—The North—
Near Moat Cailin...
Nearly two weeks had passed, yet the battlefield was still littered with dead bodies. Daveth walked along the area surrounding Moat Cailin, accompanied by his Kingsguard. Looking left and right, his men were carrying the final bodies of the fallen onto the crate to be shipped off. Although recovered and well enough to walk around, he had to wait another day before he could actually take part in battle. "How many were lost?" he asked.
"Fifteen ironborn dead, for every one of ours. In short, we've lost close to 10,000 men," Lucius reported. "The battle to take back Moat Cailin was rather difficult for our forces south of the main entrance."
"And what of Victarion Greyjoy?"
"Our men have scoured the area from here to the Fever River, but found no sign of his body. We can only assume that he managed to get away."
Lord Rickard Karstark will not be pleased to hear about that. "That'll no doubt cause trouble for the Royal Fleet. How soon can we move to Seagard?"
Jaime pressed his fist to his chin. "Assuming that we can actually ensure the ironborn won't attack the same place while our backs are turned, we should be able to muster 70,000 to rendezvous with the Lannister and Redwyne Fleets. Still, I'd advise we leave a token force behind to retain Moat Cailin."
"The Northmen know every inch of the terrain better than we do. Inform Lord Gregor of House Forrester that he is to hold onto Moat Cailin with 800 men. Be sure to tell Lord Medger of House Cerwyn that he will provide an additional 400. We don't want to be caught off-guard again."
"I'll see to it that the message is delivered," Lucius nodded before taking his leave. "Should the ironborn try to attack Moat Cailin again, we won't make it easy on them."
Jaime noticed how Daveth was paying more attention to his military commanders' counsel lately, how his nephew's becoming more analytical. The field around them became steadier as the final bodies were carried off. It wouldn't be long before Robb Stark arrived; Daveth motioned for his Kingsguard to give him a moment. Jaime felt that there would be a lot for these two young men to talk about considering what they had learned moments ago. Once the Kingsguard left for a moment, Daveth and Robb stood toe-to-toe with one another.
"Should've known you'd be up and about, my friend. You're a hard one to kill."
"Many have tried, none succeeded."
Robb turned his head towards Daveth, noticing a change in his speech pattern and how it differentiated from his normally stoic, cool demeanor. The Young Wolf could tell from the tiniest hint that something was on his brother-in-law's mind. "I get the feeling there's something you want to tell me, Daveth."
Daveth shook his head. "I know what you did."
Both young men locked eyes, each sizing the other up. Yet Robb had a distinctive feeling that he somehow knew what Daveth was referring to.
"I know about Theon Greyjoy."
"This is not the time for it, Daveth—" Robb began before getting cut off.
"No, we are going to talk about it," Daveth interrupted. "I understand that you let Theon go, how you... permitted him to go back to the Iron Islands, to his father – the very same man who's taken up arms against us again. Do you have any idea of what you've done? What the repercussions were?"
"Theon isn't like Balon Greyjoy."
"Then you wouldn't mind explaining your actions."
The commotion was starting to garner attention, both Northmen and royalist alike. This was something they had never seen before: King Daveth I Baratheon and Lord Robb Stark, childhood friends and brothers-in-law, traded some rather tense verbal exchanges back and forth repeatedly. Robb had to unclench his knuckles, knowing that Daveth wasn't going to relent.
"You want me to tell you the truth? Fine. I did agree to let Theon go, but only on the pretense that he would procure gifts for the wedding. I did not, however, expect that this was going to happen."
"You have had every opportunity to tell me the truth back at King's Landing, yet you did nothing. No, instead I had to learn about it from Lord Walder Frey on my way up here when I crossed the Trident. Among other things, like promises you made him and broke?"
"An arrangement my own mother made for me when I called my father's bannermen to lift the siege at King's Landing last year. And how is that relevant to Theon in what way?"
"How many promises did you renege on? One? Two? Why hide that? What else are you hiding from me? I had to clean up your mess on the way up here. I lost 10,000 men to make this possible. Did you think that was fair?"
"Daveth—"
"Theon Greyjoy was a valuable hostage, a leverage used to keep his father in line. If he were to ever try anything again, you were to do your duty and behead Theon by oath. But instead, you chose to go behind my back and freed him without my knowledge or consent. And now look at what happened. Are you... are you that heedless, that fucking stupid?"
Robb was getting angry. The North was attacked, and the King was criticizing him for one simple mistake? Friend or no, he didn't intend to let this slide. "Look, Daveth," he said firmly. "You're angry. I get it. I am too. I know I shouldn't have done it, but I did it anyway. But getting pissed off and pointing fingers at me isn't going to help anyone at this moment. Once Theon's back in our custody, then I'll deal with it and set things right."
Daveth looked out of the corner of his right eye and saw someone familiar approaching. "Now would be as good a time as any," he pointed.
Robb turned and saw Roose Bolton's bannermen led by Locke dragging Theon Greyjoy in chains, throwing him to the mud.
"Lord Stark, Your Grace," Locke greeted. "I give you Balon Greyjoy's surviving son and heir, Theon Greyjoy."
Theon, still in chains, lifted himself up off the ground and looked at Robb and Daveth in a very long time. Resuming his stoicism, Daveth looked at Theon indifferently, showing neither hatred nor spite. Theon couldn't tell which honestly frightened him more – believing he was going to be sentenced to death anyway despite his help. Robb, on the other hand, noticed the dried blood and bruises on his face.
"You assaulted him," he realized.
Theon sighed wearily. "I've... I've had worse than this, Robb." Though he tried to lighten his 'situation', his standing was still in precarious one.
Locke wasn't pleased with the accusation from his liege lord. This is a war, after all. "We caught him close to the shore. His brethren blew up some of our ships trying to get away."
"That's not true! You guys had me chained up, bound and gagged since Winterfell!"
"Then how come some of the King's ships were caught in the explosion?"
Daveth glanced between Locke and Theon, irritatingly listening to both sides bickering back and forth like children. He felt a headache coming.
"What of my brothers? Bran and Rickon?" Robb demanded. "What did you do to them?"
Theon shook his head. "I never laid a hand on them, Robb!"
"Where are they?!"
"I sent them to the Wall, some run-down keep called Eastwatch-by-the-Sea! That wildling lass we took hostage two years ago, Osha, I think her name was, and that big fella Hodor's with them both."
Robb Stark felt a sense of relief, knowing Theon hadn't attempted at lying to him. But Daveth, on the other hand, wasn't done.
"Last I heard you were with Robb at Riverrun, yet not long after we've received reports that not only were you on the Iron Islands but your traitor father, Balon Greyjoy, is rebelling against us again. Care to explain yourself, Theon?"
"I went to ask my father to deliver a gift for your wedding to Sansa, that's all. I tried to stop him from rebelling!"
Daveth narrowed his eyes. "Somehow, I doubt you've seriously tried hard enough. And if this was your idea of a gift, then you've failed spectacularly."
"I just—"
"I'm not interested in excuses, Greyjoy."
Robb placed a hand on Daveth's shoulder. "Daveth, stop! If he says that he tried to prevent the rebellion from beginning, then he did all he possibly could."
Theon smiled at Robb standing up for him, but Daveth still wasn't convinced and shook his head.
"You disappoint me," the Young Stag replied. "Fifteen years of friendship, our houses bound by blood, and you've thrown it all away. I never thought of you as someone who'd do that."
"Daveth—!"
The Young Stag raised his hand up, silencing him. Before long he gripped the handle of Stormbringer with his left hand and unsheathed it; Theon's eyes widened at the possibility of what might come next. Locke and Ramsay Snow watched on in earnest, the bastard of House Bolton subtly showing his delight.
"Don't do it!" both Theon and Robb shouted.
Jaime, Barristan and Lucius overheard the commotion and came rushing to the scene, watching Daveth raising Stormbringer over his head with his left.
"Wait! I know how to get around my uncle Victarion Greyjoy's fleet. Spare me, and I'll share everything I know!" Theon pleaded.
Daveth continued looking down at Theon. "I know the Iron Fleet as well."
As he brought Stormbringer down, Theon closed his eyes as Robb watched on in horror. Ser Barristan and Ser Lucius were equally concerned, with Jaime standing his ground. Theon slowly opened his eyes, blinking a couple times before noticing his shackles were cut off. He took a brief moment to looked at his hands, feeling up his face and noticed Stormbringer plunged into the ground. Locke and Ramsay were both equally confused; they were honestly expecting King Daveth to behead Theon immediately, but instead cut free of his rusty shackles.
"Your Grace?" Locke exclaimed.
Daveth gripped Stormbringer with his left, fighting to suppress the impulse from consuming him again. Even so, he glanced down at Theon – staring directly into his eyes. "Then you'd better pray to the Seven that your information is good," he gritted through his teeth. "Otherwise, your life is good for little else. Some of the men gathered here want you dead, you know."
Robb exhaled. "Your Grace, by your leave allow me to place Theon in my custody and set this right."
"No, you may not. You've lost that right the moment you released him to his father. Lord Robb Stark of Winterfell, I relieve you of the custody of Theon Greyjoy as punishment for your blunder. From this point forward, Theon is hereby placed under the crown's personal observation. His fate will be decided once his father is dealt with."
Theon felt as if he went from a bad situation into a worse one; not only was he not going to return to Robb's side, but the Young Stag would be personally keeping tabs on him. If he agreed to the terms provided, Theon thought Daveth might spare his life. Any act of duplicity would result in an automatic death sentence.
"Locke," he continued. "Once the rebellion is put down, you will be given with 1,000 acres and a holdfast of your own. You have my word."
Locke looked pleased. Not only did he deliver a valuable prisoner, but he'll also be getting a big reward from the Oathkeeper himself – only when the Second Greyjoy Rebellion was defeated.
"The rest of you, begin preparations for the journey to Seagard. From there, we will begin the full-scale invasion of the Iron Islands. Lord Bolton, you shall be given command of the vanguard. I'll catch up with you soon."
Roose nodded in acknowledgment. "Understood, Your Grace," he said calmly.
"Ser Jaime, get something to hold Theon. No one gets access to him." As he hoisted Theon off the ground and led him away while the Lord of the Dreadfort moved to mobilize his army, gathering his men to begin the long trek south once more. As they began the march, Robb glanced at Daveth – who did not even look at him.
"I can't believe you just did that, Daveth. I thought our friendship meant something to you."
"Keeping secrets in times of wartime breeds suspicion and distrust in the ranks. You've not only done the Freys a grievous insult, but you spat in my face as well," Daveth finally turned to face his brother-in-law. "Our friendship did mean something to me, but apparently it didn't to you. If I weren't married to your sister, I would've beaten the living shit out of you."
Before Robb could even protest, Daveth cut him off again.
"'All men should keep their word, Kings most of all.' Those were the words you said to me a year ago after the Battle of Blackwater Bay, remember? I've kept my word, aid or threat, yet you couldn't do the same. Olyvar was meant to be your squire, not mine. You agreed to marry Roslin, yet you chose another. Now your uncle Edmure and I had to take your place and pick up the pieces. You knew I would've never allowed you to let Theon go free, yet you did it anyway."
Robb shook his head. "I haven't forgotten. I know what I did was wrong. I know I screwed up! Is that what you want to hear from me? I never meant to slight you or Lord Walder, Daveth. Once this is done, I will make amends—"
"Amends for sneaking around behind my back? You kept all of it hidden from me for a lengthy period of time! How am I expected to believe anything you say at this point?"
"Then what do you want me to say?!" Robb sounded cross, perhaps incredulous. "What do I have to do to prove myself? How many times do I have to apologize to you for?"
Daveth frowned. "There's nothing you can say or do to make this go away. The damage's been done already. You want my forgiveness? You want me to start trusting you again? Then go. Go to Seagard and reinforce my ships before we invade the Iron Islands."
Leaving in a huff, Robb Stark mounted his stallion. Grey Wind followed suit, heading south with his master and the rest of the Stark bannermen. Daveth turned away as he returned to his war tent, mostly to relax and settle his nerves down. Of all the people in Westeros, Robb Stark was the last person to ever do such a thing to him. He had more to say, but bit his tongue before he went too far and made it worse than it already is... though, he couldn't exactly say for certain. Only time will tell once Balon Greyjoy's rebellion was dealt with. No doubt he'd imagine what his wife Sansa would be saying if she saw them arguing the way they did, but Daveth shook it from his thoughts.
"I can be harsh, I know, Robb. But it's for your own good in the long run," he sighed to his reflection. The Young Stag took a moment to examine his right shoulder, any slight of discomfort and he would've felt it already. But he hadn't. With luck, Daveth could rejoin his men sooner.
Olyvar Frey soon returned to the tent. "Your Grace," he spoke up.
"I take it you heard everything?" Daveth remarked.
"I did. I know Robb Stark wronged my father, done House Frey a huge insult. Despite everything, I... know he was like a brother to you. I'm sorry for everything that's happened."
"Do not apologize, lad," he dismissed. "Have you wronged me? No, you did not. Sometimes we say and do things we don't mean, good intentions or no. In times of war, there can't be any room for coddling."
"You've been to war before, Your Grace?"
"A year ago, my own uncle Renly Baratheon rebelled against me. Called himself King and laid claim to the Iron Throne, even though he himself knew he was fifth in line. The Reach declared for him until it became clear they were backing the losing side, despite the greater numbers."
"Was it difficult? Having to kill one of your own flesh and blood?"
"Some things are best left unsaid. Do I regret putting him down? No. Do I know why he did what he did? No. It's... not so simple when the enemy you're fighting is your own family."
"Were you two close?"
"Depends on how you define the word 'close,' but to answer your question... no. No, Olyvar, we were not. We Baratheons are a rather stubborn, complicated bunch; headstrong and steadfast in pursuing our goals. The stag is the sigil of our house. If neither one of us backs down, we tend to butt heads and clash antlers until one of us is left standing. Renly never trusted me or believed anything I said."
Olyvar tilted his head. "Why?"
"He somehow got an idea in his head that because I'm half Lannister through the female line, I'd act like one despite my Baratheon name. 'A Baratheon's strength and a Lannister's cunning is a rather dangerous combination,' is what he told me once."
"What did you tell him?"
"I told him 'Ours is the Fury', the words of our house. That has meaning."
"And that is...?"
"It signifies the infamous Baratheon rage, making us unpredictable and dangerous but is the source of our superhuman strength and power. On the downside, it's what makes us hot-headed and quick-tempered," Daveth sat down, motioning Olyvar to take a seat as well. "That's right. You've never been outside the Riverlands before, haven't you?"
"Not really, Your Grace. Didn't expect that I'd see an actually war up close."
"Well, at least you didn't break the one rule."
"Rule? What rule?"
"Don't get killed on the first day."
Olyvar chuckled as Daveth poured them both a glass of wine, each sharing a cup whilst the royal forces stood by readying themselves for tomorrow's march south to Seagard.
"Regardless," he continued, "you did well for a squire. Didn't necessarily have any time to begin your training, but still you did well. Once we return to King's Landing, I will teach you how to fight properly."
Olyvar swore he shuddered and scrunched his face so slightly. "To be honest, I never thought it'd smell like that."
"Ehh, that's why the minstrels leave that part out of the songs. Men always shit themselves before they die. You'll learn to get used to it. Go get some rest, Olyvar. We leave for Seagard first thing in the morning."
Olyvar nodded and put his cup down and left the tent, leaving Daveth alone. Once he lay back on his bed, watching the sun set in the distance, glistening the distant waters, Daveth stared blankly up at the guy line fabric. If the battle to retake Moat Cailin was tough, then expect tomorrow to be an even tougher one. Because he knew the ironborn would be in their strongest element: the open waters. The ironborn were fierce warriors, so long as they were at sea. But on water, that's another story. Daveth only needed to wait one more day to get his strength back.
He will need every ounce of it, though hopefully there wouldn't be any division in his ranks during his absence.