, and everyone turned around only to see that Tywin Lannister had dropped his wine glass, with his face displaying something that no living person had seen till date today. Pure, unadulterated shock and horror. That emotion was literally alien to the Lord of Lannister's face, and it was surprising to see him display it so prominently repeatedly today.

The silence at the table was so profound, that one could have heard a pin drop if somebody had attempted it. Gyles Rosby looked visibly nauseated, while the other military men in the room had been shocked into silence.

"And what of the losses on the Dornish side?" Hoster Tully asked, as half the table leaned forward to hear the answer.

"Less than 900 men if I am correct," was the reply. Everyone jerked back, as if they had been slapped on the face. "The only notable casualty on the Dornish side was Ser Manfrey Martell," Pycelle concluded.

"Less than 900, and a mere castellan, one who is not even a direct member of the ruling family of Dorne! This seems like a sick jape to me," Lyn Corbray spoke up at which Pycelle whirled around.

"The dead on the field of Starpike would disagree, I believe," the old maester retorted harshly, at which most of the members looked at him in surprise.

"Peace, Grand Maester, I am sure Lord Corbray meant nothing by it," Varys interceded, at which Pycelle composed himself.

"Yes, yes Lord Varys, My apologies. The last few days have been quite taxing, and I am not as young as I used to be and let my emotions get the better of me. My apologies, Lord Corbray," the old man spoke softly, as everyone leaned back and tried to absorb the impact of the news, while Corbray graciously accepted the apology with a wave of his hand.

"Who was responsible for this? Who commanded the battle in its entirety?" Robert Baratheon asked as he stood up and began to pace around.

At this, Pycelle looked at Varys who nodded. When before the meeting they had compared notes, both men had realized that today they would be forced to deliver harsh news to the members of the council repeatedly. News which they wouldn't like, nor appreciate. But they couldn't vacillate. It was time to explain the facts of life to these people, and a slap across the face was sure to get their attention. However, both had agreed to keep the news of Lyanna Stark and Kevan Lannister's death a secret for now. Too much bad news could get the messengers killed, and they were the messengers here.

"If I may, your grace, I can provide some information on this," the eunuch spoke, and looked around the table for approval. He got it, although he noticed that the old lion of the west, was now looking at him with a red eye. He had deliberately baited the Old Lion, and the Old Lion was none too pleased about it from the looks of it.

"Although, the initial vanguard was commanded by Lord Dayne, by mid-noon Prince Quentyn himself assumed personal command. It was only after that; did misfortune fall upon the Tyrell host."

"The boy personally entered the field? And commanded?" Greatjon Umber asked carefully at which Varys nodded.

"My little birds have been quite busy, and we have a fairly solid picture of what occurred," the master of whispers replied. "From what I understand, prior to his arrival on the battlefield, against the Tyrell Vanguard of 5,000 cavalry, the Dornish had deployed 2,000 cavalries of their own, and they were holding their own from all accounts."

"Two against five thousand, and they managed to hold? Impressive," Lyn Corbray grudgingly admitted.

"Truly," Varys nodded, even as everybody else listened attentively. "But, upon noon, once the Tyrell infantry began to advance, the Dornish fell back and the siege weaponry from Starpike began its assault. From what we can understand, they continuously bombarded the battlefield with some sort of jars, containing a mixture which blanketed the entire battlefield with a thick haze of smoke."

Here, Robert Baratheon immediately paused, "Smoke, you say?" he asked rather quickly, to which Varys nodded in assent.

"Yes, Your Grace, during that period, Prince Quentyn personally arrived on the battlefield with his forces and deployed them in an unusual formation, from what I am told. More than half his forces were made of archers, who were shielded by infantry and cavalries."

The military men absorbed the fact and tried to imagine the scenario and came up blank.

"It is here, that the story gets confusing," Varys continued, "From all accounts, the Tyrell soldiers report that they tried to assault the Dornish positions through the thick smoke, but they could not even get near them. The Dornish archers were able to accurately target the Reach men despite near total lack of visibility, with unerring accuracy, always without fail."

"How is that possible?" Hoster Tully asked, perplexed, while others looked nonplussed.

"I am not certain of that myself, My Lord, but there is one odd thing that all our spies reported," here Varys paused, with confusion evident upon his face. "All of them report hearing sounds continuously during the battle, sounds made by … bells from the looks of it!" the eunuch concluded, even as his eyes closed in contemplation.

"Your Grace, our men report that the battlefield was continuously rife with the sounds of Bells and Gongs! They cannot make heads or tails of it!" the eunuch finished his report and sat down, though he observed the King carefully, as did everybody else.

"Do you make anything of this, My Lord?" Hoster Tully asked, at which Robert focused upon Varys with unusual intensity.

"Was there anything else, Varys? Something unusual, perhaps something that no one had seen before? This cannot be it, mere bells cannot kill men in thousands! Something else must have happened, or the flowers would not have been trounced this badly!?" he prompted, at which Pycelle nodded in agreement.

"There was, Your Grace," the old Maester replied. "We have reports that the Dornish deployed unusual horse drawn wagons, armoured wagons of wood, each drawn by four horses to be sure, with a driver and a spearman aboard. From all accounts, many of the casualties came from these infernal contraptions. They simply crushed the Reach men beneath their wheels and pulverized those poor souls," the old man concluded. Most of the men at the table winced, as they tried to imagine that sight.

For the first time Robert Baratheon looked dumbfounded and perplexed as though he couldn't discern what was being said. He stood up with eyes wide and alight, "Armoured wooden horse drawn carts, you say?" he asked the old man as everybody realized finally that the King had indeed recognized something that had eluded all of them.

"Yes, your grace," Varys nodded, now certain that the King had recognized something that had missed them all. "We have a crude drawing of it, if you wish to see," he paused and nodded at the Grand Maester who pulled out a piece of parchment and handed it to the King.

The King who looked at the crude drawing crushed it in his fist, as his face darkened.

"Hmm … I recall reading about these somewhere, but I cannot for the life of me recall where," Robert Baratheon exclaimed, even as he sank back into his chair with his eyes narrowed, as if he was trying to remember something.

"Well, this clears it. Regardless of what he did or how he achieved it, Quentyn Martell is now a legitimate threat. We will fall back and observe, for now. I am issuing this order with immediate effect. No one is to engage the Dornish Army unless myself, Ned or Stannis is in command. In fact, Pycelle, send a raven to Storm's End. I want Stannis and Renly here as soon as possible. Also, evacuate all the wounded from our army in King's Landing to Storm's End," Robert announced, and a bombshell of an announcement it was. Everyone looked at him, as if he was crazy, and some were enraged that the King would deem a mere boy as being his equal and better than them all combined. Pycelle on the other hand made more notes in his parchments. He observed that since Starpike, the notes were continuously increasing. He scoffed at the thought and continued to write down his instructions.

"That is an absolute over reaction, Your Grace! The boy cannot be as big a threat as you imagine! The Tyrell's are weak, and this boy managed to overwhelm them with a few tricks surely, but to suggest that he is your equal in the arts of war is preposterous to the extreme!" Hoster spoke out in an agitated tone, while the others broke into a cacophony of noises.

"Pycelle, are you certain about the number of Tyrell casualties? All this seems too fantastic to believe! Are you sure your ravens are not compromised, and you have been fed false information?" Tywin asked in a harsh tone to which Pycelle just stared at the man blankly.

However, there was one difference which others failed to notice. Pycelle no longer spoke or looked at Tywin deferentially. The sacking of Kings Landing had literally ruined the relationship between the two men. Regardless of his vices, Pycelle was someone who took his duties as a Maester seriously. He had advised Aerys to open the gates of Kings Landing, hoping that Tywin and his men would capture the Red Keep and put an end to the war. What he had not expected was for Tywin's men to sack the city itself. The resulting carnage and bloodshed had weighed heavily on his mind. Over a hundred thousand dead, because he had misjudged the man, and all those innocent lives lost, had weighed heavily on the old man's soul.

"Lord Tywin, just because you do not like the nature of the message that has been conveyed, does not make it a lie!" he snapped at the Lord Paramount of the West, who narrowed his eyes. The others at the table watched with wide eyes, as the Grand Maester who was said to be a lackey of the Old Lion snapped back at his supposed master.

"Careful Pycelle, you forget to whom you speak!" Tywin warned the old man, who snarled, his emotions finally taking a toll on his mind and he lashed out.

"And you forget yourself, boy!" he snarled back, at which Tywin's jaw dropped as did everyone else's.

"I have been a Maester since before you were born! I was the Grand Maester when you were but the cupbearer for the mad king's grandfather as a snot-nosed brat! I have served three Kings as Grand Maester! Do not dare to presume to tell me how I should do my job! For the last three days, I have neither slept nor eaten, and have been busy in ordering the citadel to deal with the disaster at Starpike! Westeros has not seen a battle this lopsided since the Field of Fire itself. It will take nearly three weeks just to clear the battlefield of all the dead! We, of the citadel, are desperately trying to ensure that a damned plague does not spread because of all the dead! Hundreds are wounded, requiring medical supplies that will literally strain the citadel empty! A few spies may lie, yes, but the entire world cannot! Do not blame us for your failure to misjudge your own men and their treachery and try and use us a means to vent your anger!"

Absolute, thunderstruck silence descended upon the room. Varys of all people, was looking at the Grand Maester as if he was a new man, slack jawed and eyes bulging. The eunuch looked quite comical displaying such shock, which was alien to his countenance. The others in the room were literally in awe at the dressing down the old man had given to Tywin Lannister of all people.

Tywin who had been shocked into silence, finally snapped and purpled up in rage, and his hand fell to his blade.

"Do not be a moron, Lannister! Listen to the old man, shut up and sit down!" Robert Baratheon ordered the Warden of the West who glared at both men.

"Do not make me repeat myself!" Robert warned softly, at which, with herculean effort, Tywin composed himself, and sat down glaring murderously at the Grand Maester.

"All this aside, would you care to explain to us, as to the conclusions you have arrived at, Your Grace?" Varys interjected, trying to bring the conversation back on track. He had noticed the King ignoring the conversations and focus solely on some matter internally.

"Hmm," Robert paused, as he tried to put it in words, "I finally remembered where I read about those damn wooden monstrosities. The wooden contraptions that the Dornish used, they are known as War chariots. They were mostly used by the Ghiscari in their war against the Valyrians, I believe. They have not been seen in this world since the end of the Ghiscari empire! That boy has pulled out a trick that the whole world has forgotten. The Tyrell's were fools for trying to go up against an unknown entity without proper preparations. It is no wonder they were slaughtered. From the beginning, from what I can glean from the information on this battle is that he deliberately baited the Tyrell's into committing their infantry to battle by feigning weakness."

"Weakness, you say?" Gyles Rosby asked nonplussed, while the others watched as one of the greatest generals in the world laid bare the strategy of his enemies.

"It is all conjecture to be sure, but it is the only thing that makes sense. By deliberately sending only two thousand as his advance vanguard, he baited the Tyrell cavalry to rush in. The fact that those two thousand horsemen could hold back the opposing five thousand was his greatest weapon. Seeing the cavalry being ineffective, Leyton Hightower sent in the ten thousand infantries as well, which is when he sprung his trap."

"The smokescreen," Lyn Corbray pointed out, at which Robert nodded in agreement.

"All of his planning was for that only. The bells you mentioned were his key weapons in this battle," he smiled grimly while everyone was taken aback.

"Really?"

"How in the world?"

"Using those bells," Robert continued, "he was able to direct the battlefield itself. Basically, by having his own men move in tandem with the Tyrells, hidden conveniently by the smoke, they would convey the location of the Tyrell soldiers through sound signals which would allow the Dornish archers to target them accurately even without being able to see them."

A shudder of fear ran through most of the people in the room.

"How terrifying!"

"I cannot believe this!"

"What a strategy!"

"You all are too easily impressed," Robert scoffed. "These sound signals were in fact a diversion. In that chaotic scene, by deliberately setting themselves up in pockets, those archers were herding the Tyrell soldiers to the middle of the battlefield, rather than trying to kill them. This would allow the war chariots to run those poor bastards down without them even realizing it! That is the reason why there is such a disparity in casualties."

As the Dornish strategy was laid bare, all the Lords in the room were forced into silence.

"I now understand why you have deemed that boy a threat, Your Grace!" Hoster admitted grudgingly, while the others remained silent, and sullen.

"How shall we respond to this?" Lyn Corbray asked.

"We wait until Jon Arryn returns," retorted Robert. "Come to think of it, why hasn't he or Yohn Royce sent a message yet?" Robert asked, at which Pycelle replied. "We should receive a raven in a couple of days, Your Grace!"

"Hmm! Well, keep me informed," Robert ordered.

"But the question remains, My Lord, how shall we respond?" Lyn Corbray again asked, while Robert stood up and began to pace around.

"With this, it is clear that Dorne does not recognize our claim over Westeros and intends to secede from the Iron Throne. We are now in the beginning stages of a civil war," he replied quietly, to which everyone reacted as if they were set on fire.

"PREPOSTEROUS!"

"UNTHINKABLE!"

"THOSE DORNISH SCUM MUST BE BROUGHT TO HEEL!"

"THE IRON THRONE CANNOT BE ALLOWED TO FRACTURE!"

"Calm down!" Robert spoke curtly, "This battle was waged to elicit this very reaction from all of you in the first place! It was designed to provoke me into action. If we mobilize, we will fall into the boy's trap."

"Trap, you say?" Tywin asked with an inscrutable gaze.

"Quentyn Martell, from what I can make of him," Robert spoke clearly, "is a person who does not act when there is nothing to gain. Right now, our forces are depleted and need to recover from the battles waged against Rhaegar Targaryen. And at the same time, there are the Ironborn who are roaming around like vultures waiting to pounce upon us. Do you think we can afford to attack Dorne with all these issues plaguing us?"

"But, if we act now, we can use the overwhelming might of numbers on our sides to crush them," Gyles Rosby spoke out.

"Don't be a Fool! That is what he wants! Quentyn desires battle. As of now, despite his overwhelming victory, he is surrounded on all sides by enemies. For him, as long as he can pitch a battle, he can destroy this encirclement. Now, we shall be as mountains, immovable. The best strategy is to contain him where he is and to prevent him from moving further," Robert smirked with a cruel look on his face.

"He cannot wage war indefinitely like us, he lacks the resources to do so. At best he can fight two more battles, before his forces wear themselves out," at that moment, Robert's eyes widened, and he paused.

"This is it. This is what he is after," he whispered as he immediately turned to Varys.

"Varys! Has Quentyn Martell sent any communications to the Reach? An offer of peace or something to that effect?" he asked with an urgent tone.

"I am not certain, Your Grace," the eunuch replied, his brows creasing as he thought furiously, "though I did receive word that he had talks with Leyton Hightower and his men after the battle. What they discussed is still not known though," he opined.

"Find out Varys, this takes precedence over everything, we must know what terms he has offered to the Reach," Robert insisted.

"Is something amiss, Your Grace?" Greatjon Umber asked with curiosity laced in his tones. Robert however ignored him.

"Where is Oberyn Martell? Is he still in Braavos?" he asked Varys, who nodded in agreement.

"Find out if he is meeting with any of the bankers in the Free cities apart from the Iron Bank. As quickly as you can," he ordered, even as his mind began to calculate through the scenarios.

"We have been remiss, the boy is playing a deeper game than we thought," Robert replied after a moment's contemplation as everyone looked at him in surprise.

"Deeper game you say?" Pycelle asked in surprise, to which Robert nodded.

"This battle of Starpike, it was not fought keeping us in mind. It was a lure to trap Mace Tyrell," the King announced with a growl.

"WHAT!?"

"THE FAT FLOWER?"

"I believe that Quentyn has also concluded, that Dorne cannot wage a protracted war against us. As such, he is seeking resources and allies to bolster his forces. This battle was a message to Mace Tyrell, so that the fat fool would not dare to ignore peace terms that the boy would send to him afterwards."

"Indeed," mused Lyn Corbray, "If the boy had approached the fat flower before this battle, the pompous fool would have ignored him. Now, he cannot afford to."

"Exactly," agreed Hoster Tully, who was the canniest politician amongst them and who quickly realized the political implications of what could result from this set of events, "By wounding Mace Tyrell's pride, he is forcing Mace to deal directly with him. It is now clear that he desires the resources and the men of the Reach. From the beginning, he has planned out every step. He has sent Oberyn Martell to meet with the bankers of the Free cities to seek funds to wage war. Then, at the same time, by dealing the Tyrell's a devastating blow, he is forcing them to terms as per his needs. If the fat flower agrees, then Dorne, The Reach and the Ironborn will become a frighteningly capable alliance, strong enough to match us. The key is in the terms that he has sent to Mace Tyrell through Leyton Hightower. We must know what they are! If we know that, we can outbid him. As it is, despite this loss, the Reach can still call upon 80,000 men. We cannot afford for the Dornish to gain them," the old Lord of the Riverlands insisted, while the others in the room recoiled in shock as they recognized the threat.

"That cannot be allowed at any cost," growled Tywin Lannister. "Mace Tyrell has bent the knee to the King. He must not be allowed to sunder his oaths and join the Dornish," he concluded.

"Pycelle," barked Robert. "Send a raven to the old crone of Highgarden. Warn her that if her son breaks his fealty to us, then what I did to the Targaryen's will pale in comparison to what I will inflict upon her miserable family. Also, tell her that if she succeeds in managing to dissuade her son from this foolishness, then I will reward them amply. One of her daughters will marry Stannis, and they will have a place in my small council after the war ends."

"Is that sufficient? Do you think that the queen of thorns can be trusted enough for this?" Greatjon asked.

"Trust her? Only a fool would do so," Robert scoffed before continued, "What we can trust is in her greed. The old crone has always wanted to claw her way into royal grace. We can trust her to do what is in her benefit, which in this case coincides with our interests."

"Do you think she can prevail upon her son to see sense, Your Grace?" Lyn Corbray asked again, with doubts plaguing his mind.

"The fat flower is completely under the thumb of his mother. He will not dare go against her," Hoster Tully scoffed derisively in answer to that observation, while everyone laughed at that point.

"But still, you raise a valid point, Corbray," Robert admitted, even as he stood up and moved towards a battle map.

"We must take our precautions in case, by some miracle, the fat flower grows a spine strong enough to resist his mother. We have offered promise of a reward. We should also offer a promise of punishment warning them not to cross us," he paused, even as his fingers traced through the map until it stopped on a certain location.

"Tywin, here is your chance to disprove the abilities of the boy-prince. Send the Lannister army to Bitterbridge and have them occupy it," he ordered as everyone looked at him in shock.

"I mean it when I say occupy, Tywin, there will be no sacking there. The Tyrells have bent their knees to me, and have not reneged on it, yet," he added, while Tywin nodded curtly.

Suddenly, all of them were disturbed as a loud scream of anguish tore through the entirety of the Red Keep. Startled, everyone rose from their chairs and moved to the windows of the small council chambers to observe what was going on in the courtyards below.

From the windows of the chamber, they could see a lot of commotion in the gardens of the Red Keep below. Scores of soldiers were seen running to the place, where a group of women were holding back a hysterical woman from trying to assault an old man who was standing atop a corpse.

From the looks of his uniform, the old man appeared to be a gardener, and he was laughing like mad, holding a bloody sword in his hand. At his feet was the corpse of a man. A beheaded corpse, wearing a very familiar garb of a Kingsguard. From the looks of it, the old man had seemed to have struck the dead man from behind his back, taking him unawares.

Lyn Corbray was the first to realize it. The woman who was screaming incoherently and was being held back, was Cersei Lannister, which meant that the dead man on the ground was … his eyes widened in shock …

"FUCK ME IN THE ARSE! THAT OLD FUCK HAS JUST MURDERED JAIME LANNISTER!"

As one, everyone instantly whirled around to see Tywin Lannister in alarm.

The old lion of the west was watching with a pained expression on his face, and a hand clamped over his chest.

A second later, he collapsed in a dead faint.

The small council watched numbly for a moment, before Robert roared, "PYCELLE! LOOK TO HIM! NOW!"

Author's Note: Well, here it is! The reworked chapter. I hope this meets expectations. As I said in earlier chapters, Quentyn said that he would strike a blow against Tywin's legacy which will reverberate throughout the ages as his revenge. Now, the game starts afoot, anew, again.