THE SOILED KNIGHT
The hours crept past as slowly as years.
Afternoon turned to evening and then to dusk. The sun cast shadows of a hundred different shapes, the moon a hundred more. Ser Arys Oakheart stood and watched, as squires carried water jugs this way and that, as armourers hammered dents from old steel, as camp archers practised by loosing arrows at men stuffed with straw. Come night, the camp followers made their first appearance, ladies shrouded in silk, creeping off to do their duty in the beds of knights and lords.
He was never alone, and yet he had never been more alone. All that kept him awake to the noise was the shudder of Ser Robert Strong's heavy breathing, and the subdued laughter from inside the king's tent. Enough, he thought, when his eyes threatened to droop closed. My mind must be awake, as well as my body. He curled enamelled fingers around the hilt of his longsword, reasurred by the supple leather on the crossguard. Ser Arys never felt more at home than with a sword in his hand.
Mercy finally came in the form of his Sworn Brothers Jasper Peckledon and Lorent Lydden, who appeared as the moon rose over the hill, as the tents melted into heavy darkness. "We are here to relieve you, Lord Commander," said Ser Lorent. As though it were not obvious. But Ser Arys Oakheart had picked the man for his sure sword arm, not for his quick wit.
"And not a moment too late." Ser Jasper sounded quite drunk. But who was he to judge? Speaking out against them would only prove Ser Arys a hypocrite; he too had been a foolish young knight once, under the disapproving gaze of Ser Barristan Selmy. A far better man that any of us, he thought.
"Is His Grace still with the Westerling girl?" Ser Jasper asked.
"Aye." Ser Arys nodded. "He has been for hours."
"I heard that they're going to get married back at Casterly Rock," Ser Lorent Lydden said. "If you want my opinion on the matter, His Grace should just have her now, before the battle; she's a pretty maid—"
"And that is why no one wants your opinion," Ser Arys said "The king is not going to just fuckthe Westerling girl. He's a boy, for the love of the Seven."
"I was fourteen when I had my first," Ser Jasper said, as if it were his sole crowning achievement. "Besides, he's no stranger to it himself. He had Lady Margaery, and—"
Ser Arys knew full well that nothing had happened behind the closed doors on the night of the king's wedding. There'd been no sound of any pleasure from inside the bedchamber that night, and Ser Arys knew that sort of sin all too well. Much to his dishonour…
"You have the guard," he told his brothers. "I'm going to make my report. And then I'm off to bed."
Without waiting for a reply, he ducked inside the tent.
King Tommen lay sprawled on his front across the bed, cupping a wine-goblet in his hands. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes seemed to have a mad glitter to them. Lady Eleyna Westerling sat at his bedside, laughing at some jape when he came in.
This had been the fifth night in a week that the king had invited the Westerling girl to sup with him, and each time she stayed later and later. Ser Arys knew that the notion of bringing the pair together had belonged to Princess Myrcella, but the king himself seemed amiable enough towards the notion.
"Your Grace," he said, bowing. "My lady."
"Ser." The Westerling girl was all cool courtesy. "Are you changing the guard?"
"Is it that time already?" King Tommen asked. "You should probably being going, Lady Eleyna. Ser Arys could escort you back to your—"
The girl shook her head. "I might stay a while longer, Your Grace. If it please you."
The king reddened for a moment, his face turning even redder. "Oh," he said, shrugging, "of course, my lady. Ser Arys, I will see you on the morrow, before the battle. You… you are dismissed. Tell… tell the Kingsguard they can go too. I'll get some rest. I'm going to bed soon."
"My lord." The Kingsguard knight closed the tent flap behind him. That girl will be in the bed with him soon enough.He was unsure what to make of the fact that the young prince who had abhorred violence was now leading an army to war. Times come and go. The world is passing strange.Outside the tent, he turned to Ser Jasper and Ser Lorent. "Share the night shift between you. If Ser Robert stays up all night, there will always be two of you on guard, and we do not need three. You will need to be well rested on the morrow."
And with good reason,Ser Arys thought as he left them behind. Stannis would be upon them come the dawn, like as not, and battle was a certainty. When the fighting eventually came, he would command a force on the right flank. Leading armies was a task that had been taken up by many Lord Commanders of the Kingsguard… but then again, Ser Arys Oakheart had never expected to be Lord Commander, not even temporarily. A thirdborn son, he had joined the Sworn Brothers at twenty, the youngest among his fellows. But with the departure of Selmy, the deaths of Blount and Moore and Greenfield, and the flight of Meryn Trant, he was the most senior among them, save for Ser Jaime Lannister. And if the Lord Commander wasdead, then he would be the youngest knight to ever lead the Kingsguard. Even now, he was not sure whether that was a curse or a blessing.
The camp was quiet at this hour. The woods that surrounded the camp at Sarsfield were full of whispers, but Ser Arys could not make out what they said. A few drunken soldiers were singing the Rains of Castamerearound a campfire, and the smells of charred meat were in the air. He saw Ser Raynald Plumm fucking a camp follower behind the grainstore, and sounds of pleasure were emanating from half the tents he passed. That was no surprise; many men found comfort in women on the eve of battle. Ser Arys almost felt a pang of jealousy at that, but his Kingsguard vows had never stopped him from having a woman before… for one, he was certain that Princess Arianne Martell had been on the verge of bedding him prior to Myrcella's return to the capital.
I should stop pretending to be so virtuous,he told himself. It was even harder to do so when he got back to his tent and found the girlwaiting in his bed.
"You shouldn't be here," he told her.
"Send me away, then." Lady Rylene untangled herself from the bedsheets. Arys did not know where she was the lady of, and did not care. Nothing mattered when he was with her. Oathbreaker,a voice screamed in his head. You oathbreaker!
She rose, and the soft silk of her grey gown clung to her shapely figure as she did so, baring her legs to the night chill. Beneath his enamelled armour and woollen undergarments he felt something stir. A deep-rooted lust, his most shameful urge, his fatal flaw. "I looked for you earlier today," she said, as she tickled her fingers over his breastplate. "But I couldn't find you."
His breath caught in his throat. "I was with the king."
"Of course. Will you be taking a command on the morrow, my lord?"
He nodded. "On the right. It's the Lord Commander's duty."
"Will His Grace be there with you?" she asked, in a voice as soft as summer silk.
Ser Arys shook his head. "He won't be at the front. That's where Stannis is going to be."
Her cheek was warm to the touch when he put his hand there. Ser Arys felt his palm shiver as she coaxed him to her left shoulder. He threaded his fingers through the ties of her gown, and broke apart the clasps with a gentle click. And the silk slipped away at his slightest touch, baring one of her lovely breasts. She was not particularly well-endowed, but her nipples were pink and perfect and firm and—
"My lady," Ser Arys said hoarsely, "you know I cannot do this. My duty—"
"Will your duty object to me touching you, ser? Can she fight for your honour? I think not." Her hands trailed lower down his breastplate, then into his breeches, towards his hardening cock. Arys tried to turn away, to hide his shame, but she grabbed him there and pressed his lips to her cheek. "My sweet silly valiant knight."
"I-I shouldn't…"
"No," she said, "but that will not stop you." Her fingers tickled his neck, rubbing soft circles there. She unbuckled his cloak and let the white silk flutter to the floor of the tent, a bird without feathers. "My sweet chivalrous brave knight." She kissed him with lips that tasted of cherry and sandalwood. Unconciously Arys's hand cupped her breast and stroked the nipple. No, he thought, no, I must…
She sat him down on the bed, and sat behind him, unclasping his armour. "You seem nervous, my sweet knight." Her hand tousled through his hair. "What ails you?"
Arys stood, tried to turn away from her. But he was weak and feeble, and down below his cock threatened to rip through his breeches entirely as she pulled away vambraces and gauntlets of lobstered mail with one hand, while the other stroked inside his smallclothes. "I am nervous," he admitted, "I've never led men before. Archers and cavalry and all that… five thousand men, all depending on me."
"I thought you had six thousand."
Arys shook his head. "Ser Addam sent scouts down into the forest, I—"
"I'm sure you have a plan," she said. "Don't you?"
"Aye… it wasn't much of a plan. Ser Addam… defensive, of course… but he wants us to press forward at the right time, at the signal… I don't even know if I'll hear the signal, amid the battle. And if we have to attack ourselves… if they don't come by afternoon. If we are attacked on our right, we are weak on that side, and if they come from the woods—"
"Hush now." Her hands removed the heavy plates that covered his shoulders, and shrugged him out of his mail shirt so he was only in his underclothes. "Are you afraid?"
Arys let her lips brush against his another time. "Yes," he whispered into her ear, "yes, I am."
"Let me make you brave, then." He could feel her hand cupping tighter still around his cock. "I shouldn't," he tried to tell her, but she placed a finger on his lips and eased him back into the pillows, dragging his breeches down, laying kisses along his front. "You shouldn't. But you will. I am yours, and you are mine."
This time he met her lips willingly.
Why, why, why? old Ser Barristan's was shouting in his ear, but he never heard it. Jasper Peckledon fucked a different woman every night. At least Ser Arys Oakheart was true to his mysterious lover.
He pushed her dark hair aside and kissed her neck, biting at her breasts and her face. Then she turned him over and fell upon his cock, moaning out her pleasure as the feel of her cunt swathed him like a velvet blanket. When his time came, he screamed out her name, but he had the foresight to pull out just in time to spill his seed across her belly. The second and third releases had all but exhausted him, so he let her take her own pleasure and then fell back onto the bed as she finished him off. As the night grew old, the pair remained, entwined as serpents might, until the knight fell asleep in a haze of pleasure…
…and woke to the sound of drums booming like thunder in the valley, to warhorns blaring through the dawn air. Stannis,he thought at once, Stannis is here.He barely had time to spare a thought for the vanished Lady Rylene as he pulled on shirt and breeches and gauntlets and greaves, and pulled his chainmail shirt over his head. His white cloak sat strewn across the floor, stained by his own seed.
The shame that flooded his cheeks was like nothing he had ever known. Oh gods, oh gods, forgive me.He pulled the cloak on, checked the buckles and straps of his armour and forced his way out into the morning. The warhorns did wait for him, their deep, sonorous music ringing out across the world. They are here, it sang. They are here, they are here, they are here.
He took a deep, long breath. The master-of-arms back at Old Oak had taught him that. All your lessons will amount to nothing if you cannot remember the first. There must be calm before the storm.
The camp did not seem calm, though. The rain lashed down in thick black sheets, the droplets raking his cheeks like knives. You are a Kingsguard,he reminded himself, as Ser Barristan Selmy had once told him, so guard the king.King Tommen's pavilion was not difficult to find, being at the very centre of the camp, marked by a dozen waving Lannister pennants.
Smoke and music filled the air. Arys passed a band of marching boys playing the drums. Ser Kennos of Kayce was blowing the Horn of Herrock at the top of his lungs. "Ser Arys!" Ser Addam Marbrand shouted over the sound of the rain. "Ser Arys, why are you here? To your men, ser, on the right, quickly now; Lord Tytos is waiting to sound the advance!"
"Advance?" Arys's voice came out as a croak. "But the king—"
"—has three other Kingsguard knights to guard him, does he not?" He turned Arys away roughly, back towards the front lines. "Go on, ser!"
The walk back through the camp left him feeling drunk. His feet did not feel like his own and his vision was hazy. Arys turned his head and spat in the grass, hoping to clear his head. The spittle dribbled down his chin instead.
Wet ground,he thought, everywhere, so, so… wet…
He staggered on a patch of mud and nearly fell. Crossbowmen ran past him through the predawn gloom, holding torches in one hand and their weapons in the other. The smell of wet leather filled his nostrils, and the rain beat against the top of his helmet, the droplets like a drumbeat on the steel. Arys's head rang from the clamour.
Thunder burst through the clouds and a forked bolt of yellow lightning split the sky. Perhaps it was the flash of light, or perhaps the loudness of it, but something spurred Ser Arys back into motion. He bundled up the hem of his white cloak – though he would've been better served by ripping the damn thing off – and began to run.
Torches bobbed ahead of him. A light mist was settling over the field, getting darker and thicker as he ran further. In the end he could not see more than twenty feet in front of him.
Where in seven Hells is our bloody line?he wondered. It hadn't lookedthis far away. If that fool Tytos Brax hadn't decided to advance so early, then mayhaps—
His toe caught in a rut and a stabbing pain went up through his ankle. His sword clattered in its scabbard and landed in the mud. Ser Arys retrieved it, wincing, and staggered the rest of the way down the hill.
And he found the army at last — part of it, at any rate. The men crouched behind wooden barricades, cowering with their crossbows and spears. Wind whipped their faces and the rain pelted down on their heads. Barely half of them looked alert. The line stretched into the grey mist in both directions.
"Squire!" Ser Arys shouted, not even knowing if one was about, "a horse, fetch me a horse!" A boy hurried over from nowhere, dragging a chestnut rounsey by the bridle. The squire helped Arys up onto his mount and passed him the reins.
Up here on the horse's back he could make out another line of men, and a few vague orange lights through the fog. Torches? Flaming arrows?
He looked towards a man in a captain's armour and pointed into the mist. "Who commands out there?"
"Lord Brax!" the man shouted back. "He saw them coming up the hill unawares and took half our force out, ser!"
"Stannis's men? How many?"
"I don't know, m'lord. But there's too much o' this damn fog to get any arrows off, and the rains soaked through all of our bowstrings. And we can't unstring these crossbows or anything."
Ser Arys was aghast. "Haven't we got any longbowmen?"
"No, m'lord. Lord Tytos took all those as well, trying to find better ground, I think. Like I said, he saw Stannis's men and went down there—"
No,the Kingsguard knight thought, no, no, no. This is all wrong. The king wanted us to defend this ground, not attack across it.
The king is a boy of four-and-ten,his better sense reminded him. He let out a sigh. "No good can come of having our flank split in two. If Brax has gone forwards, then we must follow. Captain, find your fellows and prepare your battalions for a forward march. And you, boy, squire, find whoever is in charge of our cavalry and tell them to rally to me."
It was a long ten minutes before any of those tasks were done. There was no interruption from Ser Addam or the other command, no word from Tytos Brax, nothing at all. Another squire brought him a Myrish lens. It was of no use, though. The gloom was thickening, drowning the world in grey ashes.
In the end, there were only about a hundred knights and twice that number of freeriders. He gave some commands, but it did not really seem that anyone was listening. We should defend these lands,King Tommen had said. What of it? Ser Arys Oakheart put his heels into the flanks of his horse, drew his sword and led the way.
The cavalry streamed out behind him, their hooves splashing through the morning rain. The mist began to thin as they went deeper and deeper into the valley, and he could make out more of his own men, or perhaps Lord Tytos's, grey shadows that jumped out of his way as he rode. The field was dark, and without torches to light their way he was blind to any proper sense of direction. So they went forwards, and hoped for the best. Stannis,Ser Arys thought, Stannis, we have to get to—
Then his horse caught in a rut or a spike, and the next he knew he was falling, flailing, and coming down heavy. Worms and blood filled his mouth as he lay there, watching the other horses thunder past. An archer lay dead in the mud beside him, bleeding from a few fresh stab wounds in his side.When Ser Arys turned his corpse over, he saw the Lannister lion on the front of the man's leathers.Stannis must be here. But where in seven fucking Hells is Tytos Brax?
He turned, feeling dizzy. Clumps of mud clung to his sword. He wiped them off with one gauntlet, took a step forwards. The ground was so waterlogged that when he pressed his foot down on the grassy clump beside him, the mud trickled out like blood from a sponge.
His eyes drifted back to the dead Lannister soldier… and then to the next… and then to the next. The dead were all around him, Lannister and Baratheon both, the remnants of Tytos Brax's men and those Stannis had sent against them. All the while the rain pelted down on his helm, ringing his head like a bell. He reached up to the strap under his helmet, pulled it loose, and threw the helm down, letting the rain wash the sweat from his hair. Lightning crackled overhead, and faintly, far-away, Ser Kennos of Kayce was still blowing the Horn of Herrock. The horsemen thundered all around him, their mounts slowing down, tripping and falling as they waded out into the quagmire.
"My lord!" someone was shouting to his rear, "my lord, they're behind us, they're here, they're behindus!"
There must be calm before the storm,Arys thought, oddly peaceful. And then, as though mocking his words, lightning flashed down, turning the world around him white. In that brief flash, the fog died away, and he saw them, Stannis Baratheon's men running onward through the mist. Coming towards him.
And the dead rose.
They climbed from their graves in the wet black mud with swords clutched between gauntleted fingers, with maces and pikes and spears, with mud clinging to the their tabards and their armour, dirtying their skin and hair. They rose all around them, to the front, to the back, to both sides. Black monsters with blinking white eyes, and stags emblazoned upon their shields.
And so he spoke, and so he spoke, that lord of Castamere.
"Retreat!" someone shouted, "Get away, get back, go, go, go!" And Arys found himself echoing the call, fleeing as the enemy bore down upon him, struggling in his heavy steel. And the rain came down still, as though the Stranger were weeping tears at their expense. Ser Arys could only watch as men collapsed into the mud all around him, as the mist brought more of Stannis's howling monsters from the gloom. Dogs were barking, horses whinnying, men screaming out the calls for a retreat. His feet were sticking, stuck, gone. He fell.
But now the rains weep o'er his halls, with not a soul to hear.
A man bore down upon him, his spear raised. Ser Arys went for his sword, brought it up and across, and felt blood spray his face through the rain, through leather and flesh. Then someone wrenched his arm up and screamed at him to keep going, back towards the lines, towards the Lannister lines.
Seven hells, where were the lines? Where was anyone? He crashed into another enemy soldier, brought him down, drew his dirk and slashed it across the man's throat. Arys was bleeding by then, from a joint in his left knee.
The king,he thought, despairing, I have to get back to the king. He will know, Ser Addam will know, the day is lost, but the king is not—
He spotted a torch flickering, and then another, a third. And there came a whole battalion of men, armoured with in mail and leather, and one man at the centre of them all, bearing a sword that seemed to glow. Pennants flapped over their heads, a golden stag prancing inside a flaming heart.
Stannis,he knew, somehow. It was Stannis.If only Ser Arys could get to him, kill him, the war would be won at once, and he would be a saviour… or a martyr.
Once, as a boy at Old Oak, his mother had told him stories of Ser Olyvar the Green Oak, who had fought and died beside Daeron the Young Dragon in the Prince's Pass. A martyr, aye, but all men of the Reach know his name.
He was an Oakheart too. Our roots go deep,he thought, and charged. His sword felt weightless in his mailed fingers. His white cloak – more green and brown than white now — fluttered behind him. All that mattered was him and Stannis. Two men, one fight. Twenty steps away, ten, five…
"FOR OLD OAK!"he screamed, swinging.
Stannis brought his glowing blade up to parry the wild strike, and turned it away almost lazily. He ducked a second swing, then made his own attack. The burning sword flashed down like lightning, almost blinding Ser Arys. In his light mail and sparse oddments of plate, the king was faster than the knight, and the mud did not slow him nearly so much. Eventually they backed apart. The light made the rubies glow in Stannis's helm, and firelight flashed along his jaw.
Arys went at him like a man gone mad. The battle fever was upon him. His hair in his eyes, the white cloak whipping around him like a whirlwind, his sword flashing down upon Stannis again and again and again and again with relentless fury, each blow wild and angry. But every time the Kingsguard knight attacked Stannis was there to block it. Wisps of smoke hissed off the king's blade. Arys lunged, Stannis ducked, and forced his sword upwards.
Ser Arys Oakheart's sword dropped into the mud. The rain brightly glimmered off his mail. He felt blood trickling down under his left arm, flooding across his chest. No matter,he thought as he went to his knees, the rain will wash it clean again.
Stannis Baratheon stood over him. His knights waited in a circle around them, ready to intervene at any moment. In the king's hand, the glowing sword had turned a bright, burning white. "You are Kingsguard to this false bastard," said Stannis. His voice was ice, but his eyes were fire. "The day is lost to you, and the war. But yield your sword, ser, and you may live yet."
"Never," spat Ser Arys Oakheart, without quite knowing why. Mud dripped from his lips. "To the seven hells with you." My sword—
One of the knights kicked it away.
"So be it," said King Stannis. His words smoked in the chilly air. The burning sword descended. And darkness fell.
Author's Note:
Wait, you say, is that it?
To which I reply: yes, it is. The Battle at Sarsfield is written to be deliberately confusing, muddled and underwhelming, but I think that's what lends it a sense of uniqueness. Though I did consider various POVs both in the Lannister and Baratheon camp, I think Ser Arys Oakheart seemed the most appropriate. He's able to get into the thick of the battle and yet he can still interact with some of the higher-ups in the Lannister command (if only briefly).
Another aspect of Ser Arys's character that is interesting is the way that he is the epitome of one of mankind's flaws - a soiled knight who cannot resist his own urges and lust. 'Lady' Rylene is just a regular camp follower, like Shae - nothing special - but he tries to convince himself that he is somehow more righteous by maintaining his 'loyalty' to her.
In terms of the actual battle, obviously this is a very convincing win for Stannis's side, who manage to rout the Lannister army and break their defense, owing in part to strategic skill and in part to the foggy weather - though Stannis may have been able to predict this in some way, thus it can also be attributed to good strategic planning.
This chapter was very hard to write and even harder to edit, and yet I don't think it's among my better work. Unfortunately, I've lost the writing streak and the inspirations that I maintained over the summer and I know that I can't keep up the pace of uploading new work every 3 days, both due to my real life commitments and this temporary writer's block I've run into.
Therefore, I'm planning to take a hiatus from uploading THE SUNSET KINGDOMS, though I will still be writing it (albeit slowly). Hopefully, this will give me the time to think about my writing more without the pressure of constant uploads, and the space to get back into the spirit of writing. This hiatus will probably last somewhere around 2 weeks, so I'm afraid you'll have to find other fics to occupy yourself with until my next upload.
I will not give up on this fic, though. I'm going to keep writing for as long as you guys are willing to read it.
Thank you all so very much for your continued support.
