48 Parley
AN: I AM BACK!!!!
299 AC, Near the Harrenhal…
The morning sun bathed the camp in a soft glow as Rody mounted his horse, a feeling of anticipation lingering in the air. He surveyed the surroundings, banners of various lords from the Riverlands and the North fluttering in the wind. Beside him, his brother-in-arms, the Greycloaks, mounted their horses in disciplined order. Just before him rode Jon Snow, the arrival of the crown prince Robb Stark's army brought a new fervor to the army.
The alliance between the North and the Riverlands, and now with half of the Stormlands, set them on a path toward the strategic siege of Harrenhal and a march into the Crownlands. It was a bold move, adhering to the agreement made with King Stannis Baratheon's envoys, but the implications were far-reaching.
As the combined Northern and Riverlander forces prepared to march, Rody couldn't help but contemplate the precarious situation the Lannisters now found themselves in. With the Tyrells moving northward, the alliance forged by the false crown seemed more solid than before. However, Harrenhal, a vital stronghold for the Lannisters, would soon be besieged, and the Riverlander army would be pushing into the Crownlands, a move that threatened the heart of Lannister power—King's Landing.
As the sun climbed higher in the sky, King Eddard Stark and Lord Edmure Tully signaled their respective forces to begin the march. Banners flapped in the wind, and the combined army of the North and the Riverlands stirred into motion. Rody rode at the head of the Greycloaks, positioned just behind Jon Snow, their official commander, and beside King Eddard Stark.
The march began with a steady cadence of boots on muddy ground, a rhythmic sound that resonated through the ranks. Rody rode alongside Jon, falling into a brief conversation to break the monotony of the journey.
"How was the march from the Tooth?" Rody inquired, his eyes scanning the horizon.
Jon sighed, "Long and tedious. It seemed like it never stopped raining. I think I'd prefer the cold snow to being wet all the time."
"I agree," Rody chuckled, "Nothing worse than a constant drizzle. It seeps into your bones."
Jon nodded, a wry smile on his face. "Even Ghost seems to hate it. He whines about it more than anyone."
"He's grown," Rody observed, gesturing towards the direwolf padding alongside Jon's horse. "Almost the size of a pony now."
Jon grinned, eyeing Ghost. "Aye, he's getting there. Hard to believe how fast they grow. Soon, I'll be riding a wolf instead of a horse."
Rody laughed heartily. "Who knows, Jon? Maybe Ghost will be the size of a horse by the time we ride back to the North. You might need a big saddle."
Jon joined in the laughter, shaking his head. "Aye, it wouldn't be the first surprise he's given me."
Changing the topic, Jon asked, "And how are the Greycloaks faring?"
"Same as usual," Rody replied. "They're ready for battle, and we've been lucky with few losses so far."
Jon nodded thoughtfully, his eyes scanning the troops. "Good to hear. They're a solid group."
"You should sit with them sometime," Rody suggested. "Share a drink. After all, you're their commander."
Jon's expression shifted. "You know as well as I do, Rody, that my title is more of a showpiece. All the nobles are aware that you are the one leading the Greycloaks in truth."
Rody's laughter faded, and a serious expression settled on his face. "Jon, that's not true. You're our commander, and we see you as such. Titles don't change that."
Jon gave a small, appreciative smile. "I appreciate that, Rody. But let's be honest. My position is more symbolic. My father, in his wisdom or whatever you want to call it, put me in charge to appease the nobles. But you're the one they look to for real leadership."
Rody's gaze remained fixed on the road ahead. "Titles don't matter in the thick of battle. It's action that counts. And you've proven yourself many times over."
Jon's expression turned thoughtful. "I'm content with my current position for now. But after this war, I won't settle for being just a figurehead. I'll forge my own path, outside of Winterfell."
Rody didn't comment on Jon's statement. Instead, he rode alongside his commander, pondering whether to talk about this with the king or not. The march continued, the rhythm of boots and hooves on muddy ground serving as a steady reminder of the coming hurdle…
…
The Northern army, now alone, arrived before the ominous walls of Harrenhal. The Riverlander forces had continued on their way to the Crownlands, leaving the Northerners to face the formidable task before them. King Eddard Stark, surveying the scene, ordered the men to set up the siege camp.
As the camp took shape, Hunter, one of the newly inducted Greycloaks, approached Rody. His expression was serious, and he spoke in a low tone, "Nearly all the trees in the vicinity are cut. We won't have the means to build proper siege weapons."
Rody, ever pragmatic, replied, "It doesn't matter, Hunter. Our purpose here isn't to take Harrenhal. We're here to stall the forces trapped inside. The siege is a means to keep them contained, not to breach the walls. We'll make do with what we have."
Hunter nodded, understanding the strategic intent. The siege camp might lack the usual array of towering trebuchets and battering rams, but the Northern forces were well-trained, resilient, and experienced in unconventional warfare.
The sprawling camp echoed with the sounds of activity, soldiers setting up tents and organizing supplies. Rody, deep in thought, considered the challenges that lay ahead. The dynamics of war were shifting, and the decisions made here would ripple through the ongoing conflict.
As the camp bustled with activity, Rody and Jon rode towards the center, where the king's tent stood, the largest in the entire camp. Its exterior belied the richness within, for when they stepped inside, they found a surprisingly well-decorated space, bathed in the warm glow of numerous candles.
King Eddard Stark, already at work, was bent over a table covered in maps. The two newcomers approached, greeted by the sight of the king studying a freshly drawn map, likely provided by the scouts. However, Rody's keen eye caught something unusual – the map displayed not only the surroundings of Harrenhal but also extended into parts of the Crownlands.
Rody and Jon exchanged glances, then greeted the king. "Your Grace," Rody said, his tone respectful. "Do you have any specific orders for us?"
Eddard looked up, his gaze steady. "Rody, Jon. Good that you're here. We need to talk about more than just the siege preparations."
The king gestured for them to sit. His eyes discerning, looked between Rody and Jon. "Tell me, why do you think this map not only shows the surrounding of Harrenhal but also parts of the Crownlands?"
Rody scratched his cheek, perplexed by the unexpected inclusion of Crownlands in the map. On the other hand, Jon, ever astute, furrowed his brows and spoke up, "To decipher potential routes the Lannister army might take. They could rush out of Harrenhal with a small force, aiming to force a march into the Crownlands. Or..." Jon raised his head, locking eyes with the king, "it could be a preparation for a threat from Stannis."
The king nodded in appreciation. "Correct, Jon. We can't dismiss the possibility that Stannis might turn his eyes towards here, after he is done with King's Landing. We need to be vigilant."
A veil of contemplation draped over Eddard Stark's features as he pondered the strategic implications of the map. His brow furrowed slightly, and his gaze drifted into the distance, lost in thought.
"We've already discussed this with Robb," the king began, his voice carrying the weight of authority. "Our course of action is decided. We must remain vigilant and be prepared for any eventuality."
As the discussion unfolded, the flap of the tent rustled, and a figure entered. It was Crag, the king's personal royal guard, his presence a stalwart presence in the room. Rody and Jon greeted him with nods, and Crag returned the gesture with a brief nod of his own.
Standing before the table, Crag addressed the king with a solemn tone. "Your Grace, the Lannisters will meet us in a few hours."
King Eddard Stark nodded in acknowledgment of Crag's report, his demeanor shifting from contemplation to focused resolve. The urgency of the upcoming meeting with the Lannisters added a layer of tension to the air.
Rody, however, was visibly puzzled. His brows knitted together in confusion, and he couldn't help but voice the question that danced on his tongue. "Your Grace, why do we need to talk with the Lannisters? We've aligned ourselves with Stannis Baratheon."
Jon, too, remained silent but contemplative, his eyes fixed on the map spread before them.
"Are we planning to strike some agreement with the Lannisters?" Jon asked, his tone measured and curious.
A small, enigmatic smile graced Eddard Stark's face. "Maybe yes, maybe no. The intricacies of diplomacy and war are often intertwined. We need to be prepared for all possibilities."
…
As time passed, the tension in the air grew thicker. Rody, now on the open fields before the imposing walls of Harrenhal, found himself in the midst of a scene that could shape the course of the war. The sky above was a canvas of shifting clouds, an ominous tapestry promising a change in weather. Dark clouds, pregnant with rain, loomed overhead, casting a shadow over the proceedings.
Rody raised his head, his gaze drawn to the sky. The air felt heavy with the promise of impending rain, and the wind carried a chill that hinted at the coming storm. The clouds, swirling and dark, seemed to mirror the uncertainties of the negotiation about to unfold.
Amidst this atmospheric drama, figures emerged from the direction of Harrenhal. A group of armored men, their armor gleaming in the muted light, stepped onto the field. Rody, flanked by several Greycloaks, moved forward to meet them. The air crackled with anticipation.
At the forefront of the Lannister delegation was Lord Tywin Lannister, a figure of formidable presence. His features were etched with the lines of age, but the sharpness of his gaze spoke of a keen and calculating mind. A carefully groomed beard framed a face that bore the weight of both power and cunning.
Beside Lord Tywin were some of the most prominent nobles from the Westerlands, each adorned in richly crafted armor that bespoke their status.
Rody, with a nod of acknowledgment, stepped forward to greet the approaching Lannister delegation. His voice carried across the field, "Lord Tywin Lannister, the King awaits you inside the tent."
He pointed towards the makeshift pavilion, hastily erected in anticipation of the negotiations. The dark clouds above seemed to mirror the somber mood as Lord Tywin, without uttering a word, nodded in response. Rody led the way, the Greycloaks and Lannister guards forming a silent perimeter outside, their presence a testament to the tension that hung in the air.
The Westerlander nobles, resplendent in their armor, followed Lord Tywin into the tent. As they entered, the atmosphere inside transformed from the open air to a confined space crackling with diplomatic potential.
The entrance of Lord Tywin Lannister and his retinue into the tent was met with a tableau of tension. The rectangular table dominated the space, with the Northern nobles seated along one side. At the head of the table, King Eddard Stark sat with an aura of regal authority, acknowledging the newcomers with a nod befitting their stations.
The Westerlander nobles took their places on the opposite side, the wooden surface becoming a symbolic battlefield. A silence, pregnant with the gravity of the moment, enveloped the tent.
Lord Tywin, a figure of imposing stature and restrained power, remained standing, his gaze fixed upon the king. A silent exchange of acknowledgment passed between the two nobles, the unspoken language of seasoned leaders.
Breaking the silence, Lord Tywin grabbed a chair from the far end of the table. With deliberate steps, he dragged it across the uneven ground and placed it on the opposite side of the king. This intentional act spoke volumes, visually underlining the diplomatic tension and the delicate nature of the impending negotiations.
Rody, taking his position just behind the king, observed the unfolding scene with a keen eye. His gaze swept across the Northern and Westerlander nobles, each expression and gesture etching the atmosphere of tension into his memory.
On the other side of the king stood Crag, a towering giant with a presence that demanded attention. The Westerlander nobles couldn't help but cast wary glances toward him. His massive form and the sternness etched on his face created an unspoken statement of strength.
The silence, pregnant with anticipation, was eventually broken by the astute Lord Tywin Lannister. His voice, measured and filled with authority, cut through the quietude. "Lord Eddard Stark," he began, his eyes fixated on the crown atop Eddard's head, "the Starks, as I recall, bent their knees to the Iron Throne. Yet, I see a crown upon your head. Ambitions run deep in the North, it seems."
His words hung in the air, a delicate invitation for Eddard Stark to clarify the intentions that had brought him and his forces to the gates of Harrenhal.
The Northern lords cast expectant glances at their king, silently urging him to respond to Lord Tywin Lannister's pointed remarks. However, Eddard Stark, seated with regal composure, remained silent, his gaze fixed firmly on the Lannister lord.
Lord Tywin, undeterred by the lack of verbal response, continued his discourse. "Your plan to cripple the Westerlands by razing Lannisport is a brutal but effective strategy, I'll grant you that," he acknowledged, his voice carrying a note of detachment. "However, do not make the mistake of underestimating the complexity of the board. Your reliance on Stannis Baratheon's army to win this war by taking King's Landing out of the equation is misguided. There are more players in this game than you might think."
Despite Tywin's deliberate provocations, Eddard Stark maintained a stoic silence, refusing to divulge any hint of his thoughts or strategies. A subtle frown creased Tywin Lannister's forehead as he grappled with the unyielding composure of the Northern lord before him.
Lord Tywin Lannister's voice echoed through the tense silence of the tent, his words carrying the weight of calculated strategy. "Stannis Baratheon's assault on King's Landing will not endure for long. When that wall breaks, you will find yourself isolated, surrounded by multiple kingdoms. Can the North stand alone against such odds?" he questioned, his gaze piercing.
A low grumble swept through some of the Northern lords, discontent palpable in their ranks. Rody's brows creased in concern, and his eyes turned to Eddard Stark, waiting for the king's response. However, Tywin Lannister pressed on, his tone taking a surprising turn.
Known for his ruthless resolve and unwavering pride in House Lannister, Tywin declared, "I am a man who destroys anything that stands against my house or insults it. However, I will make an exception this time. I offer you a chance to return to the North unharmed, Lord Stark. All you need to do is kneel before me and acknowledge my grandson as the true king of the Seven Kingdoms."
As Tywin Lannister's words hung heavy in the air, the reaction in the tent was swift and visceral. Some Northern lords, unable to contain their anger and indignation, rose from their seats, their voices thundering with defiance. Among them, Lord Jon Umber, the Greatjon, a towering figure known for his strength and ferocity, bellowed with a booming voice that shook the very fabric of the tent.
"Kneel to a Lannister pup? Never!" he roared, his eyes ablaze with fury. His massive fists curled up, a clear sign that the Lord of Last Hearth was ready for conflict.
Master Galbart Glover, a seasoned and wise lord, also rose to his feet, his gaze fixed on Tywin Lannister with a mix of disdain and determination. His voice, though not as thunderous as the Greatjon's, carried the weight of unwavering resolve. "We'll not bend the knee to a false king!"
On the other side, Lord Roland Crakehall, a powerful and imposing figure from the Westerlands, stood in solidarity with Tywin. His eyes, however, held a glint of wariness, recognizing the brewing storm in the tent.
Lord Gawen Westerling, a noble from the Westerlands, added his voice to the tumult. "Barbarians! The North always was a land of savages, clinging to their false pride!"
The tent became a battleground of words, with Northern and Westerlander lords trading insults and accusations. The atmosphere grew charged, the air thick with hostility as the clash of opposing views intensified. The confrontation threatened to escalate into something more, and in the midst of it all, Rody, standing behind Eddard Stark, observed the unfolding chaos with a stern expression, ready to act if the situation spiraled out of control.
King Eddard Stark's voice cut through the chaotic clamor like a winter wind slicing through a storm. "Lord Tywin Lannister!" The call echoed through the tent, and an abrupt hush fell over the assembled nobles, both Northern and Westerlander. All eyes turned towards the stoic figure of the Stark lord.
Eddard's piercing gray eyes scanned the gathered lords, his expression resolute. "The North once held faith with the Iron Throne when dragons ruled, but those dragons are gone. After the Rebellion, we held that faith again, but no more. No Northerner will bow to that cursed ugly chair." Some Westerlander nobles couldn't help but snort dismissively at Stark's defiance, but a mere side-eyed glance from the King was enough to cow the disrespectful few.
Eddard's gaze returned to Tywin Lannister, unwavering. "I care not who sits upon that chair, whether it be a bastard or its rightful king. The North will not be a part of it. Our oaths are sworn to our own lands, not to a seat of twisted swords."
The tent held a heavy silence, the tension palpable. The King's words hung in the air, challenging the very foundations of power and allegiance, leaving the fate of the negotiations suspended in the balance.
Eddard Stark's voice, though calm, cut through the charged atmosphere like a blade through the night. "What you just spoke of, Stannis failing in the Crownlands, it won't come to pass." With a swift motion, he produced a missive from the folds of his robes and flung it across the table, landing just before Tywin Lannister.
All eyes fixated on the small piece of parchment, each noble wondering about its contents. Tywin, with a frown and a doubtful expression, took the missive in hand. Eddard's voice, now colder than the northern winds, filled the tent. "Did you truly believe your dealings with the Tyrells escaped notice? Your calculations, Lord Tywin Lannister, Warden of the West, were flawed. The Tyrells will not arrive in time to save King's Landing. Stannis Baratheon is already at the city gates, a force is moving to stall the Tyrells. It won't be long before the capital falls."
Rody observed Lord Tywin's countenance shift from confidence to a grave solemnity. A strange pallor washed over the Lannister lord's face, as if a shadow had suddenly fallen upon him, revealing a chink in the armor of the Lion of the West.
Eddard Stark's voice, devoid of triumph yet laced with certainty, filled the tense silence. "The legacy you built over the bones of your enemies will crumble in a week, Tywin Lannister. The end of your house, brought forth by the hands of Stannis Baratheon, will follow soon."
A deathly quiet descended upon the tent. Westerlander nobles exchanged glances, their expressions shifting from defiance to a realization of the gravity of the situation. The once unassailable lion of the West now faced a foe that threatened not only his military might but the very foundations of his house's supremacy.
Lord Tywin Lannister raised his head, a scowl etched on his features. "You talk big about how Stannis will destroy my house and my legacy, but what about you, Stark? Do you think Stannis is a man who would stray from his path and let you go back to the North? If you do, you are mistaken, Stark. Your house's fall will follow mine's."
Eddard shook his head slowly, maintaining the intense gaze with Tywin. The prolonged silence seemed to penetrate the very depths of each lord's soul, a silent conversation of wills. It only broke when Eddard finally spoke, his voice measured and resolute.
"That's precisely why we are here. The North is tired of wars, and we're willing to let the South tear each other apart for power. Stannis may take that damn throne, but it only takes one man to throw off all the plans he devised." Eddard pointed his finger squarely at Tywin, the gravity of his words hanging in the air.
Tywin, with a frown, asked, "And what, Stark, is your plan?"
Eddard's response was a small, enigmatic smile. "I will allow you and your army to leave Harrenhal."
Tywin's eyes widened in confusion. "And if I do leave, what will stop me from going towards King's Landing to destroy Stannis's army from behind?"
Eddard erupted into a hearty laugh. "Even if I'm generous, I'm not that generous. I'll let you go only after the news about Stannis taking King's Landing reaches us." The tent held a mixture of tension and anticipation, waiting for Tywin's response to this unexpected offer.
Tywin Lannister, scowling, insisted, "I want my son and grandson back."
Eddard Stark responded with a snort of disdain, "This is not a negotiation table, Lord Tywin. Your son will take the black and join the Night's Watch, severing ties with House Lannister. As for your grandson, Tommen, I admit he is blameless. He can be ransomed after the war in the South is sorted out."
Tywin ground his teeth in frustration, realizing that Eddard had played a shrewd game. "I did not know Starks played the game this well," he muttered through clenched teeth.
Eddard leaned back, his expression unwavering. "I am not so foolish as to let your remaining descendants go with you and complete your alliance with the Tyrells. They will not commit unless the position of queen is assured as soon as they join the fray. And remember, Lord Tywin, this is your best chance to leave Harrenhal with your legacy intact." The tense atmosphere in the tent lingered as Tywin contemplated the terms laid out before him.
…
