章 90: 21
Chapter Twenty One
Mid 61 AC
Storm's End
Bruce POV
The letter sat upon the desk. The same spot it had remained since it was placed there several minutes ago by a messenger who had yet to leave the room. The letter's contents of course were dark. As could be expected of a letter with bloody fingerprints on it.
"And you say this is his written will?" sighed the Castellan despondently.
"Aye, my lord. Written, sealed and signed by his own hand shortly before he passed."
"Were there any witnesses?" questioned Bruce.
"Would that I knew good ser. The Lord's squire handed me this letter and ordered me and my men to make haste for Storm's End. That's all I know," replied the Baratheon soldier as he shuffled his feet uncomfortably.
That would be a problem. Undoubtedly the men who accompanied him would soon enough spread the word. Within an hour every man, woman and child in Storm's End would know. Time was short. Quick action would be necessary.
Bruce grunted his acknowledgement, "Well done on getting it here so quickly lad. There'll be food in the kitchens and a bed here for you and your men tonight before y'all return."
The messenger bowed his head and exited the room.
Immediately upon his exit, Bruce's head hit the desk, his hands threading through his greying hair.
His Lord was dead.
A stray arrow. A godsdamned arrow from some pissant Dornish raider had felled the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands. A man who had survived Maegor and the ruthless politicking of the snake pit that was King's Landing, had not even fallen in battle, but to an ambush in the dark.
Luckily, he had lived long enough to write up his own will. Hopefully, before some important witnesses. But even then, it would be weeks before that could be known. It would be too late by then. The Baratheon's death was a serious issue for a number of reasons. Least of which was his own grief at the death of a man he'd called a friend. The death of the man who had raised him up and given him everything he had today.
His son Boremund was a boy of only nine years, meaning there would be a regency for at least five years, more likely six. A long regency during a period of crisis, the lands shattered by plague and now a war in Dorne. Bruce didn't know how this was going to play out, but he knew it wouldn't be favourable for the Stormlands.
Thank the Gods that Rogar had taken Jocelyn and Ronnal's girls to King's Landing. They would be safe there. And he would be damned before he let anything happen to Boremund either.
Settling himself back in his chair, his hands found the letter and he checked the seal. Still whole and unbroken. Calling a servant, he dispatched the man to summon Garon and the Maester. He would need witnesses for when he broke the seal and opened the will.
A short while later, Garon entered the solar. Bruce had always been fond of the young man. He had been but a lad when Bruce had first arrived at Storm's End and had since then spent much time mentoring the third Baratheon brother.
"Morning Bruce-" The young man entered with a smile, one Bruce was not able to return.
The ageing Buckler sighed, "I wish I could sound half as happy as you. However, you should take a seat as this is not likely to be an easy conversation."
Garon frowned, yet sat nonetheless. Having never been one to dance around a problem, he asked, "Is the matter so important?"
"Yesterday, a messenger arrived from the marches. He carried with him this letter," Bruce removed a lightly crinkled letter sullied only by noticeably splotches of blood and set it in front of the Baratheon, "It is your brother's last Will and Testament."
Dawning realisation fell over the Baratheon's face as he struggled with the knowledge. Silence prevailed over his solar as Garon slowly fought to restrain his grief. There would be time for it later.
A moment later, the Maester entered the room.
It was time to begin.
Bruce took a deep breath to steady himself, "A messenger arrived from the Marches today. He bore with him a missive. He claims that it is the Last Will and Testament of Lord Rogar Baratheon, signed and sealed in his own hand. Before I break the seal, Maester Gerion, could you authenticate it?"
The aged Maester shuddered a laboured breath. He had been the Maester at Storm's End for many years. Undoubtedly this was not welcome news to him as well. He was not a dimwit either. He knew that if Rogar wrote a will, it was likely for only one reason. And it would likely not end well for anybody involved. Eventually, he leaned over to examine the Will.
Splitting the wax with his finger he opened it and began to scan the contents.
Eventually, he said in a grave tone, "The seal is authentic. And it is written and signed in Lord Rogar's hand."
Bruce nodded and took hold of the will and began reading. With each word he read, the magnitude of the upcoming disaster began to take shape in his mind.
"Maester Gerion, send the ravens to the bannermen, inform them of the death of their Lord Paramount and the beginning of Lord Boremund's Regency. Make haste and be discrete," ordered Bruce. The Maester bowed and wisely left the room, realising that it would be in his best interests not to take part in the coming discussion.
Bruce took a deep breath and set the letter down to contemplate his next moves. Rogar's last will was to name his younger brother Garon as regent for his son. Garon was the third born of Rogar's brothers, Borys would not take the slight lightly. This situation would take careful consideration in order to smooth over the issues likely to arise from the two main alliances within the Stormlands.
While Borys had for some time now served as the voice of the Buckler-Fell-Trant alliance in Storm's End, of late, ever since Mya had been betrothed to the Errol heir, Garon had found himself bound to the Errol-Tarth-Eastwood alliance. And while the situation had been tenuous, there had existed a balance.
But with Rogar naming Garon as Regent over Borys, that balance would soon be shattered. Bruce could easily see this situation leading to conflict. One thing was clear though, Rogar's Will and Boremund needed to be secured. If either fell into Borys's hands, it would spell disaster. Garon's daughter also needed to be kept safe, for if Borys managed to capture her, he would hold her hostage against Garon. The whole situation was one massive clusterfuck. Rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands he sighed deeply and considered his next moves.
He handed over the letter to Garon who had finally regained his composure. The new Regent took a deep breath and began reading. His pallor paled as he read through the will and it seemed to the old Knight that a great weight settled upon his shoulders. Yet Rogar was dead, and Garon must step up to his duty.
Letting out a breath he replied, "I see."
Dropping the letter back on the table he matched the castellan's posture and settled back in his chair with his eyes closed. He was glad that Garon seemed to understand this was going to be a catastrophe. Borys was never an even-tempered man and he would see this as his right being trampled on.
Even if Borys could be convinced to see reason, he doubted that his allies would let him. The Bucklers, Fells and Trants had been chafing under Rogar's rule, and they would not risk allowing Garon to take over the Regency.
Garon opened his eyes at the sound of a glass being poured and gave a small smile at the cup of whisky as it was deposited in front of him. "It seems right that before making plans, we must make a toast to the fallen," raising the cup he intoned, "to Rogar."
Taking hold of it the Baratheon Knight tapped his cup against Bruce's as he toasted to his brother's memory, "A fine man, a great lord and a good brother."
They sat together in companionable silence for some time, both reminiscing and grieving for Rogar.
Eventually, Garon spoke, "I believe my brother will use this as an opportunity to strike. He has long coveted the position of Lord of the Stormlands, and now all that stands in his way is a third son and a boy of only a few years."
"Aye. I agree. He will undoubtedly move to secure Boremund the minute he finds out. And while I doubt that he will resort to kinslaying, the same cannot be said for his allies. Bryce Buckler will not hesitate to have Boremund killed so that he can place his puppet as Lord Paramount of the Stormlands."
Garon nodded, "We need to make sure that Boremund and my daughter are protected. I do not doubt that Borys will rally his men in Storm's End. How many can we trust to fight for us?"
Bruce shook his head gravely, "I fear that we will be outnumbered and outclassed. When Rogar rode to the Marches, he took with him most of the garrison in Storm's End. The men left behind are either green boys or greybeards."
"They will be outnumbered by the men of Houses Fell, Trant and Buckler who are here as part of Borys's retinue," replied Garon.
Internally, the Castellan cursed at his stupidity. He should have known that allowing Borys to take charge of Ronnal's patrols after his death would come back to bite him in the arse. Borys had dismissed most of Ronnal's men and replaced them with his own men, men who were primarily from the lands of the aforementioned lords.
He let out a groan, "And there is little question as to which side my cousin and his lickspittle allies will side with."
He closed his eyes for a moment and settled his emotions. Borys could undoubtedly take control of Storm's End with the forces he had available. But Bruce would not make it easy for the belligerent brute. He would serve as he always had. It was time to consider his options.
There was no chance in hell that they would be able to retain control of Storm's End. While they had men enough to buy time, Borys's victory was inevitable, which meant that they would have to flee. The only question was where and how.
The docks were out of the question. There were few boats in the harbour and he did not trust any of the ship captains with Boremund's safety. Moreover, it would take too long for Garon and his retinue to board the ship, prepare and cast off. The chances of him being detected were too high and undoubtedly Borys would immediately move to capture him.
That meant that they would have to flee by land. Obviously, they could not go too far. Boremund was still a young boy and he would slow them down. Mya was even younger and could barely ride a horse. Borys would undoubtedly give chase and run them down soon enough. Which meant they needed to find safety nearby. The only safe Keeps nearby were Griffin's Roost and Eastwood.
In theory, Griffin's Roost was a better option. It was an ancient and well-fortified fortress that could hold out for a long time against siege. It was well garrisoned as Rogar had not called on the Conningtons to march with him to face the Vulture King.
But he did not trust Evan Connington. He had only recently become Lord of Griffin's Roost when his father had passed of the Shivers. But more importantly, the man was an opportunist and craven to boot. He shared fairly cordial relations with Borys and his allies and would have much to gain if he supported them. The chances of him yielding to Borys were too high.
Aelon Eastwood however…. was intelligent enough to know that if Borys Baratheon became Regent, it would not bode well for him. Like Connington, he had not sent any men to the Marches either. And while Eastwood was not as well defended as Griffin's Roost, he would undoubtedly receive support from Tarth and Haystack Hall as well.
"You must leave the castle immediately with the Will. Take Boremund and your daughter with you and make your way to Eastwood. The Errols and Eastwoods will protect Boremund and support your Regency. Your own daughter is set to marry the Errol heir. And there is little love lost between them and Borys. Travel light and with few guards else you might be caught on the road."
Garon swallowed and attempted to find fault in the logic, "As much as that sounds a sensible choice, it does not fill me with confidence that my first act as Regent is to flee in the night like a craven."
Bruce raised an eyebrow at that, "Did you think life as a Baratheon would be all about fury? There is a time for fighting and a time for using your head. Use both and you'll be successful."
The Baratheon snorted, "I should have expected that answer," pondering for a second more, he nodded, "I shall leave immediately with no more than a dozen guards, speed will be key to the success of my nephew's evacuation. Where shall you meet me?"
"I will not be joining you lad. These old bones of mine would slow you down. Moreover, someone needs to stay behind to rally our loyalists. Take the children and leave. I will stay here and buy time for you," replied the old knight in a tone that brooked no argument.
"He will kill you," replied Garon, a slight tremor in his voice. For nearly twenty years, he had been Storm's End's Castellan and more importantly, Bruce had been a mentor and guide to the younger Baratheon boys after their father's death.
With Rogar busy with his duties as Lord of Storm's End and eventually as Hand of the King, it had fallen to Bruce to take over the education and upbringing of the younger Baratheon brothers.
There was a moment of silence, "If that is the will of the Gods then so be it. I have lived six decades, I do not need to see another."
The young Baratheon could only nod at that. He stood up for a moment and hesitated for a moment before he drew the aged Knight into a rough embrace. Unshed tears glistened in his eyes. First his brother, and now his mentor.
"You take care of Boremund lad. Raise him well. It took decades for your brother and I to build the foundations of this House. You make sure that the lad lives up to his father's legacy."
Garon could only nod at that.
He turned and left the room, marching as though he was heading off to war, which he probably was. Bruce settled back in his chair and let out a sigh of relief. Come what may, Boremund would be safe.
Much needed to be done in the meantime to ensure that. He would have to gather those men loyal to him and have them armed and armoured while denying the same to Borys's men. It was also necessary to ensure the safety of the other nobles and guests currently residing at Storm's End.
He stood up eventually and made his way to his own rooms. A few moments later, he found himself staring at his sword and armour. He'd had them packed away over a decade ago when he realised that he was too old to enter the battlefield again. And while he may have been done with bloodshed, it seemed that it was not done with him.
Talking softly to himself, he mumbled, "One last time then."
Late that Night
Storm's End
Throne Room
Bruce sat in the hall of his Lord, as he had done so many times before. Yet this time the atmosphere was severe. He had sent Garon on his way a few hours ago with Boremund and his daughter. He only hoped that they would reach Eastwood safely.
A moment after and the fighting outside the hall died down. The old man took a deep breath and put aside his sadness at the death of loyal men. A resigned expression drew across his face. But underlying his weariness was a feeling of triumph. His plan had succeeded.
Borys found out about Rogar's death just moments after Garon fled from Storm's End. Predictably he had gathered his men to secure Boremund but had been too late. Bruce's men had then engaged Borys and his men and since then the halls of Storm's End had been painted red as men slaughtered each other within its walls.
He knew that they had no chance of winning, but the objective was to buy time. And they had. Even a few precious hours would be all that Garon would need to make his escape without worrying about Borys's men catching up to him.
He frowned at the Baratheon as he entered the hall, "Borys, always a pleasure to see you."
"I've heard some troubling rumours, old man, rumours that you intend to install my younger brother as Regent. We both know that is not what Rogar would have wanted."
Bruce raised an eyebrow, "Unfortunately, Ser. I know nothing of the sort. It was Lord Rogar's own will which placed Garon as Regent."
Borys's men were spreading throughout the hall now, hands on the hilts of their swords. A quick count placed their number at forty, though there were sure to be more within the castle. This would be bloody.
"Ser Borys, I would ask you to remove your men from this hall. There is no need for bloodshed on this day. Do not set yourself against the laws of the realm."
"Law? You speak to me of law. The law of the realm is that the elder goes before the younger. I am the eldest of Rogar's brothers and as such, by law, should be Regent."
The men in the hall who would choose to follow Bruce and Garon were now also fanning out, prepared to make their last stand.
Letting out a deep sigh Bruce made one final attempt to get the foolish man to stand down, "Boremund is Lord of the Stormlands as his father's heir, and Rogar's will was very clear in his chosen Regent. Stand down now, Borys and this may yet be forgiven."
Borys snarled, "It seems to me, old man, that you have forgotten your place. Stand down and order your men to surrender. Your cousin and his ilk have chosen to follow me, I would spare him the pain of fallen kin."
Bruce had had enough and drew his sword, his men doing the same, "Final warning fool. Your actions today will see the kingdom at war. You will not be spared for committing treason, and make no mistake, what you are about to do is treason!"
The Baratheon men following Borys had bared their steel, Borys lazily drawing his greatsword and settling into a fighting stance. Whilst he had always been inferior to his elder brother, he was a mighty warrior in his own right and the clash was far from certain to end in Bruce's favour.
"If you will not concede to my right, you must perish, along with my treacherous younger brother Garon. Where is he anyway, too craven to fight me?"
"Your brother is ten times the man that you will ever be boy! Even now, as you conspire to steal your nephew's birthright, he protects him," thundered Bruce.
"So he fled then. No doubt you sent him to your pet bastard Eastwood. Worry not old man, after I cleave your head from your shoulders, I'll march my men there and burn his House to the ground. Maybe I'll meet your son on my way and introduce his neck to my steel as well!" barked the deranged Baratheon brother as he laughed like a madman.
Not deigning to answer, Bruce stepped forward and his men began to clash with Borys's and the ancient fortress was filled with blood and the whimpers of dying men.
Bruce clashed with Borys but the result of that confrontation was easy to see. Long were the days of his youth, when he was strong and fierce. As with all things, time had eroded his skill with a blade. Though he was determined to make a good show before his inevitable death.
The fight did not last long. Soon enough, his men, outnumbered as they were, were dead and he and Borys were encircled by the latter's men.
"You should have surrendered."
Eyes alight with fury, Borys swiftly swung his greatsword, cleaving the elder Buckler's head from his shoulders.
And so it began.
Eastwood Road
Garon POV
Impotent rage had been his only guardian. Garon and his cadre of remaining loyalist guardsmen rode hard up the road to Eastwood. They had departed within an hour of his conversation with Bruce. His squire had secured horses and he had gathered up his daughter, Boremund and a dozen of his loyal men.
Even now, the memory of surreptitiously leaving Storm's End, with his nephew and daughter placed in a cart to hide them, made his blood boil. Storm's End was their home, and to have to put on a mummer's act and sneak out in fear of his own brother, rankled him something fierce.
Even as he had left, he could see that the ancient castle would soon be bathed in blood. Guards were rushing to arm themselves, maids and servants were scurrying to escape and the few nobles within the walls were barring their doors or preparing to flee in anticipation of the upcoming bloodshed.
Word of Rogar's death had spread through the Keep soon enough, the men who had accompanied the messenger having spread the word. It was a miracle that they had managed to get anything done before they had fled. But even so, Garon had been adamant that he would make Borys bleed before he was forced to abandon his home.
He had ensured that the Maester sent the ravens announcing Rogar's death and the beginning of his Regency. While his squire had secured horses and gathered his men, he'd also visited the treasury and gathered as much gold as he could. While it wasn't much, It would undoubtedly come in use and also pinch Borys's war chest if the situation escalated.
Even as they rode hard down the road, Garon could not help but think about his family. With Rogar, Ronnal and Orryn dead, Borys was his last surviving brother. And now he would most likely slaughter loyal Baratheon men at arms, innocent smallfolk and his mentor, who had loyally served House Baratheon for decades. Oh, how his parents would weep if they saw what their House had come to.
His nephew and daughter were constantly upset, and yet they did not have time to stop to settle them, lest they risk being caught. They would forgive him, he told himself. This was the only way to ensure their safety. But even now, he could not bring himself to face them, nor answer their inevitable questions.
That Borys had committed such an act of treachery merely hours after the death of their brother was reported was inconceivable to him. They had all been boys together, and whilst Borys had always been a hotheaded unthinking moron, Garon had not considered it in his nature to act as he had. When they had been boys, Garon had looked up to Borys. He had been strong, boisterous and caring. Something had changed in him recently. The only possible conclusion was that it was because of the manipulation of Lords Buckler, Trant and Fell.
Garon never liked the Lord of Bronzegate. He was an ill-tempered and belligerent man with little respect for House Baratheon, constantly chafing under the fact that the Baratheons were the product of the union between a bastard and Argella Durandon. Over the past two decades, the man had carefully cultivated an alliance with Fell and Trant and with Rogar being busy serving as Hand in King's Landing, their power plays had unfortunately avoided his scrutiny.
And now that was coming back to bite them in their arse. When Rogar had marched, he had taken with him much of Storm's End's garrison and the Lords of Cape Wrath and the Marches had followed him.
Unfortunately for Garon, the Lords of Felwood, Gallowsgrey and Bronzegate had retained their men in the Stormlands rather than sending them south to fight with Rogar and the marcher lords. Undoubtedly they would call their banners and march to Eastwood to capture Boremund.
So his only real hope at defeating his brother came from assembling the forces of Lords Eastwood, Errol and Tarth. And whilst they were wealthy, he was unsure if their forces would be enough. Between Trant, Buckler and Fell, Borys could, at short notice, gather as many as six thousand men, almost half of which would come from House Buckler. And if the situation dragged out for longer, they would probably be able to raise another couple thousand men.
And if his memory served Eastwood and Errol would be lucky if they managed to raise half that number. Tarth would in all likelihood aid them, but it would take time for Brynden Tarth to raise his men and cross the straits.
There was hope that the Crown would intervene, but it was unlikely that it would be any time soon. The King was fighting in the Marches, and with Rogar's death, would undoubtedly be facing substantial tensions. In all likelihood, he would arrive after the dust had settled and then the victor would spin his own tale. It was paramount that they held out and prevented the Will and Boremund from falling into Borys's hands.
Soon after that depressing thought crossed his mind, a small town his map knew to be called Southwood came into view bringing him a sense of relief he'd nearly forgotten how to feel. Garon could not help his surprise when he saw the size of the town. Considering that it was not even Eastwood's capital, it was surprisingly large, with a high wall, which was manned by guardsmen clad in good quality armour.
Slowing his pace as he came to the gates of the wooden palisade serving as walls he bellowed at the guardsmen as only a Baratheon could, "I am Ser Garon Baratheon, Regent of Lord Boremund Baratheon. I must speak with Lord Eastwood."
There were troubled looks between the men as they considered what that meant for Lord Rogar before letting him through the gates to speak with the Mayor.
A few hours later and Garon's expanded party was back on the road. This time with guards bearing the Eastwood livery accompanying them. The Mayor of Southwood was, in Garon's opinion, a slippery craven with more of a fondness for cakes than hard work. How he had managed to retain his position with a man as astute as Aelon was anyone's guess.
But even so, he was astute enough to realise the gravity of the situation. He had sent near two dozen men to escort Garon to Eastwood and given the order for more men to be raised in case Eastwood had to go to war. Undoubtedly, he was anticipating Aelon to extend his protection to the Baratheons as well as an attack from the Bucklers.
In any case, the exhausted Baratheon party continued their trek. Aided in no small part by the road built in the Eastwood style. Made of slabs and tilted slightly to allow good drainage, there was nary a mark on them, a sight most impressive in an area renowned for its brutal storms. Beside the road, the woodland which had begun to enclose them on the approach to Southwood only grew thinner as they neared Eastwood.
Two hours more at their pace took them to the bustling town which had sprung up around Eastwood's prosperous industry. Another surprise for Garon, he began to revise his opinions of what to expect of Eastwood's military strength. The gates were the most surprising though.
He could have sworn that Eastwood was supposed to be a small town, with walls of wood and some budding industry. Or at least that was how Ronnal had described it after he had returned from Lord Eastwood's wedding a decade ago.
Either he had been lying, or Aelon Eastwood had been extremely busy in the past few years. Stone walls twenty feet high and likely six to seven feet thick surrounded the town. He spotted at least two guardhouses and saw well-armed guards patrolling the wall. The town itself made Southwood look like a small village and even from afar he could see houses and buildings made from the same material which was used for the roads towering above the rest.
In the distance, Aelon's Keep could be seen as well. Perched on a hill just outside the city walls, it was a large castle, with what looked to be excellent defences against a siege. Even as he approached the Keep he saw a column of armed guardsmen approaching from the gate. They were marching in almost perfect coordination, undoubtedly a product of many hours of rigorous training. As they got closer, he saw that all of them were armed with steel weapons and clad in mail armour.
Exactly how wealthy was Aelon Eastwood if he could arm his men at arms with steel and armour all of them better than some hedge knights. He felt his spirits rising as he took in all the information before him. Perhaps they stood a chance after all.
His attention was eventually drawn to the mounted knight leading the column. He recognised him as Ser James Potter, the Knight from Eastwood who had won the melee at Lord Caron's tourney a few turns of the moon ago.
Garon had attended the tourney with his daughter in Rogar's stead and had found himself pleasantly surprised to see such skill from a man who was so young.
The knight eventually called the column to a halt and hailed Garon, "On behalf of Lord Aelon Eastwood, I welcome you to the town of Eastwood, Ser Garon. He apologises for not greeting you himself, but as you may be aware, time is a precious commodity today. Allow me to escort you and your men to the Keep. They shall receive food, water and a bed for their loyal service. Lord Aelon has been expecting you."
The men with him were filthy, dirt beaten and utterly exhausted after having ridden hard over the past few hours with little sleep and succour. Ser James's words caused a light cheer to erupt from his men as they smiled widely at the thought of sleeping on a bed.
As they reached the gates of the Keep, his men were met by a few maids and another man who introduced himself as the steward. They were offered bread and salt and he was informed that Lord Eastwood was expecting Garon in his solar. He entrusted Boremund and Mya to his squire and made his way to the Lord of Eastwood.
As they walked through Keep, Garon could see that the castle was abuzz with activity. Guards were drilling in the yard, armour and arms were being withdrawn from the armoury and dozens of servants and maids were running around completing a myriad of tasks. It was obvious that Aelon was preparing for a fight.
His men were met by a few maids and another man who must have
Seeing his curious look, Ser James spoke up, "We received the raven from Storm's End last night about Lord Rogar's death. You have my condolences, my Lord. But Aelon anticipated that Ser Borys and his men may not respond well to Lord Rogar's wishes. He gave the order to prepare for the worst. Your arrival here with Lord Boremund in such a state has only confirmed his suspicions."
Garon could only nod dumbly at that.
Eventually, they made their way up the stairs and he was led to the Lord's solar. The guard standing at the door stepped aside and opened the door for him as he entered.
Standing over a desk, his attention focused on a map of the region, Aelon Eastwood said, "Welcome to Eastwood Ser Garon. We have much to discuss."
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