Chapter 10

The Battle at the Old Stones

Ser Tyrek Lannet ignored the rolling fog that had yet to dissipate in the rolling hills of the northern riverlands, rolling onwards with his detachment of men as quickly as they did, his blood hot in anticipation of the battle to come. Word had arrived that the northern host was attempting to relieve their lord's kin trapped at Riverrun, but led not by Ned Stark and instead, by his unbloodied whelp, now found themselves forced to lay siege to Tully's own bannermen, at the Twins. His cousin had bit at the opportunity provided, leaving the heavy horse and half their foot, as well as the siege engines and the baggage train behind to continue the assault on the Tully stronghold, while the remainder of his force went north as quickly as they could, intent on joining up with the Freys and so smashing the northern force and with it, any chance – however slim mayhap it were – of the Riverlands continued resistance.

He grinned viciously at the thought as his horse trotted onwards. His cousin Jamie was not the only western man to grow tired doing naught but sitting outside the water-soaked walls of Riverrun, especially as word continued to come of Ser Kevan Lannister sacking holdfast after holdfast, from making new ruins at Pinkmaiden to the capturing old ones at High Heart. Now there would be bloodletting against the savages who worshiped animals and wore one another's skins as cloaks. There would be prestige and gold aplenty, and for a second son of a cadet branch such as himself... mayhap a keep and a small village of smallfolk in the conquered lands to be considered should he prove himself this day.

They had passed by Fairmarket, his cousin choosing to ford the Blue Fork downstream rather than lose time and men attempting to seize the bridge within the town. And the cravens had not even sallied southward to even attempt to thwart them! If he could see through the hills and woodlands, he expected by now that the ruins of Oldstones lay to the south, now on the far side of the riverbank as he and his thundered northward.

His dreams of gold and glory were cut short by a piercing scream from a rider on his flank, as he was flung from a horse that had been bloodied – there it was, two arrows pierced its belly. He scowled – though the Riverlands did not now field a proper army, there were always men willing to imitate cutthroats and vagabonds and claim they were but doing their lordly duty.

"Hack them down," he screamed to his men, kicking his heels and pulling slightly upon the reins as the formation curved rightward, towards their newly found tormenters. They would not get all of them, he knew from experience, but there was always some fool who insisted on firing one too many arrow, and they would at least cut him down and string him from the trees, so to avenge their wounded man and as a warning to other would-be soldiers with nary a thought of giving honorable battle.

To his horror, 'twas not another arrow or two that came, but a volley. Four more men went down in a torrent of kicking limbs and curses, screams of horse and man intermingling terribly. His eyes widened in surprise as from betwixt a grove of pines came a line of some ten and twenty men with shining pikes, professionally handled all, falling into proper stance and formation as the blades bristled outwards and his horses began to balk.

But 'twas not the end of the nightmare – for these were not even professional men-at-arms but from ramshackle units of the Riverlands – unfurling behind them was the raised steel gauntlet of House Glover. How could The Twins have fallen so quickly!

Then the arrow came –

– Domeric let out a roar of equal parts of exultant triumph and a release of held back fear, as the last of the horsemen peeled away, leaving a third of their number on the ground, dead around them.

"Forward, lads," through the haze – for he felt like a man drunk, though that morning he had hardly been able to eat nor drink – he managed to hear the sergeant screaming at him and his fellows. "You didn't kill those buggers for shits and japes, did ye? Rich horse-assed bastards like that are liable to have a coin or two and I want my share. Then we'll go find some more highborn shits with golden hair to slaughter."

Domeric had laughed and cheered with the men at that, as they advance on the fallen western men. To think that but two months ago he had been the son of a miller, expecting no lot in life than to work the job as his father had done before him, who in turn had done as his own father had done. But then Lord Stark had called his banners and Lord Glover had sent out a summons for men to come to the colors, and so Domeric had gone, and winning the silver stag for his troubles before being marched to Winterfell and put through a quick regimen before thrown into a line of men who were half green like himself, and half old hands at war as existed anywhere in the realm.

"You did good, lad," a grizzled pikeman with a shorn head and a scar along one cheek said with a grin as they approached one of the fallen knights, a sandy haired man not much older than himself. "That's a proper sword, like," the pikeman exclaimed, experienced hands untethering it from the corpse. "Look alive, lad – search his pockets, likely a few things hidden on him worth taking. But be quick about it."

He searched the body, ignoring the scream as his fellows slit the throat of another knight who had been not dead but grievously injured. There was a small purse around his own man's neck, which he handed to his new friend.

"Here we are then. A dragon! I'll take that and that'll be three stags and a handful of coppers for you – make sure you give one of 'em to the sergeant. Take his boots lad – good footwear, that, and looks about your size, thereabouts. I'll keep the sword."

Not minutes later the sergeant was screaming at them to form up once more, and he did so, feeling like a proper soldier now, with new boots on his feet and coin in his pocket, and a weapon that if not bloodied had done its bit to keep the enemy horse at bay so that the archers could do their deadly work.

Mayhap the enemy knew they were here now, and there would be no chance for another ambush. And soon enough they met another formation of westerners; he grinned, at this rate by sundown he would be a rich man, if every body yielded even only a single stag!

The men around him – trusted battle brothers, now! – hollered as they charged towards the enemy, full throated roars that would be remembered for years to come when they would jape and drink at Deepwood Motte. So quick was it that the frenzied bloodlust did not leave his lips even as the sword pierced his belly –

– By the Stranger how he had missed this! He had been a green boy when he had first set foot upon the shores of Pyke, eager but ignorant as the King sought to stamp out the rebellion of the Greyjoys. But since that day, when he had slaughtered his first Ironborn outside the city walls of the town of the same name, he knew this was what he had been born to do. And he had done it, putting down insurrections or bandits across the Westerlands but this! This was real war, once again!

He pulled his sword out of his opposite man – barely more than a boy with his first whiskers – heaving mightily as the dead lad's innards sought to hold his sword in place. But come out it did with a squelch, for he was no novice, and within a heartbeat he was gleefully smashing forward once more, ruining the face of another northern cunt with his shield, before making a quick jab, short and deadly and aiming true at the joint and sending the man to the ground in a scream of pain and terror before he fell silent.

And another, and another! There was the cunts' banner, twas so close. He might be the first, to seize an enemy colors. Why not-

Damn it all to hell, where had these western bastards come from. They were supposed to be sitting pretty with their cocks out around Riverrun, not all the way up here, north of the bloody trident!

The halberd was stuck where it had punched through the man's face, and there was naught time to pull it out before the next man was upon him. He cursed; for he had served House Glover faithfully for many years, and the thought that the banner should fall on his watch, even if he gave his own life, was a bitter one. Then there was a roar from the east, and its call was bittersweet, though mayhap it was better than no call at all –

– "Nobody takes a Glover banner unless he's an Umber!" came the great roar, screamed from three score men, not a one of them under six feet tall, and some closer to seven, mayhap beyond it. "No Glover but Umber! No Glover but Umber!" Onward they came, a torrent of men half-crazed with the battle, and they smashed relentless into the flank of the tiny westerners, sending them reeling backwards and snatching victory from them at the last moment.

Jon Snow – of no relation to the bastard of the same name at Winterfell – roared along with them, swept away as the western men fell back, some in good order but many others fleeing in the general direction of their fellows. Around him now, his brothers were reforming, the surviving knot of Glovers taking their colors from where it was jointly held by a greying Glover man and a giant brute of a westerner, face much scarred, and taking a position on the Umber flank – rivalry forgotten in the face of the southern enemy. "Forward lads!" –

– They were a poor house, but a proud one, the Westerlings. Ancient but lacking coin, prestigious but held in pity if not in contempt for their current lot. Unable to gain coin without lowering their own name in the process, and paralyzed as to which were the lesser poison.

As such, when Ser Jamie had sent the ravens from Casterly Rock, 'twas but a handful of horse that the Crag could offer. But determined to do its part and so mayhap gain some small favor from their liege lord, they had conscripted every smallfolk old enough to have hair upon his chin and of sufficient strength that he might wield the longbow, and marched with as many wagons of iron and foodstuffs as they could muster.

The wagons they had left behind at Riverrun, but the archers stood on a small hill overlooking a vale fast flowing with the blood of two armies, neither of which had anticipated the other.

The ebb and flow was hard to follow, but in truth this mattered little to Raynald Westerling, eldest son and heir to his lord father, who for the nonce rode with what few Westerling horse there were, and so he the son had been left in command of his father's foot. So it came to be that he held this nameless hill, hardy worth the term, along with men from the Golden Tooth and Sarsfield and Ashemark and Oxcross, long in swords but for the most part lacking bows, save the Westerling contingent.

"There, coming up through the vale!" came the loud and crisp shout of the Lord of Sarsfield's commander, a lowborn man whos name Raynald did not recall but had heard the man had done much to earn Lord Sarsfield's favor. "Looks like..." he frowned, squinting as the banners that did not unfurl as the wind had gone to ground. "Umber," he grunted at last. "With a contingent of another, though I cannot make it out from here."

"Arrows, ready!" he called out, and Raynald repeated the order, shouting at his own men. Even the men-at-arms began to tense, for 'twas but a flip of the coin whether or not their quarry would seek shelter or attempt to drive them from the hill, and the men below were giants, at least a head taller than any of his own, should it come to a melee...

"Fire!"

The arrows filled the sky, so thick and true that Raynald found it hard to imagine a single man in the vale could survive such an onslaught. But of course – as he had in truth known – many if not most did, and their fury was taken onto the men that had rained death upon them. The archers prepared another volley, and Raynald reached for his sword – 'twould be but another minute or two before the blades crossed –

– "Slaughtered to a man, my Lord!" the rider cheered, and Robb's heart sang with joy at the news from where he sat on his own horse.

"At what cost?" he asked, though one eye continued to watch the field, and where as the skirmishers raged in the woods and hillsides, the bulk of his strength waited for the horns, hidden as they were in the scrublands to the north of the battle's early blows.

"Not a few," the rider responded with a scowl. "They got three volleys off before we closed ranks, and 'twas not easy going uphill, but they broke first. Even took a few of the lords prisoner, such was our victory."

Robb nodded. "Make sure Lord Umber knows of his son's performance and I shall be sure to honor them once the battle is over, but for now," Robb's grin turned savage, and he looked up at the sky where the sun continued to rise, slowly burning way the fog, "now mayhap we seize this day. Lord Karstark, sound the horns!"

Two dozen horns bellowed out, as Robb made his way forward to lead from the front, and before the deep and haunting strain had finished washing over the field, the men were moving forward at a great speed – the vast army of foot of Cerwyns and Dustins and Karstarks and Boltons and Flints and Starks and Hornwoods and Whitehills, while he prayed to the Gods that though there were no Heart trees that they might watch the battle themselves, that they nonetheless knew the North shed blood today and so might sing stoutness into the hearts of every man. And, mayhap, that the horse of Manderly and Ryswell were more or less where they ought be. Then there were no worries nor doubts not mayhaps to be had, as Robb charged forward with his guard, slashing down on the main body of western men. –

– There was naught time for thought, only for action. Whether 'twas fate or his own folly that had led to this day, Jamie Lannister for the nonce cared not. Again, with iron discipline, his horseman pulled to a stop. Again, under threat of losing their own heads to himself or to the enemy should they stray, they reformed ranks and cantered back to where they had begun. And again, hearts tired and arms heavy from holding steel, they faced the woods once more, prepared to charge for the uncountable time should the enemy light cavalry come at his foot once more.

It was grueling, inglorious work, but any hopes of a quick and glorious victory had vanished with the fog, as their situation became clear. The Stark boy had played him well, damn him, and now he had naught to do but hold off the northern horse until his main body to the west could regroup from the unexpected assault, and hold so that the enemy could not envelope his flanks and pin him against the river like a wounded doe.

So far, his men were earning their coin... or saving their own scalps. There was a humiliation in being bested by the northern boy who had not fought outside the tiltyard till this morning, though how he had he did not yet understand, but better to deal with his lord father after the fact when he returned his army to Riverrun than be feasted upon by uncaring crows.

No more time for it – again his own foot reformed into the line, pushing towards the woods where the northern horse and skirmishers did lurk. Again, the northern horse sought to check them. Again he shouted the order for his own to meet them, the walk becoming a trot before they galloped at the foe once more, screams tearing from their lips and sweat falling from their brows. Again, the western foot held firm as the northern horse harried its flanks, seeking passage beyond the line of pikes to the men within. Men fell on both sides, by ones and twos, until the western horse threatened to hit like a hammer, whereby the northern horse fled back to their own defenses, the yellow bastards! Again, he stopped the horses, letting man and beast alike take a moment to breathe rank air, before turning around and preparing to do the same drill yet again, and praying to the Warrior that the northern men would break before his own –

– Theon could not have been content with his lot had his own father been here to witness this. He had been at sea for naught but a few weeks when the galley had docked at White Harbor, word waiting the moment he stepped onto dry land that he was to return to Winterfell. He had been annoyed at first, thinking Robb feared he would flee given the chance, as if he had not earned his trust, but then it had been explained that Lord Stark was missing and that Robb was sending his banners south, the horns screaming for war. And he had in truth – though he would certainly admit it not! – been touched that Robb had declared against the Maester's advice and that he would have Theon by his side, as his brother. And – he had grinned a bit at this, and more than once when he reflected upon it – Jon Snow had not yet arrived, off playing as a wolf engaged in some foolishness on the wrong side of the wall. 'Twas Theon who had come first!

And now Robb had entrusted him with a contingent of arrows of his own, and they fought a bloody, bitter battle with the western men, who sought to prevent Robb's horse from closing the trap he had managed to assemble on the quick. Though the sun was now past its zennith and the morning's fog was all but gone, he could not see the battle for the terrain was rough and so his eyes were fully focused on his own small part.

He had not expected battle to be like this; the stories he remembered from his own kin were of quick, coastal raids that were savage in their brutality but quick in their rendering; either the Ironborn were thrown to sea or the town they prayed upon was sacked with not a man surviving the onslaught – there was no back-and-forth, no battle of wits and strength of wills as to who could hold out the longest while taking one hundred tiny strokes towards destruction. This was the war of the Greenlanders, and even Ser Cassel's stories to him and Robb and Jon did not tell the whole truth of it.

But even so, his father would not one day begrudge him that! Had he not paid the iron price today to restock his quiver, or the golden ring now in his pocket, the finger of some dead westerner still attached? Had he not spilt Greenlander blood and showed that the Ironborn were as stout a man in battle as any from the mainland? Even the cheese that he had found but a second in which to eat had come from the enemy dead.

Quiver. Notch. Fire. Quiver. Notch. Fire. For seconds that felt like days and minutes that felt like hours, so did the stream of time bend so oddly under the fog of war.

And then, chaos. No longer the solid order of men and horse, but a melee, as one line broke and bled into the other, though who had beaten who he could not have said, so was the noise and confusion of the moment. All around him, men with pikes and swords and bows dispersed despite the shouts of their commanders, some falling back while others drunk with bloodlust charged the enemy.

But there! And for a moment, he gaped. One of the western horseman had jumped as his horse went down in a flurry of arrows, and his helm had come loose – though by the fall or by the rider's choice he did not know. But there was no mistaking the knight as any other than he had glimpsed at Winterfell, none other than Jamie Lannister, the Kingslayer himself.

Theon aimed, willing his hands to remain steady as he prepared to take his shot. And the Kingslayer stumbled, a jolt and the shot went wide by a hair.

And now turned towards where the arrow had come. Turned towards Theon. Turned towards the Ironborn who would slit his throat and so make a name for himself that would be sung by every maiden with legs to spread from Sunspear to Last Hearth! And Pyke and Lordsport and Lonely Light for good measure!

Theon charged, and he was pleased when he saw a glimmer of recognition in the Kingslayer's eyes.

"So, Robb sends his prisoners to do his dirty work," the Kingslayer smirked, sword at the ready, slashing with impossible speed.

"He fights alongside his brothers," Theon snarled in response, his bow abandoned for his short sword as he parried the blow. Just.

Another lesson was learned then, that stories of Knightly duels that last for hours on end, filling the air with a song of steel, had no place on the true field of battle. He wondered, why through all the din, he should recognize Harrion Karstark's voice, calling his name without even attempting to hide his fear, as if he were a woman who was about to lay with a man for the first time.

Especially, Theon thought triumphantly, as he himself had drawn first blood –

Notes:

You would be amazed by how often medieval armies and beyond could more or less crash into one another without a clue the other was there, or pass within miles and never know.

For the pedantic reader out there, "cousin" is used here as a general term for "roughly same-aged person that I share kinship with, through some line or other."