The Reach in early autumn was intoxicatingly beautiful. Arthur reined in his warhorse, halting halfway up a hill on the Pebble Way.
Morning mist draped the valley like a veil of gossamer. Sunlight pierced through the haze, scattering dappled gold among the lush oaks and elms.
In the distance, a winding stream shimmered like a silver chain inlaid on emerald velvet as it cut through the green fields.
"The cold of the North can freeze a man's nose off, and the sun of Dorne can cook an egg on a stone." Arthur removed his gauntlet and caught a falling maple leaf.
"But here... the Gods truly favor the Reach."
Gerold Dayne rode up beside him, a smile of agreement on his handsome face. "That is why these Reach lords are all plump and soft, gilding even their armor."
Arthur chuckled lightly and turned to look at the prisoner escorted by two soldiers.
Earl Quentyn Roxton looked entirely out of place in this beautiful scene. His clothes were caked in mud, and his once meticulously groomed brown beard was now a tangled mess of weeds.
"Earl Quentyn, have you considered my offer?" Arthur tossed the maple leaf toward the stream, watching it spiral down to be carried away by the current.
"If you are willing to persuade Ring to surrender, swear an oath not to oppose me—as the garrison at Derring Keep did—and provide a levy of grain..."
He paused, nudging his horse lightly to face the prisoner. "I will restrain my men from pillaging your villages or burning your fields and homes."
Quentyn raised his head. A ray of sunlight fell across his gaunt face.
He did not answer immediately. Instead, he gazed at the distant towers of Ring, barely visible on the horizon, his Adam's apple bobbing.
When he finally spoke, his voice was hoarse but calm. "I am your prisoner, but I am not your vassal, Ser Arthur. I will not obey any of your commands or demands."
Gerold's hand moved to his sword hilt, but Arthur merely shrugged indifferently.
Since capturing the Earl two weeks ago in the ambush at Gambler's Wood—and killing his son and heir—Quentyn had maintained this attitude of non-cooperation and non-resistance.
He wore an expression of utter hopelessness, like a walking corpse.
"As you wish." Arthur pulled his gauntlet back on, the leather creaking as he tightened his fist. "But when your people wail in the flames, remember that this is the result of your choice."
He yanked the reins, causing his horse to rear slightly and splatter mud onto Quentyn's boots. "Forward! We reach Ring before sunset!"
The army marched on, the thunder of hooves and boots startling a flock of birds from the forest.
Arthur's gaze followed them into the sky until he saw a familiar, massive shadow diving down—his vulture, Sharpwing.
The majestic raptor landed on his raised arm, sharp talons gripping the leather bracer.
"Let's see what kind of welcome our enemies have prepared." Arthur stroked the bird's feathers, then launched it back into the air.
Sharpwing let out a piercing cry, soaring high into the blue until he became a speck against the sky.
By the time the sunset painted the western clouds in blood-red hues, Arthur's army had a clear view of Ring.
Torches lit up one by one along the castle walls, coiling around the hill in the twilight like a serpent of fire.
Arthur ordered the army to make camp, then closed his eyes to focus, sharing vision with Sharpwing circling high above.
Through the eagle's sharp eyes, the defenses of Ring were laid bare. Patrols on the walls were sparse. In the courtyard, fewer than two hundred poorly equipped levies were drilling, while craftsmen rushed to repair the main gate.
More telling was the absence of banners from other noble houses. Only the golden rings on a sky-blue field of House Roxton hung lonely above the main keep.
Arthur realized immediately that the muster of levies and vassals within Ring was incomplete. The garrison appeared even smaller than that of Derring Keep.
Seeing this, Arthur was in no hurry to storm the walls. He ordered Gerold to build camps to the east and west of the castle, encircling Ring while constructing siege engines.
He handed the captured horses over to the wildling troops, ordering them to raid the surrounding villages and manors, continuously proclaiming that this was retaliation for the atrocities of House Redwyne.
For the next seven days, the villages around Ring learned the meaning of war.
The wildling cavalry Arthur dispatched swept through farms and hamlets like a plague. They emptied granaries and hung uncooperative farmers from roadside oaks.
Every night, orange glows lit up the horizon, and thick smoke lingered into the next morning.
Meanwhile, Arthur personally led the elite Mountain Corps to intercept various reinforcement columns, aided by Sharpwing's aerial reconnaissance.
These hastily assembled vassal forces often lacked competent commanders. Peasants armed with pitchforks and scythes looked on in terror as fully armored Mountain Corps soldiers charged from the woods.
Arthur barely bothered with ambushes. Usually, a single volley of throwing spears brought them to the brink of collapse. A follow-up charge sent the rabble to their knees begging for mercy or scattering in panic.
Arthur continued this strategy of "besieging the point to strike the reinforcements" for a week. Finally, a relief force successfully reached the vicinity of Ring.
Well... it was reinforcements from Starfall and the wildlings, coming from the Red Mountains.
Sixteen hundred strong, led by Ser Bard and two other tribal chieftains.
Inside the command tent, Arthur and his commanders gathered around a rough wooden table spread with a map of the Reach.
Ser Bard stabbed a piece of cheese with his dagger and stuffed it into his mouth, chewing as he spoke.
"When I left, Kallen said the grain harvest in Starfall's territory was basically complete.
"The Redwyne Fleet is merely patrolling the Summer Sea outside Starfall, blockading merchant ships. They haven't made any other moves."
"It seems Ser Norbert completed his mission excellently." Arthur poured himself a cup of ale, foam spilling over the rim.
"We've besieged Ring for a week, and Paxter Redwyne has done nothing."
"Not true," Gerold interjected suddenly. He paused in sharpening his longsword, the rasp of whetstone on steel silencing.
"Arthur, you forget. Paxter sent over twenty barrels of wine. Several soldiers stole some, got drunk, and you had them flogged."
The tent fell silent for a second, then erupted in laughter.
A wildling chieftain laughed so hard he leaned back and nearly knocked over an oil lamp.
"Trading twenty barrels of wine for a few of our soldiers unable to fight? Paxter has good tricks!" Ser Bard slapped his armored thigh, clanking loudly.
"Now that you mention it, that actually happened." Arthur was amused too, wiping ale froth from his lip.
"The merchant who delivered the wine said it was compensation from the Arbor for House Roxton's losses.
"A gentleman does not take what belongs to others, so I gave the remaining wine to Earl Quentyn."
As the laughter subsided, Bard's expression turned serious again.
"The vassals in Starfall's territory have begun mustering levies. They are heading to Starpost Keep to be trained under Ser Williams, preparing against any invasion by the Redwyne Fleet."
Arthur nodded. "Laugh when we can, but guard when we must. Do not let your guard down."
"There is more important news," Ser Bard continued. "Ser Carlo at Blackmont reports that Horn Hill is mustering levies. He says he will create friction to pin down Randyll Tarly and the Horn Hill forces."
Arthur's face grew serious. He stood up. "If Horn Hill is mustering, it proves Highgarden has issued orders for action. We must take Ring as soon as possible."
"Levies usually train for about a week." Gerold put away his whetstone, his sword sliding into its sheath with a crisp sound.
"Our siege engines are nearly ready. We can begin the assault tomorrow if needed."
"Then..."
Arthur's words were cut off by a guard outside the tent. "My Lord, Earl Quentyn says he wishes to speak with you."