Robert I
Robert knew he could only be charitably described as a competent jouster. His feats at the lists were indifferent compared to his achievements in melees across the Vale and at Harrenhal. More than once he had been the last knight standing when a dozen men lay about the field clad in dented armour and broken pride. More than once he had been knocked on his arse by upjumped hedge knights at the tilts, and forced to undergo the humiliation of ransoming his own armour and horse. Though never with poor grace.
Thus he had turned down Jon Arryn's offer to lead the attack against Gulltown's Mountain Gate, where the knights of House Royce waited, a bristling hedge of spear and lance, for the battering ram to do its work. Instead he had taken command of the assault along the eastern wall with ladder and grapnel, hopefully drawing away enough of the defenders to allow the main attack to wreak percolated havoc on the men who held the gate.
Robert was determined not to be a simple distraction, however. He had under his command just under a thousand dismounted men-at-arms, stiffened with a guard of knights to protect him on the field, perhaps just enough to suit his purpose. Against them lay the walls of Gulltown, studded battlements near forty-feet high and crowded with militiamen and Grafton retainers. Amongst their banners could be seen the numerous plumages of lesser lordlings; the rising sun of the Donnigers, Ruthermonts proclaimed by gold starfish on pean, the enneadic gulls for the Shetts, the crashing wave on sinister for the insidious Upcliffs – even the golden falcon of the Gulltown Arryns was in attendance. And everywhere the burning tower of the Graftons flapped overhead – which Robert took for an auspicious omen. All stood proud above the many towers the protruded from the walls like stone knuckles on a titan's fist.
Lord Arryn's army had moved swiftly to cut off reinforcements to the city, albeit fruitlessly. The Graftons had been pre-warned it seemed by Lord Owen Merryweather, and had attempted to rally the houses sworn to themselves and loyal to the crown. The only Arryn bannermen to answer the call (at least in time) were the Corbrays of the Fingers, who had fought a ferocious rear-guard action across Royce lands to reach the city; and hold it until reinforcements should arrive from King's Landing. Gulltown was a finger stretching around the very throat of the Vale, the only chink in its precipitous armour – and all that lay in between Robert and home.
Robert paced anxiously, gripping the hefty poleaxe that Jon had gifted to him, while about his enclosure the sentries muttered as first hesitant tendrils of sunlight breached the walls. Soon, he thought, soon. He chafed under the waiting, knowing for his plan to work he must bide his time until Yohn Royce had begun his assault and drew the defenders' attention to the gate. In fact, Robert was already supposed to have roused his men, and started his march towards the wall's gentler approaches. Yet he didn't. I am not shaped for such sport as to be a mere distraction; I came to bloody the King's nose, not kept safe behind Jon's skirts.
He had not informed Lord Arryn nor his captains of his purpose, knowing that they would only bleat of the dangers. Though he loved the old man, there was no denying that he was just that. He wondered whether Ned would do as he was intending, but smiled when he realised Stark would surely do the precise opposite. Ned was cautious to the bone, and too similar to Jon by half. Still, he would follow me up those ladders all the same - and curse me for a fool the whole time. Robert wished that Ned were standing with him today, to go to his first battle without left him feeling exposed, like the knight who bursts into the fray from a whore's tent. Yet he had no word from Stark since they had parted in the Eyrie's solar, only reports of huge storms on the Narrow Sea betwixt Braavos and the northern tips of the Fingers. Robert closed his mind to the thought of his friend tossed by greedy waves, while whatever wreck he had commandeered was dashed against solid walls of water.
Under the sea, lords dine hand and head with the kingfish and the queenfish, this I know, I know, oh, oh, oh.
Robert had been a boy when he had first heard that chant, yet even then had nearly killed the fool who had uttered them. The boy was half-starved, fully mad and shivering in patched rags, yet the mockery had stung all the same. It had taken his maester and three guards to pull him off the poor devil, but Robert had gleaned no satisfaction from the blows he had struck – they served only to drive the words like studs deeper into his skull.
"Lord Robert?" asked a tentative voice from behind him.
Robert jerked away from the memory like a hand from the flame as he remembered himself. The men had been roused with the dawn as he had ordered, and they were gathering around him. Fool, if you can't see your own men approaching you'll be gutted by the first scrawny peasant with a breadknife on those walls. Robert growled to himself as he turned to face them, vowing not to be so distracted again – the less remembered the better.
He considered his words carefully as those who would form the first wave formed up around him. Jon had ensured that he knew all those who would protect him in the assault, and to that end had sent some of his own guard to watch over Robert. Ser Artys Bleaker headed them, along with his faithful stalwarts Ser Vardis Egen, Ser Godric Lipps (heir to the suitably named seat of Fatlips) and Ser Patrek Stone, the bastard of Gulltown. Robert would be relying most of all upon the latter, who knew the streets of the city as well as the meanest beggar (indeed for a brief period he had been exactly that), and whose feud with his highborn cousins was legendary.
Robert pondered over his words for a brief while as the men jostled to reach him. In all the excitement of his planning he had neglected this seemingly insignificant moment, yet now it seemed more terrifying than the battle itself. Time seemed to move in ambergris as he picked out the bags under red eyes, the smell of rank garlic in Godric's breath and the jitter of nervous shanks. Never before had he been so alert or impotent, so relaxed as to be tense, each sinew stiffened with smooth blood pumped through still limbs. But the words poured from his lips with the ease of a strong wind that stokes the leaves into quiet gossip.
"Men of the Vale, I suppose you've been wondering why you've been dragged from your fat wives and ungrateful children to this city. The more discerning of you may even have wondered why so many men have been mustered, and guessed from my apparel we are not here to sell buttons at the gates!"
That made them chuckle, though the chestnut was long worn out.
"In truth I cannot but think on what led us here. I can think of no action your lord and master could have committed to lead to such a result. I can think of no insult done against the Crown that should warrant this fine day to be marred with blood and battle, yet here we are. If we were not, a madman in a crown would appear to this city, to burn your homes down, to steal and debase your wives, to melt the flesh from innocent bones! The men we fight against today will be the brand that torches your fields, the hand that violates your women and the flame that lays waste to this fair Vale."
Robert paused to look at faces torn between the dubious and afraid, but he knew that he had them.
"Ah you wish to know the truth; I am no blind man nor a fool. You wonder if you have been summoned to fight another man's feud against the king you have known since you were old enough to piss unattended. Against a Prince who maids swoon to see from Dorne to the Wall, and to whom well-neutered singers have gifted the name, the last dragon. Well I say aye! For this is the moment the dragon reveals its true shape. Fire and Blood indeed! The blood of noble lords and fair maids. The fire unleashed upon the innocent bereft of trial or mercy, let loose to tear down the very ground on which this kingdom stands. The world they wish build is not for the likes of us, it is one where all good men must bow to the mad, the bad and the worst. Should you still doubt me, think upon this: when lords and ladies are preyed upon by kings, who will spare you?" Robert felt his voice swell as he allowed his hatred to infect it, each word bitten off in a fury of pizzicato, with each hard sound ripping free of his tongue. "Noble Rhaegar spat upon the laws of gods and men when he stole my beloved from me, he who named me kin dared to lay his scaled hands on the Lady Lyanna."
It became almost a scream, with only words to hold back the inhuman bay: "If the most noble dragon proves to be a vile, lecherous serpent, how can your own wives be inviolate to the beast that bore him? When lordly fathers and sons burn together in unholy spite, think now, who shall you watch burn beside you?"
When the King's 'justice' furrows across the Vale it will be you who suffer. You who must watch as villains take all you have and call the last gasps of natural dignity "treason and rebellion". As for myself, I shall count myself fortunate – being happily dead!"
Robert threw himself into the words with abandon, as laughter tore from his lips in a gale which hurled smiles to the lips of those around him, and laid on with words unformed in thought and memory.
"If you would fight the battle of men who would protect their homes from beasts in crowns, from the crows that circle their banquet for scraps, come with me and earn your pay. We shall be accompanied by the spirits of our ancestors tortured and burned for their faith, our murdered fathers and butchered mothers, our slain brothers and strangled children, all who have perished since the dragons enslaved us so long ago. Break the enemy! Bring salvation to our people, tried in the furnace of tyranny, thirsting only for freedom, for honour, for justice."
"Come with me and foreswear fire and blood, which they name as the wages of loyalty. War and rapine as the pleasure and glory of that godless house, for whom the naked flame upon which to feed their subjects is the only object of their religion."
"Any man who wills it so, gird your manhood and raise your banners high. For the homes you love, for the oaths you swore, for your blood and honour, for gold, for glory and the death of dragons!"
With that Robert seized his horn, hewn from a northern kine and bound in gold, from his belt and blew upon it a blast to shake the forest in the signal for attack. Yet even as he strained hot breath though clenched cheeks and howling jaws, he could hear the cheers steeped with crimson thirst.
He lowered the instrument and grinned his most terrible grin, then strode to the plain with a pace that dragged all behind him like iron to a lodestone. Yet still they cheered and banged spear upon shield, a crescendo of sound that Robert knew would rouse all the city, yet he did not care. This was a wave that carried him with it, a wave that could take from him nothing - what storm now could match him, deprive him?
He could hear the shake of metal from behind, yet Robert refused to be overtaken, each step was longer than the last, each foot conquered soil more ferociously than its predecessor. Soon he was tearing the ground ahead as he jogged to the approaching walls, feeling the squeal of anxious horns from the city, and the joy of knowing that though his foes stood grounded upon rock and stone, still they were afraid.
In he came, uncaring to see crossbowmen and archers on the wall hastily bringing around their bows. They were fewer now than they had been scarcely an hour ago. Good, the fighting at the gate must be fierce indeed, and relief is better late than never.
The ground finally began to climb before him, yet Robert did not slow. Soon, soon. And as if in answer he heard the first twang of arrows and darts nigh a hundred feet ahead, yet they were premature, and did not touch him, though curses and cries were fairly uttered from the messy ranks that struggled behind. Yet Robert did not slow. Still he came, nearly in reach of the wall by the time the next arrows had been slipped into reluctant strings. His shield was heavy oak - and raised above his head he scarcely felt the arrows as they struck like mud upon a horse's flank, breaking, bouncing, skittering, splintering.
One of the crossbowmen was quicker than the others. That Robert did feel, when a bolt punched through his shield and into the meat of his left arm, yet Robert did not slow. Though his breath thundered in his chest, and blood trickled between links of mail, Robert never had felt so alive. Honour, glory, vengeance, love, etcetera were thrown to the wind as he faced the wall.
"Ladders," he bawled, "bring me a fucking ladder!" Those that bore them had fallen behind Robert in his haste, and, outpaced by their shields as they were, found themselves taking the brunt of the missiles fired from the walls. Robert scarcely hesitated to dive into the ranks of beleaguered men behind, leaving his guards to shout their frustration as he was swallowed by the crowd. Yet he ran to the foremost ladder just in time to seize the front from one dropped by an arrow to the side.
Just as Robert hauled the ladder to his shoulder, another dart came whistling down to strike the man bleeding in the mud, shattering a spasming kneecap, rendering his shouts to the tune of a broken beast. For the first time Robert stopped as he craned his neck to face the man behind him.
"Get that bastard out of range before he becomes a fucking quiver, then bring your arse back to these walls or Others take you, I'll tear off your cock and fuck you like a girl!"
The bearer released his hold on the ladder as he moved to obey, pushing its weight further down on Robert's punctured arm, yet still he hurled himself forward, practically dragging the other carriers in his rage. He pushed his way through the crowd being pummelled with rock and spear at the base of the wall, caring not when the bright lights and giddiness erupted in his skull as a stone glanced off his helm to the dirt.
"Haul it up or be damned!" Robert cried, his huge voice carrying clear and strong above the chaos, as he pushed the ladder skyward. Miraculously it was quickly positioned, perfectly formed to grip the very top of the wall, and its feet set back far enough that only a long pole could dislodge it. Lord Robert hurried to its base only to find a man-at-arms in the colours of House Hunter had already taken the first step. With a curse he heaved the man from his place, coincidentally pushing him from the arc of a particularly hefty boulder that sought to brain him.
Robert seized the first rungs with a cry, all but running up the ladder, with his shield upraised and his short poleaxe still clasped in his right hand, using only his fist to give him balance. And still the deadly rain fell upon him, unsummoned by cloud or tempest, to cleave off oak and armour. Robert laughed as he climbed – what storm could men conjure that he could not weather?
Up came Robert Baratheon, a colossus of steel and fury that laid all about him to waste. With his first stroke he hewed at the unprotected head of an archer as he sprang from the walls. The whirlwind he had sown for so long was brought to bear, as that first deadly blow sent bone and matter flying in a ruddy spray. The others were quick to respond, four men-at-arms stood in a crescent shoulder to force him from the walls, but Robert was well prepared. The centremost man, he knew, or else they shall quickly seal the breach.
Robert threw himself forward, all finesse forgotten, straight into their line, his weight sufficing to topple his target, while sword and axe melted uselessly off his thick armour. As he fell, he lashed out with the spiked haft of his axe to trip the man beside. Before they could recuperate, Robert was up, fighting. He knew in some portion of his mind that this was the battle-fury he had heard tell of, he could almost hear Ned and Jon speaking quiet wisdom that warned of the joy men could find in killing. Yet he did not care.
The man to his left was quick, he brought his broadsword thrice down upon Robert's shield, kissing the wood and bending the steel rim, once, twice, thrice. Oak and iron guard me well, or else I'm dead and doomed to hell. There was no fourth effort: Robert brought the rear spike of the weapon about in a brutal backhand, it sang as a prayer when the tip fed itself through the thin mail at the neck to leave his opponent drowning.
Yet Robert could barely disguise his relief when Ser Godric finally gained the walls, slowed by his paunch, with two or more would suffice to play in the tide.
"A good day, Lord Robert!", he saluted with an upraised blade, swiftly turning to hack at the first of the men streaming from across the battlements.
Good for some, Robert made to reply, but it died in his throat amid the swelling press of men before him. More men were arriving up from the earth below, but too few; his was the only ladder yet to have planted itself against the wall. Even now he could hear howls of pain from where archers continuously threw down their deadly baggage upon his army.
As Robert protected his visor from a wild blow, turning it aside with the worry remains of his shield, he bellowed to the men newly come, "Make a line with Fatlips, hold this damn wall!". They formed about him, well-prepared to deliver sweeping blows and stinging thrusts with their halberds. Yet even this did not create adequate space to manoeuvre; the crush of foes were pushing their own front lines directly into the weapons, building a step of wounded men to trip the attackers and fracture their line. Robert felt he must be everywhere, turning to the left to smash in an eager skull who had broken past the hedge, hurling a dazed soldier into the press as he stood narcotic at the top of the ladder, screaming orders to all that might listen, his voice heard even above the awful din of dying.
After what seemed an age, some few men began to arrive at distant sections of the wall, but too far, too few. Robert began to regret his choice of entry as he saw them tumble broken to the earth, yet what choice did he have? We needed to light a beacon today for all the lords of the realm, they must see the Mad King's weakness. But the cost…
Still he pressed on, knowing all other choices were lost. No amount of regret could surmount this simple joy. Heedlessly he shouldered his way past the line and began to lay about with his axe, maiming and breaking with every blow. Even as he worked he could feel a space being made before him. A wounded Grafton man reached for his ankle, yet for all that it might be a child pushing at an oak. He stomped on the man with iron feet, rendering him gory visage devoid of any feature. He stomped again, and again, though the man had ceased to groan.
Countless blows struck him, bruised him, cut him through the weak points in his metal skin, but Robert could not but laugh. The head of his poleaxe was sundered when he used the haft to sweep aside a whistling axe in the manner of a quarterstaff, but still he seized the fallen man's weapon and pressed on, sending the arm of a spearman clad in Grafton livery flopping to the ground when Robert pivoted around his shield. The sound of his merriment seemed to appal the men ahead and behind alike, yet Robert guffawed still. He laughed, fair and terrible with each fallen foe in a haze of golden clarity that he knew would make poets weep and widows mewl.
Suddenly there was no man before him, only a tattered surcoat depicting the sun, moon, and star of Egen, forcing Robert to bring his next fatal swing down into the stone of a nearby crenel. Robert looked about him, he and his had cut straight through the enemy lines in a trail of devastation that led to the next ladder. This section of the wall was his, and the stretch ahead a desert of fled challengers.