A Golden Path: Design 3.20 (ch. 43) (Patreon)

Honor was something Ned put increasingly more thought into these days. Virtue was called as such because it meant something when it was tested and emerged from the crucible whole if not entirely unscathed. It was easy to be generous in times of plenty. It was easy to be honorable when his honor was never in a position to be tested. 

Jon Arryn raised him to be an honorable man. A dutiful one. All in the hopes that he might one day serve as his brother's steadfast and loyal right hand. He was taught respect. The difference between caution and cowardice. As well the difference when honor meets practicality. Ned thought he learned those lessons well. He tried to, at least. 

His foster father's lectures hadn’t prepared him for the reality of war. A war that saw senseless slaughter and cruelty he couldn't have imagined in his worst nightmares as a necessity. When the cost of failure didn't just mean his own death or the deaths of his men. It would be the death of a fragile dream shared by hundreds of thousands of slaves, if not millions. 

It didn't feel like an accident that in Paul's many hypotheticals felt like they were trying to make him unlearn what he thought he knew of warfare. Of course, tactics and stratagem were the guiding principles of war, but how Paul thought was anathema to traditional warfare. Everything was a feint until it wasn’t, traps and ambushes, targeting the enemies command structure and supplies… If they were in a fair fight, then Paul treated that as a failure. 

When he learned of that breed of warfare, Ned did so with the intention of learning how to defend himself and his people from such dishonorable conduct. He did so to some success. Large armies were slow and cumbersome, while smaller bands could far more easily hunt the renegade mercenaries or bands of slavers. Yet, now, Ned found himself doing more than just using the knowledge defensively. 

He was using it offensively. Acting as a bandit lord rather than honorable nobility. Yet, when he did the math, he could only arrive at the same conclusion. 

Perhaps they could win through honorable combat. While the Myrish outnumbered them, their forces were comparable. Upon the right battlefield, with the right plan, they could win without crippling losses. Perhaps. The true crux of the problem was that they did not have limitless reinforcements. Even setting aside the logistics of raising more men to send them across the Narrow Sea, there did exist a number of losses that would convince the lords of Westeros that it was too costly to ship people to Essos for them to die there. 

Asymmetrical warfare, while dishonorable, allowed them to deal effective damage to the enemy while maintaining their strength. It was the perfect answer. 

Yet, as Ned laid in the shadows, his face smeared with mud, he couldn't help but feel that the math had cost him something. His consciousness was clear. What he did and what he was going to do were all in service to liberating every slave in Essos. So whatever piece of his soul he traded away for that… Ned hoped it would be well worth the price. 

Before him was a sea of tents illuminated by hundreds of camp fires nestled against a deep river to protect one flank. Myr might not have experienced anything like a true war in generations, but that didn't make them fools. By now, word of the massacre the Dothraki suffered would have reached them. They were cautious enough to listen to the good sense their experienced commanders gave them. That was more than most.  

“We're ready, Ned,” Paul told him, his face covered in a similar smear of grease and mud. He was acting a great deal on faith. The plan hinged on a flawless execution of a risky infiltration. Myr patrolled around the camp, they set up watch towers to catch the approach of anyone who managed to slip by them. A single shout would be all it took to leave a hundred of his best men within the grasp of the enemy. 

It was beyond risky. The margin for error was nonexistent. If anyone else brought this course of action to him, Ned would think they were a fool at best and a glory hound at worst. However, it was Paul. He had never failed Ned in anything, and he likely understood the risks better than Ned did. If he was convinced he and his people could do it, then he was inclined to believe him. 

Still, Ned glanced over his shoulder at the thousand men who would accompany him on his portion of the charge. Five thousand men in total would participate in the night raid. His actions managed to shame the Dornish and the Reach into committing a portion of their men. A token force, but it would be enough. His throat felt like it was closing up, but he swallowed the lump down. 

“Gods be with you, Paul,” Ned said, giving him the nod. He would never grow used to how Paul and a dozen men seemingly vanish in the shadows, almost to the point they were more wraiths than men. His grip tightened in his reins, but he forced himself to take a breath. It wouldn't do to betray his nervousness to the men. 

All they could do was wait. The plan called for fifteen minutes to subdue the patrols and the watchtowers, but it felt like it was ages. The men were instructed to keep silent, but horses still stamped their feet with impatience and there were quite coughs. None were immune to the heavy tension in the air. Not even Ned as his heart lurched when he caught the first sight of Paul and his people. 

Each watchtower had two men in it on guard. From the darkness, two perfectly shot arrows struck them in the throats, the arrows attached to some kind of wire that Paul used to pull them men forward so they didn't fall into the camp, and to use them as an anchor to shimmy into the watchtower without anyone being away. It was impressive. 

Not as impressive as the fact that all attacks were perfectly timed across a wide section of the camp. Six watchtowers were subdued before the enemy knew that they were there. They would soon learn, however. 

Ned urged his horse forward first, launching the attack across the field. No one unleashed a war cry, but the sound of thousands of hooves were unmistakable. Those at the edges of the camp sensed something was amiss, Ned catching sight of a young man who was peering into the heavy darkness of a moonless night. He saw the exact moment that the young man realized what lurked in that darkness, but by then, it was far too late. 

They entered the camp like a blade, one aimed right for the heart. Ned brought his sword down, cutting the throat of a young man who couldn't be any older than he was before riding deeper into the camp. It was completely caught off guard. They hadn’t lowered their guard, but they expected some kind of warning. If not from the patrols then the watchtowers. Instead, five thousand men poured into the camp entirely without warning. 

Arrows wreathed in fire rained down from the watchtowers, igniting tents and filling the camp with panicked screams. Smoke drifted in the well trodden dirt paths that became increasingly filled with confused people. They didn't realize they were under attack yet. They saw the smoke, heard the screams, and assume a fire was spreading. Most only realized what was happening when they fell under their horse hooves or their blades. 

However, even with an ambush, five thousand men wasn't enough to defeat such a force. And that, perhaps, was the trick. 

Panic set in across the camp, no one really understanding what was going on and communication was disrupted by the fire. Even if they didn't know they were under attack, men mustered in formation, grabbing their spears and shields but putting on their armor would take too long. They didn't know how many Ned's forces numbered. 

What many of them did know, however, was that they numbered up to fifty thousand. 

The resistance the Myrish mustered was enough to blunt their charge, but it was already too late by that point. The fire burned out of control, the command structure over the army had broken down. The militia, mostly slaves with the promise of freedom should they fight on behalf of their master's… they needed little more to push them into fleeing. 

“They are breaking! They flee to the river!” Ned heard someone call out as he hacked at the makeshift defensive line. His blade was slick with blood taken from a dozen men whose faces he already struggled to remember. Pulling his horse back from the jabbing spears carried by terrified men, Ned looked beyond them. It was difficult to see between the sea of tents and the smoke, but the sound of it reached his ears. 

The Myrish were rushing into the quick moving river to escape en masse. It was half a controlled retreat and half a frenzied withdrawal made by people who just wanted to get away from the chaos. Which told him that someone within the Myrish command recognized that the retreat was inevitable and took control over it to prevent a complete route. 

“Then our job here is done,” Ned decided. “Sound the horns! We withdraw!” Ned shouted out, and a lad with a strong pair of lungs gave the signal. The horn cut through the air, and it was answered by each of the prongs that had cut into enemy camp. 

Their withdrawal wasn't without resistance. Men saw that they were fleeing, and that emboldened them. They struck out with spears, pelting them with arrows and stones. Ned was grateful for his armor, but he knew some weren't so lucky when they retreated into the darkness, leaving naught but devastation and chaos in their wake. When they arrived at their previous camp, Ned saw a burning sea of panic. 

They had killed relatively few during the raid. Perhaps a few hundred. Maybe even a thousand. However, far more would perish in the retreat across the river because of a cold fact that sat in his stomach like a stone. The militia were comprised of slaves from the city. 

Most of them didn't know how to swim. And even the few who did, they would be dragged under the surface by those who couldn't. Or those who were simply afraid. 

For every man they had killed, ten more would drown. 

“It's more organized than we hoped for,” Great Jon remarked to him with a displeased growl in his voice, watching the wave of men and women abandoning the burning camp. “this just bloodied their nose a bit.” 

“It did more than that,” Ned observed, watching the camp. Most joined the retreat across the river, but there were thousands that still gathered in the camp. No more than ten thousand, if that. “We have divided them.” 

“Ha!” Great Jon realized with a bark of laughter. “Now we can pick them off at our leisure, eh?” 

“That is the plan, Lord Umber,” Paul's voice emerged from the shadows before he revealed himself. He offered a polite bow to Ned. “It has been done, my lord.” 

An assassination. Paul dressed it up in different words, but at the core of it, that's what Ned had condoned with a nod. Because that was what the math demanded. A young hot headed leader of the army would want vengeance for the defeat while wiser and more cautious voices would temper his rashness. A wise commander would withdraw back to Myr, accepting the loss and putting an end to Brandon's attempt to take the city behind their backs. 

With a single death, the enemy was set upon a course of disaster. Myr would be taken and its people freed. 

And it only took a little piece of his soul.

…

“I am not a man who is easily impressed,” Oberyn began, a new day arriving with the dawn. Under normal circumstances, he would not leave his bed or the company within until noon, but he needed to see it for himself. “But I do believe that I am impressed.” 

The camp was a ruin. First came fire of the raid, then came water. The people tried to flee with more than just their lives -- they tried to take their supplies with them. Boxes and crates and wagons… most of them made the journey, but enough of them failed to act as a dam, which flooded the plain their camp was located in. It wasn't a deep flooding. Enough to cover their ankles when the Myrish sought to recover what they could. While some supplies and materials would be salvaged, the water made recovering it an absolute tedious affair. 

Mace shifted uneasily next to him on his horse as they joined Eddard Stark in surveying the damage. “What is the count?” 

“Perhaps ten thousand dead. Most by drowning,” Eddard answered with steel in his voice. “They are regrouping to the south.” 

“To Myr?” Mace couldn't quite keep the hope out of his voice. A damning thing. Eddard took notice of it, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly, making Mace twitch as he looked away. 

“... No,” Eddard answered. “They mean to give battle. A battle we shall take them up on. Unless there is a reason to allow a hundred thousand men to retreat back behind Myr's formidable walls?” 

Perhaps Eddard was not the most astute politician, but he knew how to leverage shame. He shamed them into participating in the raid. Now he shamed them for hesitating to give battle. For men like Mace, who honor and pride were as soft as velvet, it was a tactic that worked quite well. 

It was not as if Mace could outright admit that he hoped the army would flee back to Myr simply to deny the North another victory. 

“A hundred thousand men is still a hundred thousand men,” Oberyn pointed out. “That is not a foe that I would take lightly. Particularly when they are so eager for another round after that ravishing.” 

There was something that darkened in Eddard's eyes, but he had a rebuttal well prepared. “Desperation, Prince Oberyn,” Eddard corrected lightly. “Their morale is weak. They know they must give battle, and soon, or they will bleed men by desertion. That allows us to pick the battlefield of our choosing. They will come to us.” 

He made a compelling case. Oberyn could admit that much. Still, it didn't address their unspoken concerns. Oberyn was not inclined to do Brandon's bidding after being used as bait. Especially when Doran's concerns were becoming increasingly well founded. 

It was not just Brandon that was a concern now, but Eddard too. The night raid was a great success. Pivotal to any victory that they would have over the fractured and sullen army. The victory over the Dothraki, while they all fought in it, the victory was seen as his. Rightfully so, Oberyn would admit. He wouldn't discredit Eddard’s efforts nor the risks that he took. But the issue was one of perception.

“While your brother sacks Myr,” Mace voiced, his lips thinning. 

“While my brother conquers Myr,” Eddard rebuked lightly. “A task made all the easier without an army behind its walls.” There was a pregnant silence between them before Eddard spoke, “If victory is what you fear, then our plans can be amended. We need only to hold out long enough for Myr to fall. Once it does, the slaves will revolt against their masters and the mercenaries will quit as they will no longer be paid.” 

Oberyn laughed. Eddard was of one mind. “You are an honest man, Lord Eddard,” Oberyn remarked, making his brow furrow as he didn't know what to do with the sudden compliment. It would be much easier to undercut him if he had an ulterior motive, such as his brother. Instead, Eddard was simply trying to win the war. Admirable. Also problematic, as amusing as that was. 

“You shall have my spears,” Oberyn decided. His brother would be quite annoyed, but his original hopes for extending Dorne's borders was always a reach. Oberyn did not know what shape the aftermath would take once Winter arrived in earnest. But there were two clear forerunners in this mess to clean it up. 

Prince Rhaegar and Eddard Stark. 

“O-of course, the Reach will fight!” Mace recovered with gumption. “We do not fear this rabble! A hundred thousand or two -- it makes no difference for us!” 

Eddard was polite enough to hide his doubts, but his eyes betrayed him. “That is a relief to hear, Lord Tyrell. And to you, Prince Martell. If you will excuse me, I will scout a suitable battleground.” He did not wait for a dismissal before turning his horse around and trotting off. Oberyn chuckled warmly at his departure, and all the more so when Mace offered him a glare that was as intimidating as a puffed up frog. 

“That was not what we discussed,” Mace observed with a hint of reproach. 

“No, it was not,” Oberyn agreed easily. “But plans must adapt to new information. The night raid was far more effective than either of us suspected.” He chuckled again, “Our Quiet Wolf is living up to his reputation even as he earns it.” 

Mace didn't know what to make of that remark. Oberyn wasn't obliged to spell it out for him, so he simply rode away while whistling a tune. 

Oberyn was unsure what plans Rickard Stark had for his second son, but those plans would have to change. With Eddard’s marriage to the beautiful Ashara Dayne, binding him closely with one of the most powerful and influential houses in Dorne, it would only be natural for Eddard to rely upon his closest ally in what would be a wartorn kingdom full of former slaves, pirates, and mercenaries.  

It would take a few delicate touches and a few whispered words in the right ears… but, by the end of this mess, it was quite possible dear Eddard would be a Lord Paramount.