Chapter 143 140

The West. Casterly Rock. 299 AC.

Robb Stark.

The Cliff stood proud above the broad expanse of the Sunset Sea. Once, knights of the West had kept watch from its heights for any sign of ironborn ships moving against the coast. According to legend, it was on this very spot that Lann the Fierce had once killed one of the Hoare kings in single combat and brought a war between the islanders and the West to an end. For that, King Lucius Lannister had heaped honors upon him and granted him leave to found a new branch of the lion's family, one that endured in Lannisport to this day.

Beyond its historical and strategic worth, Robb could not help noticing the view the promontory offered. Three hundred meters above the sea, with a breathtaking panorama of the Sunset Sea spread before him. He was certain that, were it not for the war, merchant vessels would crowd those waters from horizon to horizon. Hundreds of ships from every corner of the world hurrying toward the third largest city in Westeros, while the sun sank slowly behind them, its last rays lighting the way for sailors. A beautiful picture, though the Young Wolf had not come here for the scenery. He had come for allies he had both expected and not quite expected to see.

"How many ironborn does it take to fuck a squid?" Bronn's question drew laughter from the retinue, and Robb himself could not keep from smiling.

"Enough of that. You don't mock your allies, or you're cursing yourself in the same breath."

"We've been waiting a bloody hour for them, and their pirate lordship couldn't be bothered to show up on time," Bronn pressed on. "Why couldn't we have met them in camp? We could have waited in comfort with a mug of ale."

"Greyjoy banners are not welcome in the West. The moment they're spotted, the city will call up every man it can muster. This way we can plan the joint attack on Lannisport in secret."

"Right, of course. Two gangs of thirty men on either side, very inconspicuous," he said dryly, drawing more laughter from those around him. "And not welcome you say? You're being very generous about the degree of affection they inspire around here."

Robb had acquired a retinue somewhat by accident. He understood well enough that his position as heir to the North and his string of victories were the reason for it. The group was drawn mostly from northern houses, with some men of the Riverlands and a number of notable knights among them. Bronn was a sellsword and by his birth had no business moving in aristocratic company, but his many talents had won him respect even there. The charming rogue could now hold a conversation by name with half the nobility in King Stannis's army and had made himself no small number of useful friends in the process.

"They may be bastards, but they're bastards with a fleet who'll fight on our side." Robb shifted his gaze to the small beach below the promontory and caught sight of a pair of longboats. "And there are our allies now."

To the pirates' credit, they scaled the cliff quickly and with obvious skill, every movement speaking of long experience. Thirty picked sea-reavers, led by a man of remarkable height, nearly as tall as Great Jon Umber. Victarion Greyjoy, younger brother of Lord Balon and uncle to Theon. The man wore heavy grey chainmail over boiled black leather, with plates of bronze over that. Solid armor, the kind that might turn a blow from a Valyrian sword. Its one flaw was the sheer weight of it, which made it all the more remarkable that Greyjoy had climbed three hundred meters without so much as losing his breath.

"Have the northerners shrunk so much that they couldn't send someone a little more... substantial?" Victarion opened with that, no greeting, straight to the test.

"You'll find I'm enough, Lord Captain Greyjoy." The retinue had the good sense to stay out of it. "Do you always talk such farce, or can we move on to matters that actually warrant our time?" Bronn really was a bad influence on him.

The Lord Captain's face darkened and in one fluid motion he brought his axe to hand. His pirates followed his lead, which in turn brought Robb's men to theirs. Remarkable how quickly a few words could turn something almost peaceable into something very tense.

Robb would not ordinarily have answered so sharply, but a year of war alongside his bannermen had taught him one plain truth: weakness could not be shown. Doubly so in front of men who had built their lives around killing, which meant the ironborn. They would rattle their swords and settle down. That was why the Young Wolf was not afraid the situation would turn to bloodshed.

Twenty seconds of stillness passed before the Lord Captain lowered his weapon. That was the signal the possible slaughter had been called off.

"What are you proposing, Young Wolf?" Victarion said, still with an edge to his voice, but with slightly more respect in it than before.

Robb kept his satisfaction to himself. The hardest part was behind him. All that remained was to agree on the attack, and two parties with aligned interests would have little trouble doing that.