The Riverlands. Darry.
Axel Arryn.
Feasts are sacred to the nobility of Westeros. Before every battle, before every war, a grand banquet takes place where the young surrender themselves to dreams of imminent glory while the old exchange experience in the form of stories. I could not condemn such extravagance, since I enjoyed these feasts myself, and not only for the abundance of food, drink, women, and merriment, but for the practical dimension as well: there is no easier way to raise the spirits of soldiers, learn what your neighbor is thinking, and take the measure of his reliability.
"My lord, allow me to lead the attack and Harrenhal will be yours by evening!" This was Ser Laymon Belmore, the red-haired heir to Benedar Belmore, shouting across the table.
"You are a slow, rusted little bell! I will take that ruin before midday!" Eustace Hunter was trying to outshine him.
"Why are we listening to these windbags at all!?" Luceon Templeton bellowed. "My lord, let me show these river whores how real men wage war!"
"What can a boy know of war!" Marcus Melcolm was the oldest man present. "Do not listen to him, my Lord Arryn. I am ready to show the world that the fire of youth has not entirely left me!"
Those days when vassals tested the limits of what they could get away with were long gone. Now they competed only to please me and to undercut one another. It is entertaining at first. After a while the sycophancy begins to wear.
The local gold rush had begun very well for the Vale. An army assembled with impressive speed had marched the inner stretch of the High Road in record time and moved out onto the fields of the Riverlands. The route from there had been predictable: the Trident divides into three great branches known as the Red, Blue, and Green Forks, which together form a natural barrier across the Riverlands. Crossing to the far bank could only be done at the Twins, the Ruby Ford, or by going the long way around. No real choice at all. The army therefore moved swiftly through the ground where the decisive engagement of Robert's Rebellion had been fought and came up against the small castle of Darry, ruled by its lord of the same name.
The army was in fighting spirits and wanted to begin the assault immediately, but Lord Darry deflated the ambitions of the bloodthirsty crowd. He did not attempt to play the hero and chose an honorable surrender over a shameful sacking. It was amusing to watch the faces of lords betrayed in their finest expectations. They had prepared for a storm and were met with open gates.
All the manufactured grievance evaporated the moment Lord Raymun Darry threw open his treasury. The sheer quantity of gold in such a small castle sent the assembled lords into raptures, which shaded into outright euphoria at the realization that this was only a fraction of the possible haul. A convoy was organized without delay to transfer the gold and valuables safely back to the Vale, while the lords themselves were itching to press forward and plunder without waiting for reinforcements. I had to restrain them.
Two weeks later the reinforcements arrived and the army grew to twenty-four thousand. The next target selected was the castle at the heart of the Riverlands: Harrenhal. It met a number of criteria and was to be converted into a base from which the systematic ravaging of the Riverlands would proceed. The arithmetic was straightforward: twenty-four thousand swords against four thousand was a guaranteed victory for the attackers, which meant every man present wanted the laurels of Harrenhal's conqueror.
"I have made my decision." The room fell silent the moment I spoke: reputation and respect. "As my second-in-command, Ser Jasper Redfort will lead the assault on Harrenhal."
"Harrenhal will fall, you may be certain of it!" If Jasper was surprised, he oriented himself quickly. "To the coming victory!"
"YES!!!" If there were any who were displeased, they buried the sentiment deep, for my word was final.
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