Chapter 58: Siege Lines
The side hall of Casterly Rock had become Arthur’s war room. He still avoided the Lannister throne in the larger chamber. Sitting on it would please no one useful and annoy everyone he might someday need quiet. Besides, a man who had just stolen Casterly Rock did not need furniture to prove he had done it.
A great map of the Westerlands hung across the wall. Small flags covered it in clusters of color, each one carrying weight beyond its size.
Deep green flags marked Battanian positions. Casterly Rock, Lannisport, Golden Tooth, Branding Castle, the mines, roads, and supply nodes across the central and eastern Westerlands. They held the wealthiest ground, but wealth did not make borders. Men did, and men could be killed, bribed, exhausted, or frightened.
Blue-green flags marked the Reach. Randyll Tarly’s main army sat at Highgarden’s forward camp with fifty thousand men, positioned like a wedge against the eastern approach. A second Reach force gathered at Old Oak under Ser Arthur Tyrell and Humfrey Hightower, blocking the southern roads and threatening the route toward Pheasant Hall, Lannisport, and the Rock.
Red-and-gold lion flags marked Lannister remnants gathered at Deep Den, a strong mountain fortress in the southwestern Westerlands. After Tywin returned west, he had not charged into the broken eastern lands like a song-drunk knight. He had chosen a defensible point, gathered survivors, and guarded the western section of the Golden Road. Annoying, but intelligent. Arthur had expected no less.
Off Lannisport, small ship markers represented the Redwyne fleet of the Arbor. They patrolled the sea lanes, blockading the port and reminding everyone that the Reach did not need to swing a sword to be dangerous. A fleet could strangle as neatly as a noose.
Arthur stood before the map, arms crossed, tapping one finger against the stone windowsill. The sound was steady, almost dull. The situation was worse than he had hoped, and more subtle than a battlefield had any right to be.
The good news was real. He held several choice cuts of the Westerlands, including key mines, Casterly Rock, Lannisport, and the line toward Golden Tooth. The infrastructure was beginning to work. Golden Tooth kept the eastern road toward the Riverlands open, which mattered more than pride. The Riverlands had been ruined, but Edmure Tully still struggled to maintain order from Riverrun and could send grain, iron, and manpower through that passage when the roads did not decide to become graves.
That was the lifeline. Fragile, ugly, and vital.
The bad news surrounded it. Randyll Tarly’s fifty thousand Reachmen stood to the east, cautious and well-supplied. The Reach army at Old Oak blocked the southern approach. Tywin sat at Deep Den, wounded but dangerous, gathering Lannister survivors. To the north, the sea should have been a road. The Redwyne fleet had turned it into a locked door.
Land enemies on three sides. A sea blockade on the fourth. A proper siege, then. How thoughtful of them to make it symmetrical.
“The stress test is here,” Arthur murmured.
“My lord,” Smith said from the doorway.
Arthur turned. Smith had just returned from the Golden Tooth front. Dust clung to his cloak, and days of guerrilla command had carved deeper lines around his eyes. He looked tired but sharp, which was the best state a commander could hope for before becoming dead.
“Come in,” Arthur said. “What is the situation?”
Smith walked to the map and pointed toward Randyll Tarly’s camp.
“Lord Randyll is cautious. His vanguard cavalry had several clashes with our small units. After losses, they withdrew toward their main camp. Since then, they have built fortifications, spread scouts, and settled into a war of attrition. He is not rushing for battle. He is gathering grain and fodder, testing our defensive zones, and waiting.”
“For Tywin, for the Old Oak army, for our supplies to fail, or for us to make a mistake,” Arthur said.
“Yes. Our harassment still works, but less than before. His defensive lines are tighter now. Small units find fewer chances. A direct attack on his camp would be costly, and our rations are falling faster than I like.”
Arthur did not answer immediately. That was the true weakness. Sixty thousand troops, horses, craftsmen, administrators, laborers, and guards. Gold could buy grain, but only if roads and ships allowed it to arrive. Gold locked in vaults was beautiful. Men could not eat beautiful.
“The convoys from the Riverlands?” he asked.
“Limited. The roads are unsafe, and Riverrun has its own problems. Local collection and military farming are not enough yet. Stored grain is decreasing.”
Arthur looked at Lannisport on the map. “And the south?”
“No large movement from Old Oak yet. Their patrols on the Kingsroad have increased. Our caravans trying to trade with the Reach by land or sea have mostly been intercepted or driven away. There are also signs they may be in contact with Tywin at Deep Den.”
“Of course they are,” Arthur said. “Three men who do not trust each other can still agree to starve a fourth.”
Smith nodded. “The sea route is no better. The Redwyne fleet has more than a dozen large ships patrolling outside Lannisport day and night. Our vessels are few and mostly small. They are good for rivers and harbor work, not fighting the Arbor. Flio is trying to contact smugglers from Braavos and Pentos, but the risk is high, the price is higher, and the result will not feed an army.”
Besieged by land and sea. Slow blood loss. The enemy wanted time to do what swords had not yet done.
Arthur did not look panicked. That seemed to trouble Smith more than panic would have. Reasonable. Men grew nervous when their commander looked calm in situations that deserved profanity.
“What exactly is Tywin doing in Deep Den?” Arthur asked. “Only gathering men?”
“Scouts report he is reinforcing the fortress and sending small units to gather soldiers and grain from the southwestern Westerlands. There are messengers from King’s Landing or elsewhere entering Deep Den secretly. Grey Shadow’s people are trying to infiltrate, but Tywin’s guard is tight.”
Messengers. Tyrells, perhaps. Or some loyalist network. Or the sort of thing that would matter only after it had already hurt him.
Arthur shifted his attention. “Randyll Tarly. Besides caution, what defines his command?”
Smith thought before answering. Good.
“Orthodox. Strong formations. Values logistics. Protects his men. Avoids risks taken only for glory. But he follows procedure and rules closely. His adaptability may be slower if the situation turns strange. Also, he is from House Tarly of Horn Hill, not the Tyrell main line. He gained command through merit. Some Reach nobles in his army may respect him, but that is not the same as liking him.”
Factions. The oldest disease of large armies. When victory was easy, everyone smiled. When it grew expensive, men began counting whose blood purchased whose advantage.
“And the army at Old Oak?”
“Commanded by Ser Arthur Tyrell, a cousin of Lord Mace. No famous battle record, but trusted by Mace. His deputy is Humfrey Hightower, second son of Lord Leyton Hightower. They reportedly do not get along.”
Arthur’s mouth curved slightly.
“You cannot put all your eggs in one basket,” he said. “The same applies to enemies.”
Smith looked at the map, understanding dawning. “You want to split them.”
“I want to make them uncomfortable,” Arthur said. “The splitting can be their contribution.”
He moved to the desk and took up a pen. The siege had been formed. Fine. Now it needed cracks.
To read more, check the link in the profile!