Chapter 70: Lady Olenna
The night settled over Bitterbridge like a blanket, thick with tension and the anticipation of battle. The air was heavy with the scent of woodsmoke from the campfires and the lingering stench of blood from the day's skirmishes. Inside the fortified walls, the Tyrell and Redwyne forces prepared themselves for what they knew would come—a final push from the besieging forces of House Tarly and House Florent, desperate to break the siege before morning.
Paxter Redwyne paced the courtyard of the keep, his mind racing with thoughts of both the battle ahead and the long-term consequences of this war. He had always been a man of calculation, someone who viewed the battlefield as another board in the larger game of thrones. Tonight, however, that game felt more dangerous than ever. The stakes had never been higher, and the consequences of failure far greater than simply losing control of Bitterbridge.
His boots crunched on the gravel as he walked through the camp, taking in the sights and sounds of the soldiers preparing for battle. Men sharpened swords and fitted their armor with quiet determination, their faces etched with fatigue but also resolve. The Tyrell banners fluttered alongside the Redwyne sigil, the vine-entwined grapes a symbol of the wealth Paxter had spent a lifetime building. That wealth, he knew, was not just his family's legacy—it was its future.
Mina approached from the shadows, her steps silent as always. "The scouts have returned," she said softly, coming to stand beside him. "The enemy is massing at the far edge of their camp. It looks like they're preparing for a night assault, just as we suspected."
Paxter nodded, his gaze fixed on the horizon. "They're desperate. They know they'll be overwhelmed by morning if they don't break the siege now."
Mina watched him carefully. "Do we still hold the advantage?"
"We do," Paxter replied. "But only if we keep our forces steady. They'll try to surprise us, hit us where they think we're weak. We can't let them take the initiative."
Mina's lips pressed into a thin line. "It's more than the enemy out there that concerns me. Olenna's demands are growing. She's playing her cards well, making sure we're tied to her fortunes for the long haul."
Paxter sighed, turning to face her. "I know. She's demanding more every day, and soon enough, she'll try to pull us even deeper into the war. But I can't let the Redwyne fortunes be drained for the Tyrells' ambitions. We need to find a way to support her without being bled dry."
Mina tilted her head slightly, considering his words. "We still have the spice trade with Volantis. And the Arbor Reserve is nearly ready to ship to the North. We'll have new income soon."
"It's not just the income," Paxter said, his voice sharp. "It's the influence. The Tyrells are trying to position themselves as the only true power in the Reach, and if we're not careful, we'll end up as little more than their financiers."
Mina's eyes glinted in the firelight. "You've never been one to let others dictate your fate, Paxter."
He smiled faintly. "No, I haven't. And I won't start now. But for now, we need to focus on this battle. We'll deal with Olenna's demands once the siege is lifted."
Mina nodded and fell silent, understanding that there was little more to say on the matter at the moment. The immediate threat loomed over them like a dark cloud, and everything else would have to wait until the morning light.
As the final preparations were made, Paxter walked through the ranks of soldiers once more. He offered words of encouragement where needed, a steadying hand to those who looked uncertain. His presence among the men, calm and resolute, reminded them that they were not alone in this fight. House Redwyne had always been more than just wine and trade; it was a family bound by loyalty, and Paxter was determined to keep it that way, even in the face of war.
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Hours passed, and the tension mounted. The camp was quiet, save for the occasional rustle of armor or the whisper of a sword being drawn. The moon hung low in the sky, casting long shadows over the battlements of Bitterbridge.
Paxter stood at the walls, his eyes scanning the distant treeline where the enemy camp lay hidden in the darkness. He knew they were out there, waiting for the right moment to strike.
Ser Martyn joined him, his face as grim as ever. "The men are ready, my lord. We've strengthened the weak points in the wall, and the archers are in position. If they try to breach the gates, they'll meet a wall of arrows."
Paxter nodded, though his gaze remained fixed on the horizon. "Good. We need to hold them off long enough for the Tyrell reinforcements to fully settle in. Once they realize their numbers are truly against them, they'll break."
Ser Martyn grunted in agreement. "Aye. They're desperate. Desperate men make mistakes."
As they spoke, a faint rustling sound reached their ears, followed by the unmistakable clink of armor. The enemy was on the move.
"They're coming," Paxter muttered, his hand tightening around the hilt of his sword.
The first signs of movement appeared at the edge of the treeline—shadows darting between the trees, then the glint of metal as the enemy forces began their advance. The night was their ally, but Paxter had prepared for this. He had men stationed at every weak point, archers ready to loose a volley at the first sign of attack.
"Archers!" Paxter called out, his voice steady but commanding.
A moment later, a volley of arrows darkened the sky, arcing toward the advancing enemy. Shouts of surprise and pain echoed through the night as the arrows found their marks, cutting down the first wave of attackers.
But the enemy kept coming, undeterred by the losses. They charged forward with reckless abandon, driven by desperation and the knowledge that this was their last chance to break the siege. The clashing of swords and shields soon filled the air as the enemy reached the walls.
Paxter drew his sword and joined the fight, moving swiftly among his men. He struck down an enemy soldier with a quick, practiced motion, his blade flashing in the moonlight. Around him, the Redwyne and Tyrell forces fought fiercely, holding the line as the enemy pressed their attack.
"They're trying to breach the gate!" Ser Martyn shouted, his voice barely audible over the din of battle.
Paxter turned, his eyes narrowing as he spotted a group of enemy soldiers pushing forward, battering the gate with a makeshift ram. He moved swiftly, cutting his way through the chaos to reach the gate.
"Hold the gate!" Paxter shouted, rallying the nearby soldiers.
The Redwyne and Tyrell forces closed ranks, pushing back against the enemy assault. Arrows continued to rain down from the walls, cutting through the enemy ranks with deadly precision. The gate shuddered under the impact of the ram, but it held—just barely.
Paxter fought with a ferocity born of necessity, his sword cutting through enemy after enemy. The battle was brutal and unrelenting, but slowly, the tide began to turn in their favor.
The enemy's numbers were dwindling, their attack faltering as they realized they were outmatched. Desperation gave way to panic, and soon, the remaining enemy forces began to retreat, fleeing back into the darkness from which they had come.
As the last of the enemy disappeared into the night, a cheer rose from the Redwyne and Tyrell forces. They had held the line. The siege had been broken.
Paxter stood at the gate, his sword still in hand, his chest heaving with exertion. Around him, the soldiers celebrated their victory, but Paxter knew that the real battle was only just beginning.
Mina approached, her face streaked with sweat and soot. "We've won the night, but the cost was high. Lady Olenna will want to discuss her terms soon."
Paxter sheathed his sword, his expression grim. "Let her. We'll play her game for now, but we won't be beholden to her forever. House Redwyne will stand on its own—no matter what."
As dawn broke over Bitterbridge, Paxter Redwyne stood tall, knowing that this victory, while significant, was only a step in a much larger game. A game he intended to win, no matter the cost.