Benjen I:
He was roused by his dreams of spring by his guard's loud shouting. That was the signal that dawn was just arriving and the first battle of this rebellion would arrive for Benjen. He was not ready and his hand shook even as he cleared the sleep from his eyes. They'd marched down the Kingsroad at a thundering pace until they were deep within the Riverlands travelling days and nights with only the shortest of stops. Word had been received by scouts of the small Darry host moving with dragon banners towards the fording of the Trident. The opposing army had left Castle Darry two nights ago and, as far as Benjen and his commanders knew, had yet to find out that they were so close. They may outnumber the enemy nearly four to one but the ambush would still be vital to victory.
Benjen donned his armour with the help of his friend Howland Reed; a man who was the size to be a squire even if the Crannogman was older than most yet to be claim knighthood. He was one who was not suited to ride, but had done so with a determination that was unequalled in the Northern host. It was the kind of fervour that his sister could inspire when she was at her best. Once ready Benjen exited his room into the tent proper where his commanders waited, nearly all with tired eyes. That was, apart from Lord Roose, who's eyes were steely and attentive as ever. Roose was of House Bolton; a family reviled in much of the North for their cruelty and ambition, but had offered good council so far. He was less than a decade older than Benjen, young to be a lord in what had been times of peace. Now, Benjen was a lord as well, and one who had only just seen fifteen name days. He remembered the raven's well.
The first raven arrived as he broke his fast and gave news of Lyanna's kidnapping, the words at first sent confusion through Benjen. No those words weren't right; it wouldn't be a kidnapping if the Dragon Prince was involved.
The second raven arrived as any other would but held more bitter tidings, 'Dark wings and dark words my little lord,' the Maester, Luwin, had said. He was the new Maester of Winterfell, though of an age with former Maester Walys, who had handled much of his learned education and died of a fever the previous year. He was clearly apprehensive and Benjen feared the worst. News had already come of Brandon's arrest and he'd found himself plagued with nightmares of what may have befallen his oldest brother. Even worse had been the news of the accusation that the Crown Prince Rhaegar had kidnapped his sister, Lyanna. Benjen knew that was not the truth, Lya had cried at the Prince's voice at Harrenhal and later she'd confided how sweet she was for the handsome man with silver hair. This was his fault, he shouldn't have listened to Lya and just told father. 'This will not be easy tidings. Are you ready?'
Benjen swallowed and hardened himself to the news. 'Tell me, I want to know,' His voice still had some of the pitch of one who had not yet come into his manhood. It annoyed him, and made him sound too young and petulant.
The maester shuffled the letter to his hand grasping it as he delivered the news, 'I am sorry my lord. The letter speaks of your father and your brother. The King has executed them for treason.' The world shattered and his breathe caught in his throat. The letter slipped through his fingers and fell to the table with silent thunder.
The boy swallowed with a shuddering sob, 'no, they've done nothing wrong. Why would this happen?' Luwin walked around the tale and gathered him with one arm in an embrace. Benjen felt with a second more he would be crying like a babe.
'What goes on in the King's mind is beyond our reckoning, or so I've heard. He's called for your brother's head as well, but he is in the Eyrie, far outside the King's reach. Lord Arryn struck me as a man of reason and loyalty from your brother's letters. It will be war instead; no king has ever acted so callously without rebuke.' The maester lectured in a soft voice. Even with the comfort Ben still feared for Ned's life. War, war was coming to the Seven Kingdom's and all because he hadn't told his father that Lyanna wanted to flee to Rhaegar's arms.
'We call the banners then, to wait for brother's arrival?' Benjen asked, he wasn't feeling himself, but he knew he must be useful.
'That would seem prudent, my lord,' Maester Luwin replied. The lords gathered quickly at the news, and Benjen had never seen the Northmen so angry and in such numbers. Rickard Stark was a somewhat controversial lord, but all united at the injustice of his death. First among the noble houses were Lord Cerwyn and then Lord Bolton, with eyes of grey frost. The latter a surprise to move so quick and with such loyalty, but Benjen was glad to have council from one who felt more like a peer.
The third raven arrived late in the evening as Benjen ate with the lords who had yet arrived. Luwin arrived late and had quickly called him away. 'What is it this time?' Benjen commanded of the Maester, he was practicing even harder to be a good acting lord of Winterfell.
Luwin looked as if he'd been strangled to get out the words. He'd taken the deaths of father and Brandon harshly and he knew the Maester was sore to give him any more dark tidings. The aging man had been supportive even if his council brought little comfort. 'It's your brother, Eddard, Benjen, a raven's reached us from the Sister's. His ship hit a storm and they presume him drowned. I am so sorry, Benjen.'
More foul tidings on black winged bastards. He did not think that he had more tears to shed but for Ned they fell anew. 'Gather the more prominent of the lords; we must decide what must be done,' he said that at least would give him time to think. He was the Lord of Winterfell now and it would be him who must march to war.
Here the lords were, Lord Cerwyn and Cassel, Lord Ryswell and Dustin and Bolton. A smaller group than was ideal, but it had only been a short time and decisions had to be made now. A lord must be decisive Benjen knew. Even if he, as a third son, had thought lordship of Winterfell a far off thought, he had seen his father act with his authority. He knew it was action that the lords of the North would respect. 'I will lead us to war,' he said with finality, once the lords were gathered in a more private room with him and Maester Luwin.
'That much is you duty, but it is the how that remains to be seen.' Lord Edwyle Cerwyn growled, 'we will all march to war, but I'll not endanger my men to the command of a green boy who's not prepared.'
Benjen had steeled himself for criticis,m silencing Lord Dustin when he was about to speak on his behalf. He had watched his father hold court many times, and knew it must be him. 'I may be inexperienced in war but I am the Stark in Winterfell and it will be my blade that ends the Targaryens.' He had practiced the words and more, others he had memorised from his father. 'Do not test my command Lord Edwyle, I am your liege.'
The older man kept his eye and it took all of Benjen's force of will not to look away. The lord's eyes were a cool blue but held a fire. He was by far the oldest of the lords present and was even older than Luwin. His age did not dull his words. Finally he growled, 'I see fear in your eyes Lord Stark, but less than my son Medger when he was your age. You can't let the men see it when you lead us or they'll never die for you.'
The young lord paused then breathed a light sigh of relief. He was glad to have garnered some support but even so he should not show too much relief. 'I shall be sure not to my lord, but be sure not to question my authority in front of other lords again.' A line he had taken almost word for word from his father, 'the question is when we will march and how best to prepare for a war that has dawned just as winter has come.'
Lord Creighton Cassel rapped his hands on the table, the man had the first hints of grey hair, 'We need to wait, gather as many of our men as possible before marching, if we're to face the armies of the south.'
'I would ere on caution as well my lords,' Maester Luwin replied, 'but we must also consider that the longer we gather at Winterfell, the more food our army will eat. We should not starve the smallfolk when our food supplies are already low.'
He made a good point. The year of false spring had not given the North enough time to recover from the last winter; the year would be hard enough on the smallfolk without new mouths to feed. Either way, Benjen did not want to wait too long, he could not sit here feeling useless while men died south in his family's name.
'If we cannot wait we should march as soon as we are ready,' Lord Willam Dustin stated, 'the sooner we have justice for Lord Rickard, Eddard and Brandon the better.'
'That was not what I was suggesting Lord Dustin,' Luwin replied, already seeming tired of those eager for war. Benjen could see his point well. If it had been another lord's family who had been executed he would have been just as eager for vengeance. Already having known the loss of family it seemed foolish.
'Swift action is needed, but not hasty,' Lord Roose said, as if unravelling a puzzle with his mind, 'we should not discount the benefits of marching sooner. We will need the lords of the Vale and Riverlands to be successful in this war and neither will have the unity that we possess.'
'Very insightful,' agreed the well built Lord Rodrick Ryswell, 'I met Lord Hoster at Harrenhal, he is a shrewd man. Even with Brandon betrothed to his first daughter he will wait to see how the winds blow before committing, we should help him make a choice.'
Creighton huffed disparagingly, 'You suggest marching on those Riverland lords declaring for the crown. You'd sooner push him to declare for Mad Aerys.'
'Or a show of strength would make him consider where his loyalties should lie,' countered Lord Willam. 'Benjen might even bag a trout for his trouble.' The young lord of Winterfell felt himself blush red in the face, Willam grinned back at him.
'The fact is that we cannot bring to bear even half our strength before the loyalist Riverland houses meet, or worse make it to King's Landing.' Creighton snarled his moustache wobbling.
'What Riverlords are most likely to join the Targaryens,' Benjen asked.
'My lord you cannot...' Creighton started again, but Benjen nodded to Maester Luwin to speak. He could feel Lord Bolton's eyes on him again.
'Both the Whent and Darry have close links to the Targaryen's through the Kingsguard, and the Mootons of Maidenpool have always been loyal to them as well, any more than that I cannot say.' Maester Luwin said thoughtfully.
'All near the mouth of the Trident. It would take too long to meet them with enough force, without risking them having near our numbers.' Benjen said despondent, before thinking for a second, 'unless the Arryn's can support us when we reach there.'
'I'm not sure we can guarantee that,' The old Maester replied, 'we know he had to march on Gulltown and the Vale is perilous to cross with opposition.'
Benjen considered the point. They would have to wait then, gather there forces for a time when Lord Arryn was more prepared. That might be at least a month; he would have to ask Maester Lu...
'Mayhaps there is another way to strike the loyalists,' the Flayed Lord interrupting his thoughts, 'Lord Ryswell, Lord Dustin, if the majority of your forces still lie in your lands then we can ride now and meet them at Moat Cailin. From there we could ride south.'
Lord Rodrik Ryswell stroked his beard, 'in my haste to reach here I did leave good men back. Two-thousand men plus the forces from the Barrowlands and the Neck would give us more than ten-thousand.' It was convenient but through chance made for a decent plan. Both their eyes turned to Benjen with that said and he could feel the rest of the lords, even Lord Cerwyn, waiting for his verdict as well. They were deferring to him, and Benjen had never felt so much pressure weighing on him.
'If we are fast enough then we win the Riverlands and gain a foothold till Lord Arryn or Tully can meet us,' he said rhetorically, 'I have made my decision we march as soon as we are able.'
They'd readied fast leaving Winterfell only three days after, setting a blistering pace. He left Maester Luwin there, who counselled caution in the plan. He must choose which men he can trust and act accordingly, he had said. Each day on the road weighed heavy on him, making it clearer that the men he supped with had placed their lives in his hands. He was a boy of fifteen who a few moons ago would never have considered managing a modest keep, yet alone Winterfell and an army. At the same time he felt another pull, his sister was gods know where with Rhaegar Targaryen. With all the other Starks dead her place was in the North and Benjen would bring her home.
He'd been careful to study the other lords as the new Maester said, Lord Cerwyn kept largely to himself but was brutally honest and a man who saw the truth of any situation, Lord Dustin was young, and japed and drank with all the men popular with young and old, Lords Ryswell and Bolton conversed often despite their gap in age , as did many of their men, the younger spoke softly and laughed little. For all his good advice, Benjen could not shake the feeling about the Lord of the Dreadfort. He always stared too long.
It was agreed that Lord Cassell would wait at Moat Cailin for the rest of the Northern force with orders to relieve command to Lord Umber when he arrived, they would not march south sooner. This was mostly done to get him out of his hair; despite having ten wolves for his sigil he lacked their natural thirst for violence. If Lord Cassell seemed cheerful at the news his sons did not. Both Martyn and Rodrik continued south with him and despite neither being fiery in their anger, they were eager to avenge House Stark.
Benjen was glad when they reached Moat Cailin, for Howland Reed was there waiting for him, the man was a friend to all the Starks since Harrenhal. He made for better company than the council of Lord Bolton and had been vital as well for passing through the northern hills of the Riverlands unseen. There had been men watching in the Frey lands, he had told Benjen, and he knew how to avoid them. He'd been vexed that the detour lengthened their journey by a day but he saw the necessity. Lord Walder Frey's reputation preceded him and it wasn't flattering. The rest of their journey had continued without delay but Benjen had accepted when Lord Cerwyn, Ryswell and Bolton all advised him to shoot down any ravens and capture any scouts they encountered. Better to return them to their lords once the royalists had been dealt with, than risk them informing lords of shaky loyalty. They'd also been forced to take supplies from the locals, with force at times, in their travels to feed the army on the way. All had counselled him that it was necessity, though Benjen worried that it might be the northern bias against the south that old Maester Walys spoke of sometimes. Either way, they needed more food, and urgently.
That brought them to their current camp which kept them close enough to the Darry forces so that they could intercept them just as they would be dreaming of setting camp and sleeping. The battlefield would lie only a short distance from the Trident, though where exactly they could not say till they were far closer.
Benjen sat at the table with his lords, a map of the surrounding area, as best their scouts could judge, dominating the table. The land just north of the Trident was filled with hills and spotted forests, perfect for an ambush if timed well. They had organised this all in past nights their positions in the army as well. The position of the enemy, and the organisation of their baggage train that was vital to capture for food, where they would make camp, their own formation, all had been determined. Benjen found it helped his nerves to review it though, 'We are ready then. Lord Willam commands the vanguard, Lord Bolton the left flank and Ryswell the Right. I'll be in charge of the centre and Lord Cerwyn the reserve.' The statements of plain truth sounded too much like questions to Benjen's ears.
'Then there is no more to be said, we know the plan,' Lord Cerwyn growled, it seemed to be his natural tone, 'let us make our final preparations then, rather than stay stuck here.' He looked to Benjen, 'you should make yourself seen in the camp, to give those who will die for you courage.'
'I will, my lord,' Benjen replied quietly. It was another hour before they left the camp and he made his rounds giving small talk and encouragement where he could. Howland said that he did well enough, but Benjen himself wasn't so sure.
His army marched close to the river, west of the Kings Road, so that they would engage the enemy from the flank they least expected confrontation from. The scouts had said that the Darry men had left more men in the rear than was normal for a marching army protecting its supplies, it was clear they were worried about an attack from behind. Once they found Darry's exact position, Benjen ordered the army to form up. The positioning wasn't perfect, they'd have preferred to hit them slightly earlier from the woods, this way they'd be forced to use the cover from a hill to obscure their majority. The enemy army created a brown scar on the green land, like the turned land from the plough of the Darry sigil.
The scouts on the ridge of the hill gave the signal and the vanguard charged, the sounds of horse and men becoming a cacophony. The centre, where Benjen led, hung back slightly watching from the ridge of the hill as the men smashed into the Darry flank. They'd mounted a rushed defence in front of the baggage train but the majority of their men still lay at either side of the train. The sounds of swinging blades, clashing steel and the screams of the dead began to rise and Benjen grabbed his sword with white hands on the pummel.
From what he could see the vanguard made it to within spitting distance of the carts before Lord Dustin called the retreat for danger of being flanked. The enemy centre may have been outnumbered but they were without a doubt fresher than the northern force. 'It looks like we lost more in the charge than we wanted,' said Howland Reed next to him, keen eyed as ever, 'still I think now is the time to strike.'
And so it was, the Darry force was ploughing troops into their centre and away from the baggage train for fear of losing their supplies. Now was the time for him to join the battle as well. Benjen drew his longsword lifting it to the air atop his horse ahead of the ranks. He must be seen.
His eyes lost focus for a second watching a spray of blood from a northern soldiers neck only just in sight. Benjen swallowed, 'For the North!' he bellowed out and began to charge. Similar shouts rose up, 'for Lord Rickard,' 'For Lyanna,' it heartened him that he'd inspired them enough for this. He'd thought the first charge was loud before, but this time the thunder was deafening. Every hoof of every horse made distinct cracks on solid earth, which he could here in perfect clarity and at the same time not at all. They hit the Darry soldiers on the move, they'd yet to form their thicker lines and the battle immediately turned into a melee as the northern vanguard allowed the centre through. Benjen lost sight of Howland, and he lost sight of Martyn and Rodrik Cassel who also charged with him. He was lost in the sea of northern grey clashing with the Darry brown.
The first man came at him, a poorly fitted footman with a spear targeting him without technique. Benjen may be young and without the muscle of a fully grown man but in the training ground such an attack would be child's play. This was anything but, the shear sound of the action almost stilled his hand and Benjen had to make a hasty block before countering with the momentum from the charge. He drew his first blood of a man who could barely swing a spear. Benjen kept moving forward, he was still a few men back from the furthest Stark man, but that did not stop him meeting more of the enemy. His sword struck two more before he found Howland and the Cassels again, he wasn't sure if he killed either.
'Looks like the bastards took the bait,' shouted Martyn Cassel after slaying a man of his own, his blade already looked far bloodier than Benjen's own.
'But we're losing men by the score,' he screamed back his voice a high pitch barely heard.
'Not much to be done with that now,' Rodrik pointed out, 'but look Lord Bolton and Ryswell have flanked them just as planned.' Benjen craned his neck; with the Darry men safely away from carts the Stark men had the wider force trapping them on three sides.
Another man, this one a knight struck at Benjen, with an axe which he parried before striking back. The blow nicked the armour but did not kill and the fight continued with them trading blows. Rodrik came to his aid striking the knight with force on the back of the helmet with a war hammer sending him off his horse into the mud. 'Did you spot lord Darry during the charge, we need to end this,' he shouted to his comrades.
'He was in the rear, my lord,' Martyn shouted back, 'but don't worry about that, concentrate on staying alive.' Benjen struck again with his sword at another body almost out of reach. The sounds of battle seemed to disappear and time lost its meaning. He tried to fight to Lord Darry, but it would be Lord Bolton and the left flank to claim him if anyone did. In the snapshots of rest he saw the enemy begin to flag and rout. The Darry men clad in brown shirts fell from their ranks like flayed flesh towards the baggage, train taking abandoned carts and sought to flee with their supplies. Others still set ablaze the carts to burn the food within, they were denying them provisions, Benjen realised.
'We can't let them burn the food,' he shouted, 'we need our knights to chase them down.'
Howland rode up beside him, he seemed in pain, but from the riding than from any blow he'd taken in the melee. 'We go to Lord Ryswell then, he has the majority of our horse on the better footing.' They rode together slashing and cutting till they found their way to the banner of the blazing golden horse, Lord Rodrik's personal sigil.
'We need to chase the routing men, if we lose the baggage train our strategy will be for nought.' Lord Ryswell nodded to him looking weary and Benjen took the knights with haste. They swept over the fleeing men as if they were ants, his men shouting in their blood thirst with each slain soldier. Benjen cut down a man with a flaming torch before riding through the maze of carts. They need each and every one with their army tired and hungry. The battle, if it could be called that, was chaos with barely enough room to steer his horse.
He felt a thundering blow to his back, colouring it red with torn metal. His horse unbalanced tripping on the wheel of the cart and Benjen found himself on the ground. The man at arms he faced wore black and bronze caked in mud, a Ryswell man, a loyalist hidden in their ranks? He parried a heavy blow of the sword feeling him arm bruise from the gravity fuelled swing. He took another this time he was prepared and made a riposte at the enemy's horse. The horse fell between them allowing the man to recover. Benjen could not see his face it was covered by a well made great helm with slits, his eyes invisible, a shadow in the steel. He was put on the back foot quickly, Benjen lacked manoeuvrability with the jagged metal spewing rivers of blood down his back, in a leaking grin. A few hard blows and his longsword fell from his hands as he tripped back at the mercy of a finishing blade.
It did not come. A knight, armour blazing in the dying sun barrelled into his opponent with his horse. The man in Ryswell dress flew back tumbling in the mud his breathe turned rasping. Benjen scrambled for his sword to see his enemy still on the floor the knight holding his spear towards him. Now he could see that it was Howland Reed who saved his life. The man looked between them with exaggerated motion, before flying into action grabbing a thin knife from his side and slashing his own throat beneath the armour. The image burned his mind as blood spurt from the slice quicker than Benjen had ever seen it, staining his surcoat and the grass crimson. The knife fell from the man's hand and Benjen was at his side trying in vain to dam the bloody tide, hoping to find what compelled the man.
'It is useless my lord, he is dead,' Howland Reed said softly.
Benjen swiped the hair and sweat from his brow with blood soaked hands, he must look much the worse now. 'The battles over now,' he questioned and the crannogman nodded. The hills had quieted of screams and steel, though the burning still remained. The north men were cleaning up the stragglers, the day was won, but Benjen could already tell the cost was higher than they'd hoped. He'd seen far too much death today. He looked to the fallen man at arms, 'who would have thought there'd be loyalists in the north, after everything?'
'It's worse than you imagine, my lord,' Howland Reed replied, 'the only reason to take one's own life when defeated is to avoid questioning. There might be other spies and traitors in our ranks.'
