Vows are often treated as iron chains, yet they are more like silk threads, easily snapped when the weight of reality becomes too great.
Unlike the Night's Watch, whose desertion is a capital crime followed by the sharp edge of an axe, the scholars of the Citadel are bound by a more flexible tether. While they forge their metal links and swear to serve the realm, many find that the life of a "grey rat" is not for them. Prince Oberyn Martell was a living testament to this; he had forged six links before deciding the bedchambers of Lys were more interesting than the libraries of Oldtown. Lyonel Strong, a former Lord of Harrenhal, had done much the same.
Then there was Qyburn. Eddard had suggested the man be hanged at the Crossing, not because he broke his vows, but because his obsession with necromancy made him a liability. The Citadel had merely expelled him for his unethical experiments; it was Karstark justice that finished the job.
The Conclave in Oldtown currently seeks a world of cold logic, a world without magic, without dragons, and without the "strange" things that haunt the night. Eddard scoffed at the idea. Burying one's head in the sand does not stop the tide from coming in. When the Others breach the Wall and march south with an army of the dead, or when Daenerys Targaryen's dragons scream over the Blackwater, no amount of academic denial will save the Citadel.
Since Oldtown was now effectively hostile territory, aligned with the Lannister-Tyrell block, Eddard felt no guilt about poaching from the Hightowers. With enough scholars, he could do more than just cast spells; he could educate his populace and his army. Literacy was a weapon in administration and a multiplier in campaigning.
He intended to select the most talented individuals from his own people to form a "Mage Corps." He wouldn't reveal everything, of course.
Magic Arrow would be their offensive baseline, a projectile that could punch through plate armor.
Magic Armor would ensure his officers survived stray arrows.
Enchanted Blade would turn ordinary steel into something that could shear through a Lannister shield.
The most valuable, however, were the advanced tactical spells: Slow and Haste. In a large-scale engagement, the ability to warp the tempo of a thousand men was the difference between a victory and a massacre.
Eddard parted ways with Scholar Bennett near the King's Tower. The portly man had sworn his soul to House Karstark, though he requested time to reach out to his "heretical" associates in Oldtown. Eddard wasn't in a hurry. He knew that in this world, fear and self-interest were the only true anchors for a man's word.
As he strolled toward the solar, he heard voices through the heavy oak door.
"Brienne, I know you loathe the idea of allying with Stannis," Sansa's voice was soft, persuasive.
"He is a kinslayer who uses shadows and treachery," Brienne responded, her voice thick with a simple, pure-hearted anger. "He murdered Renly, whom I swore to protect. I do not understand why Lord Eddard, who is so righteous and kind, would share a table with such a man."
Eddard, eavesdropping in the corridor, nearly burst out laughing.
Righteous? Kind? He wondered if Brienne had missed the heads lining the walls of the Twins or the way he had dismantled the Freys. It was a wonderful misunderstanding, one he intended to maintain as long as it served his purposes.
"Because it is the best of poor options, Brienne," Sansa explained with a sigh. "Winter is here. Tywin Lannister is a cold monster who cares nothing for the North's grief. By allying with Stannis, Eddard prevents the Stormlands from burning the Trident. It saves thousands of lives. Stannis is a hard man, but he is a man of law. Tywin is a man of the ego."
"I understand, My Lady," Brienne muttered sullenly. "I just hate that bad men ascend to thrones while good men die in the mud."
"Time will settle all scores," Sansa comforted. "Eddard says that once Stannis deals with Joffrey's brother, he will inevitably turn on us. We will have our chance for justice then. But first, we must survive the frost."
Eddard moved away from the door, heading toward the kitchens. Listening to Sansa act as his political advocate was heartening. She was growing into the role of a Queen, managing the "moral" PR of his more ruthless decisions.
"CHARGE!" "FOR THE SUNBURST!" "KILL THE LIONS!"
The Westerlands. Feastfires.
The air was a chaotic swirl of snow and soot. Two massive siege towers, ten meters high and draped in wet beast-hides, were being winched forward toward the walls of Feastfires, the ancestral seat of House Prester.
A hail of flaming arrows erupted from the battlements, tracing glowing arcs across the bruised sky. They struck the hides with wet thuds, hissing and dying in the damp cold. Below the towers, Riverland archers in blue-and-red striped cloaks pushed wheeled mantlets, firing bodkin points through narrow slits to suppress the Lannister defenders.
THUD.
A head-sized stone from a wall-mounted catapult whizzed past a tower, punching through the wooden siding. The structure groaned under the impact. Another stone followed, tumbling through a gap and striking a knight in enameled plate.
A short, sharp scream. Ronald Vance, the heir to Atranta, collapsed as his chest was crushed like a dry gourd. He was dead before his blood hit the floorboards.
"Keep moving!" Ser Hugo Vance roared, stepping over his brother's corpse. His eyes were wide with a mix of grief and adrenaline. "Follow the tower! Shields up!"
The elite infantry of House Vance surged forward, their shields forming a roof of steel. Behind them, the Riverrun trebuchets began to sing. Barrels of burning pitch were launched over the walls, exploding like dark fireworks. Screams—the high, thin wails of men being burned alive—filled the night, more chilling than the wind.
"Put them out of their misery! Now!" Lord Garrison Prester commanded from the gatehouse. He was an old man, his face a map of ruthless creases. He watched as his men used spears to push the burning corpses off the battlements. "Where are the rocks? Smash those towers!"
A soldier pointed into the darkness. A battering ram, its roof covered in white snow for camouflage, was silently gliding toward the main gate.
"Open the murder holes!" Prester shrieked. "Get the boulders ready!"
Ser Brynden Tully, the Blackfish, sat his horse on a nearby ridge. Beside him was Edmure, who looked significantly more weathered than he had a year ago.
"I've taken Deep Den, Uncle," Edmure reported, his voice full of a quiet, hard-earned pride. "Jason Mallister holds the Golden Road now. The West is open."
"You did well, Edmure," Brynden said, patting his nephew's shoulder. He was genuinely impressed. Edmure had learned that a Lord's duty was to put the right men in the right places, not just to be liked.
Below them, the battering ram reached the gatehouse.
CRACK-BANG!
Massive stones rained down from the murder holes. The weight of the rocks, falling from ten meters, was absolute. The beast-hide roof of the ram shattered. A dozen men were crushed instantly, their blood seeping into the slush.
"SUCCESS!" the Lannister guards cheered.
But the cheer was cut short. Ser Hugo Vance had reached the battlements. He leaped from the siege tower, his battle-axe clearing a circle of space. Crossbowmen followed, unleashing a point-blank barrage that felled the Prester spearmen in rows.
"KILL THEM!" Lord Garrison Prester drew his longsword, his red bull banner snapping in the wind. "To the walls! Drive the River-scum back into the mud!"
The horns of the Trident sounded a long, low blast. The breach was made. The invasion of the Westerlands had officially reached its bloody crescendo.
[System Notification: Battle of Feastfires in Progress.]
[Unit Deceased: Ronald Vance (High-Value Vassal).]
Plz Drop Some Power Stones.
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