Niflheim's abode
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KoW - Chapter 13
🕑 Added 2024-10-23 22:36:40 +0000 UTCRobb Stark
“Who are they sending?” He asks his envoy.
He and his 1500 riders encamped in sight of Lannisport, planning to engage in negotiations for food, gold and other benefits as both tribute and in exchange for the many hostages they have brought with them.
“Six men, including Stafford’s son, they shouldn’t be long, my Lord.” The afore-mentioned envoy, one Stevron Frey replied. “Although I have to admit, they are quite audacious, I never expected that they’d accept a parley in the midst of our camp.”
Lord Jason Mallister, a wizened veteran and famous tourney knight, answers. “We have offered them the choice to visit the hostages, and they have demanded precaution to assure their own safety.”
Mainly the one of guest right, a horse is to meet them halfway to the camp and offer them bread and salt. No one is more accursed than the man who breaks the laws of hospitality or kinship.
In the silence of his mind, the weight of the last few months crashed over him like relentless waves, not only did his father die, bringing him abominable sorrow and anger, but he left him to be the Lord of Winterfell in what is to be the precipice of the greatest threat to human life since the Long Night thousands of years ago.
All that, without even speaking of the new memories.
They were strange, two sets of life experience within arm’s reach but just out of grasp. Their abilities and knowledge, thoughts and philosophies, their blessings… and their curses, all brought to him unbidden, all at once.
They were what he considered his past lives, the first, an introverted, awkward man living in a world of wonder, but most importantly, a world where fiction is but a mirror into other worldsh, giving knowledge of the future, his grim, dark, future.
‘Both the happenings of the last few months and my other life prove the authenticity of that otherworldly information.’ He thinks. ‘A grim dark future, where men play games of death and misery, while horrors of the darkest nature aim to swallow us whole.’
While the first set brought information, and as if it was meant to be, the second brought expertise.
A second life as a warrior who harnesses the Force, which for all intents and purposes, seem to be equally present in this very world, in fact, it seems what the people of Planetos thought to be gods, demons, magic, alchemy, or what the Maesters call ‘The Higher Mysteries.’, are simply –to his own opinion- barbaric, rudimentary, and instinctive usages of the Force in its many facets.
And now, much like his past life, Robb is henceforth a master Jedi, specializing in the Living Force’s side of the spectrum, the ability to sense other living beings, to use empathy in order to connect with other people’s emotions, healing, bonding with animals, to affect thousands of soldiers in a battle to fight efficiently and without panic, all abilities that seem very much compatible with the those attributed to sorcerers, kings and children of the forest in the legends and tales of the First Men.
Very convenient, strangely so.
But that was the same for his past life too. As a Jedi Lord, his presence brought the creation of economically powerful territories with great industrial might within the Outer Rim, forcing the Republic to amend their government structure into one resembling more a federation than an unitary state, dispersing political power and hopefully preventing the possibility of a total subversion of its institutions, as Darth Sidious would have done some years later.
And that was fine, as is the law of equivalent exchange; boons must come with responsibilities, and its maledictions.
When the shaggy haired Lannister and his people came marching in through his makeshift gate, Robb tried as hard as he could to give them an affable smile, something to keep them at ease whilst coming in the midst of enemy territory, yet his face never budged.
A lesson and a handover from his previous life’s childhood as a Jedi, when he handled Force Empathy so easily, so naturally that he used it instead of face expressions. It is easier –after all- to make people sense what you feel, more convenient than analyzing the other person’s countenance and it goes perfectly with the Jedi’s tenets of stoicism to boot!
Yet, much like a man who uses Force Sight for everything, he lost his ability to express emotion through bodily means. Makes for a mean poker face, and is equally useful to play the regal ruler, yet not accommodating when it comes to personal relationships.
“Ser Daven.” He nods. “Please relieve yourselves of your weapons.”
The men grumble, but they know how things are.
“I wish to see my father.” Daven speaks, he makes a though voice yet all Robb could feel from him was nervousness and anger.
Robb nods. “I won’t begrudge a family reunion.” He whistle toward one of the Riverlander knights, who quickly approach. “Take them to see the hostages.” The man makes to nod, but Robb quickly grabs him, leaning in to whisper. “And send someone to our sentries; this is the perfect time for an ambush.”
“Yes, my Lord!”
“Good man.” He turns back toward his guests, feeling both a tinge of pride and guilt at his feeling of awe and worship. “This man will show you to your estranged family and friends, when you’re ready, he’ll take you to me.”
After receiving a begrudging nod, the tall Lannister of Lannisport almost pushes his escort to make him go faster.
As he stared back at their backs, Robb couldn’t help but resent Stannis. All the man had to do was accept his invitation, with his own victories, army, and alliances, and with Stannis’ legitimacy, navy, and the Stormlands, it would have been a simple thing to unite the kingdom.
That stubborn fuck had one job, one job only. Get rid of the red witch before she starts a religious war, take my oaths, and sit the fuck back, and when the Ironborn rampage through the Westerlands and the Reach, the Lannister’s ability to call armies and defend the Crownlands becomes crippled.
At that point, Littlefinger would have seen the winds blow, so he’d crawl back to his mistress, use the Vale as a bargaining chip. With the Vale, North, Riverlands, Stormlands, and technically the Iron Islands, Dorne will shortly fold in.
But no, he had to be stubborn at the sole moment he had to bend.
Now it’s my job to clean this mess.
--*
The first thing I notice is the hair, the lack of it, I mean.
“I see you finally look like a human being.” Robb sits on his makeshift throne, on the main tent. Even with great effort, his voice didn’t have any inflection to it. “I haven’t been able to check on the hostages much, but my men tell me your father has healed remarkably, I hope you had a heartfelt reunion.”
“As much as one can have behind enemy lines. The sooner he is home, the more at ease I’ll be.” Daven answers, with determination hidden behind an expression of anger. “Let us discuss serious matters, however.”
Robb inclines his head in assent. “I will be frank, I will need enough grain to feed my army for the year, and I have promised my men gold and silver as reward.” He explains. “I demand 100 000 bushels of grain, 300 000 gold dragons, and 70 cogs and 22 galleys.”
Daven’s face hardens; Force Empathy tells Robb that he felt shock and indignation toward that figure, so he opted to address his concerns.
“I am willing to negotiate, but only so much as to lower each figure marginally.” He says. “But don’t forget, you are not only paying the price for the cessation of hostilities, but the release of all hostages except Martyn Lannister in my possession, that includes not only lords and their sons, but knights and squires and their horses too. In fact, let me ask you a question, your ships have seen a worrying lack of Ironborn ships, didn’t they?”
The Lannister’s face morphs in confusion. “How did you know?”
Robb makes to shrug, but sadly, it only comes off awkward, robotic. “Simple logic.” He answers. “The same thing happened before the Ironborn rebellion, a sharp increase in raids and smugglers taking timber, food, and gold from green lands, only for it to stop abruptly for a while as the Ironborn gather in those rocks they call islands to move collectively, I have no doubt in my mind that Balon Greyjoy is amassing his reavers and sailors, readying for another wave of attacks to all cities, towns, villages, and hovels with sight to the shore.”
“I know you have more than enough stored in your city, what with more than a decade worth of peace and summer, enough to pay double what I asked and still hole up behind your walls until this blows over, but will you do so while the Greyjoys and their dogs rampage through your villages, kill, rape, and rob your people ? No. I don’t think so, you want to fight, you want to defend your lands, and to do so you won’t need ships, those are no match for the enemy fleets, you’ll need knights, trained horsemen who in an open field can walk through their men like a scythe on wheat.” He elaborates.
“To be candid, my war’s not waged against you or your people, certainly not with other Westerland Lords, not even with Tywin Lannister.” He leans in, making sure to look him in the eye, all the while using the force to dampen his determination and enhance his nervousness. “My war’s with that golden bitch and her son, so as long as you give me what I want, I won’t keep my army encamped an arrow’s distance from your doors while the Ironborn make a nuisance of themselves.”
It was at that moment, when he felt the man’s determination make an unexpected resurgence, did he know.
He got him.
A couple of hours later, when the negotiations are over, Robb mindlessly stares at the galloping backs of the Lannisters as they brought with them the bulk of the hostages.
“Lord Mallister.” He speaks to his right. “Please prepare the sailors you brought with you, they shall man the ships and bring them to Seagard, have them put to good use.”
The older man nods. “My men are prepared.” He comments.
‘95 000 bushels of grain, 250 000 gold dragons, and 90 cogs and 18 galleys. Not bad.’ He thinks.
Comments
Dark B3rry
Thank you for the chapter!
