Robert II
Already more men were streaming up the ladder to join the first wave where they stood battered and bruised on the wall. Of the four hundred who had accompanied him atop, just over half remained on their feet, and many looked like to drop after their first taste of battle. Robert was thankful for all the time he had spent training in the thin air of the Eyrie, yet he sympathised, he felt fit to nap under the nearest corpse.
Still he commanded Ser Vardis and Ser Artys to form the men up behind. Ser Godric had been wounded as he held Robert's rear, and was bleeding from half-a-hundred cuts. Nonetheless he refused to quit the field, taking up Robert's standard with both hands. Now the stag has finally seen me do deeds worth my name, it can stand to watch me do a little more.
Robert hurried to organise his ranks and see the wounded lowered to be taken back to the surgeons at his camp. He knew he should not waste time – the battle for the wall had taken longer than he had anticipated, and for all he knew Grafton reinforcements were inbound. Even so he waited till the last man was clear before he marched down from the battlements, beating his new axe against a stolen shield. Torn from the corpse of some minor lordling, it bore the sigil of a horned god with hounds snapping about the heels.
"Ser Patrek", he turned to the Gull's bastard with a smile, "I believe you know the way."
"That I do m'lord, that I surely do."
They marched through the streets behind their guide, all voices strangely muffled by the abandoned rows of houses, the freemen having fled to the tall grey citadel which loomed up against the mountainous background like a defiant spear thrust against shield. The whitewashed stone and shuttered eyes of the houses amid the silence reminded Robert of the wynds of a boneyard. Even the echo of steel footfalls was insulated, as Robert's army of ghosts marched, invisible to the eyes of the living. His remaining eight hundred moved up Seamster's Row without opposition, Ser Patrek taking care to avoid any route in which they might become hemmed in. They took shortcuts which led to long delays, at one point across sturdy lead rooftops that surely must have been a row of traders' manses, in order to bypass streets liable to barricade (Robert personally had to move along the line to cuff any man fool enough to rip up their path). But the way was unopposed - until finally they stood before Merchant's Cross.
The shiny cobbles gave way to a junction where they finally found the foe, huffing and hauling itself up. They must have scurried here at speed once they had realised Robert had no intention of taking the Northern route that led to the gates of the Citadel, and instead had moved diagonally to the South. No doubt to take the fortress by surprise or to fall upon the defenders of western gate from the rear.
And Robert's men were completely exposed. The first crossbows sang as men fell about him. One bolt whistled through the air to bury itself just under Robert's knee, causing him to fall with a curse while more whistled overhead. His troops, as quick as they had come, vanished back into nearby side streets to avoid the hail of arrows. Robert hated crossbows. Yet here he was all but alone in the middle of the road, as Grafton men placed new bolts into the contraptions, while he lay there, unable to stand as each effort grated the head of the dart deeper into bone. And the wounds he had taken on the wall seemed to seep into the dirt like tendrils pulling him inexorably into the earth.
Yet unbeknownst to him, Robert was not to die alone. Ser Godric, with a speed that belied his portly frame, tossed the banner to the men cowering beside him, and charged out into the arena with a yell, blood surging down his chest and arms. The crossbowmen vacillated between the two targets as Fatlips ran to Robert where he lay. One man made his choice and let the quarrel fly, punching through plate and mail, directly into Lipps' belly. But the fat fool refused to yield, and charged forth, sword and shield forgotten, to where Robert lay in the shit-stained cobbles.
Run, Robert tried to croak, run you poor brave halfwit.
He willed himself the strength to stand, yet only succeeded in bringing a wave of fresh agony. This was a fool's plan, with a tail of simpletons to match it, it was no surprise that it had been suffocated in its infancy. He had left Jon to face the gate alone, his careful strategy in tatters. The men he had spoken to so bravely were led into the steel jaws of a trap.
Ser Godric did not run. More arrows flew, but he moved uncaring when the struck. As Robert drifted towards the veil of comfortable sleep, he felt the pull of steel arms beneath his armpits, dragging him back to the living veil as he was hauled reluctantly to his feet,
"Please my lord," Lipps spoke weakly as he turned Robert away from the bows, shielding him with his own body, "I cannot do this alone."
Robert then and there cursed the Stranger, and willed his good leg to stand beneath him, hopping as Lipps half carried, half dragged him forward. Then he felt the jolts, Robert did not know how many, and a spasm that groaned like a lighting-struck oak. Then and there, Ser Godric Lipps fell atop him, scarcely three feet from the alley he had sought to hide. But it was enough. Those within braved the rain for a moment to roll the weight from his back and drag him to safety. Robert looked to see the body where it lay – a single eye seemed to glare accusing, as ichor ran from between the huge pink lips on his surcoat. Robert threw open his helm as he turned from the dead man's gaze.
"M'lord", one of his rescuers begged, "we must find Ser Patrek and take to the wall, they have twice our numbers ahead and we are scattered."
"Aye", a grizzled sergeant groaned contemplatively, stroking the feathers of a quarrel that protruded from his shoulder, as if wondering how it had gotten there. "Begging your pardon m'lord but we should use the rooftops again, your leg will just have to stand it. It'll give us more of us more of a chance as it were, they've got them bows and we haven't."
Robert looked at them, letting disgust cloud his indecision, before violently shaking his head, sending sweat spraying from his brow. "Fuck that, and Others take any man who says otherwise. If we retreat our route will become a killing field; as you say, 'they've got them bows and we don't'. I won't leave my first battlefield like a fox fleeing the trail, and nor will you."
He could see the hesitation plainly etched their faces. They mean to leave me here as they make their escape. The wroth that filled him at the realisation sufficed to propel one last effort; Robert lunged forward, taking the sergeant by the throat, and slammed him to the ground. His head swam, but Robert was heedless, he drew his dirk to rest comfortably under the folds of the man's chin. The others hung back; fear well apparent.
"For you sergeant, I offer a choice. You can bleed here with me as your good fellows exit the stage to leave our corpses so nobly in the muck. Or you can bleed out there, and regain some of the honour you've just abandoned in this foul alley."
Robert's leg screamed in protest where it lay crooked on the man's chest, but he ignored it as he gazed into frightened eyes.
"Out there, m'lord, if I must," the sergeant whispered close enough that Robert was the only man of them to hear, "only I'd sooner not die at all."
Robert could not help but smile at that. "So would every man, but the gods give no one that particular offer." He heard more quarrels loosed; the men behind must have revealed themselves. If it was to escape, then Robert knew that he must act quickly. "But I give you the choice they won't. Live or die. Choose. Choose."
"I choose you m'lord, I swear I do."
Robert liked the lack of hesitation and rolled himself off. "Then pull this fucking thing out of me, or I swear by the justice of the gods, your own leg will swell, and mortify, and burn, until some leech saws it off."
Thankfully the sergeant quickly obeyed, he had plainly done this before. Robert gave a bull-like bellow as in one fast motion the bolt was drawn forth dripping with gore.
"Very well", said Robert, testing his leg under him as it screamed and bled. It would not stand very long, but Robert did not care. "Not bad. You good sergeant, you may take up my banner. Carry it as bravely as Ser Godric had, and I'll reward you beyond your wildest dreams. If not, that stag will go so far up your arse you'll grow horns."
Robert gathered up the arms that Ser Godric had let fall and charged forth to the next alley. The fools who held the road did not bother to advance while the rebels were scattered, they trusted in their bows to whittle the escapees down. He repeated this again, and again, yet by some miracle avoided being hit himself as men fell about him. He chivvied, and he threatened, and he promised, but by the the fourth attempt, he had collected a hundred men, along with six knights, with Ser Patrek to lead them. It was enough.
And so it was Robert charged forth into the waiting line, trusting that those he had not the time to gather would follow, for as it stood, he was ten times outnumbered. And more men were collapsing as those hated crossbows pounded into his ragged line. Only the force of his will seemed to prevent a collapse, that, and the fact the leader of the bowmen failed to maintain ordered volleys against the charge.
Still on he came, waving Lipp's sword above his head with a cry, as he and Ser Patrek fell upon the first line of spearmen. The sergeant carrying his banner fell, pierced by a spear straight through his eye and into the grey beneath, yet another man bore it up proudly as it waved overhead in an invitation to attack. Robert's battered armour still he trusted, to turn away countless blows as he threw himself into the line of shields. That effort failed, but the vicious overhand he threw crashed down upon the helmet of the man afore him succeeded. It rang straight into the thin half-helm with scarcely a sound and stuck in the skull beneath. The man collapsed without so much as a gasp, and Robert found himself armed only with fist and shield. He used the gap he had made to swing the latter about in an arc, shoving the man to his left off his feet. But the men-at-arms in front soon fell upon him, and Robert was hard pressed. His size and weight made but a slight difference in such close confines. So he withdrew slightly, taking up the fallen spear.
"LYANNA!" He roared, as he threw it with all the strength of his arm. His aim was true and the distance short, the tip took a great bearded axeman through the throat, bypassing mail and leather, straight through to breath fresh air on the other side.
"LYANNA!" Was the answering cry. Unseen by Robert, more men had come up behind over the corpses of their comrades to crash into the line with him, rocking the wall of spears askew, as each man lost the cover of his brother's shield. "Lyanna!" they shouted, "Lyanna!"
Robert howled as a spear bruised against his hip, and howled again in his anger as the chant was taken up again. The men beside him duplicated his berserk fury, each of them fighting as for their stolen bride:
"Lyanna! Lyanna! Lyanna!" Again and again they charged, past or into the spears, into the ranks of men behind. They fought and they fell, but they did so with the masque of demons, and Robert ever led them, like hellish legions summoned forth to fulfil his vengeance.
It was then the Grafton commander sent in his reserve, forty knights on barded steeds, through his own line, to divide Robert's forces between them. As they were slowed amidst the to-and-fro of the battlefield, Robert yelled for Ser Artys to meet them, only to see the knight had been felled by a rain of hammer blows; the facetious sunflower yellow of his arms was dyed red with lifeblood where he lay. Instead Ser Vardis answered, leading his own motley fighters to hold the line to where the cavalry struggled toward, hoping to turn their momentum to morass.
This was Robert's moment, the charge was ill-timed, having shoved the lines ahead into disarray while Robert's own men moved into position. He saw the enemy commander at the rear of his knights, carrying the bloody tower of the Grafton's. He was dressed in silvered steel, with pauldrons fashioned in the shape of gulls straining to lift the man as they took flight. Sapphires pinned a cloak made of white feathers that tossed in the wind.
Why has he come to battle dressed as a chicken? Robert wondered in a moment of mad confusion.
In that moment of brief respite Robert knew what he must do. He gathered a company from the right headed by Ser Patrek and pointed to the enemy commander with his newfound mace, though for the life of him he could not recall from where he had taken it.
"Shall we do the honours Ser?"
"Aye m'lord", came Stone's muffled answer as he raised his sword. "Today would be a waste if there were a Grafton to lead these fine men to hell."
They set forth in a wedge, punching into the enemy's flank, crying "Lyanna!" and occasionally, "Robert!". Soon their attacked spilled over into the right-hand junction of the street, finally gaining their way through the enemy lines. Robert was rather enjoying the great flanged mace as he stove in the helm of a dismounted knight. The knight rose again – a pity, for Robert swept aside his blade, and kicked him square in the chest. He fell fell also, he had forgotten of his wound and now the pain consumed him – he was glad to know his tears were hidden by the grim helm that shielded his face. He barely remembered what occurred next, only coming to when he brought down his mace in anger for what must have been the twentieth time, as plate and skull disappeared into a mess of hatred. Robert had never felt so tired in all his days.
That was where the first man fled, a watchman in a grey cloak threw down his spear and ran. The coward was not swiftly followed, though his fellows were caught by surprise as Robert's men took their flank, burrowing through like a maggot in a corpse. There they came upon the rear of the reserve. Ser Patrek began duelling with the standard bearer, his sword longing to reach up, yet the man was skilled, turning his horse away to hammer down upon his relation from above. Robert had engaged with a knight whose shield bore the unknown sign of a dancing wyvern. That was provocation enough for Robert, who halted lamely past the falling morningstar, sending the head of his mace to break the Wyvern Knight's leg with a crunch. The knight screamed, attempting to both pull his gauntlet to yield and master his flailing horse, but the tide of battle turned before Robert could accept his surrender.
He was brought beside Ser Patrek, who had leapt in close to send his blade screaming uselessly against steel, shouting obscenities as he did so. Too much for too little, the silly sod is going to get himself killed taking risks like that, but Stone was clearly incensed. The Grafton man once more demonstrated his horsemanship as Ser Patrek ducked around to his left – he brought his mount rearing up to send iron-shod hooves into his kinsman's temple. Ser Patrek dropped to the ground with terrible stillness, unmoving when a triumphant hoof fell upon his back where he lay.
Robert found himself perfectly position to take his place, swinging out with his mace in a whirl that would surely have killed the horse had its rider not seen the blow coming. He felt himself tiring as he leg began to buckle, no longer could he manoeuvre around the rider, rather he fought frozen in place as blows rained down upon his shield until his arm was too numb to bear the weight further. Thereafter the brunt of the assault fell upon his vambrace, his helm, his spaulders. Through exhaustion or injury, yellow spots began to dance in Robert's eyes, and he was painfully aware that he fought a fresh opponent. Only his height prevented him from simply being ridden over, but it was not enough.
He attempted to repeat an earlier trick, stumbling back to take up a fallen spear, and throwing it to knock the knight in his stirrups (or for perhaps the less honourable result of killing his horse), but his limbs were leaden. His armour hung down on him like wet wool and was well dented besides, it scraped against his raised shoulders like a knife. Suffice to say Robert missed, quite spectacularly.
This seemed to cause the Knight of the Tower no end of merriment as he raised his helm. "You there, Ser Knight! Be you the rebel lord of Storm's End?"
Robert raised his own helm in greeting as he stared upon the man's features, recognising from the mismatched eyes and long nose the Lord Marq Grafton, he who had feasted with Robert so often, in an age long past when Robert had travelled with Jon and Ned to halls across the Vale.
"Hail my Lord, surely you must have recognised my banner, or have those mongrel eyes failed you?"
"Aye indeed I well remember a fat pup and his sigil. But he was said to be skilled in arms, and you move like a drunken septon. Besides I did not recognise the shield you bear – though I suppose it is fitting you have taken on horns."
Lord Grafton closed his helm with a chuckle at his own wit, while Robert rushed forward, caution forgotten, tiredness vanished, as a white fury he had never known surged forth. This was a colder man than the laughing giant who had won the wall. Grafton sent his sword down on Robert's helm, this final shock sufficing to leave the visor half-hanging on its hinges. Again Robert fought the daze, and launched a short, brutal kick into the unarmoured joint of the horse's fetlock, driving deep with a pointed sabaton.
Lord Grafton was thrown as his mount surged madly, screaming in a mad pain that shamed the most terribly wounded warrior on the field. Robert narrowly dodged being struck as Ser Patrek had been when the horse went flying forwards to be lost in the chaos of the fighting ahead. Lord Grafton slowly arose, no doubt noticing he was cut off from his guard by Robert's own force. Marq Grafton was many things, but craven would never be one. He threw himself at Robert with the knowledge that on this skirmish depended his fate, and the fate of his city.
Though Robert was newly invigored, he could not match the flurry of blows set against him. Grafton was still in his prime, and a skilled swordsman to boot, and Robert was hard pressed to defend his unprotected face against the steel that skirted it. Grafton used this to direct cuts down against Robert's failing leg, sending him to one knee with a well-aimed blow between hip and thigh. It was all Robert could do but blindly ward him off, as Grafton sought for a fatal opportunity. Only the length of his arm saved the rebel lord from a deadly stroke, even so, he took a deep cut along his jaw that hooked into the cleft of his chin.
It was in one of those unthinking blows that chance favoured Robert. Grafton had danced closer to drive his sword through the apple of the exposed throat when Robert's flailing arm trapped it. The sword hammered powerfully against Robert's breastplate, but still he held with all his desperate strength, pushing the blade with the force of his body and arm, further, and further still, till it flexed… and snapped. With an unbefitting tinkle, shards flew like chips of ice and Robert was driving forward, smashing ahead with the hated shield. His leg failed again, but it didn't matter, he was on top of Grafton even as Ser Godric had fallen on himself. And as Robert fell, out came his dirk, and through the narrow visor it went.
Lord Marq Garton shuddered, and Robert lacked the energy to remove himself. The Lord of Gulltown's death was a longer than one than Robert would have expected. His breath hissed and gurgled, and his hands reflexively hammered themselves against Robert's legs. For how long this continued Robert did not know. But once done, all he felt was unclean.
"You should have used your own dagger when I trapped your blade." Robert spoke the words almost sadly, wishing he had something better to say. "That was a mistake my lord. I should not have won our bout."
He did not know how many times he could pull himself up again that day, but he repeated the titanic effort once more, sending a fresh spurt of blood from his leg. Still men fought - the Loyalists had yet not noticed the fall of their commander. So Robert staggered to where their banner had been planted, and half leaning, half pulling removed the spike from the dirt, and raised it up so that his men ahead could well see, then threw it to the dirt.
The cheer that arose rid Robert of all his misgivings, and his men fought with redoubled effort. When the Grafton men turned to see the cause for celebration, Robert could not blame them for breaking. The fighting became a rout, a ruddy rout as watchmen and knights alike ran up the north-facing road to the citadel, while his own men prowled at their heels.
It took Robert himself standing in the way to stop the butchers' advance. He used the standard he had taken as a sergeants spontoon, holding the rushing wave back where he could, while the men who had rushed ahead eventually doubled back when they saw their fellows awaiting behind. Robert looked upon those left to him. Perhaps three hundred remained on their feet, the rest dead, fled or wounded. Yet it would do. Meanwhile more than two hundred Grafton men had been captured in various states of injury, most crucially among them the twenty knights of the reserve who had become lost in a sea of rebel soldiers, unable to flee.
Robert looked about for someone to put into command, before realising the choice had been made for him. "Ser Vardis!" he barked, as the plain lantern-jawed knight stepped forth, dripping with other men's blood, the last of Robert's captains.
"My lord." Ser Vardis Egen still spoke firmly, though Robert noted the quiver of his lips, he looks like he's about to cry.
"Take a third of the men remaining and guard our prisoners. Ensure they are disarmed, but see they are treated gently."
Ser Vardis look about the violent scene of the junction, before replying softly "My lord, if a sortie is launched, that will not be enough to hold our ground and prisoners both. There is nothing to defend this place with."
Robert forced himself to look at the huge heap of dead men behind, blood spattered, features that only showed fear where there were faces yet to be seen. He took it all in but refused to see.
"Use them Ser Vardis. Dam the road with the dead."
With that Robert limped away, collecting men he deemed fit for more fighting, though they were few enough and mostly cowards, he judged.
They did not march along the northward road after the defenders. Instead Robert took the southern junction, not needing Ser Patrek to guide the way, as the Merchant's Cross led straight to the harbour, well protected from seaward attack by a massive seawall, with enough space within to build a second city. There he found a fleet of ships, Grafton galleys with pennants streaming, fat merchant cogs riding high and innumerable sloops and schooners between. They had been driven here by the storms Robert had so feared, and having received a winking message of light and mirror from the citadel, were quickly making ready to flee, storms or no. This was the prize that he sought.
The guards at the docks dropped their spears at his coming, and quailed as Robert stepped past them onto the pier. Without a word he seized an unlit torch from a nearby iron bracket on the wall of the barracks, lighting the rags on a nearby brazier which was still gently dying from the night before. And with that he hurled that first torch up onto the deck of a nearby holk.
"Burn them all" he cried to the men behind. "Burn every fucking ship save those docked by the sea-wall! Burn them and send a signal that will be seen from King's Landing itself. Let the Mad King know we are coming, and let it be known the fate of those who oppose us! Lyanna, Lyanna!
The men joyfully hurried to obey, using the nearby holk to light their own torches, and soon the harbour rang with the cracking of wood and the screams of burning sailors, forming a pyre of steam and smoke that offended the heavens themselves. Robert leaned back against the barracks as he contently watched his soldiers at play. Eventually he rose for the last time, and stretched, feeling the salty air on his every wound. He must see a maester he knew, and rest, but until then…
I need a woman, Robert thought.