(Sunspear)
The atmosphere between Ned, Oberyn, and Aegon had been tense ever since their fight. Oberyn and Aegon watched Ned with suspicion, and Ned did the same. They had spent the night barricaded in one of the buildings, listening to the eerie silence as the dark priests walked through the streets, searching for them. The sound of their footsteps echoed through the night, keeping them all on edge.
When morning arrived, Oberyn took the lead, guiding them to the entrance of the sewers by the harbour. The morning sun cast long shadows, adding to the sense of foreboding. "The waste from the city is funnelled out to the sea through these tunnels," Oberyn explained. "They'll lead us right behind the walls." Aegon stared into the pitch-black tunnel, a knot of fear tightening in his stomach. "Is this a good idea?" he asked, his voice trembling slightly.
Oberyn's resolve was unwavering. "We need to get my family out and safe. We might also find out where all the people have disappeared to."
Ned nodded reluctantly. "I don't think this is a good idea either, but if it's our best option..." The tunnel was cold and damp, the walls slick with moisture. The flickering torchlight cast eerie shadows that danced on the rough stone walls. Every step they took echoed unnervingly, amplifying their sense of isolation and vulnerability. Aegon's heart raced, his imagination running wild with visions of unseen horrors lurking just beyond the reach of the light. "Stay close," Oberyn instructed, his voice low and steady. "And keep your eyes open."
The air grew colder as they descended further into the tunnel, an unusual chill for Dorne. Aegon shivered, both from the cold and the creeping fear that gnawed at him. He kept glancing over his shoulder, convinced he saw shadows moving in the darkness. "Calm down," Oberyn said sharply. "There's nothing there."
But Aegon couldn't shake the feeling of being watched. His eyes darted nervously, and his grip tightened on his sword. Ned, ever vigilant, scanned their surroundings, his face set in a grim mask. They continued in silence, the only sound of their footsteps echoing off the stone walls. Suddenly, Ned raised a hand, signalling for them to stop. They halted, their breaths held in anxious anticipation. For a moment, the only sound was the distant drip of water. Then, unmistakably, they heard it —another set of footsteps, echoing faintly behind them it was only for a second, maybe even less than that, but it was enough to recognise that the footsteps were not their own. All three of them turned, eyes wide with alarm. They drew their weapons, the steel gleaming in the dim torchlight. "Who's there?" Aegon called out, his voice trembling.
The darkness gave no answer. The tunnel stretched out before and behind them, a void of blackness. The flickering torchlight barely penetrated the oppressive gloom. Oberyn and Ned stood ready, their stances defensive. Aegon, less experienced, held his sword outstretched, his eyes darting wildly. The sense of being watched was almost palpable, pressing down on them from all sides. A cold wind blew through the tunnel, that sent shivers down their spines. The torch flickered, the light growing dim and casting long, eerie shadows that seemed to move and twist on their own.
"What is that?" Aegon whispered, his voice barely audible.
"Stay calm," Oberyn ordered, though his own voice was tight with tension. "It's just the wind." But even he did not believe his own words. The cold was unnatural, the kind that seeped into the bones and chilled the soul. The flickering light seemed to be losing its battle against the darkness, the shadows creeping closer with every passing moment.
Ned took a step forward, his sword at the ready. "We need to keep moving. Standing here won't help us."
Oberyn nodded. "He's right. Let's go."
They continued down the tunnel, their senses on high alert. Every creak and whisper of the dark seemed amplified, each sound sending a jolt of fear through them. Aegon's paranoia grew with each step, his eyes constantly scanning for unseen threats.
The tunnel seemed to stretch on forever, a never-ending labyrinth of stone and shadow. The oppressive darkness and the chilling cold gnawed at their nerves, heightening their sense of vulnerability. Aegon's breathing grew more rapid, his eyes wide with fear.
"Did you hear that?" Aegon whispered, his voice barely audible over the echoing sound of their footsteps.
"Hear what?" Oberyn asked, trying to maintain his composure.
"A whisper... or a moan," Aegon replied, his grip tightening on his sword.
Ned paused, straining his ears. The silence was almost deafening, the kind that presses against your eardrums and makes your heartbeat seem thunderous. Then, faintly, he heard it too—a soft, almost inaudible whisper that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere.
"Keep moving," Ned urged, though his voice betrayed his unease.
The whisper grew louder, more insistent as if the very walls of the tunnel were alive and mocking them. Aegon's eyes darted nervously, convinced that shadows were moving just beyond the torchlight. His imagination conjured shapes and figures in the dark, feeding his growing paranoia. The air grew colder still, the torchlight flickering as if it was barely able to stay alight. The shadows danced on the walls, twisting into grotesque shapes that seemed to reach out towards them. Aegon's breathing grew more ragged, his fear threatening to overwhelm him.
"We need to stay calm," Oberyn said, though his own voice wavered slightly. "It's just our minds playing tricks on us."
But the reassurance felt hollow. The oppressive atmosphere, the cold, and the eerie whispers gnawed at their sanity, making every sound and shadow seem like a threat. Aegon's eyes darted back and forth, his paranoia feeding on the darkness."We should head back, find another way... this has to be a trap, can't you hear them!" Aegon said in a panic.
Oberyn whipped his head around, a slight sweat pouring down his forehead. "There is nothing here! Only the Martells know of this place, no one else is down here!" He nearly shouted, his voice echoing down the tunnel.
Ned put his finger to his lips. "Listen."
They stood in silence, their breaths held. The whispering had ceased, replaced by a low, almost imperceptible hum that seemed to vibrate through the stone walls. The sound was unnerving, as if it resonated in their skulls. It was driving Aegon mad.
"What is that?" Aegon asked, his voice trembling.
"I don't know," Ned replied, his grip on his sword tightening. "But mayhaps it's best we don't find out." The hum grew louder, a pulsating rhythm that seemed to sync with their heartbeats. The torchlight flickered violently, casting their faces in a ghostly glow. The shadows on the walls twisted and writhed, creating the illusion of movement all around them.
"We aren't far now," Oberyn stated, his voice firm despite the fear gnawing at him. They pressed on, their nerves stretched to the breaking point. Every sound, every flicker of movement in the dark set their hearts racing. The tunnel seemed endless, each step taking them deeper into darkness. Suddenly, Aegon stumbled, his foot catching on something in the darkness. He fell to the ground, his sword clattering against the stone. Oberyn and Ned rushed to his side, the torchlight revealing the source of his fall—a skeletal hand protruding from the ground, its fingers curled in a macabre gesture.
Aegon scrambled back, his eyes wide with terror. "What is that?"
Oberyn inspected the hand, his expression grim. "It's just a dead body, nothing to fear."
Ned's face was pale as he looked around. "Something is wrong here... none of this feels right."
Suddenly, they heard footsteps —a lot louder and closer than before—coming from behind them. The sound was unmistakable. They all turned, weapons drawn, "It was a mistake coming down here!" Ned said as his grip tightened on his sword.
The footsteps started off slow, a measured pace that made their nerves spike. Each step echoed ominously, heightening the tension. Aegon's breath quickened, and his grip on his sword tightened to the point where his knuckles turned white.
"GO AWAY!" Aegon shouted as he reached his breaking point, he swung his sword futility at the darkness unable to handle the pressure anymore.
However, the only answer he received was a cold breeze blowing through the tunnel again, and the torchlight flickered violently before being snuffed out, plunging them into complete darkness. The footsteps changed, turning into the unmistakable sound of running, growing louder and closer with each passing second.
"Run!" Oberyn shouted, his voice cutting through the panic.
In pitch-black darkness, they had no choice but to turn and flee in the opposite direction. Their footsteps echoed wildly, the sound of their own running blending with the terrifying footsteps behind them. The darkness was disorienting, their only guide the feel of the damp tunnel walls under their fingers. Ned, realizing the futility of running blindly, tried to grab Oberyn. He reached out and felt his hand grab something solid. "Stop!" he shouted. "We need to relight the torch!"
They came to an abrupt halt, breaths coming in ragged gasps. Ned fumbled for the flint, the sound of clanking metal echoing in the oppressive silence. Sparks flew, and after a tense moment, the torch flared back to life. The sudden light was almost blinding, but the three of them were instantly relieved to have it back.
Their relief was short-lived. As their eyes adjusted to the torchlight, they saw the hooded figures of dark priests on either side of them. For a moment, the three of them just stood there, frozen in horror. The dark priests made no move, simply watching them with unseen eyes. The atmosphere was thick with tension, the torchlight casting eerie shadows that danced on the walls. Then, another cold breeze rolled through the tunnel, stronger than before. The torch flickered and, despite Ned's attempt to shield it, went out again, plunging them back into darkness. They were left standing in the pitch black, surrounded by the oppressive silence and the knowledge that the dark priests were mere steps away.
———————————————————-
Lady Olenna Tyrell stood in her chambers at Highgarden, lost in the labyrinth of her thoughts. The sunlight streamed through the large windows, casting a warm glow on the finely embroidered tapestries and the lush, verdant plants that decorated her room. Yet, despite the beauty surrounding her, Olenna's mind was preoccupied with the mistakes of the past.
She often pondered over her granddaughter's rebellious nature. Why had Margaery chosen to abandon the promise of becoming a queen for the sake of a boy she hardly knew? Olenna had meticulously planned for Margaery to ascend to the throne, weaving intricate political webs and nurturing alliances. Yet, Margaery had cast all that aside for a life of uncertainty with a Targaryen. The thought gnawed at Olenna, leaving her questioning her decisions. Was it her fault? Had she pushed Margaery too hard? Logically, Olenna knew she had made the wrong choice. The boy—Daeron Targaryen—had a dragon at his command and was reputed to be a formidable fighter. Rumours swirled that he had mutilated the king in battle, the same king who had killed his father many years ago during Robert's Rebellion. His claim was strong, he was one of the only surviving sons of the Crown Prince.
If only she had found a way to bring Daeron into the fold rather than alienate him. Perhaps an alliance could have been forged. But Daeron had disappeared from Westeros, last seen in Pentos, and his whereabouts were now unknown. Highgarden's isolation seemed complete, surrounded by enemies and uncertain of its future.
Her brooding was interrupted by the sudden entrance of Maester Gorman. Irritated, Olenna turned to face him. "What is it, Maester?" she demanded, her tone sharp.
"Apologies for the interruption, my lady," the Maester said with a bow. "Ravens have returned. Lord Mace Tyrell's army is marching and should be here within the fortnight."
Olenna hummed thoughtfully and dismissed the Maester with a curt nod. Once alone, she moved to the balcony, her gaze sweeping over the grounds of Highgarden. The castle was not the most historic or the most defensible, but it was undeniably the most beautiful. The maze of flowers and hedges stretching out beyond the three inner walls was unmatched in the Seven Kingdoms, a testament to the splendour of House Tyrell. However, beyond the castle's immediate beauty lay an ugly sight. Thousands of Northmen were camped out, preparing for a siege. Catapults and battering rams were being constructed, their intent clear: to turn Highgarden into a ruin. Olenna's mind raced with thoughts on how to stall the Northerners. The Reach's army was with the King in the Stormlands, and if they marched swiftly, they might reach Highgarden through Summerhall in three weeks.
Her musings were interrupted again, this time by her grandson, Willas Tyrell, who entered the room with a slight limp. Olenna turned to face him, her expression a mix of annoyance and concern.
"What an awful situation we find ourselves in," she said grumpily, leaning on her cane.
Willas nodded, taking a seat opposite her and rubbing his throbbing leg. "Indeed, Grandmother. We're in quite the predicament."
Olenna sighed, her eyes narrowing as she looked out over the besieging forces. "The walls and garrison will hold for now."
Willas chuckled softly, a hint of amusement in his eyes. "You sound like Father," he said, knowing full well the jab he was making. His father was an idiot, and would no doubt welcome an army attacking them even at such a disadvantage. Olenna gave him a sharp. "The Northerners are here for a reason, mayhaps we find out what it is."
Willas nodded thoughtfully. "Perhaps we should treat with them. It's better than the alternative, and with no army to protect us, we have little choice."
Olenna was reluctant, but she knew Willas was right. "Send a messenger to the head of their army. Robb Stark is dead, so either the Karstarks or the Boltons have taken command. Let us hope it is the Boltons; they will be easier to treat with than the Karstarks."
Willas nodded, rising from his seat. "I will see to it immediately."
...
Robb Stark sat in his war tent, listening to the childish shouting of his lords. His bannermen argued vehemently over their next course of action now that they were besieging Highgarden. The arguments ranged from direct assaults to more subtle tactics, the use of catapults, raiding the countryside for food, and even razing the land. Each suggestion was met with derision and counterarguments, the voices growing louder and more insistent. Robb sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, refraining from interrupting the heated debate. He had long since learned that sometimes it was best to let his bannermen vent their frustrations before he intervened.
"I say we launch a direct attack!" roared Lord Glover, slamming his fist on the table. "We have the numbers and the strength to take Highgarden by force."
"Foolishness!" retorted Lord Karstark. "A direct attack would only waste lives. We should continue constructing the catapults and use them to breach the walls."
"And starve ourselves in the meantime?" barked Lord Umber. "We need food, and Highgarden's countryside is ripe for the taking. We should raid the villages and farms, take what we need, and burn the rest."
"Nonsense!" shouted another lord. "Burning the countryside will only harden their resolve and leave us with nothing!"
The arguments continued unabated, each lord convinced of the superiority of his own plan. Robb couldn't help but wonder how his father had managed to deal with his bannermen during times of war. The Northmen were fierce and proud, but their loyalty was matched only by their stubbornness. Robb's mind drifted to their true purpose here. They were laying a trap, awaiting the return of the Reach army. Scouts had been dispatched to keep an eye out for any signs of movement. In the meantime, they needed to devise a plan that would give them the upper hand despite being outnumbered. The catapults were a crucial part of that strategy; they could be used not only against Highgarden's walls but also against the approaching army.
As the shouting continued, a guard entered the tent, escorting a messenger from Highgarden. The room fell silent, all eyes turning to the newcomer. The messenger looked nervous, his eyes darting around the room before settling on Robb.
"Speak," Robb commanded.
The messenger cleared his throat. "Lady Olenna Tyrell offers to treat with the leader of this army. She invites you to Highgarden on the morrow."
He held up a scroll, which was promptly taken by Big Jon Umber. The massive lord growled at the messenger, causing the man to quake in his boots before handing the scroll to Robb. Robb opened it and quickly scanned the contents. The message was curt and to the point, implying that they could discuss terms for the Northern forces to leave, with gold and other precious commodities as potential incentives.
Robb chuckled, the sound surprising the lords around him. "Tell your lady that I will come," he said, handing the scroll back to the messenger.
The messenger hesitated. "Who should I say is coming?"
Robb waved him off. "You need not concern yourself with that. Go."
The guards dragged the messenger out of the tent, tossing him back into the night. The lords turned their attention back to Robb, some of them concerned.
"This could be a trap," Lord Karstark said, voicing the unease that many felt. "You should not go, or at least send someone in your stead. Let one of us negotiate." Robb had only just come back to them, to lose him again so soon would dishearten many of the lords in this room.
Big Jon Umber nodded in agreement. "Aye, send me. I'll see what the old crone wants."
Robb shook his head, his resolve evident. "I will go. I want to hear what Olenna Tyrell has to say myself." The lords exchanged uneasy glances. For a moment, Robb's shadow seemed to loom larger. The moment passed, and Robb's shadow returned to normal, but the impression it left lingered.
"I will go alone," Robb reiterated. "I need to see the state of Highgarden myself, we will be at a greater advantage if we know how many supplies the have and their defences."
Robb turned to leave, his decision is final. "I am going to retire for the night. We will discuss our next steps in the morning."
(AN: I'm back with thisssssss anyway this is mostly setup for later chapters. Apart from Sunspear we are getting close to finding out what's wrong over there. Robb's plan to split the kings army in half has worked, Mace is an idiot, arrogant and childish, he would abandon the king if someone threatened his home. This means the King will enter Dorne with only a few thousand more men than the Dornish as they are reinforced by the Golden Company. Anyway next Chapter we are gonna be going back to Daeron who is gonna start making his way back to his loved ones. I hope you enjoyed the chapter.)
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