UaRoB: Chapter 60 – The Legions of Westeros (Patreon)

Watching the Second Legion finally enter Harrenhal was deeply satisfying.

Five thousand fighting men, a thousand more in support. Halberdiers at the fore, ranks of crossbowmen behind them, banners snapping in the wind. A full thousand cavalry followed last, mailed and mounted, their horses disciplined enough to keep formation even within Harrenhal’s vast outer yards. They moved as one body, steel flashing in the sun, boots striking stone in perfect time.

Order. Real order. This was not a feudal host thrown together by gathered levies. This was a machine.

I could already see the future in them. Twenty such legions, stationed across Westeros. Along the Neck, the Trident, the Gold Road, the marches of the Reach and the Stormlands. New fortresses raised at chokepoints, old ones reforged and manned properly. Power made permanent, influence enforced by presence. No more begging banners to answer the call. No more wondering who would come, or how many.

A realm that could be governed.

It was a thought for later.

For now, I had only one legion at full strength. The First, Cort’s legion, the men who had marched with me since the beginning, was barely a fifth of what it should be. Blood and battle had carved it down. I would need to speak with the commanders soon, unify command, merge structures. As it stood, the First could not act independently.

But the Second.

The Second was whole.

Robb let out a low whistle beside me. “Gods,” he said. “That is a sight to see.”

There were nods from the northmen and riverlords gathered nearby. Even the Greatjon was silent, his massive arms crossed as he watched the columns pass. How could they not agree? Five thousand men in heavy armor, marching in lockstep beneath the three-headed dragon, was not something Westeros saw often.

A quarter of our total force, wearing my colors, trained to my doctrine.

That alone shifted the balance.

“Come,” I said. “Let us greet their commander.”

We moved into the courtyard where the legion had formed up. The space was immense, yet the men filled it neatly, ranks squared, officers already in position. At their head stood their commander.

As we approached, he dropped to one knee.

I stepped forward. “Ser Forley. Rise.”

He did.

I had not seen him in moons. He had been one of the first recruits Cort had brought in when I ordered the creation of a standing army. An experienced knight, broad-shouldered, with the look of a man who had learned discipline the hard way. He had held Moat Cailin and its lands with quiet efficiency during the attack of the Ironborn, keeping order while others fought and died elsewhere.

“Your Grace,” he said, voice steady. “The Second Legion stands ready. The men are trained, supplied, and eager. The legion is yours.”

I studied him for a moment, then nodded.

“Well done, Ser Forley. You have served the crown faithfully.” I turned slightly, letting my gaze sweep over the assembled ranks. “You and your men will have no rest yet. There is work ahead.”

“So it seems, Your Grace,” Ser Forley said.

“For now, settle your men within the fortress,” I replied. “We march in two days.” I paused, then added, “And you have some people I wish to meet. Bring them to me.”

Robb’s mouth twisted into a grin. “Aye. I want to see those treacherous wretches.”

Ser Forley turned and barked an order. A moment later, movement rippled through the ranks, and a line of carts began to roll forward across the courtyard. Each was reinforced with steel bars, heavy, ugly things meant to carry beasts rather than men. There were ten of them at least.

As they drew closer, I could see the shapes inside.

Most of the carts held several prisoners, packed together, shackled and filthy, faces hollow. But the first cart held only one man.

Walder Frey.

I felt my lips curve into a smile before I could stop myself.

The man was thinner than I remembered, his skin sallow, his beard unkempt and streaked with dirt. Chains bound his wrists and ankles, fixing him to the iron frame of the cart. He still looked up at me with eyes full of spite and hatred though. It seemed the man still had some fire in him.

“Walder,” I said softly. “Walder, Walder, Walder. What am I to do with you?”

He snarled, his voice rough. “Bastard. You will pay for this. You will pay for everything.”

I laughed, a sound that echoed against the stone. “No, Walder. You fucking traitor. You are the one who will die. Your sons knelt to me at Riverrun, swore oaths before everyone, and you still chose betrayal.”

Robb stepped forward, resting a hand on the hilt of his sword. “Do you know the sentence for treason against your King, Frey?”

Walder spat in response, the glob striking the iron bars with a wet sound.

I watched him for a moment longer, committing the sight to memory. This man had sold guests beneath his roof in another world, and here, now, he had sold himself to Tywin Lannister for promises of power and wealth. There would be no mercy here.

“Take them all to the dungeons,” I said. “Post a full watch. Double it. We will deal with them properly, in a trial, for all to see.”

Ser Forley bowed his head. “At once, Your Grace.”

The carts were turned and dragged away. Walder Frey never took his eyes off me as he was pulled back toward the depths of Harrenhal.

As the Second Legion began to filter into their assigned barracks, ranks breaking with practiced efficiency, I let my gaze wander across the courtyard. Steel and banners filled the space, officers shouting orders, quartermasters already arguing over space and supplies. It was controlled chaos, the kind I had learned to appreciate.

Then I saw him.

I nudged Robb lightly and tilted my head. “Look who is back.”

Robb followed my gaze and smiled at once. “Well I’ll be damned.”

Theon Greyjoy stood near one of the cavalry formations, speaking with a pair of subofficers. He looked different. Leaner, harder, his posture straighter, his movements more deliberate. The careless swagger was gone, replaced by something quieter and more disciplined. I remembered the letter I had received a month ago. Theon had performed well at the Moat, well enough to be trusted with command of a cavalry company.

As we approached, we caught the tail end of his instructions.

“And be careful with the ground here,” Theon was saying, gesturing with a gloved hand. “I don’t want a single horse breaking a leg on these cracks. This place is a ruin.”

“Yes it is,” I said as I stepped closer. “That is what dragons and centuries of neglect do to a castle.”

Theon turned sharply, as did the men with him. The reaction was immediate. One man dropped to a knee, the other snapped to attention, and Theon himself froze for half a heartbeat before bowing.

“Jo… Your Grace,” he corrected himself quickly, the old name catching in his throat.

I suppressed a sigh. All this kneeling was becoming tiresome. Still, tradition mattered, and tradition reinforced authority, whether I liked it or not.

Robb stepped forward first and pulled Theon into a brief, fierce hug. When they separated, I clasped Theon’s forearm firmly.

“It has been a while,” I said. “We heard a great deal about you from the Moat.”

Theon’s eyes drifted aside. “Aye. It was… difficult at first. But I learned a lot there, Your Grace.”

“I heard you fought the Ironborn in several raids and the Burning Fever,” Robb said.

Theon nodded, his jaw tightening. “Aye.” He said nothing more, and I did not press him.

“I know it must have been hard,” I said quietly. “But you did the right thing.”

He looked back at me then, really looked, and something in his expression finally eased. “I know that now. I have known it for a long time, even if I didn’t want to admit it.” He swallowed. “You are my family.”

I smiled. “Now and always.”

“Now and always,” he echoed.

It was good to have him back.

Robb and Theon fell into conversation almost immediately, voices low, laughter slipping in despite everything. I let them have the moment. There would be time enough later.

“Forley will be looking for me,” I said after a moment. “We will continue this later.”

Theon nodded. “I’ll be here, Your Grace.”

I turned away and headed toward the inner keep, already thinking of command structures, supply chains, and deployments. Armies did not organize themselves, and if this was to work, it would be because I made it work.

The war was entering its next phase, hopefully its last, and there was no room left for improvisation.

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I was sitting at a long table with Forley, Cort, and a dozen others. Arren was here once more, I had not had the chance to greet him yet, but he had arrived with the Legion and the men he had taken. There were also the heads of the medical and engineering corps, quartermasters, senior captains, and staff officers. Between them, they represented the whole of my two legions, the hard spine of the army I was trying to build.

We had been deep in discussion for the better part of an hour, arguing over how to organize the King’s Swords, as the First Legion still called themselves, with the Second Legion, who had taken to calling themselves the Squid Slayers. The name had stuck quickly, and none of us objected. They had earned it, killing ironborn all along the western coast of the North over the past few moons.

Forley spoke again, tapping the table lightly with one finger. “There is no way to supplement the First with men from the Moat, Your Grace. Steward Tarly is already pouring gold into recruitment. Word has gone out across the North and the Riverlands, and we are scraping the barrel as it is.”

“It may not be enough,” I said. “To replace four thousand losses will take time, Commander Forley. We have already pulled thousands from every corner of the North.”

Cort cleared his throat. “Your Grace, I may have a solution.”

I turned toward him. “Go on.”

“We occupy most of the West,” Cort said carefully. “And near Riverrun we hold thousands of prisoners of fighting age, men from the Westerlands and now the Crownlands. Most are levies. They are not Lannister loyalists in any meaningful sense. If given a choice between rotting in a camp and earning coin, land, or a future, many would take it. We could recruit several thousand and send them north to the Moat for training.”

Forley frowned. “I have not visited these prisons, Your Grace, but they are defeated enemies. It worries me. Men like that might betray us when given arms.”

Mmm. Most of those were young men with no families, if given the chance to win coin and lands in the north or any new area added to the royal demesne they might join in. Owning a private plot of land was something innovative in this continent, I had already seen the thousands of men and families moving to the Moat and not the Gift for those promises.

It might be worth a try.

I shook my head. “They are smallfolk levies. Most do not care who sits a throne. They care about food, safety, and returning home. Many would rather serve than remain prisoners, and returning them to their lands is something we would be doing eventually anyway.” I paused. “The nobles and knights will be tried, most of them at least. But the smallfolk we hold are a drain on resources. Feeding those camps gains us nothing.”

Cort watched me closely.

“I will allow it,” I said at last. “Set the messages in motion. Begin the process. But be thorough. Weed out men with deep Lannister loyalties, or anyone likely to cause trouble.”

Cort inclined his head. “I will make sure no loyalist survives the screening to interfere with training, Your Grace.”

I nodded, then leaned back slightly. “Still, this is a long-term solution. Training these men and bringing the First Legion back to full strength will take moons.”

Cort nodded. “And the First was never at full strength to begin with. When we marched from the Moat, we did so with barely half our intended companies.”

That truth settled heavily over the room.

The legions had always been designed to stand at five thousand fighting men, with a thousand more in support, divided among medical, logistics, engineering, and administrative corps, along with a few support elements like the Scouts and now the Warg Divisions. The force then known as the Lord’s Swords had marched south with half that number, and still they had torn through the Lannisters, killing five times their own strength. Over the course of the war, we had lost nearly twelve hundred of them to death or wounds too severe to treat.

Men who would never march again.

I made a quiet note to myself. In the future, I would need a veterans’ ministry. I would not allow the men who bled for me, or their families, to be cast aside because a limb was lost or a wound never healed properly.

A kingdom worth ruling took care of its own.

Arren finally spoke then, which was something close to a miracle, he had always liked to run his mouth. My old friend had been silent for a long while, listening with that distant, calculating look he got when he was turning numbers over in his head.

“We need to attach the First Legion to the Second, Your Grace,” he said at last. “If we do not, we will be left with a separate and fragile formation. Too many duplicated needs, too few men to sustain them.”

Cort exhaled slowly. “I concur. If we want efficiency, we will need to do exactly that.”

Forley nodded without hesitation. “I have no problem with it, and I agree with Quartermaster Arren.” He glanced sideways at Arren as he spoke. Somewhere along the march, the two of them had struck up a friendship, born of shared headaches and endless arguments over supply columns and marching rates.

I considered it for a moment, then nodded. “It is a good idea. If we are all in agreement, it shall be implemented. The First will be attached to the Second. Operational command will remain separate, under their respective commanders, but the support elements will be unified.”

Cort inclined his head. “It shall be done, Your Grace.”

“Once the new legionaries finish training,” I continued, “the legions will be separated again. This is a temporary measure, not a permanent merger.”

Arren leaned forward slightly. “We will need to standardize supply tables immediately. Rations, fodder, medical supplies, replacement weapons. Right now the Second Legion is better stocked, especially in horse feed and spare tack.”

Milton, now once again Arren’s second in command, nodded. “If we unify depots, we can reduce waste. We are currently running parallel supply lines that cross each other twice before reaching the front.”

“The medics will need priority access,” one of the senior surgeons added. “Casualties are still coming in from skirmishes along the roads. A shared triage system will save lives.”

I rubbed my temple once, then straightened. “Very well. Arren, you will draft a unified supply schema by the end of the day on how the first will attach to the second.”

Arren nodded sharply. “Understood.”

“There is one more thing,” Forley said. “Morale. The First Legion has taken heavier losses. Being attached to the Second may feel like a demotion to some of them.”

I met his gaze. “Then make it clear this is about survival and strength, not pride. The King’s Swords will not be diminished by sharing bread and bandages. I will continue to fight alongside the First too.” That should soothe bruised egos.

Forley inclined his head. “I will see to it.”

The discussion continued, moving into marching order, camp layouts, guard rotations, and the allocation of cavalry screens. Details piled atop details, the kind of quiet work that decided wars long before banners met on the field. By the time we adjourned, the sun had shifted in the windows and my throat was dry from speaking.

But at the very least we had solved the problem of the King’s Swords being so understrength.

As the officers began to leave, I spoke before Arren could follow them.

“Arren. Stay for a second, please.”

The room slowly vacated, boots and murmurs fading until the heavy door closed and the two of us were left alone. For a moment, I looked at him, then I smirked.

“It is good to see you again, Arren,” I said.

He smirked, easy and familiar. “It is good to be back, Jon.”

I let out a breath I had not realized I was holding. “How was the trip?”

Arren shook his head, half amused, half exasperated. “That reptile of yours just kept eating all of our meat. It doubled its size during the journey. It was incredible to see.”

I laughed at that. “Aye. I can feel his hunger even from here. Sam has been sending me reports.” As I spoke, my thoughts drifted north. Gaelithox had been growing nicely these past few moons, already the size of Ghost if Sam’s words were true. Hearing how fast his growth had been was still astonishing. At that pace, I might be able to ride him in a year, and in three he would be an unstoppable machine of war.

They had also been investigating Gaelithox as thoroughly as they could. How to move him, who he listened to, and they new Dragon Keepers were learning all they could from Gaelithox. They had been trying to get the Dragon to do some exercise and it seemed to be working as the little beast gained muscle very fast.

I wondered why he was growing so fast. I had assumed that Daenery’s dragon did so because they might be Dreamfyre’s hatchlings. Stolen by Elissa Farman and given to Braavos only to be given to Daenerys centuries later. But Gaelithox was growing as fast too, so it must be something magical about this era. 

Arren’s expression softened. “You would not believe how much Sam and Seren have changed, Jon. They have grown to be the best of friends, and our Sam is so confident now.”

That drew another laugh from me, quieter, but warmer. “Tell me everything, Arren,” I said. “Everything.”

It was good to have him back.

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I looked at the fifty men standing in front of me, lined in perfect formation across the stone floor. They wore matching black armor and red cloaks, men who had earned their place rather than bought it. For now they carried swords and shields, simple and practical, tools meant to keep me alive rather than look impressive.

The Dragon Guard.

My personal defenders, chosen carefully and painfully slowly. The selection process had finally ended, and some of them had marched south with the Squid Slayers. Now they stood whole before me, my full personal guard for this campaign. They might grow in time, perhaps a few more added as the years passed, but never many. I had no intention of creating a Praetorian problem for some future ruler to choke on. Power needed guards, not kingmakers.

These men would guard me for the rest of this war.

I studied them for a long moment, the way they held themselves, the stillness, the discipline. Then I turned to Cort.

“This shall be your Dragon Guard, your grace,” Cort said evenly. “Ser Edric, please come forward.”

One man stepped out from the formation, moving with practiced confidence. Ser Edric Rivers stopped a few paces before me and bowed. “Your grace,” he said, steady and clear. “I am yours to command.”

“Ser Edric,” I said, meeting his eyes. “I understand you have been chosen to command my personal guard.”

He was a bastard from the Riverlands, like so many good soldiers, and he had been with the King’s Swords for a long time. He had distinguished himself more than once during the campaigns, calm under pressure, brutal when needed, loyal without being blind. Still, a small part of me tightened at the sight of him standing there.

I would have preferred Myles.

The knight had been my steadfast companion for so long, loyal to the bone, proven again and again. The Mountain had taken that choice from me. I would never stop thanking Myles for saving my life that day, even if it had cost him his own.

“That is right, your grace,” Edric said. “We will not disappoint you.”

I smiled, small but genuine. “I know you will not, Edric. Keep a constant guard near me.”

He nodded once. “We will guard you as you have ordered, your grace.”

Their orders had been simple, by design. The Dragon Guard would be divided into circles. The first would always remain near me, close enough to react before danger had time to become real. The second circle would stand farther out, screening those who approached, watching hands, faces, movements, stopping threats before they reached striking distance. The third circle would move ahead of me, securing the spaces I was about to enter, ensuring no one was waiting in the shadows.

They would also guard key locations at all times. My tent, my chambers, council rooms. No one would enter without authorization, whether I was present or not.

Barristan would not like it when he returned. Seeing the King’s Guard effectively replaced by this new force would sting his pride and his sense of tradition. Still, I had no intention of dissolving the Kingsguard. They would remain, given some small command roles with the Dragon Guard and elsewhere. They were still useful, especially as a political tool, a way to bind powerful knights to the crown.

The Dragon Guard, however, would remain mostly independent.

“Time for you to swear your oath, Ser.” I said.

They knelt again, and this time the silence held, thick and expectant.

I drew my sword partway from its scabbard, just enough for the steel to catch the light, and spoke slowly, so every word carried.

“I, Daemon of House Targaryen, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, ask you now, do you swear to guard my life with your own, to stand between me and death, treachery, and steel, so long as you draw breath?”

Ser Edric did not hesitate. “I do so swear.”

“I do so swear,” the Dragon Guard echoed, one voice made of fifty.

I continued. “Do you swear to obey my lawful commands, in war and in peace, in victory and defeat, even should those commands lead you into fire and blood?”

 “I do so swear,” they answered again.

“Do you swear to keep my secrets, to speak truth to me when lies would please me more, and to never raise blade against me for gold, fear, or promise?”

 “I do so swear.”

I finished the oath as it should be finished. As Ned would have wanted.

“And I swear in turn, before gods old and new, that I will not waste your lives, that I will protect your kin, honor your service, and remember your names so long as I draw breath. I swear to lead you as king and commander.”

“We are yours, your grace.” Ser Edric said softly, accepting it.

I lowered my blade. “Then rise, my Dragon Guard. You have your first duty now.”

“Where to, your grace?”

“The dungeons, Ser.”

Thank the Gods that they had just been sworn to keep my secrets.

It would be tested today.

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I went through the dungeon corridors with Cort at my side and the Dragon Guard close behind me. With us came Ser Jarman Buckwell and a handful of black brothers from the Night’s Watch.

Ser Jarman had been here for some days, and we had had many conversations in that length of time. Though this would be the first time I saw his second gift.

Our previous conversations were more of the political inclination. Apparently Benjen Stark had somehow managed to get in contact with a group of wildlings, a group that had sent a message with him.

A message for me.

The King-Beyond-the-Wall wanted to speak with me. He wanted to negotiate.

The words I had spoken with Mance in Winterfell, when Robert and his party had arrived seemed so distant now. They had been a long shot, a Hail Mary to see if I could stop the assault on the wall, appealing to a shared enemy.

And perhaps, just perhaps… they had worked. The only problem was that I would have to move north. And I had too many enemies down south to do so.

After the capital. Something to worry about after the capital…

Harrenhal’s lower levels swallowed sound and light alike. It was a fitting place for what they had brought south.

Ser Jarman spoke as we walked, his voice steady but tight. “We managed to get just this one, your grace. It was hard. The moment we forced them across the Wall they simply stopped. No struggle, no rage, just… nothing.”

I frowned as we turned another corner. “The Wall’s magic?” I asked, though the words tasted uncertain even as I spoke them. And a head shake from the man told me everything I needed to know. “So they adapt. The Others can control them from afar.”

We were attacked at Castle Black by a dead brother some time ago. If the Wall alone could de-animated them, then that would not have been possible. That meant they could be controlled remotely.

 “Sadly,” Jarman said, “they do, at least that’s what we think. After that we tried something else. Dragon glass. We built cages, iron frames infused and lined with it. The second one we got never stopped moving, but once inside the cages they became sluggish, dulled. They did not fall inert, but they could not force their way out.”

I stopped and turned to him. “That is an incredible job, Ser Jarman. Truly incredible.”

He inclined his head, pride flickering briefly through his exhaustion.

The guards hauled open the final door, iron scraping against stone, and the stench hit us at once. Inside, half a dozen cages stood arranged along the walls, heavy bars veined with black shards of dragonglass. Shapes moved within them, wrong shapes, hunched and twitching. One of the creatures shrieked as it saw us, a tearing sound that made the hair on my arms rise, then threw itself against the bars. The cage shuddered but held.

Wights.

Cort stared, his face pale despite himself. “Gods,” he muttered. “You told me. I believed you. But seeing it…”

“One thing is believing,” I said quietly, “another is seeing.”

Ser Edric stepped half a pace closer to me, his hand tight on his sword hilt. “Your grace…” he said, low, “what are these things?”

“The real enemy,” I replied. “The foot soldiers of the Others. Wights…”

Silence settled over the room, broken only by wet, ragged breathing from the cages. I I straightened slightly and looked at Edric, then at Cort. “These will be guarded at all times. Only men I trust. Elements of the legions, and the Dragon Guard. No one enters without my leave.”

They both nodded at once.

I looked back at the cages, at the dead things that refused to stay dead, and felt a grim satisfaction settle into my chest. One day soon I would bring the lords of the North and the Riverlands down here. Later, the rest of the realm. Words and ravens would never be enough, not for something like this.

Let them look into the eyes of a wight and tell me the threat was a story.