"Ser Owen Oakheart, son and heir of Lady Arwyn Oakheart," Olyvar read out as yet another lordling was brought before him. The knight was forced to his knees. This one had been forced to yield, his lip was scarred from where it had been split and dried blood caked him beneath his nose.
Robb looked over the lords around him. "Lord Blackwood, is there room at Raventree Hall?"
"I believe I can squeeze in one more, Your Grace," Lord Blackwood said to the laughter of the surrounding northern lords. He was already surrounded by a dozen knights and sons of lords due to be held at his castle.
Robb nodded and drew his sword for the fiftieth time today. He laid the point on the floor before Ser Owen. "Ser Owen Oakheart, do I have from you your oath, that you will attempt no escape until a ransom has been paid for your release? Will you swear it upon your honour as a knight and the heir of your most noble of houses?"
Ser Owen reached forward and clasped the blade of Robb's sword, bowing his head. "Your Grace, I do so swear that I will attempt no escape, upon my honour as a knight and my place as the heir of House Oakheart."
Robb nodded. "Then I place you in the care of Lord Tytos Blackwood, for now, you will be held in the castle of Raventree Hall, where you will be treated with the dignity your rank deserves until your ransom has been paid." He sheathed his sword and helped Ser Owen to his feet, personally walking him over to Lord Blackwood. "Lord Blackwood, I place this prisoner in your care, watch over him and treat him fairly in your castle."
"On my honour, Your Grace," Lord Blackwood said solemnly.
Robb returned to his platform, recently erected for this very purpose upon the hill. "Who was it who took the capture of Ser Owen?"
"Master Robett Glover, Your Grace."
"Robett Glover!" Robb called. For the second time today, Robett stepped forward and knelt before his King.
"Yes Your Grace?"
"Will you accept my word, that, should an appropriate price be offered for Ser Owen, that reward shall be yours. Do you accept my authority that, if it is necessary for an end to the war in the favour of our new kingdom, he will be released from captivity to that end?"
"I accept your word and your authority, Your Grace," Robett said again, bowing his head.
"Then let all here show respect to Robett Glover, who captured Ser Owen of House Oakheart!" The men cheered and Robett graciously returned to his position in the surrounding circle of his lords and warriors, hands clapping him on the back in celebration.
Robb let the cheers continue for a little, then held out his hand for silence. "Olyar."
Olyvar cleared his throat and read out the next name on the list. "Ser Thaddeus Barke, sworn knight to Lord Randyll Tarly of Horn Hill." Ser Thaddeus, one of the fortunate survivors from Robb's attack on Lord Tarly's exposed force, was brought forward. "Your Grace, Ser Thaddeus states that he alone lacks the funds to ransom back his equipment from us for the appropriate price. Including his two horses, weapons and arms, he would have to pay a full five hundred silver stags. His liege lord, Lord Tarly, refuses to pay this sum on behalf of his knight."
"I see," Robb said, looking down at Thaddeus, who kept his head bowed from the shame. "Then, Ser Thaddeus' arms and horses shall be granted to the man who captured him."
"That would be, Walder Rivers, natural son of Lord Walder of House Frey." He caught the slight hitch in Olyvar's voice at the mention of his bastard brother.
"Ser Walder Rivers!" The bastard of House Frey stepped forward. Robb knew of this one, gruff, dour with greying hair, Robb judged him old enough to be Olyvar's father rather than a brother. Olyvar and Perwyn had spoken of Walder, they commended him as a soldier, said he was the best of Lord Walder's brood. He lacked the pure brawn of Hosteen, or the cunning of Aenys, but a more reliable warrior all around, often given responsibilities by his father. But they also spoke of his foul mood, the kind that ruined any light gathering. Walder hated that he was a bastard and hated those who weren't. Still even Bastard Walder, as they called him, couldn't dull the euphoria of their recent victories and northman and riverman alike cheered him as he stepped forward. "Ser Walder, since Ser Thaddeus is unable to provide us with a ransom for his release, I turn his arms and horses over to you as your prizes of war, do with them as you will."
Walder bowed. "I thank you, Your Grace," he said.
"Enjoy your spoils, Ser Walder, you've earned them." Robb looked down at Thaddeus "Ser Thaddeus, as your ransom has been claimed from your arms and horses, you will be escorted from the camp and will be free to leave, you will go with the rest of your comrades who have paid their ransoms or share your fate."
Thaddeus was taken away by the guards. "Next!"
More and more knights were brought before him, so that all could be recorded and distributed as necessary. After his recent victories he now had more prisoners than he was able to easily handle, and now he had to deal with them. The lowborn prisoners who remained were turned loose, they served no value and most were all too eager to escape back to their homes. Most of the sworn sword and landless knights were being ransomed away, if they couldn't pay, their equipment was given to their captor. Robb didn't like returning them, if anyone could re-arm close to a thousand knights, it was the Houses of Tyrell and Lannister. But he couldn't keep them with his army, his castles would be overflowing with prisoners if they were kept there en masse at a time when food needed to be conserved. And he was not going to execute them, they had surrendered to avoid death. The lordly prisoners and landed knights were being gathered to the north of the camp. After recording who had taken them captive, and thus who was entitled to their ransom should it be paid, the prisoners were being taken north to be held in various castles in the Riverlands. Including the most valuable prisoner of them all, the last to be brought before him as the sun kissed the horizon, an amber hue spreading through the camp and along the dew damp grass. "Lord Mace Tyrell, Lord Paramount of the Reach, Warden of the South, High Marshall of the Reach and Master of Ships."
Lord Mace Tyrell was not a man who suited captivity. It had been less than a fortnight since he had laid down his arms at Bayonne and it showed, his cheeks were sinking, his clothes were hanging off his form and his hair was matted and knotted. The men of the North and Trident fell silent in anticipation, as Robb spoke. "Lord Mace Tyrell, at Bayonne you surrendered yourself and your men into my hands. I give you my pledge to honour your surrender. You will be transported to the castle of Riverrun, from there you be kept as a comfortable prisoner until your release has been negotiated. Know that your release will be contingent on your soon to be good-son Joffrey Baratheon recognising the independence of the North and Trident. However, as your men surrendered with honour and dignity, I will release them upon payment of a ransom. Once their value has been assessed, letters will be sent to both Highgarden and King's Landing, offering their release. I give you my pledge as King in the North and King of the Trident, that I will do this. I require your oath in return my lord, your oath on your honour and your titles that you will attempt no escape, and your word that your men, who will be held at various castles with you, will similarly attempt no escape. Swear this on your honour, my lord, and I will ensure you are treated as you deserve."
Lord Mace Tyrell knelt and bowed his head, shame and pride battling over his haggard face. "I do so swear, on my honour as the head of House Tyrell, on my pride as Lord of Highgarden and my oath as Warden of the South, that I, Lord Mace of the House Tyrell, will attempt no dishonourable escape, and I vouch for the integrity of my sworn knights to do the same. So I swear in the sight of gods and men."
"Then I accept your oath, Lord Tyrell," Robb helped him to his feet, "now you may rest, for soon you will travel to Riverrun."
Lord Tyrell was escorted away and Robb sheathed his sword for the last time. "Well my lords, I think you've been here long enough, let's all get some rest and tomorrow we can see our friends off and then take our pick of where we go next."
The men cheered again before turning and descending back into the camp around the base of the hill. Robb waited behind with his personal guard, Grey Wind stretching at his feet, ready to move after so long. He saw the lights of torches held by outrider detachments in the fields and meadows surrounding the hill. Before the war this land would have been beautiful, but even now he saw the smoke from burning farms, villages and septs, the glint of sunlight on the winding waters of the Mander to the east didn't disguise the ruin of the bridges the Tyrell hosts had destroyed to keep him from following them. His fist clenched and Grey Wind licked at it. He'd wanted to keep pursuing the Tyrells, but whoever commanded them, perhaps it was still Ser Garlan, perhaps another, had prevented him. Waylaid with prisoners, Robb hadn't been able to stop the retreating men destroying most of the bridges. By the time Robb had come to Bitterbridge, the enemy were too far away for him to catch and scatter one last time. He needed his speed back, hence the camp atop a hill, where all could see him divide the prisoners and send them north. A convoy would be leaving tomorrow, four thousand men to escort the prisoners in wagons to the riverlands. Losing that many men to a prisoner escort was far from ideal, but he couldn't risk the prisoners falling into enemy hands, Ser Brynden's scouts assured him that the Tyrells were nowhere near the proposed route, but he had to be sure. Lord Mallister would command the convoy. One of his best soldiers, he and Lord Umber were proclaimed Robb's Twin Pillars of Victory for their roles in the battle of Bayonne. But Lord Mallister had suffered an injury in the battle and needed to recover, so Robb had ordered him to take command of the defences of the Riverlands while he was here in the Reach. Lord Mallister had accepted the command with grace and dignity.
"Your Grace," he turned to Perwyn Frey. "Shall we, before they go."
"Yes, yes we should."
Robb led the men down towards the head of the convoy of wagons assembling in a great wooden snake around the western end of the camp. They lay in the very first wagon, their injuries washed but hideous, their limbs laid peacefully across their chests, resting on fresh straw, a stark cloak beneath them.
Owen's throat had a black hole in the centre, barely sealed by the silent sister's stitches, even when put to rest, his face still seemed to bear the snarl of his dying anger.
Dacey had been harder, the sword had punched through her cheek and the bottom of her eye, which had now sunk in. The stitches had only made it look worse, but it was all wrong, to see her like that. She had been beautiful in life and was now hideous in death.
Ollander had died the worst but wore it best. They had pulled him from beneath a pile of corpses, his chest black and blue with bruising trampled and suffocated, Robb still shuddered at the thought of ending it like that, trapped, crushed, alone. He was the most at peace now, his features soft and ready. He was going home, to his natural father at Maidenpool.
Robb's personal guard bowed their heads around the wagon as he leant in and kissed each of them. He stood back, letting the tears flow down his cheeks. Of all the four thousand men who had died at Bayonne and the battles since, these hit him the hardest. They were his companions, his friends, his brothers and sister. "I know all of you swore to fight and die for me," he said to the bodies, he would not belittle their sacrifice by lying to them now, saying that he wished it had been him. "I will continue to fight this war in your name, and when peace comes, I will have it recorded forever, that you gave your lives to claim it."
He bowed his head and prayed for them. He would pray again when he found a Heart Tree.
Robb didn't know who it was, but a deep baritone voice from one of his companions rumbled in the evening.
"They came to the ford in their hundreds and thousands. They came with their swords and their spears
They came from the seas to conquer and plunder, and sow the fields with their tears.
Another voice took up the song and Robb smiled.
"The brothers of Darry they came to the ford, three heroes greater than gods,
From whence did they come, those brothers of Darry, to come to the river wide.
Their castle proud, their castle strong, the home of the Darry three,
Stood 'gainst sword, stood 'gainst sling and stood 'gainst the sands of time.
Robb and the last of the guards joined them
The Ploughman's Keep and the Ploughman's fields, caught in their enemy' eye. So they rode out to face them, those Darry three, in the name of their lord and sire.
Through field and fog they rode and marched, to their fate the Darry Three,
Though death rode with them, his scythe raised high, their hearts did never tire.
They sang the song of the Widow's Ford, where the sons of House Darry fought the Andals for a day and a half before falling to the invader. The thought of the now extinct House Darry, their last scion slain by Gregor Clegane just after his coronation brought another tear to Robb's eye. How much more had to be lost, how many more had to die before they won?
When the last verses were ended, Robb and the others laid the warrior's cloaks upon them to cover their faces so that they could be sent to their homes for respectful burial.
"Thank you, all of you," he said. "Let's retire now, leave them in peace."
They nodded in agreement and Robb led them back into the camp. He had one stop to make before he went to bed. He went to Perwyn's tent, and found his squire's brother sat, gently feeding broth to another man in Frey clothes, his younger full brother Benfrey. He hadn't recovered from the blow he'd received, diving between his brother Black Walder and a falling mace. He barely reacted when you spoke to him now, and had to be coaxed through everything, eating, drinking, using the privy. "Your Grace," Perwyn bowed. Your Grace, the one phrase Benfrey seemed to react to. He moaned, his legs shaking like he was trying to stand.
"Benfrey," Robb rushed over, kneeling before him and taking his hand. "It's okay Benfrey, I'm here." Benfrey's eyes were watery, shaking, desperate to focus but unable to do so, but he squeezed Robb's hand and his legs stopped shaking. "There there, it's okay." He looked at Perwyn. "Will he be ready to travel tomorrow?"
"I believe so, Your Grace," Perwyn said, looking at his brother sadly. "I've seen to it that he is to be looked after on the way north."
"Good, be sure he needs for nothing," Robb reached out and patted Benfrey's cheek.
"Your Grace, if I may," Perwyn said, his voice restrained, uncertain.
"What is it?"
"Your Grace, if I might suggest, it might be best not to send him back to the Twins?"
"Why?"
"My family, they will not treat him well. Perhaps he'll be left in a quiet room, but that's the best fate that could await him. It wouldn't surprise me if father makes him a fool, like he did Aegon."
"Lord Walder would do that?" What kind of family was he marrying into?
"There is much my father would do, but he values family members on what they can do for us. He never falls so low as to slay his own kin, but he wouldn't see much value in Benfrey with his mind gone."
Robb closed his eyes. Benfrey was one of his guard, he would not see him treated that way. "He deserves better," Robb said. "If he went with Dacey's body, he could go north, I would ensure he is treated well in Winterfell."
Perwyn looked relieved. "Shall I write to Benfrey's wife, ask him and the children to join him on the journey?"
"Do you think they would like it in Winterfell?"
He shrugged. "I haven't seen Winterfell, Your Grace, but it would do well for them to be away from the Twins. My niece, Della, she's kind, but can't hear in her left ear, they call her Deaf Della, when her mother can't hear them. and my nephew Osmund is a sweet boy, though too young to be much of anything yet, although I suppose he'll be five now…"
"Your good-sister seems like a good mother to have," he commented.
"A good mother and a good cousin," Perwyn nodded. "Please, Your Grace, allow me to write to Jyanna, she'll see the good of it, and she'll keep Della and Benfrey safe from Big and Little."
"Lord Walder's grandchildren? The ones my mother took as wards?"
"The very same. Bloody terrors, I'm not surprised those were the ones my father picked. They take after Lothar too much for my liking. But Jyanna will keep them in line."
"Then that sounds excellent, write to her, I'll do the same if you think it will help, and I'll make it clear that Benfrey is to be treated well at Winterfell, don't fear."
"Thank you, Your Grace."
Perhaps perceiving this, Benfrey moaned, his lips moving, was he smiling? Or trying to say something.
"Your Grace, I think he needs the privy."
"Come on then," Robb said, standing and taking Benfrey's arm. "Let's go."
"You don't have to-" Perwyn began.
"But I will," Robb said firmly. "Benfrey was a member of my guard. He may not have been injured saving me, but he was injured in my service." Perwyn nodded and took Benfrey's other arm.
Together they guided him through the camp, towards the privy trench, finding a stretch where no one was around to save Benfrey any further indignity, Perwyn pulled down his trousers and helped his brother to squat. While Perwyn supported him, Robb found some suitable leaves, the best you could hope for out on campaign. When Benfrey was done emptying his bowels, Robb wiped most of the filth away and held Benfrey steady while Perwyn pulled up and laced his trousers again.
Together they guided Benfrey back to Perwyn's tent and laid him down. "Rest now, Benfrey, tomorrow you're going to a new home," Robb said, pulling the covers up to Benfrey's chest. Benfrey closed his eyes and made a soft, indistinguishable noise before he went to sleep. "Goodnight Benfrey of House Frey."
"You should go rest yourself, Your Grace," Perwyn said.
"I should," Robb said. "You also get some sleep Perwyn," he said.
"I will, Your Grace," he said, bowing as Robb left.
When Robb entered his tent, he was ready to sleep, but found not only Olyvar waiting for him, but also ser Brynden. "Ser Brynden, has something happened?"
"Yes," Brynden said flatly.
"What is it?" Robb asked, suddenly alert.
"We captured what we thought was a scout, coming to us from the south west," Brynden said.
"Highgarden?"
"Well, that direction anyhow," Brynden confirmed. "He claimed he was a messenger, sent to find Ser Garlan and bring him news of Highgarden's defences, he was instructed to take a route along the fields to the north to avoid the corpseroad,"
Robb frowned. "A route that we surely would have captured him on," Robb said, "and what do you mean claimed?"
Brynden reached into his belt and pulled out a letter, the broken wax seal was grey. "This letter was not addressed to Ser Garlan."
"Then who?"
"You."
"Me?" Robb reached out and took the letter, sitting down. He read the letter. Then read it again. He read it a third time just to be sure.
"Is this real?" He asked, looking up at Ser Brynden.
"The rider was a Hightower rider, even if he was unaware of what he was carrying."
"I don't know if that's good or bad for him," Robb muttered. "If this letter fell into Tyrell hands…"
"It seems they made sure it would fall into our hands. And if not, they deny it, call this a deception, the uncertainty of war does the rest."
"It's got his name on it," Robb pointed out.
"But no seal, either on the letter or in the wax, and I wouldn't be surprised if it wasn't Baelor Hightower's handwriting either."
"Could it be fake, a lure?"
"It's very vague, I'd think an attempt to lure us into a trap, would contain more details, be more tantalising." Indeed. He looked at the letter again. An offer from House Hightower, march with his strength on Highgarden, be joined by House Hightower forces, take the castle at the heart of the Reach and House Hightower would ascend to become the new Kings of the Reach, independent and allied to Robb.
The houses of the Reach were notorious for their claims on Highgarden, all descending from Garth Greenhand. Was this House Hightower choosing to gamble high? Perhaps, and if it worked, it would win him the war. The rest of the Reacher armies outside King's Landing would splinter, some would return home, to either protect their land or swear fealty to the new King of the Reach, the Tyrells having failed to defend them. Others would continue to fight with the Lannisters, to claim Highgarden as Lord Paramount or maybe try to claim new lands in the Stormlands, or join Stannis' weakened armies. Then only the weakened Lannister army would stand between Robb and recognition of his independence. If it was true, this would be the final decisive blow. If it worked.
"I need to think on this, call the lords together tomorrow, when the convoy has left, and we'll decide then."
"Of course, Your Grace."
"This is our chance, Your Grace!" Lord Umber declared, slamming his fist on the table of the command tent. "Take Highgarden and the war is over, the Tyrells are finished and with it all that's left of Joffrey's strength."
The lords had gathered in the main tent, sat around the table, with Robb at the head, Grey Wind ready to pounce at his feet.
"Taking Highgarden won't break the Lannisters," Lord Tytos Blackwood reminded the Greatjon.
"How many times must we beat the Lannisters," Lord Bracken scoffed, possibly just to speak against Lord Blackwood, "they're a force that's made for beating."
"Highgarden would be a valuable prize, and the independence of the Reach is the final end of the Seven Kingdoms," Ser Wendell Manderly said. "With us holding the Riverlands, and the Reach closed off, the Westerlands will have to be independent, it wouldn't survive without the land links to King's Landing."
"So Tywin Lannister becomes king of the west," Robb muttered.
"Or his son, I wonder whether Tywin would allow himself to be the Hand that let the kingdoms fall through his grasp," Lord Karstark said.
"King's Landing itself?" Robb asked.
"Would fall to Stannis, like as not," said Ser Stevron Frey, Lord Walder's heir. "But that would be it, Stannis wouldn't have the power to conquer the rest of the Seven Kingdoms, even if he claimed the title, Dorne would simply detach itself, and the Iron Isles aren't worth fighting over."
"And with the south ravaged and divided, you become the most powerful man in the land, Your Grace," His uncle Edmure said
"How do you mean uncle?" Robb shot at him.
Edmure smiled. "You have the peoples and food of the Riverlands at your command, as well as all the land and untapped potential of the North. The Westerlands are ravished, the Vale is isolated, the Reach is burning and likely to be engulfed in civil war. The Stormlands would be the only rival power, but they couldn't match the two kingdoms both. United, against a plethora of broken realms, we are unstoppable."
Much of the table nodded at the thought of that. It was dangerous, Robb knew, a power fantasy that might be unattainable, but what better way to guarantee the security of the North and Trident than break up it's foes? And the glory, the renown, he would be the undefeated King who brought low the Kingdom it had taken dragons to create.
"I don't trust it." The table fell silent and turned to Daryn Hornwood. "I think it's a fake letter, designed to bring us into a trap. One sharp defeat could have undone everything we have achieved so far. We have King's Landing on the ropes, let's not let them regroup by focussing our energies on Highgarden.
That brought another round of support, with some who had stars in their eyes over Highgarden second guessing themselves, while some who had stayed silent voiced their agreement with Tristan's friend.
There was no interruption to make this time, no third way that would cut through the voices of all parties. He was already King in the North, this was about what direction to take as King, and in that, there was always and only division. He snatched up his cup and downed the cold water inside it.
"Highgarden is for glory, not for our goals here," Robett Glover said. "Lord Hornwood is right, King's Landing is our objective."
"That is an option for us," Robb said, drawing all to him. "Recall the forces besieging other towns and castles, March up the roseroad, slowly, we have supplies, we're in no rush. Send them messages, issue our demands, force them to accept. Highgarden is a safer option, the army there is raw recruits or those who have tasted defeat, but risks distracting us from our main goals."
He would have to recall his forces anyway. With the four thousand men gone, he had fifteen thousand with him, but several thousand more had been despatched to claim the castles in the south they had been besieging before the Tyrell armies had arrived. He could bring his force back to twenty thousand if he recalled them, enough to threaten either King's Landing or Highgarden. It was a shame that he couldn't take those castles, the fresh swords, shields and spears would be useful for his army. Due to his victories, many of his footmen now had mail shirts, heavy shields and proper spears in place of ploughshares and pitchforks, but they were getting worn, and replacements would be necessary. They had also been hardened by battle, they had proven their worth in the shield wall and holding the village at Bayonne.
As the lords continued to bicker he noted a disturbance from outside the tent. The guards there were stopping a man who was frantically trying to pass. He was red faced and frantic. "Let that man through," Robb called, cutting across the chatter. The lords fell silent as the guards let the man pass. He was a messenger.
"Your Grace," he panted as he bowed hurriedly.
"What is it?" Robb demanded.
"My lord, I bring terrible news, the sieges in the south have been broken. The force we sent to Cider Hall was driven away, and the force surrounding Hunterhall was surprised, defeated and forced to retreat."
"How!" He demanded. "How have the Tyrells recovered so quickly?" They were beaten, how many times did he have to beat his enemies before they learned? "How many lost?"
"Ser Kyle Condon was able to retreat from Cider Hall before suffering too many casualties, but we lost more at Hunterhall before Ser Aenys Frey was able to co-ordinate a retreat. The soldiers at the other castles all fell back when they heard the news and are coming to you as fast as they can."
"How did the Tyrells manage to surprise you, were you not watching for them?" Even so, how had they recovered so quickly? He had beaten them, four times in one week. Four times in one week!
The messenger licked his lips, fearful. "Your Grace, it wasn't the Tyrells."
"What!" Grey Wind growled and leapt forward, his muzzle in the messenger's face. "Then who, who was it, the Lannister?" Had they sent their army to follow the Tyrells and were only in the area now?
"No, Your Grace, the attackers flew the crowned Stag. House Baratheon. Stannis Baratheon."
