Chapter 21: Escape and A Green Boy's First War
POV Jon, 24th day 10th moon
Jon pushed the nearly full tankard to his left hand, then to his right along the bartop in Chataya's welcoming room. He'd been living in the brothel for the past month, sleeping in the cellar and eating meals at the bar between his shifts guarding the door or patrolling the halls. It was fair work, acting as the Summer Islander's sword for food and shelter. Although he could do without the woman's, or her daughter's, advances.
He had been waiting there a long time, so long he'd almost grown used to being as worried as he constantly was. Every moment he expected goldcloaks or Lannister men burst in to capture him, sometimes he expected his father to come and relieve him, but there was little chance of that. Jon could tell the moment they separated.
Partially warging into Ghost was one of the few reliefs he had, he'd sent the young wolf having snuck out of the city the before he took up post at Chataya's and his scouting for the best route away from the city was the only way Jon could feel like he was doing something. He hated it, the waiting. At least all the other times he had something to do, to strive for. Training as he waited for Grandmother to return victorious, breaking and rebuilding himself to become a witcher faster than any before him, planning with the unicorns, fighting.
But now? All he did was sit and throw out rough drunks as Ghost scouted and Gwyn killed pigeons for sport.
He contemplated the ale, then pushed it away.
Few other than the whores and the owner talked to him in the brothel, other than the occasional young drunk who thought to prove himself. So, it came as a surprise when a man gracefully eased himself into the stool next to the witcher.
"Are you going to drink that?" the red-haired man, still damp from the rain that had been falling steadily for what seemed like weeks, asked with a slight smile, pointing at Jon's tankard of ale.
He slid it over to the man without a word, it was poor ale and warmed by how long he'd been nursing it.
"Many thanks, goodman." the lean stranger took a long drink from the pewter, winking. After a moment he finished and put down the now empty tankard. "Wyllem Rivers, pleased to make your acquaintance...?" the now named Rivers asked, gesturing towards him with his free hand.
"Jon."
"I thought I recognised you!" Jon hand gripped his dirk where the man couldn't see, "You were the mystery knight, Wolf of Kaer Morhen, yes?" the man smiled, his almond eyes crinkling.
"Aye, I was." the witcher said, there was no point lying, Rivers probably recognised Somber outside as well. Jon had won her in the tourney, and the charger stood out from other horses. A multitude of voices chided him for the mistake, most prominent being Lambert.
The soon to be dead man smiled, "I was in the archery contest, though I came in second." he said, most likely in an attempt to relax the primed witcher. "Although, I must wonder what a warrior of your strength is doing sitting alone at a brothel without the in-house company. Perhaps you prefer... a different sort?" Rivers asked, his tone not at all jesting nor accusing.
I- is he propositioning me?
Jon had been sought after before, though often times he did not realise until later reflection. This however, was a first.
"I am waiting for my wife and sisters." he said, putting extra emphasis on wife to show his rejection. Besides, even without anything official, he couldn't think of any other title. "We are leaving King's Landing as soon as they meet me here, something been rumbling here."
"I'm travelling alone, perhaps I can join you on the Kingsroad. I was planning to go back to Raventree Hall anyway." Rivers said, and smirked. "Unlike other knight's you'll have little worry of me travelling with your womenfolk."
"If truly don't want me to come along, well, you can just say so." Rivers, after a moment of Jon's silence, added quickly.
"You already know too much." The Witcher said, "And I do not know you well enough."
"Then I'll go with you, I keep my head and you will have eyes on me." he said, eyes suddenly sharp and intelligent.
After a moment's thought, where he stared deep into the other man's eyes, Jon agreed.
_ Hours later _
"Now, a recurve has less power than a longbow, but it has similar range with half the length." Rivers popped a grape into his mouth, "And can be used from horseback as well, with enough practise."
"Without sufficient killing power there's no point to a weapon. An arrow from a recurve bow will only annoy a bear, or other larger game. A fight should be ended as quickly and with as little waste as possible." Jon said, his third drink in hand. "Otherwise, your chance of injury or death, especially if there's another fight coming, rises with every extra second."
"I allow that, in most cases, that is true." Wyllem said, his words slurring only slightly. The archer was on his fourth drink. "But drawing it out is proper in two scenarios." he continued, then raised a finger, "Firstly, against a stronger or better armoured opponent it's better to trick him into spending himself before fully applying yourself." Jon's nod of understanding pushed him along, "Secondly." a second finger escaped his fist, "It's rather enjoyable to slowly pick apart a man you hate before you kill him." he finished with a predatory smile.
"Quite vicious of you." Jon said, "But I can see your point."
"I prefer passionate." Wyllem said easily, "Besides my mother was a Salty Dornish, just how I was raised. And you seem the kind of man who's done the same a time or two."
Jon said nothing in reply, the self-proclaimed passionate man seemed to take that as his confession.
"Tell me Jon, what do you know of Dorne?" Wyllem asked, his smile easing but still there.
"It's hot, and there isn't much of that." Jon said with a smile and pointed at the rain streaking the window, "But other than that... not as much as I would like." Information is key to every hunt, never let any slip from your grasp. "I've been away from Westeros for a long time."
Wyllem shook his head, "That just won't do, but where to start?" he said, and after a moment he had it. "I'll start with the biggest differences, for one-"
The door slammed open before he could properly start, and Jon saw the small wet form of his sister, her hair shorn to her ears, rush through the opening and cross the mosaic floor in a heartbeat. All to slam herself into his chest, "Jon! The-they-" she almost wept into his chest.
"Hush, pup. I'm here." he easily consoled, in his softest voice, then looked back to the door.
Next to come through the door was Lya who, while her face was composed, clutched her hands together to keep them from shaking. Him opening the embrace spurred her to join Arya.
It was when both little ones were settled that Ciri finally came in, Sansa held in one steel covered arm. Both of their hair was discoloured by mud and, by the smell, blood. When Ciri's soaked cloak shifted, he noticed her sword was loose in its scabbard, that she was missing a knife, and blood splatter was on her armoured chest.
He stood quickly, accidently jostling the girls into awareness in his thoughtlessness, when he saw that a sharp cut had bitten deep into Ciri's gambeson. "I'm fine, Jon." she said, reading his mind as she usually did.
"Oh! The plot thickens." Wyllem said pleasantly.
Ciri's eyes shot to the archer, her body as tense as she could possibly be, "Wyllem Rivers, of House Blackwood. He'll be joining us." he informed her. She looked back at him, her greens locked onto his silvers. He nodded and twitched his eyes left, both done so slightly most wouldn't see it, and she messaged back her understanding.
She half carried Sansa over to them, until both were within easy arm's reach. "The King is dead, and the Lannisters are butchering your father's men." Jon's eyes widened and his jaw clenched, but Ciri's hand on his arm kept him from moving into hasty action. "We have to go, quickly, Jon. I'll tell you all I know when we're away, but we have to go. We have to outrun them." she said, but all he could see was Cintra. Jon, I'm proud of you.
He wouldn't- couldn't let it happen again. Never again! Something in his mind roared, as Ice sat heavy on his shoulders and, in the distance, Jon heard a howl that set his blood aflame.
"All the guardsmen a sure to be dead by now, Jon, I won't let you join them." Ciri said, as the air behind her cracked ever so slightly, "Either we go, or we go." she vowed, he felt blood well up from his gums.
"He'll be fine, with us gone your father is their only hostage. They wouldn't dare kill him." Ciri said, her hand sliding from his arm and onto Arya's head. Jon looked down, down to see his little sister's face. He looked into her big grey eyes, wet with tears, and the fires guttered out.
Jon's eyes squeezed shut as he nodded, and gathered up the two small girls into his arms. Ciri led the way out of the brothel, and Rivers wordlessly followed them. Mist was standing just out of the door, breathing heavily, and Ciri almost threw the dazed Sansa into the saddle before swinging up to join her.
Wyllem, his face serious for the first time since they met, hurried to the small stable next to Chataya's. He soon emerged with Somber and a skinny roan, proving that he had indeed recognised the horse. Jon first placed both girls on the big mare, before climbing into the saddle. Ciri drove her horse southward, between the tall and shadow laden buildings, the very second Wyllem mounted his gelding.
"We go out through the Old Gate, then we travel west for three days before going north. Always traveling parallel to the Kingsroad, in forest as much as we can. We stop no longer than a night until we reach the neck." Ciri said, as she shooed a young cutpurse away from her saddlebags, tossing them a coin to spur the boy on.
"As good a plan as any." Wyllem said, loosening his shoulders and the curved sword tied to his saddle.
Jon merely nodded, not trusting his voice. No matter how many called it toneless.
They rode in silence, weaving their horses through whatever crowds they came across, and going as slow as they dared. It wouldn't do to be caught due to haste, or suspicious action. He didn't like it, the chance that someone that recognised any of them made it to the keep and back with riders, or the chance of the Old Gate being barred by the time they got there was higher than he would like. But it was the best they had at the moment, he could freeze a boat to carry them from the harbour, but they would have to leave the horses.
The ride through the redlight district went without incident, and they soon came upon the line of riders and hunters waiting to pass through the gate. Its length worried him, but it was thankfully shorter than he expected. There were a few groups coming into the city, but most dispersed before they got too close for comfort.
Time seemed to slow to a crawl as they slowly, but surely, marched closer and closer to the towering Old Gate. He kept waiting for something to go wrong, as they typically did, yet there was nothing. No runners rushed past with letters, there were no shouts other than the usual ones you would hear at a slow gate, he heard no rushing clatter of horseshoes on the 'mud' covered cobbles, and no one approached unduly.
Once they were halfway there, Jon spoke, "I will go by Tommard, Ciri is my wife Cella, Arya will be our son Marsh, Lya our daughter Daisy." he turned back to look at Wyllem, "Sansa will be your sister, Minisa."
All but Sansa nodded at his words, his eldest sister still staring at nothing as she hugged herself. The sight unnerved him, but he'd learn what happened later.
Soon after it was their turn to be inspected by the Gold Cloaks under the gate, three of the men approached. Jon made sure to look to the mud, and keep his eyes lidded. "Names and occupations." the lead man said, in a voice that had clearly said the same hundreds of times a day.
"Tommard, hedge knight." he answered, voice purposefully weak and gruff, before gesturing to Ciri "My wife Cella, and our brats."
Then it was Wyllem's turn, "Wyllam Rivers, of House Blackwood." the man said, riding up next to Jon and clapping him on the shoulder, "I'm taking this one into my family's service, you see. He did quite well in the tourney, and though he's a bit shy he-"
"And the dim one?" the Goldcloak leaning on his spear asked, interrupting Rivers' chatter.
"My sister, Minisa." he said, looking dreadfully sad, "She got into an accident you see, still hasn't recovered."
One of the men grunted.
"Well then, Milord, we'll be inspectin' yer bags." the lead man said, gesturing his comrades forward.
Before they could move, Ciri reached into a saddlebag, and pulled out a hefty leather bag. She bounced it in her hand, the resulting clinking making its contents known, and tossed the whole thing at the lead man.
He caught it with a practised hand, and pulled a silver out just as easily. The man bit into it, inspected the slight indentation, nodded, and waved them along.
They calmly rode through the gatehouse, and as they did a small group of children rushed in alongside a small merchant caravan driving into the city. One of them, a young and poorly fed boy, was separated from the group by a horse and in his haste grew farther from the others.
He stumbled and ran his way through the press, eventually finding his way over to Ciri's Mist. Jon's eyes narrowed at the boy, his path was meandering and looked accidental, but the glances he made rubbed the witcher the wrong way. He frowned, and opened his mouth to warn the might-be thief off, but then the youngster tripped on a stone, and reached for one of Ciri's smaller saddlebags to catch himself.
He succeeded, but as he got to his feet the bag's bindings snapped and it fell to the ground, spilling its contents. Among the bobbles and cloth was the last thing Jon wanted to see there, the golden lion armband the King bequeathed to Ciri after the tourney.
He swung off Somber and shot down to grab it, but it was too late. For the cries of "Seise them!" were already pouring out from the Gatehouse.
"GO!" Jon shouted as he quickly got his helm and slammed it over his head, then turned back towards the gate.
First, as always, came the arrows flying towards them. Jon slapped Somber's rear, spurring her and her load down the road between the shanty houses built against the wall and forcing his party along. When the arrows reached them, most that didn't miss simply clanking off his plate or barely digging into his gambeson, he heard a girl's cry over the hooves and shouts. He quickly looked back, and saw a goose feathered broadhead halfway through Sansa's leg.
Jon growled as he turned back and brushed off the few hanging arrows, before reaching back and wrenching Ice from its sheath. He'd prefer his axe, he had not practised with his father's sword, but it was tied to Somber's saddle.
The road was already deserted, anyone with sense having run at the first sign of danger, so Jon quickly largened the distance between him and the gatehouse with quickly backward steps. As he did, the Goldcloaks rushed out from the wall, splashing their way over to him. Once more arrows flew down at him, and Jon let them. The great majority found their mark in muck, only two of them reaching him. One snapped against his breastplate while the other burst a link of mail as it bit into his gambeson.
Before another volley could be loosed, the footmen got too close to him and forced the archers to cease. He had no time to take a stance.
Five of them, including the three from earlier, came with spears ready and golden wool heavy on their shoulders. His eyes took in their armour and secondaries, the dyed leather gloves and boots, knee-length black mail, dirks, and batons of dark iron. All safe the center man were helmless, and he only had a pot helm at that.
They entered his range, and Jon swung leftward at their thrust-out spearheads with a forward half-step. But Ice was longer than his Cerbin had been, and he misjudged the reach.
So, instead of merely rendering the spears into staffs, Ice also sliced open the lead man's leg just above the knee and half of the bone within. And it did so with far more ease than he could have ever expected. It was like cutting though a bared throat, rather than good mail, tough muscles and thick bone.
Jon took quick advantage of the men's surprise as he mentally adjusted. He twisted his waist and whipped the blade around his head, his hands going in a motion that was ingrained into his bones. Then brought it to bear faster than he'd ever swung before, the lightness of the steel allowing to use far more force, what with the ease he could adjust it, even if it cut down on the momentum.
The swing flowed down in a blur of dark grey as it split one man shoulder to hip, the following backstroke gutted and disarmed the third man as he reached for his dirk.
Once again Ice swung around his head, his hands adjusting themselves as it went, and he swung down on the fourth's head. The smoky blade easily split the man's skull and continued, carving down along the spine until Ice cut itself free at the Goldcloak's groin, all in little more than a beat of Jon's heart.
As the man's halves fell to the ground, Jon stood straight and turned to the fifth and final member of the city's watch.
Without prompting, the pale man dropped his spear, and backed away slowly. Until he was at a relatively safe distance, which is when he turned around and ran for the shanty houses. Once the man was good and gone, Jon went to sheathe Ice and run.
"Archers!" he heard on the wind, stopping him.
Jon quickly reached for the crawling helmed man, grabbed him under the shoulders, lifted him into the air, and held the struggling man between him and the gatehouse.
The men atop the drum towers, and behind the arrow slits in the gatehouse's wall, loosed their arrows, seemingly unconcerned of their squirming comrade. Shafts thudded into the man, easily piercing the poorly forged mail, but thankfully not coming out the other end. As the man gurgled to his death, Jon steadily backed away from the gatehouse and down the street.
Another wave quickly followed the last, but slightly later than Jon expected, with one lancing through his shield's neck. Just barely stopping before the steel over his brow. The reinforcements should be there by now, but the Goldcloaks were notoriously ill-trained.
Where are they...
The sound of thundering horses and the stink of steel-covered men reached before he could see them, giving him plenty of time to plan for them. Jon blocked another arrow with his makeshift shield as an idea rooted itself in his mind. It would be more draining than he preferred, but there was plenty of water around. All he had to do was emulate Arya.
He threw away the arrow-riddled corpse and ended his retreat.
As the lancers neared, Jon let the cold burst out from within and took hold of the resulting ice around him. He let it all sit as he lifted his leg high, and watched the horses close in. When they got close enough, Jon slammed his foot deep into the earth and the ice rose in response. The used-to-be puddles came together and shot forward as large icicles, but didn't leave the frozen ground.
The horses crashed into them like they were a pike wall, some were speared and killed on the spot, while others reared in terror and fell over. The curses, shouts, and cries of the riders washed over the road.
Jon gave his work little notice as he quickly turned and ran. The spikes weren't quite as big or violent as Arya's, but they would hold most of the men back, and scare others into retreating.
He rushed through the last few shacks, sheathing Ice, and ran through what little grassland there was. As he did, the snowy for of Ghost rushed over the green and joined him at his side, as Gwyn's cry was heard overhead. Jon smiled as he and Ghost raced into the woods, far from the road, as the shouts of pursuers finally reached him.
Just like at Kaer Morhen. Jon, running full speed, took care to only let his feet fall on exposed roots as he rushed through the forest, occasionally making a sharp turn in his path. He soon reached the stream Ghost found the week before and, with the help of a sturdy branch, launched himself over it. As he soared, Jon smashed an old and useless potion against his breastplate to wildly change his scent.
He caught a tree before he hit the muddy back, then continued his mad rush through the trees.
Eventually, Ghost caught the weakened scent of Sansa's perfume, and Jon made to catch up to them.
_ Dusk _
The dull orange glow of a weak fire just barely pushed through the dense thicket the scent led him to. While the location was well chosen, the fire was a mistake. Ciri knew that well, but Jon supposed that she must have been worn down by the girls.
Ghost suddenly leapt ahead of him and bounded through the shrubbery with soundless barks, yips quickly sounded from beyond the green.
Jon pushed his way through the dense foliage and into the tentless camp, his eyes quickly took in the loose leaves and twigs in everyone's hair, the mud stains on their clothes, and the strip torn from Sansa's dress. He ignored the wrestling pups, only glancing at Lya holding a tired Skagga tightly, and approached fitfully sleeping his sister, he pulled back the skirt of her dress and inspected the makeshift bandage around the meat of her lower leg. The blood had seeped through, and it was clearly in need of a change.
The witcher quickly unbound the dirty blue cloth, "It happened while I was training with Arya and Lya, some Lannister men and a knight of the Kingsguard came in and demanded I hand them over." Ciri said, fulfilling her promise the moment he was settled. "Their swords were out before I could finish refusing, and they attacked us." she said.
Jon kept his hands steady as he pulled one of the few remaining bottles of alcohest and poured it slowly over the seeping wound, "After I delt with them, we left the room and met with Jory and Wyl. Together we went down the tower, and found Sansa and Jeyne being hurried through the halls by Lannister knights and a Kingsguard." his love scowled at the warm fire, "There were too many, Wyl died on the Kingsguard's sword after killing two. We got them all, but..." Ciri glanced at the tossing and turning Sansa, "They killed her, Jeyne, right in front of Sansa. 'Make it easier to fight' they said." he wiped around the wound with a clean cloth as Ciri spit into the flames, making them hiss like snakes.
"We joined with more of your father's men in the Small Hall, but most died as we fought our way to the gate." her fists clenched with a groan of leather, "The portcullis was closed, so the less injured men... they got down and lifted the damn thing." Ciri looked up at him, her filled with pride warring sadness, "You should have seen it, only five men roaring as they pulled it out of its grooves as others pounded away at the barred postern gates. They did it, Jon, they did it and I threw the girls out under it. Then Jory pushed me after them and we ran for the stable where I put Mist, like your father told me."
He could see it all in his mind's eye, he only wished he was there. Would Wyl be sitting with them if he had? Would Jeyne? He violently shoved the thoughts away, like all his teachers taught, that way led to madness, drink, or worse things.
"We started the ride going south, then took back alleys to find you."
"And I know the rest?" he asked.
"And you know the rest." she answered.
All were silent, then, as Jon took out his clean bandages and tightly wound them around his little sister's leg. Not enough to pinch the flow blood, just enough to ensure it wouldn't catch or loosen from her movement. He knew not what else he could do for her, Triss had only taught him rudimentary field medicine. Jon, back then, foolishly believed he had no need for more.
He moved on, after cleaning what he could off her troubled face, and looked to Ciri with the usual interrogatory look he'd have to use.
"I'm fine, Jon." she said, dismissively.
Jon tilted his head and intensified his stare.
"I have no injuries to report, Master Healer." she said, in faux soldier's fasion.
He nodded, she couldn't be so sarcastic if she truly was injured and he'd most likely find out either way once they were somewhere safe. Jon then turned to Arya, who shook her head, Lya doing the same when he questioned her.
Jon nearly sighed as he sat down from his low crouch, and felt Lady's wet little nose nuzzle his hand. He brought her in close and gave her pets the way she liked as he starred into the fire.
The silence was broken half a dozen minutes later, when Ciri started them all on planning where they would go. There were many ideas, some good, others rather foolish. But they eventually agreed on one thing over all others.
They would go north.
POV Karra, 8th day 11th moon
Over her reading, Karra, and therefor Lara, discovered much about the world Jon came from. Their written history was as well documented as it was biased, but what histories weren't? Most of it was quite interesting, almost as much as the bestiaries. They even had dragons here, twisted as their forms might be.
But now she was reading about the past hundred years of important events in the Riverlands, the kingdom due south of the one the Stark's ruled. She currently on the fourth larger conflict between houses Blackwood and Braken, this one sparked by the Braken's demanding taxes from the village of Blackbelt. Using their swords of course. The book had so far been informative on the various houses and the many battlegrounds. While slightly biased in favour of houses Blackwood and Mallister, the houses of the Maester who wrote the tome's father and mother respectively. Another advantage for this particular accounting of the events was that the writer, on the very first page, acknowledged and warned the reader of his bias. A true member of his craft that one.
With Greywind lying on her feet, the newest lady of house Stark sat knitting a small blanket in the other stuffed leather chair in front of the low burning hearth. It was a hobby Lady Serena had recently taken up from Old Nan soon after her marriage to Lord Robb. Her current work was a little clumsy, but excellent for a beginner. The light blue wool, the same shade as Winterfell's winter roses, was threaded tightly, yet loose enough for comfort.
Winter roses were one of the things in this world that caught her attention the quickest. It was a shade that, in the other planes she had been to, was impossible without enchantment. But here in the ancient Stark fortress, the only place they could grow according to most accounts, there was only a whiff of magic. Not nearly enough to be purposeful, but-
"My lord, ravens." The Maester Luwin said, his breath heaving as he quickly opened the door to the solar and shuffling in with a worried look. All without so much as a knock.
"Luwin, it must be urgent." Robb said, not even looking up from the various papers that littered the large desk in orderly chaos. The young lord, ever since the message from his lady mother had been focusing himself on preparing both the men and himself for war. He'd even turned to her for advice, and through that Karra had learned that he had a sufficient understanding of logistics and keen mind for tactics. One she had been nurturing the best she could with verbal simulations and histories.
"Indeed, it is, a letter from the capitol." the aged man replied, handing Robb a think rolled up parchment.
Robb slowly, almost hesitantly, took it from the man and pulled it open. He read it, his face just as impassive as Jon's. After a moment, he silently beckoned her over with a hand.
Her curiosity roused, Karra set the tome aside and walked to stand beside the paper-laden desk. She took the message from the young lord's hand and spread it open.
Lord Robb of House Stark,
Your Lord Father, Eddard of House Stark, has attempted to stage a coup for the Iron Throne and is found guilty of high treason. Lord Eddard awaits his punishment in confinement, along with your sisters.
Therefore, by order of Her Grace, The Queen Regent Cersei Lannister, and His Highness, The King Joffrey Baratheon, First of his Name, King of the Andals, The Rhoynar, and the First Men. Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Relm. You are hereby commanded to present yourself before the court to answer for your father's crime against the crown.
Should you not do so by the end of the year your father's crimes shall be extended to you as well.
The short message, for how vague it was, provided a wealth of information to the elves and if one included the letter sent by the Lord Stark some weeks prior, then she could bring the imagined scenarios down to two that were the most likely.
The first, that they were all dead and it was a trap, for the sake of their hearts she would not say aloud. The second however, "The letter makes no mention of Jon or Ciri, if they were killed or captured, they would tell us. If only to break your spirit." she said.
"My thoughts were the same." Robb said, blue eyes icy.
"And if we take into account your father's letter about the attack, then Jon was either in the city or the lands nearby when Lord Stark was taken prisoner. And if he was free while Ciri injured or confined? He would pull the city down stone by stone until he was either dead or he found her." Karra leaned back slightly, she and Lara, for what little time they knew the pair, had a good grasp on both their character. "So, since we haven't heard of any raid on the Red Keep, and the letter makes no mention on either Jon or Ciri whatsoever, then it is safe to assume that neither was captured."
"But what of the girls, and the rest of the household?" Serena asked, eyes filled with worry as she set down her knitting.
"The men, at least those who hadn't left with the force against the Mountain or managed to escape, have certainly been killed to a man." Karra said bluntly, it was best to get by that fact quickly. Like pulling out a particularly large splinter. "The Lannisters and other powers of Kingslanding could never risk any large force of men they couldn't turn live after the capture of their lord."
At that the Maester shuffled his feet as his face turned downcast, and Serena seemed to take it with the quiet sorrow of one who'd seen loss. All Robb showed was a narrowing of the eyes, fists that tightened until the knuckles turned white, and the barest hint of a snarl. It was better than even a moon before, but he'd need more practise in schooling his expressions before he met with the lords. Even in such small groups as he was in now.
"The girls on the other hand, I strongly doubt Ciri would abandon them in any situation. And Jon would only do so if he felt that kept them safer. Besides, if they had either in hand they would have forced them to write the letter." Karra said, reassuring the three best she could without lying to them.
"So, they've escaped, Sansa, Arya, and Lyanna? Jon and Ciri got them out of there?" Serena asked, before Robb could do the same. Albeit with more open emotion than her husband would.
"That is the most likely case."
"And the other?" Robb asked, then elaborated at her odd look, "You never only give one theory."
"The other is that all, but your father, have been killed and they don't want to admit it to you until it's too late for you to do anything." she said, watching the hurt spread on Serena's face.
Robb stood, resting his hands on his desk, "Regardless of either possibility, what I must do is the same." the young lord's blue eyes shot to the Maester, "Luwin, prepare the ravens for every major castle in the North, they must expedite the levying of their men and make for Moat Cailin."
"Yes, my lord." Maester Luwin said, as he quickly left the solar.
"Lady Karra, I'm afraid I must take you away from the books."
"Of course, I will assist you in any way I can."
"So, you're leaving me too?" Bran asked swinging along beside her on the wooden crutches the Maester had given him.
"Your Lord Brother has need of me in the effort to free your father, Bran." She scolded mildly, Karra knew the boy was bitter at the hand delt to him and accepted his anger, but only to a point. She would not allow it to cloud his reason, making a habit of that would be a detriment to his dreams.
Bran sighed, "I know, it's just... it'll only be me and Rickon here. I will have to be the Stark in Winterfell, and rule the North." he said, before looking down at his feet.
"You will not be alone in your responsibility, Bran." Karra said in reminder, "Not only will you have Maester Luwin and Ser Rodrik to assist and advise you in ruling the land, but Rose and Serena will both help you rule Winterfell."
"Serena's staying?" he asked her excitedly.
"Of course, she is." Karra said, "Serena isn't a warrior, a negotiator, nor a tactician. Her authority also wouldn't be questioned if she wasn't present for a campaign."
"Won't they doubt mine though?" Bran said, after all their time together he was finally starting to ask the right question. The progress made something in her chest warm.
"You were recently ill, cripplingly so. You're recovering, so you will get some gentleness, while still being tested by the Lords who come to Winterfell." Karra said, blunt as a hammer to the knees. "Fear not, young lord. Your brother will be tested as well, poked and prodded by all his Lord until he proves himself. As your father did, and as his father did before him."
It was then that she looked down at the boy's face, and deep into his eyes, "You will pass their tests with flying colours, just as your brother will. I'm sure of it." she said, giving him a small smile as she did.
He broke away from her gaze, the tips of his ears pink, "Thank you, Karra."
They walked in silence for a moment, and Karra looked away from the boy. They had been walking around this training yard for about two hours now, all the while young Robb had been training with the men-at-arms, and using his words to whip them into a fervor. Each man batted away at another, one or two going against two or more at the same time. Most were Stark men, some of the advance members of various houses. One of whom was a giant of a greybeard, batting at three younger men at once.
Even with the strangers mixed in, the heir of House Stark was doing an admirable job of binding them with comradery. It certainly lightened her load, not having to worry about his charisma with the soldiery, along with their simulations proving his skill at tactics.
She turned back to Bran, "One more time around, then we return to the first tome on the Century of Blood"
He nodded excitedly, and quickened his slow pace.
POV Brynden, 20th day 11th moon
"The men are settled then?" Brynden asked, not looking up from the moisture choking map.
"Aye, Ser, the tents away from the inn, and are organised just as you instructed." the man said.
"Good, don't let yourselves get too comfortable, we only camp here for a few nights." Brynden said, rubbing his dry fingers together before scratching an X over a road and a line through the written idea of one of his officers with his quill. He then absentmindedly dismissed Lyonel.
The steel-plated sergeant bent at the waist, straightened, and bowed again to Alyssa before leaving. Brynden's grandniece waving goodbye from her rug as he did. The old man looked up from the map to look at her, playing with a doll and making hushed noises as she manipulated it. The sight was terribly endearing, and made Brynden all the angrier, and admittedly confused, at his niece's actions. To send her own young daughter to a battle, even if she'd never leave the camp. It boggled the mind.
As Brynden stewed and wondered, one of his guards, Mychel Breakcliff, pushed his way passed the sailcloth tentflap. He stood to attention, bowed, and said his piece. "Ser, there's a man here who claims to be Lord Stark's bastard, and two girl's he says to be his half-sisters Sansa and Arya Stark." the man's words brought Brynden's thoughts to a screeching halt and his eyes shot to young Breakcliff.
His fingers tapped a quick rhythm on the folding table, the man could be telling false, believing that he wouldn't recognise his niece's children. Yet most wouldn't dare risk it, Hoster had forged a certain reputation for their family, one Brynden admittedly didn't quite care for.
"Send them in, I'll find the truth of it." he commanded lightly, and he believed he would find it rather easily.
The young man bowed, and left. Soon after he returned with others in tow. The first, a young man with a greatsword on his back. He hadn't met with Eddard Stark often, but knew his look and bearing from the rebellion. This young man had both, besides, he also had the slitted silver eyes Cat had mentioned to him. The chances of this being any but Ser Jon were very low. Still, Brynden would wait and see.
After the young man came a young girl with a similar look, though skinny where he was broad, and just as Cat described her younger daughter in her letters. Although her hair was poorly shorn around her ears instead of hanging low on her back.
The next to enter ripped Brynden back in time decades, filthy auburn hair that fell below the shoulders, blue eyes over high cheekbones, and the gentle slope of her jaw. The girl looked just as Minisa did, when they first met as children in Harrenhall. She was either a secret Whent, or his niece's eldest daughter.
Brynden cleared his throat, and saw that no one else entered, "I am told you claim to be Lord Eddard Stark's children, do you have any proof?" he asked, though Brynden himself mostly believed it unnecessary.
Nodding, the young man reached back and, after receiving Brynden's leave, unsheathed the great blade with a familiar ring. The same he'd heard just before the Trident.
Ice whirled through the air and Ser Jon planted its tip in the hastily packed dirt, "Is this enough, Ser?" he asked, clearly prepared with yet more evidence.
The old knight nodded, and nearly collapsed into his camp chair. "Yes." Brynden said, before glancing at Alyssa. She was just as he expected to see, vibrating with excitement, but glancing at Sansa, who was clearly favouring one leg over the other.
He looked to the girls next to their brother, Arya was hopeful, yet guarded. He'd seen the same look on her mother a time or two years ago. While Sansa was rather timid, a far cry from what Cat told her, but what girl like that would be unchanged from escaping the vipers' nest and rushing up the Kingsroad with pursuers coming for her?
It was then that a somewhat dainty snout pushed its way into the tent, and then the rest of the beast followed. Brynden looked down at it, and what lingering, weedlike, doubts vanished. It was a pup the size of a full-grown hunting hound, obviously one of the Stark direwolves that went through the rumour mill. It was exceptionally well groomed, with soft looking fur, and had Alyssa gasping in joy.
As the beast gently meandered its way to the little lady another, decidedly wilder in appearance, and sadly smell, pushed its way in and then between Arya's legs. Next came a far larger wolf, though with the same puppy build as the first two, with white fur. The beast swung its head, looking about the tent, then came to stand at Ser Jon's feet.
Brynden stood at the newcomers' entry, but felt little worry at their presence. All were quiet, none had a hungry look about them, and they appeared healthy. He knew it rare for any beast, other than a shadowcat, to ever attack in such states. Even children, if they themselves were calm, could walk by a wolf without it doing more than glance in their direction. And from the way the pretty one wagged its tail at Alyssa's pets, the girl had little to fear.
"Sansa, Arya." Brynden said, the girls' eyes now properly focused on him. He felt ill at ease, it had been nearly two decades since he had to deal with distraught nieces. "Your cousin, Alyssa." he introduced, knowing that distraction was the best course of action.
Arya blinked, but was otherwise still as a stone. It was the far more timid Sansa who made the first move, shuffling to the rug. She eventually made it and, after a jerkily failed curtsy, bowed to Alyssa.
Then she slowly, with only one leg bearing her weight, went to kneel onto the rug. Only for Alyssa to stop her, and demand to see her injury. With a look to her brother, and his quick nod, Sansa sat and presented her bad leg. She pulled up the skirt of her dress to show the day old, and mostly bloodless, bandages around her the thickest part of her lower leg. The blond girl gently laid her hands over both sides of the leg, and screwed her eyes in concentration.
Not a second later Sansa's eyes went wide and her trembling hands went to the bandages. All the while Ser Jon looked on with minutely wider eyes, like he had sensed what Brynden knew happened. Sansa unwrapped the bandages, exposing larger and larger bloodstains with every new layer, until all that remained was a well-healed arrow wound. The scar was quite obvious, as all were when Alyssa healed older, already mending wounds, but it was clear that whoever cared for it was well trained.
Looking at the healed wound, and the soft smile on the young girl's face, Brynden knew that this miraculous ability couldn't have gone to a better holder. Alyssa would never even think of taking advantage of it, as most others no doubt would.
He could hear Arya try not to gasp when she saw it, all the young man did was look over at Brynden. Then back to his sister, before he put a hand to her back and gently pushed her towards the pair. The skinny girl complied silently, but picked up her pace and her words as she closed in. By the time she was seated, Arya all but demanded to know more about her cousin. The blond smiled and happily broke into her tales.
As Alyssa regaled her cousins on various exploits or imaginings, petting both wolves in equal measure and somehow managing to pull up her cousins' spirits, Brynden stroked his marching stubble in thought. Cat had told him some about the boy, that though he was said to have joined a knightly order he was trained as more of a man-hunter than anything else. But Brynden had plenty of well-trained knights.
"Ser Jon." he said, gesturing for the young man to join him at the table.
He did, looking at him with an unreadable and cold expression, it made it easy for Brynden to understand Cat's worries. Ser Jon, with Ice on his back and the wolf at his feet, was the very picture the tales told of the old Starks, even his strange eyes aided this. Regardless, "I have many knights, but too few men capable of leading my outriders, and I am needed leading from the center." the black fish of House Tully paused to think on how much Hoster was going to hate this when he heard, and smiled, "I ask if you're amenable to aiding me in this?" he said, as neutral as he could. No good giving young ones a big head after all.
Just as before, Ser Jon's face remained impassive, but Brynden could see the thoughts racing behind his eyes. Then, he placed his hands upon the rough table and leaned his weight onto it. "What do you need me to find?" the young man, in the pure professionalism of a lifetime soldier, asked. The who didn't need to be said.
Brynden smiled, "Take command of what fifteen men will follow you, and work with the other outriders to scout for the enemy. Killing them when you find them, though capture is preferable." he said, still looking into calculating slitted eyes. Even as he paused, Ser Jon said nothing, simply waiting for the rest. He was starting to like the boy, "Should you prove capable I will put the rest in your hands." he finished simply.
"Usually I take coin, goods, or, at times, a favour when I hunt for others. I will make an exception." Ser Jon said, looking to the girls. Then he offered a hand, "I'll be your Witcher, Ser Brynden."
The Blackfish nodded, and took the proffered hand. He gave it a strong squeeze, received a good one in return, and they released. The deal was set.
"The quarter master, two tents left of mine facing away, will provide a tent for you-
"Gah!" a silver-haired woman said, noisily thrusting herself through the tent flap with a short girl behind her. "What's taking so you long, Jon?"
"- and your companion." Brynden finished, as the young woman looked at Ser Jon with a frown. The old man smiled, he'd received a similar look many times in what seemed like forever ago.
_ 27th day, 11th moon _
The sun beamed down overhead, uncaring of what went on below, as Brynden made his way to the training yard. It was something that both he and most of the Vale knights had insisted on while each camp was made. There would be no weakening of their forces on the way to Riverrun, especially if what he heard from the smallfolk was to be believed.
Tywin Lannister, so soon after Lord Eddard's arrest, setting out with not one, but two armies from the Westerlands. Something that Brynden knew was impossible on short notice, given what he'd heard about their size. At those numbers all his twenty-two hundred could do is separate and harry their supply lines or, only with the perfect opportunity and method, strike a single decisive blow in a pitched battle. It was good that all his men were mounted and led spares, but he knew his numbers, and didn't like their odds.
Slowly, the sounds of men shouting and steel clashing grew louder and louder. Until he was finally upon it.
The training yard that day was pebbled stretch of riverside as wide across as three wagons, and twice that in length. The river itself was a paltry thing, more of a stream with how thin, rocky and shallow it was, but ran fast and clear. Enough that their, and the horses', water was taken upstream from the camp.
Right at that moment, there were five pairs of men. They were all fair bouts, but one was so skewed that it quickly took hold Brynden's attention.
There, on the very edge of the small river, Ser Jon was beating the living daylights out of the Hunter bastard, Eren his name was. It was easy to recognise him in his patchwork armour. The larger man was wielding a round shield and one of their few blunted arming swords, and doing it well. Eren, as always, gave it his all with his own sword and heater shield. Parrying what he managed, blocking and dodging what he could, but most of Ser Jon's strikes hit home.
And yet, every time the young man crashed into the ground or got his opponents blade under his visored barbute he got back to his feet, and into another spar with the witcher.
Brynden approached, and managed to hear something unexpected; advice. With each strike against Eren, Ser Jon would give an instruction and once the boy was on the ground, he would tell him what he did wrong in almost hurtful detail. After that Eren would rise, staggering as he did, and they would spar once again.
Over on the other side of the stream his nieces, their respective caretakers, and the Mormont girl sat observing the same spar he was. Cirilla, who he was sure was Ser Jon's paramour, pointed at the knight and boy, seemingly explaining to her charges the various attacks even as Ser Jon taught Eren. Brynden, for even though his nieces tented with him and Alyssa, hadn't seen much of Arya. She, the Mormont, and Cirilla would wander into a secluded area to do Gods know what every evening.
Brynden turned back to the yard and saw that Ser Jon and young Eren were already fighting again. As he watched, Brynden quickly noticed something. The boy had improved, already from their last bout he had learned to keep moving around his stronger opponent, even as Ser Jon's footwork kept him on the backfoot. He also wasn't tripping on the stones nearly as much as when Brynden first arrived.
Then Ser Jon, after dodging a handstroke for the first time Brynden had seen, took advantage of the younger man's overreach and bashed the edge of his roundshield into Eren's chest. Knocking him into the water.
As he barely heard the scolding and advice, Wyllem strutted over, half a dozen hares strung together over his shoulders with the tool of their deaths in his hand. The young archer stopped right beside Brynden and got to work removing his arrows from where they buried themselves in skulls.
"Ser Brynden." he greeted, dropping an unbroken shaft into his hip quiver.
The Blackfish nodded back, and they stood in silence for half a dozen breaths. Brynden watching the spars end and begin again, Rivers recovering and inspecting arrows.
Eventually, his curiosity spurred him to speech.
"How goes his recruitment?" Brynden asked the archer, gesturing towards Ser Jon.
"Well enough." Rivers said jovially, "All he has to do is fight in the yard, let men challenge him to a spar, and mention his newfound authority. After he defeats them, half will ask to join, Jon accepts about half of those." he finished, kneeling down to unstring his recurve. Brynden gave the young man a few feet of distance, he'd seen a man lose fingers unstringing one of those bows.
A smash of steel against steel, then steel against stone, brought the Blackfish's attention back to Ser Jon and Eren. The younger man was on his back, one arm in the water, and struggled to turn himself onto his front. Before long Ser Jon simply reached down, grabbed Eren by the back of his scarred breastplate, and pulled him to his feet.
"And there's our eighth man." Rivers said, as they both watched Ser Jon pat Eren on the shoulder.
Brynden nodded, and made his decision.
The older knight walked into the training yard, and pulled his sword from his sheath. He would join the men today, for all he was a commander did have to keep his skills sharp.
_ 18th day, 12th moon _
In his tent, this time with his niece without, all the captains and sergeants stood with him around the map laden table. Most lords would only have the captains, and whatever noble born knights they had in their war council. No matter what others said, that's what this sort of thing was. But Brynden thought otherwise, for often times the most brilliant of ideas came from the most unlikely of sources. Or a common man would find the hole in a plan with his 'lower' perspective.
So, all the men with authority were in the tent, from common born men who rose due to merit and self-taught skill, to men who were instructed to ride by experienced knights in their fathers' castles. And each had a voice.
"We should send a runner to Lord Tully." Sergeant Torrhen, the grandson of a turncloak clansman and one of his best riders, said. "So that we may coordinate with his own forces."
"And risk losing the element of surprise?" Ser Roland, the picture of an ancient Andal knight, said, shaking his head, "I suggest we ambush the Lannisters on the march, strike hard and fast. Cut the head off the snake."
"Only if we locate them, accurately predict their course, evade all their scouts and outriders, and then set an ambush. Nothing against your capabilities, Ser Jon." Captain Morden said, smoothly glossing over Sers Davis and Boros, the men currently in charge of the other thirds of the outriders. "Even succeeding that, should we fail our attack we all die, and if we succeed the chance of killing the Kingslayer or his commanders is low." he finished, his fist under his chin.
"Every plan comes with risks." Ser Roger, the only man there older than Brynden, rasped. "I support Torrhen's suggestion, but say we don't join our forces to Lord Hoster's. From what Ser Jon's reports tell us, even if we join our number to his we won't have the numbers to offer a pitched battle and have a good chance of winning."
"We could send a runner, instruct Lord Tully to offer the Lannisters pitched battle where the ground is most advantageous." Torrhen said, his gauntleted finger breezing over a large plane, surrounded by forest southeast of Riverrun. "And we strike when the Lannister army is most vulnerable."
"You would use the Tully forces as bait?" Morden asked, not angry, but clearly disapproving.
"Yes." the blunt answer drew quick ire from many.
"It could work." Ser Roger said, stopping any recriminations before they could start, "With the numbers the Lannisters have, and Ser Jaime's youth, they're sure to encircle the rivermen as soon as they're able." the older man leaned over the table, grasping various carved figures and placing them between two maps. He formed them into two lines, one far larger than the other, and put them into a half-completed encirclement. "Their lines will stretch thin as the encirclement progresses, thinner even than on a march, and any reserves are sure to be used once they see victory approach."
Ser Roland joined his senior knight and took the enemy horseman in hand, "Perhaps they would join their cavalry as well, weaken Lord Tully's flanks." he said, adding one to each side of the half-circle of enemy figures.
"Then we strike from the rear, and carve out the center." Torrhen joined, quickly placing their own cavalry pieces behind those of the enemy.
"The flanks as well, make our numbers appear all the larger." Sergeant Gwayne, who merely observed quietly until then, added as he placed more figures. "We can also kill or capture more commanders that way."
"We would be spreading ourselves thin in that case." Ser Morden said, "It would be our doom should their cavalry get their wits about them before we break the infantry's spirit or take enough commanders." Ever cautious, but not disagreeing with the plan.
"But should the footmen rout, and I am certain they will, the cavalry can do nothing other than escape." Ser Davis confidently said, "And when they do, Ser Arctic's, Boros's and my men will harry them."
Ser Morden narrowed his eyes at the young, and green, knight, but said nothing.
"What say you, Ser Brynden?" Torrhen asked, prompting all the rest to look towards him as well.
He kept himself from smiling. What many lords and commanders, for whatever reason, failed to realise was that most of their officers were both intelligent and wanted to win. If you gave them the tools, information, and enough time they will develop a plan. The plans weren't always good, but the majority were at least workable. Certainly, better than two or three men, perhaps only one at times, stewing over a map into the latest hours of the night and be blinded to the faults of his tactics.
"It's as good a plan as any." he proclaimed, to the smiles of the younger men. Brynden then quickly assigned captains and their men to one of the three groups, with himself at the head of one of them. "Sergeant Torrhen, take three men and ride with haste to Riverrun. Tell my brother to force a pitched battle here." he said, japing a finger onto a similar place to that suggested, but closer to Riverrun as to take advantage of its walls.
The grey eyed man looked to the map, memorised the location, bowed, and promptly left.
Soon after he was gone, Brynden dismissed the rest. "Stay for a moment, Ser Jon." he said, stopping the young man in his tracks.
When Ser Jon turned to look at him, right brow raised in question, Brynden spoke of the task he had for the nigh foreign knight. "I have a task for you, and your men, to carry out the day of the battle. I warn you, it will be inglorious."
"I've told you already, Ser Brynden, I'm your Witcher." the young man said without hesitation, as he walked over to the map, "What do you want me to burn?"
The older man nodded at his resoluteness, and explained in detail what had to be done.
_ 22nd day, 12th moon _
Brynden stood stock still in his tent, trying his damndest to ignore Alyssa as she marveled at her reflection in his tassets. The girl had somehow gotten it in her little head to escape her handlers and sneak into his command tent, interrupting his personal pre battle preparation in the process.
He could hardly blame her though, the chaos of all the men preparing for the coming battle must have had her spooked enough to seek him out.
"Are you gonna go fight, Uncle Bryn?" She asked, picking at the edges of his plates. "Ciri says that everyone is gonna fight the Lann-asters, are you going too?"
Brynden wasn't sure of what he thought of Cirilla's, a warrior woman's, influence on his niece. Alyssa was a kind soul, he didn't want to see that soul tainted by participating in violence. Which was one of the reasons he'd had their camp set more than three miles from the field. But outside of the fighting, Cirilla did wonders for his niece's sense of confidence and kept her well protected. If what Ser Jon told him of her and her homeland was anywhere near true, the knight didn't strike him as a liar.
"Yes, Alyssa. Their army won't stop hurting the Riverlands, and her people, until someone makes it stop." Brynden said, kneeling down to better match her height. "That someone is me, and your grandfather Hoster, along with the men."
"But, but Mi, Ciri, Lya, Arya and Sansa are staying?" she asked, with worry, and the littlest hint of fear, in her voice.
"Yes Dearheart, Cirilla and ten knights of your escort will remain here to accompany you and the others, and keep you safe." he assured.
She looked down, humming and playing with her fingers, "But I have to help!" she said suddenly, her Tully blue eyes staring into his.
"You may, but only after the fighting." he said, putting a hand on her shoulder.
Before anything else could be said, a young man-at-arm, his visor down, entered, "Ser Brynden, both armies have taken to the field." he said, panting heavily.
Brynden nodded and stood, he gave his equipment a onceover, then turned to his little niece, "I will be back, Alyssa. Stay here and wait for Cirilla." he instructed.
He quickly left the tent, trying and succeeding in not look back, and made for his company's muster point. As he walked through the camp, he saw many others making the final preparations. Sergeant Torrhen rallying his brothers and cousins, Captain Morden inspecting the arms and armour of his men, and Ser Jon talking to his disappointed men.
Soon, he exited the camp and reached the muster point, many of his men already there, along with his squire. The boy, nearly a man, had been sent ahead once he finished with Brynden's armour to ready their horses. His destrier looked as good as it always did, as did its barding.
Brynden mounted up, and looked over the men, most of whom were present. He had never been one for the rousing speeches one found in tales, so he wouldn't give one. When the last man joined, Brynden gave them all a nod and drove his horse forward.
POV Niles
Niles hated that they were outside of the castle, but those were his orders, so here he stood. His brother, just as green as he was, fiddled with his spear to his right while his veteran father was ready and perfectly still at his left.
Their village wasn't that far north of here, along the Red Fork, Niles and his fellow men of fighting age came down only days after Lord Tully's rider rode into the village square. He would rather have not, why should he fight for the noble fuckers? Hardly his fault the Lannister Imp was taken. Niles's father was quick to reprimand him for those thoughts. His exact words, after a swift kick to his rear, were, "The Lannisters don' give a shit bout us, boy! They be comin' for us, an' I'd rather fight 'em with all the other villages and Lord Tully than wait for 'em here with my thumb up my arse!"
So here they were, standing outside the castle, not even hiding in the woods to their right, with the westerners looking for their blood. Niles peeked over his shield to look at the invaders, and cursed. He didn't know what he'd been expecting, that some would come to their senses and leave?
The army across from them was just the same as when he last saw them, the two wings of knights covered in steel on either end, ready to slaughter him. The footmen were even worse, each and every man wearying shiny mail over their gambeson with iron banded shields and mighty looking spears. Not only that, there was just so many of them. Even with him standing three ranks back it made dread pool in his gut and sweat streak down his brow.
"Quit fiddlin' with yourselves, boys." his father whispered to them, making his brother snap straight and Niles stop shuffling his feet on the dry stamped down grass. "It be startin' soon."
Not a moment after his father said that, Lord Tully, Edmure his father told him, rode over to the other army with some other nobles and knights. A man in golden armour, the Kingslayer, and some other men in colourful tabards, did the same from their side. They stopped close to each other, and seemed to talk.
"Get ready, all o' ye, it all start when Ser Edmure gets back." their village headsman, one rank ahead of Niles and some distance to the left, said.
He tensed so much he thought his bones might break, but his brother jabbing him with his elbow caught his attention. He felt it through his gambeson, was that a bad sign? "Relax, Niles, just like when we got that boar. Relaxed but ready." his brother Willard said with a weak smile.
Niles nodded, took a breath, and turned back to the invaders just as Lord Tully wheeled his horse away from the enemy commanders.
The wait was agonizing, sweat streamed down his back, and between his legs, as his hand clenched and unclenched on the shaft of his spear. To his left, his father was steady and strong as ever, his grey streaked red hair barely peeking out from under the old helm he took from a reaver he killed in the rebellion. To Niles's right, his brother seemed just as bad as he was, looking about and shifting in his gambeson.
Finally, Lord Tully rejoined the center, as Lord Blackwood, so his father told him before, entered the ranks close to Niles himself. He even dismounted his horse and joined them all on foot!
Looking at him from this close, Niles thought Lord Blackwood to be the noblest man he'd seen. He stood taller than every man nearby by at least a head, his face austere and adorned by a short, thick salt and pepper beard. His gaze was firm, resolute. His nose like a bird of prey he-
Trumpets blared and the sergeants shouted, "For-Ward! March!" and everyone around him started onward.
As he was pushed from behind, Niles's eyes shot to the enemy army ahead. It was marching as well, like some beast of flesh and steel prowling to tear them apart. Men marched in unison as they leveled their spears at him. Over with the cavalry, the Kingslayer was waving his sword in the air with his knights roaring behind him. They were here to kill him, to tear-
"iles...NILES!" his father shouted, "Keep yer mind to yerself, boy. Not at them, they don' matter. Jus' keep yerself alive." he said, staring him in the eye.
Niles swallowed deeply, and a weight settled on his shoulders, but he focused. Just as his father commanded.
He looked back to the invaders, they were much closer now. Close enough that he could see some of each man's face. They don't matter. He reminded himself.
"Shields! Up!" the sergeants yelled, and everyone lifted their protection over their heads.
Not a second later weight started thunking down on his round-ish shield as the same happed to his father's heater and Willam's lashed planks. Arrows, he realised. He hadn't even heard the enemy command their archers, or saw the dark cloud above. Nothing like the tales he got from the greybeards in the tavern.
"Keep em up lads!" the sergeant nearest to them shouted, just as the last thud came down.
They kept walking as the arrows came from above like waves, the occasional cry coming from somewhere along the front line. But he kept going, even when he had to walk over Malcom. Eventually, the pause between waves grew longer than before, and thunder rolled over them. Even as the sky was the clearest blue he'd ever seen.
"Right flank! Pikes out!" he heard, "BRACE!"
The very next thing he heard were screams, that of men and horses both, some were deep and roaring while others shrieked and broke. Rending steel and snapping wood only barely made its way through the noise.
His shield still raised high, Niles looked to his right and found he couldn't see what had happened. The men, so much like the trees of a forest, were too tightly packed together, but he could imagine it. Men stamped into dirt like their old mule did a squirrel, blood turning that dirt into ruddy mud. Eventually the noise was again replaced by the thunder, what he now knew to be a cavalry charge, that slowly faded. Only for more screams to rise, but only horses this time.
"They got too close to the walls." his brother said, "Our archers are giving them their due." he always tried to talk fancy.
"Ready men! We are nearly upon them!" Lord Blackwood, his head now covered by a red Greathelm, shouted. He was deep and steady in his loudness, even as the steel made his voice echo. Not at all like the criers from Lord Tully that came to the village.
Just as the lord said, they soon clashed with the enemy. But it was nothing like what came before.
Instead of screams, all he heard were grunts and the sound of planks slapping together. Then, as moments passed, his terror, and mild anticipation, abated. Even enough that, if he were without the screams of injury and death that flew over them, he could be called bored. Another part that kept that away was the slow, but steady, clearing of his vision.
Men would fall with a cry or a choking roar, and he could see more and more of the enemy. Far to his left, he heard the roars of tired triumph, and before him he sees grim determination on the Lannister footmen.
Just as their rank becomes the second, his meager training, and his father's words just before they left the castle, took hold of him. Niles brought his shield down from over his head, and pressed it against the back of his fellow villager in the front rank. He didn't lean into him much, only enough that his weight was known.
Over the man's shoulder, Niles could see much of this part of the invader army. Five rows of men all armed and armoured with the same equipment, all with the same starting beards, all some version of Westerner blond. It made for an imposing sight, to say the least.
The man in front of Niles pushed back against his shield suddenly, but kept stabbing away with his spear and letting Niles take stock of the battle around them.
It wasn't going well, even his eyes could see that. The invaders were still outnumbering them, even as their center rallied and pushed the Lannister army back the left and right were against them even harder. The enemy cavalry, free to do as they pleased so long as they didn't stray too close to the walls, cut their corners and took more and more of the men on their flanks as they did.
Suddenly, all around them horns blew, and a rumble carried over them.
Niles took the chance to stand a little straighter, and witnessed something grand.
A great Tully banner, but unlike the ones flying up on the castle towers these flew a black fish. Under that banner rode more knights than Niles could count, all riding enormous horses and armoured in full plate.
They thundered out of the trees, while more came from where the Lannister army marched to Riverrun and others rose up from behind the small hill to the left. There were so many of them, rushing over the land and levelling their lances at the invaders.
"It's the Blackfish!" Lord Blackwood announced, his poleaxe lifted high, "He is to be our hammer!"
It was then that Niles looked back to the enemy, and saw the man across from his comrade grit his teeth under his half helm.
"Charge! Break through!" one of the Lannister men cried, and all the invaders roared in answer.
"Hold!" the Sergeant called, right as the weight of the enemy army crashed into their front line.
Niles could feel the force of it even behind the line as he was, he couldn't imagine how the front linesmen were still holding strong. Yet he forced his wondering thoughts down, and focused himself on supporting the man before him.
Finally, just as the cries of pain were growing more regular and yelled orders of the sergeants more desperate, the Blackfish cavalry struck the enemy from behind their lines and all but tore apart what few men managed to turn themselves around to form a line against them.
The screams and roars were no different from those that came before, Niles found, but for one reason or another they filled him with hope instead of dread. They could do this, they could win!
As their reinforcements plunged deep into the enemy ranks, their front line finally broke
Niles was shoved from the side, bumping into his father. "What are you doin' boy." he growled, before glancing over to him. "Shit." Niles followed his gaze, and froze.
Willam, his big brother, had a spear through him. Just under his ribs. Only the wings under the blade stopped it from going all the way through him. Just as he thought his brother would fall over, his hands snapped up and onto the spear's shaft. "What are you waiting for, Niles!" he roared, keeping the invader that ran him through from pulling out. "Kill him already!"
Without thought, Niles lunged with his spear and stuck the invader right under his jaw. "I knew you had it in you, brother." Willam said, as the invader coughed blood and fell to the ruined grass. "Niles, use... this one..."
His brother fell only moments after he ripped the spear out, and Niles had to force himself to take the spear as he said.
A hand on his shoulder pulled his to his feet, "Later, Niles, later." his father said softly.
He nodded, and threw away his fire sharpened branch spear to heft the ash and steel he had now. His father also did away with his spear, and drew his sword. The well-maintained castle forged steel rang from the sheath, "Keep yerself alive, boy." he instructed, as all around them the men turned to chaos.
He saw a dismounted knight tackle a man, only to be mobbed by invaders and killed. A shout snapped his head forward.
It was a man, in mail and half-plate, with a sword drawn rushing him.
Niles quickly backed away and the bloodthirsty invader's head was caved in by a mace. The killer then wheeled his horse on its hind legs and cantered off in a random direction.
He kept his spear ready, just like the training Sergeant showed him, and moving in a little circle. Then he saw his father's attention snap elsewhere. It was Lord Blackwood, standing in the center of a corpse pile and fighting off a knight in red and gold plate.
"Milord!" his father yelled, rushing to Lord Blackwood's aid.
Niles quickly followed his father to join the Lord, but took much longer to reach him.
His father, with both hands holding his sword by the blade, swung the hilt in a furious arc and struck the knight in the back. The thin, yet strong, steel of the crossguard punched right through the back plate. Niles followed his father's lead and attack the knight from behind, the blade of his spear striking for the back of his knee.
The knight, focused as he must have been on his father and Lord Blackwood, did nothing as his spear lanced through the mail and cloth and into the flesh and bone of the invader's leg.
Niles ripped the blade out and backed away as the invader fell to his knees and his father moved in for the kill, but a red gauntlet fell upon his father's shoulder and stopped him. "Leave him, should he live through the day we may get information out of him, or good ransom at the very least." Lord Blackwood said, like a serine pool in the midst of all the chaos.
Niles's father nodded as the Lord continued, "I thank both of you for your aid, I shall see you rewarded."
With those final words Lord Blackwood seemed to spot something, and started making his way to it. His father followed, and so Niles followed as well.
As they went, they were only attacked by the odd footman, and even brought more Rivermen to follow Lord Blackwood. By the time they reached to Lord's destination they were over a score in number.
"Ser Edmure!" Lord Blackwood called, getting the attention of a man in bright mail and half-plate with a silver fish on his greathelm.
"Lord Tytos!" he called back, and clasped hands with the Lord.
"We must rally the men under your banner, my Lord." the other Lord nodded, releasing the arm.
"Then we shall, and force the Lannister men into route."
At those words, Lord Edmure mounted a nearby horse and drew his sword. "Men of the Riverlands! To me!" he cried, his sword pointed high. "Together we will drive off the invaders and avenge our people!"
The men around him cheered and waved their weapons in the air, and followed where the young Lord rode. Niles and his father made sure to stay near to Lord Blackwood, however.
He led them through the chaos, avoiding the larger pockets of fighting in favour of smaller ones where they would assist their comrades and add their number to the group. Eventually, their size had tripled its previous three dozen.
Then thunder rolled over them.
Niles quickly looked to the source, and saw it to be somewhere around fifty riders barreling towards them. The golden form of the Kingslayer at its head.
"Form a wall!" Lord Blackwood commanded without hesitation, "He's here for Lord Tully, we must defend him!"
All around him men rushed to follow the tall Lord's orders, and Niles found himself standing in a second rank. Just as before his body seemed to move on its own, his shield pressing up against a knight's back.
The cavalry came upon them, but something strange happened. The horses, before the unyielding men, tried to stop their own charge. Only the Kingslayer massive horse, and those of a few other knights, continued onward. That amount proved to be enough.
Knights pierced through the three ranks a little ways to Niles's right, but were slowed in the act.
Slowed enough for the men standing free behind the line to attack.
Once all the knights pushed through their line, it broke and the men it broke into swarmed the slow walking horses. But still, some managed to keep themselves at a canter. Those rushed straight for the mounted Lord Tully and the men around him, including the mounted man bearing the Tully standard.
Lord Blackwood, with Niles and his father close behind, ran after the Kingslayer and his knights, but horses are faster than men and they reached Lord Tully long before them.
The invader knights crashed into Lord Tully's guard and one made it passed them. He attacked, and his spear lanced through Lord Tully's shoulder, just left of his breast plate, and punched out the back. The blow threw the Lord from his saddle and his fall tore the spear from the knight's grip.
Lord Blackwood seemed to triple his pace at the sight, Niles's father right behind him. Niles himself fought to keep up, forcing his burning legs to propel him faster over the muck.
Both older men reached the fallen Lord before Niles, and threw themselves into helping the struggling men in defending Lord Tully.
The poleaxe him Lord Blackwood's hands whipped through the air to crash into a knight's thigh, as his father's sword cut open a horse's back leg. The beast fell screaming, taking its rider with it to the churned dirt below. But before his leg would be crushed under the horse's weight, the knight leaped from his saddle and rolled to his feet.
Quick as a shadowcat, he was upon them. Rushing to cut down Lord Blackwood before he could finish off his foe, but he was stopped by a swing from an old veteran.
His father attacked the knight with a fury, striking over and over, but was blocked each and every time. The knight's guard was unbreakable, jabs, cuts and slasher all parried of blocked by his sword. Finally, after a parried thrust was thrown wide, the invader lashed out with a roar. He struck his father's sword arm at the elbow, cutting it clean off. Then kicked out his father's leg, forcing him to one knee, and rammed his longsword into his chest.
Niles finally reached them just before the bastard could twist his blade.
He attacked with a roar, throwing himself spear first at the knight with as much speed and force as he could bring to bear.
The knight spun around, his sword in one hand and still stuck fast. He put up his other hand, but Niles ignored it for it held nothing.
His spear slammed into the center of the knight's palm, piercing straight through the mail gauntlet, and the weight he put behind it carried through. The half of the blade that pushed out the back of his hand and burst the rings of mail buried itself in the soft flesh under the knight's helm.
Niles, after putting his foot against the arm, ripped the blade out of the invader and rushed to his father.
Without looking he quickly grabbed his father by his breastplate, and dragged him over to where a man-at-arms was pressing a tunic against Lord Tully's wound and laid his coughing form near to the Lord. Then joined the circle of men protecting him, and the banner at their center.
Foes came at the circle from all side, but only one caught his eye.
The Kingslayer, his bloodied armour still a radiant gold.
Niles stood his ground, his spear all that stood between him and the Kingslayer. The golden man looked ready to charge him, when the rumble of a charging cavalry rolled over them. Both the Lannister and his knights looked behind him.
"My Lord!" a knight in dull red armour shouted, "We must retreat!
The Kingslayer sat there a moment, then wheeled his horse around, but not before pointed his sword at Niles in promise.
Mounted invaders sounded the retreat, and Niles could only stand long enough to watch them leave. Then he dropped his spear and fell to his knees, only moving went he noticed his father's remaining hand becoming him.
He half crawled, half ran over to him, and held himself over his father. His face was white as a birch, and blood was everywhere.
"Niles..." the blood pooling his father's mouth was coughed onto Niles's face, "Don't ye dare... follow me."
Then his father went limp, and a horde of riders rode around them. All rushing to follow the Kingslayer.
As the Blackfish cavalry chased after the invaders, all Niles could do was kneel there with his hands clenched into fists. "Father..." he choked out.
A steel-clad hand gently gripped his shoulder, "He was a good man, my boy, strong and true." Lord Blackwood said, "Gather him up, and bring him to the castle. I will see him honoured."
Niles nodded, pulled the sword from his father's chest, and did as he said. He'd get Willam next.