The king's procession rolled along the road like a river of gold, silver, and steel. More than a dozen standard-bearers held aloft golden banners embroidered with the crowned stag of House Baratheon.
The party numbered close to three hundred, proud bannermen, knights, sworn swords, and free riders among them. The queen's lavish wheelhouse slowed the column even further.
When King Robert's retinue reached the treacherous stretch known as the Neck, their pace slowed to a crawl. The knights had no choice but to follow the winding causeway, inching across endless black bog. It would take more than ten days to pass through.
"A miserable journey," Joffrey said, staring out at the unbroken sprawl of dark marsh.
Tall and fair, golden-haired and handsome, with green eyes and a slight curl to his lips, he cut a princely figure even in complaint.
The Neck was as wretched as the tales claimed. Dense thickets stood half-rotted in stagnant water, branches draped with curtain-like fungi. Huge blossoms floated in foul pools. Quicksand waited beyond the causeway, venomous snakes hid in the undergrowth, and half-submerged lizard-lions drifted through the murk.
"The land is foul, but this is the only road to Winterfell," Tyrion said from behind him. "The causeway is the safest path. Stray from it and you will not come back. I have only read of this place in books. To see it with my own eyes is a rare treat."
"Why must we ride a thousand miles to this forsaken swamp? Cold, bleak, and stinking," Joffrey grumbled.
At his side rode a knight with a burned face, his "Hound," Sandor.
"My dear nephew, the king's realm knows neither north nor south. All lands beneath the sun are his," Tyrion said lightly.
"It is about that bastard, is it not?" Joffrey muttered.
"A bastard with power is no ordinary bastard. Across the Narrow Sea, you would call him king," Tyrion replied bluntly.
He looked every bit the Imp of rumor. His head was too large for his body, his brow prominent, his features misshapen. One eye was black, the other green. His pale blond hair shone almost white, and his beard was a mix of brown and gold.
"A true king needs no chatter," Joffrey said with a sneer. "I will put him down with my sword and my longspear. What is a bastard worth? I have no interest in hearing him whine."
"The battlefield does not care for titles," Tyrion answered. "If you lose, there will be no chance to run to your mother. From what I have seen, your sword is not half so sharp as your tongue."
"Hmph."
Joffrey shot him a cold look and spurred his horse ahead.
"One day, I will show you what it means to bear a king's spirit."
"My lord, the Prince will not forget such mockery," Sandor said, looking down at Tyrion from his height. His black armor cast a shadow like smoke. He lowered the visor of his helm, shaped as a snarling hound.
"Let him remember," Tyrion said. "Kings are not made by words. You serve him daily. You would do well to remind him."
A rider in white armor drew up beside Tyrion. His elder brother, the Kingsguard Jaime.
"Do you truly think the king Across the Narrow Sea means to make war?" Jaime asked.
Unlike Tywin or Cersei, Jaime's manner toward his brother was almost easy.
"I was baiting Joff," Tyrion said with a crooked smile. "You did not swallow it too, did you, brother? If the sellsword king still has sense, he will watch and gather strength. Do you think those slave traders and mercenaries are eager to die for him?"
"The crowns of Myr and Tyrosh may look sweet, but they are not easily held," he went on. "If a king leaves his own realm and fails in conquest, his kingdom will crumble like sand through his fingers."
"Even so, the armies Across the Narrow Sea are a threat," Jaime said. "One bastard is bad enough. Add the Targaryen brother and sister, and it worsens."
"True enough. The sellsword king is uniting his strength. Once he is ready, the alliance of the two cities will choose its moment to land."
"Then we must be ready," Jaime said. "If an enemy truly lands from Across the Narrow Sea, I will draw my sword as Ser Duncan the Tall once did."
"The foe is still far away," Tyrion replied. "Yet the king insists on riding to Winterfell. He trusts the Starks more. Everyone knows House Lannister and Lord Eddard are not close. I will say no more."
"I do not fear Eddard Stark," Jaime said coldly. "The Mad King was a vile tyrant, yet they hung the name of kingslayer on me as though I were filth."
Years ago, Jaime had slain the Mad King and the pyromancer. He had then seated himself upon the Iron Throne, bloodied sword laid across his knees, waiting in silence. When Eddard Stark rode into the hall with his men, he had declared the throne belonged to Robert Baratheon.
There had been enmity between Jaime and Eddard from that day on.
…
On the Black Wall of Tyrosh, the Archon of Tyrosh and the Magisters looked down over the trenches outside. The inner city had been sealed off, besieged like a sealed iron drum. On the battlements, their green, purple, and red hair and beards gleamed garishly against the stone.
Out in the trenches, the riders had planted spears as markers. Impaled on them were the heads of Khal Zekko and his son, along with the heads of Dothraki screamer warriors and Myr rebels.
And so the Tyroshi waited, day after day, night after night, in fear.
The Tyroshi nobles had high, sharp cheekbones, and hunger and terror hollowed them quickly. They could cling on for a time, waiting for help that might come, but the reinforcements never did.
"In Tyrosh, the ratio of slaves to citizens is roughly three to one," the Archon of Tyrosh said.
"In Volantis it is even higher, perhaps five to one. In such a situation, will the Volantene truly keep waiting?"
"Volantis and Lys are still hesitating," said the Magister beside him, his face drawn with strain.
"If we hold out like this, we will only starve to death."
"Prepare them," the Archon of Tyrosh said with a weary sigh. "Gather what strength we have left. If Tyrosh is fated to fall, then we can only submit to the will of the Three-Headed God."
Tyrosh had never been a city built to endure a long siege. Once, they had bent the knee to Silvertongue. Now they could bend to a stronger warrior still. As the days dragged on, with the Myr rebellion crushed and the Dothraki horselord destroyed, the will to surrender inside the inner city only grew.
It was starvation or storming. An assault would be difficult, yes, but if the enemy ever forced their way in, the vengeance that followed would be worse.
So they had to conserve their strength and play for time, the Archon of Tyrosh told himself. Without aid from Braavos, Lys, Volantis, or even Slaver's Bay, Tyrosh was doomed.
"Archon, the gates! The gates have been opened!"
"What?" The Archon of Tyrosh swayed, dizziness washing over him as the worst fear took shape.
"Some merchants could not endure it any longer! The surrenderers opened one of Tyrosh's gates!"
"Kill them!" Jorah roared.
Over his plate, Ser Jorah wore a green cloak emblazoned with a bear on its hind legs. He raised his sword and surged forward, the old fire rising in him again, the same fierce courage he had shown during the Greyjoy Rebellion, and for that moment, no one could match him.