Chapter 59: Orders
Arthur wrote quickly, each order shorter than the thought behind it. Long orders made men feel wise and gave them more chances to misunderstand. Short ones left less room for creativity, that beloved servant of disaster.
“First,” he said, “your main force continues pressure against Randyll Tarly, but no direct battle. Harass him. Cut at his supply lines. Strike weaker patrols. Let him think our grain is low, our soldiers are exhausted, and we are growing desperate. Lose a few small skirmishes if necessary. Abandon unimportant supplies. Show him a shape he wants to believe.”
Smith nodded. “Show weakness, lure him out, divide his command.”
“Randyll may not take the bait,” Arthur said. “He is not a fool. But the Tyrells and lesser Reach lords under him may not have his patience. If they cannot win quickly, if their supplies are hit, if their own men take losses while the Tyrells gain titles in King’s Landing, complaints will grow.”
Smith’s expression remained calm. “And if he refuses battle?”
“Then we make staying still expensive. Focus on supply teams not directly tied to House Tyrell. Men complain more loudly when the burden falls unevenly.”
Arthur wrote the second order.
“Diana holds Casterly Rock and Lannisport. Defenses are not to slacken. Publicly, she shows confidence: full granaries, united soldiers and smallfolk, enough supplies to hold for years. Privately, she draws out an elite force for me. Tight within, relaxed without. The usual lie told properly.”
Smith almost smiled. Almost.
“Third, Flio will use secret channels to contact merchants from the Reach, especially those with rivalries or grudges against House Tyrell. We buy grain at high prices, paid in gold. He may hint at future trade privileges in the Westerlands, or cooperation after the war. Hint, not promise. The point is temptation.”
“Merchants will listen,” Smith said. “They usually do when gold speaks first.”
“Fourth, Grey Shadow. Two tasks. Find the identity and purpose of the messengers entering Deep Den. Also, find usable people inside Randyll’s army and the Old Oak host. High officers if possible. Middle officers, clerks, scouts, quartermasters, camp followers if not. We need eyes. We also need rumors.”
Arthur dipped the pen again.
“For example, Randyll delays because he wants Tyrell strength consumed for House Tarly’s benefit. Ser Arthur Tyrell intends to steal glory and dislikes the Hightowers. Tywin has made a private pact with someone and means to sacrifice Reach interests. Mace is preparing to recall one force and blame the other for failure. Make them plausible. Lies survive best when they wear familiar clothing.”
Smith listened with the grim expression of a man who understood battlefield cruelty and still found court poison distasteful. That was healthy. A man who enjoyed poison too much eventually tried drinking it himself.
“This will need time and luck,” Smith warned.
“Do we have time?” Arthur asked, then answered before Smith could. “Some. Not enough. So we do many things at once and let our enemies decide which shadow frightens them most. Their alliance looks solid from far away. Up close, it is ambition, fear, grain, pride, and old grudges tied with ribbon. We find the knots and pull.”
He placed the pen down and looked toward Old Oak on the map.
“As for the Reach army to the south, they want to block roads and watch others bleed. Let us give them something to do.”
Smith waited.
“Kator and Beland each take a light force. They do not engage the main army. They strike weak points on the defensive line, cross the Kingsroad where possible, and enter Reach borders. Burn a few unimportant manors. Take caravans. Spread word that Battania is moving south and the Reach itself is in danger. They are to move under the banner of clearing Lannister remnants or foraging because Reach forces forced us into it. Fast strikes, hard blows, then retreat. No lingering.”
“Frame the situation,” Smith said. “Create border friction, force Old Oak to split attention, perhaps frighten Reach lords into demanding protection at home.”
“Muddy the water,” Arthur corrected. “Only muddy water lets you catch fish that think they are too clever for hooks. We must make sure Tywin, Randyll, and the Reach cannot sit comfortably while we bleed. They must move, pay, doubt, and quarrel. Every day they spend thinking is a day our fields grow and our walls rise.”
Smith gave a slow nod. “Risky.”
“Everything is risky. The trick is choosing the risk that does not politely starve us.”
Arthur walked to the window and looked out toward the dark sea. Clouds gathered over the water, and the Redwyne ships sat beyond the harbor like patient teeth. The siege was meant to make him small, trapped, reactive. Arthur had no intention of playing dead inside a golden cave.
“Also,” he said, as if remembering something minor, “draw two thousand men from the Golden Tooth garrison. The most reliable. Best at mountain marching. I have a use for them.”
Smith did not ask. He simply touched a fist to his chest. “Yes, my lord.”
The orders moved quickly through the Rock. Riders left by concealed paths. Messengers carried sealed notes. Grey Shadow vanished more thoroughly than before, which was starting to feel like a habit. Flio began writing letters full of courtesy, vague promises, and enough coin to make loyalty develop temporary blindness. Diana tightened the defenses and loosened appearances. Smith prepared the field forces.
The war machine changed shape.
On the surface, Casterly Rock remained besieged. Reach banners pressed from the east and south. Lannister remnants gathered at Deep Den. Redwyne ships closed the harbor. The enemy ring looked strong enough to crush him in time.
Beneath that ring, cracks began to fill with movement. Bribes, raids, rumors, false weakness, small defeats, sudden attacks, trade whispers, forged anxieties, and scouts moving where roads forgot to be roads. Arthur had spent months learning that a castle could fall from within, a city could open a gate for greed, and an army could collapse if its commanders did not agree on who owned the victory.
The great rock fortress of Casterly Rock sat like a beast curled around stolen gold. To the world, it looked trapped. Inside, Arthur was sharpening teeth meant not only for open enemies but for the bonds holding those enemies together.
The siege had been formed. The hand that would break it had already reached out.
To read more, check the link in the profile!