Scene 1: The Victims
The border of the Reach was a lush tapestry of orchards and summer heat. It should have been peaceful. Instead, it was a crime scene.
Siro sat perched on the branch of an old oak tree, his small frame hidden by the dense canopy. He wasn't wearing Baratheon colors. He wore the rags of a camp follower, stained with mud and grease.
Below him, on the Goldroad, a tragedy was playing out.
A Tyrell foraging party—twenty men wearing the green surcoats of House Tyrell—had stopped a heavy wagon train.
Siro watched with eyes that missed nothing. He didn't need a magical overlay to see the rot in this unit. He saw the sergeant's gut spilling over his belt. He saw the soldiers leaning on their spears, bored and sloppy. He saw the lack of pickets watching the road.
Amateurs, Siro thought. Fat on summer wine.
"By order of the Warden of the South!" the fat sergeant shouted.
The merchant, a burly man with soot-stained hands, stood in front of his wagon. "This is iron! Horseshoes! Nails for the Ashford smiths! You cannot eat iron, you fools!"
"We don't want the iron," the sergeant laughed. "We want the transport."
The soldiers weren't interested in the heavy crates of metal. They were interested in the mules.
"Cut the traces!" the sergeant ordered.
"No!" the merchant screamed. "Those mules are my life! How can I move the iron without beasts?"
A soldier smashed the butt of his spear into the merchant's face. The man went down, spitting teeth.
The soldiers cut the leather harnesses. They dragged the terrified mules away. They ransacked the driver's bench, stealing the merchant's personal casks of hard cider and his coinbox.
Then, out of sheer spite and laziness, they tipped the wagons.
CRASH.
Heavy crates of iron ingots, nails, and horseshoes spilled into the muddy ditch. The axles cracked. The wealth of the merchant—tons of essential metal—was now immovable garbage in the mud.
"Long live Highgarden!" the sergeant toasted with the stolen cider, kicking the merchant one last time.
Siro watched. He didn't blink. He didn't intervene. He noted the direction they headed—straight back to the main Tyrell encampment, leaving no rearguard.
They take the legs and leave the weight, Siro mused. They create enemies in their own backyard.
Siro waited ten minutes. Silence returned to the road, broken only by the groans of the merchant.
Siro slipped down from the tree. He moved silently, not because of magic, but because he knew where to step. He avoided the dry twigs. He rolled his weight from heel to toe. He was a shadow detaching itself from the bark.
He approached the merchant. The man was on his knees, staring at the pile of iron in the ditch.
"They took the beasts," the merchant whispered, blood dripping from his chin. "They took the legs... and left the weight."
"Fat men are lazy," Siro said softly.
The merchant spun around, reaching for a dagger that wasn't there (the soldiers had taken that too). He saw a small, ragged boy with eyes that were too old for his face.
"Who are you? A scavenger? Here to steal the nails?"
"I cannot carry iron," Siro said, nudging a heavy ingot with his toe. "And neither can you, now."
"They are my own lords," the merchant spat, tears mixing with the blood. "I pay the toll. I shoe their horses. And they leave me to rot."
"They are blind," Siro said. "They see the mule, but not the war."
Siro reached into his rags. He pulled out a heavy pouch. The clink of gold was unmistakable.
"I have a mule," Siro lied (or perhaps he knew where to steal one later). "And I have gold to buy a new wagon."
The merchant stared at the pouch. "What do you want? The iron?"
"Information," Siro said.
He crouched down, drawing a line in the dirt.
"The Tyrells control the bridge at the Cockleswent River," Siro stated. "They have pickets on the main road."
He looked up at the merchant.
"But you are an iron monger. You deliver to the smiths in the hill villages. You know the tracks the heavy wains cannot take."
The merchant wiped his mouth. "The goat tracks? You can't march an army on a goat track."
"Not an army," Siro said. "But a man who knows where the river is shallow."
Siro jiggled the gold pouch.
"Draw me the crossing," Siro said. "Show me where the water is low enough for a man to walk without swimming. Show me the path through the Whispering Wood."
The merchant looked at the direction the Tyrell soldiers had gone. He looked at his ruined livelihood. He looked at the gold that could save his family.
"The Ford of the Weeping Willow," the merchant whispered. "Three miles upstream. The locals use it to smuggle cider. The Tyrells don't patrol it because the brush is too thick for their destriers."
Siro smiled. It was a terrifyingly adult smile.
"Draw it," Siro commanded, handing the man a piece of charcoal from the wreckage. "Draw it true, and you can buy ten mules."
The merchant grabbed the charcoal. He didn't hesitate. He began to sketch on the back of a broken crate.
Siro watched the lines form. He committed every curve, every landmark to memory. He didn't need a System to record it. He had a spy's mind—a vault of secrets.
"The Rose has thorns," Siro murmured to himself. "But the roots are rotten."
[End of Scene]
Chapter 9: The Shadow Market
Scene 2: The Trade
The village of Risley, located five miles north of the main Ashford castle, had become a purgatory for travelers.
The Tyrell vanguard had effectively closed the Goldroad. Thousands of merchants, pilgrims, and refugees were bottlenecked here, terrified of the aggressive pickets patrolling the main highway. The air smelled of unwashed bodies, woodsmoke, and desperation.
Siro moved through the crowded market square like a drift of smoke.
He had changed his appearance. He was no longer the muddy camp follower from the roadside. He had washed his face in a horse trough, stolen a better-fitting tunic from a drying line, and rubbed dust into his hair to dull the shine. He now looked like a bored stable boy—invisible, unremarkable, and entirely non-threatening.
He wasn't looking for food. He was looking for mud.
He walked with his head down, scanning the boots of the travelers.
Red clay: From the west, near Old Oak. Useless. Black loam: From the plowed fields nearby. Useless. Grey silt: River mud.
He stopped.
A man was sitting on a crate outside the overcrowded tavern. He was nursing a mug of ale, looking anxious. He wore the roughspun wool of a drover, but his boots were caked in grey, sandy silt—the kind found only on riverbanks. More importantly, the mud was dry and cracked, meaning he had crossed water recently, perhaps yesterday, before the Tyrell net tightened.
Siro slipped into the shadow of the tavern awning. He watched the man's hands. They were shaking slightly. He kept tapping his chest, checking a hidden pocket.
Smuggler, Siro deduced. Or a courier carrying something he shouldn't.
Siro approached. He didn't walk directly at the man. He drifted to the side, leaning against the tavern wall, peeling an apple he had swiped from a stall.
"The ale is watered down," Siro said quietly, not looking at the man.
The drover jumped, his hand flying to the knife at his belt. He saw only a boy eating an apple. He relaxed, but his eyes remained darting.
"Everything is watered down in this cursed country," the drover grunted, his accent thick with the lilt of the Riverlands. "Including the honor."
"You want to go home," Siro stated. It wasn't a question.
The drover eyed him. "Everyone wants to go home, boy. But the Roses have blocked the bridge. They say they are 'inspecting for contraband.' They mean they are robbing us."
"They are," Siro agreed. "Ser Moryn Tyrell commands the bridge. He takes fifty percent of the cargo. If you hide it, he takes your ears."
The drover paled. "Fifty percent?"
"And he checks the linings of coats," Siro added, glancing at the man's chest pocket. "So whatever you have in there... he will find it."
The drover's hand froze over his pocket. The boy knew. Somehow, this stable boy knew exactly what he was afraid of.
"Who are you?" the drover whispered.
"I am someone who knows the patrol schedules," Siro said. "I know that Ser Moryn changes the guard at the hour of the owl. I know that the western picket is drunk by sunset."
Siro took a bite of the apple.
"I can get you out," Siro said. "I can tell you exactly when to leave and which cart track to take to bypass the main checkpoint. You keep your ears. You keep your package."
The drover leaned in, desperate. "What do you want? Coin? I have little."
"I don't want coin," Siro said. "I want water."
"Water?"
"You crossed the Cockleswent," Siro said, pointing to the man's boots. "But you didn't use the bridge. You have river silt on your heels, but no toll ticket on your tunic."
The drover went still. He had been made.
"I... I might have found a way," the drover admitted cautiously. "A hunter's ford. Upstream."
"The Ford of the Weeping Willow?" Siro asked, testing the intelligence he had bought from the iron merchant.
The drover shook his head. "The Willow? No. That's a suicide crossing. The bottom is soft mud. A horse would sink to its belly and drown. I lost a mule there two years ago."
Siro's internal alarm bells rang. The iron merchant had either lied, or he didn't know the difference between a foot-crossing and a horse-crossing. Triangulation successful. The first intel was flawed.
"Then where?" Siro pressed gently. "If the Willow is soft... where is the stone?"
The drover hesitated. This was his secret. His escape route.
"If I tell you," the drover hissed, "how do I know you won't sell me to the Tyrells?"
"Because the Tyrells don't pay," Siro said simply. "And because if you don't tell me, you'll walk into Moryn's checkpoint tomorrow and lose everything. I am offering you protection from your own bad luck."
The drover looked at the crowded, dangerous market. He looked at the boy who seemed to know the movements of the entire Tyrell army.
"The Slate Ford," the drover whispered. "Ten miles upstream. There is an old logging weir. The current is fast, but the bottom is solid slate rock. You can drive a heavy wain across it if you chain the wheels."
Slate rock, Siro thought. Bedrock. Firm footing. Good for heavy infantry. Good for a forced march.
"How deep?" Siro asked.
"Waist high on a man. Chest high in the middle."
"And the banks?"
"Steep on the south side. Shallow on the north. You'd need ropes to get wagons down, but once you're in, you're solid."
Siro nodded. This was it. A hard crossing, but a possible one. And more importantly, the steep banks would hide an army from view until they were already in the water.
"Good," Siro said.
He leaned in close, whispering the payment for the trade.
"Leave tonight at moonrise. Take the sheep trail behind the miller's barn. It leads to a culvert that goes under the main road. The Tyrell sentries play dice at the crossroads from midnight to one. You have a one-hour window. If you are fast, you will be in the Riverlands by dawn."
The drover looked at him with awe. "You are no stable boy."
"And you are no drover," Siro smiled, finishing his apple. "Safe travels."
Siro pushed off the wall and melted back into the crowd.
He had the pieces now.
The Tyrells were bloated and corrupt (Scene 1). The main bridge was a choke point. The "Weeping Willow" was a trap (soft mud). The Slate Ford was the key (bedrock).
He moved toward the edge of the village, toward the dark woods where he had hidden his stolen pony. He needed to ride. Robert Baratheon was marching into a trap at Ashford, and Siro held the key to the back door.
He patted his tunic, feeling the charcoal stick he had taken from the iron merchant. It was just a piece of burnt wood, but in his hands, it was worth more than a castle.
The Tyrells are watching the door, Siro thought, mounting his pony. We are coming through the tunnel.
[End of Scene]
Chapter 9: The Shadow Market
Scene 3: The Data
The Stormlands camp was different from the Tyrell camp. It didn't smell of wine and roasting pork. It smelled of wet wool, oiled steel, and discipline.
Siro rode his pony toward the southern picket line. At the Tyrell camp, he had walked right past the sentries because they were drunk. Here, fifty yards from the perimeter, a voice cut through the darkness.
"Halt."
Siro pulled up. He hadn't seen the sentry. The man had been standing perfectly still against the trunk of a grey beech tree.
"State your business," the sentry ordered, leveling a spear.
"Code: Iron Apple," Siro said.
"Dismount. Hands on your head. Walk forward."
Siro smiled. Professionals.
The Command Tent
Ten minutes later, Siro stood in the shadows of the command tent entrance.
Robert was there, looming over the central map table. Around him stood Lord Buckler, Ser Morrigen, and his senior captains. The mood was grim.
"It is a choke point," Buckler was arguing, pointing to the single crossing marked on their map—the Stone Bridge at the Cockleswent. "Tarly has dug in. He has trenches. He has archers on the ridges. If we try to force the bridge, we lose two thousand men in the first hour."
"We can't swim the river?" Ser Morrigen asked. "The current looks slow."
"It's deep," Robert grunted. "And the banks are mud. If we go into the water, Tarly's heavy horse will catch us while we are wading. It will be a slaughter."
Robert rubbed his temples. The "Eagle Vision" could calculate trajectories, but it couldn't invent geography. On his map, the river was a solid blue wall blocking his path to the north.
"My Lord," the sentry announced. "The scout returns."
Robert looked up. "Clear the room."
"My Lord?" Buckler protested. "We haven't decided on the vanguard—"
"CLEAR THE ROOM!" Robert roared.
The captains scrambled out. Robert waited until the flap fell shut, leaving him alone with the small boy.
"Well?" Robert asked, looking at the spy. "Is the door locked?"
Siro walked to the table. He looked at the beautiful, detailed parchment map. It showed the main roads and the bridge. It showed nothing else.
"The bridge is not a door," Siro said. "It is a mouth. And it is open."
"They want us to attack there," Robert nodded. "Tell me you found a window."
Siro picked up a piece of charcoal. He climbed onto a stool to reach the center of the map.
"Two merchants gave me this," Siro said. "One sold iron. One sold secrets."
He drew a wavy line three miles upstream.
"Here. The Ford of the Weeping Willow."
Robert leaned in. "Is it viable?"
"It has a soft mud bottom," Siro explained. "A merchant lost a mule there. A horse would sink to its belly and drown in the silt."
Robert frowned. "So it's useless."
"For horses, yes," Siro said. "But men? Men are lighter. A man can walk through the mud if he doesn't stop. It is waist deep and sucks at the boots, but it is passable for infantry."
Robert nodded slowly. "Hard going. But possible."
"There is another way," Siro said.
He moved his hand ten miles further upstream, to a sharp bend in the river.
"Here. The Slate Ford."
Siro sketched the riverbed profile on the side of the parchment.
"Bedrock bottom. Solid slate. The current is fast, but the depth is manageable. A heavy wain can cross without sinking."
Robert studied the sketch. "Bedrock... that holds the weight. Why isn't it on the map? Why doesn't Tarly watch it?"
"The banks," Siro explained. He drew steep, vertical lines on the south bank. "It is a forty-foot drop to the water. A cliff. You can't drive a wagon down it. Tarly thinks it is impossible for an army train to cross there."
Robert stared at the map. He saw the geometry of the battlefield shifting.
One crossing was Mud (Passable for Light Infantry, Death for Heavy Assets).
One crossing was Cliff/Rock (Impossible for Wheels without engineering, but perfect footing).
If he sent the whole army to the Slate Ford, lowering 40 wagons and 20,000 men by rope would take two days. Tarly would catch them.
If he sent the whole army to the Willow, the wagons would sink and the army would starve.
But if he split them...
Robert smiled. It was the smile of a man seeing the puzzle pieces lock together.
"We split the deck," Robert whispered.
He grabbed the charcoal from Siro. He drew a mass of dots at the Weeping Willow.
"The Infantry takes the mud," Robert said. "They march light. No packs. Just spears and armor. They slog through the Willow and secure the northern bank."
He drew a square box at the Slate Ford.
"The Wagons, the Heavy Horse, and the Siege Train go here. We use winches. We lower the wagons down the cliff onto the bedrock."
He looked at Siro.
"Tarly watches the bridge. He thinks the Willow is a trap for horses, so he ignores it. He thinks the Slate Ford is a cliff, so he ignores it."
"Tyrell's greed has bought us his secrets," Siro said quietly.
"Aye," Robert laughed, a low, dangerous rumble. "He locked the front door, but he left the windows open."
He tossed the heavy purse of gold to the boy.
"Go sleep, Siro. You just saved the baggage train."
Robert turned to the tent flap, his voice booming with renewed purpose.
"Buckler! Get the sappers! Bring me every spare rope in the camp! And tell the infantry to tighten their boots—they have a muddy walk ahead of them!"
[End of Chapter 9]