"Our scouts and theirs are keeping apart for now," Brynden told him indicating several locations along the Mander river. "But we're unable to get close enough to see where King Stannis' main host is."
"We're not looking to fully engage with Stannis Baratheon," Robb reminded ser Brynden. Honestly, Robb would be happy to cede the entire Reach to King Stannis' host right now, he'd certainly prefer that to a pitched clash with his army. But that would put him back on home territory, with Stannis Baratheon and the Lannisters both at his borders, forcing him to be on the defensive while consuming his own supplies. But here, he could keep the initiative, maintain a line of retreat to the Riverlands, prevent Stannis Baratheon from threatening his borders, and feed himself on his enemies' lands.
Worst of all, whether the supposed offer from the Hightowers was genuine or not, there was no way he could follow it now. Highgarden would not yield easily, he would be forced to besiege it, with his army vulnerable to an attack by Stannis' army the entire time. And even if he was able to place a Hightower on the throne of Highgarden, what would it benefit him right now. The Hightowers' host wouldn't be enough to support his campaigns, and he would be stuck in the deep south. His kingdom on the Trident was thinly defended as it was, he couldn't afford to be cut off from it by Stannis Baratheon's army.
Robb looked at the pattern of engagements. They were steadily creeping eastwards, further away from the Lannister-Tyrell forces that had regrouped at Highgarden. That was good, he didn't want to be watching his flank in case they decided to rally. "Start moving the forces to the east, slowly, and report back to me if we learn anything else. But keep it tight, we don't know where Stannis is, I want him just as ignorant. But don't press too hard, I don't want our men dying needlessly."
"As you command, your grace," Brynden said.
Alone, Robb unfurled the letter clutched in his fist. He'd read it a number of times since his guard had brought it to him and now he read it one more time. A reply from Stannis Baratheon. He'd written to the Baratheon claimant, offering to withdraw fully from the Reach and deliver Lord Tyrell and other Reacher prisoners to King Stannis, if he agreed to Robb's demands: The independence of the North and Trident, the return of his family, free and safe, along with Ice and all of his father's possessions from King's Landing, and of course the final offer, one he had not written down, but had spoken to Daryn Hornwood, his messenger, he couldn't have proof of this offer falling into enemy hands. He would put aside his betrothal to one of Lord Walder's daughters and marry Stannis' daughter Shireen, in return, Sansa would marry Lord Stannis' son Lyonel, to ensure familial bonds and peace between their new and independent Kingdoms.
Stannis rejected almost all offers. His counter demands had been much the same as the Lannisters had been, except that neither of them held hostages of the other.
But there was one light that Robb could work with. If Robb turned over Lord Tyrell and the other prisoners taken at Bayonne and the subsequent battles, he would allow Robb Stark to leave with his army intact, back to the Riverlands, and allow a six month pause in hostilities between them.
That was too much for too little. Robb couldn't give so much, but at least it was something, something he could work with. If he could get a reprieve, allow the Baratheons and Lannisters to batter themselves against each other, it would weaken them, strengthen his position and perhaps allow some healing for his lands. But he had to be careful. Daryn described Stannis as prickly, tight and hard, if Robb shifted too little, he might break off negotiations completely, and that would be a failure of Kingship.
A commotion made him focus. Ser Brynden was marching back towards him, followed by a scout. Men looked up from cookfires at the sight. There were no tents, there couldn't be, they didn't have time to be pitching tents every evening then taking them down every morning, they had to be fast, mobile. A portion of his men still guarded the main camp he'd established to the north, where they kept the tents pitched and spare weapons and supplies ready. He rotated men out every week, right now Lord Karstark held it with his men, next it would be Lord Blackwood, then Lord Umber, that way the men in his army each got a chance to rest comfortably.
"Your Grace," Ser Brynden expression was urgent, "we need to talk."
Robb nodded and led Ser Brynden away, the scout following them, casting a wary eye at Grey Wind. Even now, the men were still wary of him.
At a safe distance, he turned and spoked. "What's happened?"
Brynden gestured the scout forward, "tell him what you told me?"
The scout bowed, then looked up at him. "Your Grace, we were scouting out to the west when we met enemy outriders."
"Baratheons?" Was Stannis trying to outflank him, had he successfully bluffed his way across the Mander?
But the scout shook his head. "They were Tyrells and their bannermen."
"Tyrells? How far west did you get, were you close to Highgarden?"
"No, Your Grace, and the second and third times we clashed was further and further east."
"They're coming closer."
"Yes, your grace. In particular they seem to be screening the roseroad."
Robb frowned. This was an unknown, why were Tyrell scouts pushing along the roseroad, were they trying to see if there was a chance to deliver a blow, or just looking for more information? He had to find out. "Do you know any more?"
"No, Your Grace, we haven't been able to get past these outriders, whatever is happening they're determined to keep us out."
"In that case, you're up uncle, go there with more outriders, find out what's happening that the Tyrells are so eager to keep from us. Appoint your best to watch the Mander to the east, I need you to find out what's going on above all else. While I don't know what's happening, I can't plan ahead."
Brynden bowed. "Don't fear, your grace, I'll find out what's happening there."
()()()
He had his reply ready for Stannis the next day, but he didn't want to send it yet, not until he knew what was happening along the roseroad, it could be nothing, or it could be everything.
He had gone the opposite direction in his communication with Stannis. With both he and Stannis in the field, and able to speak, perhaps direct communication was necessary. He had offered to transfer five highborn prisoners from the Reach to Stannis and recognise Stannis Baratheon as the rightful follower from Robert Baratheon's regime in King's Landing, cutting off all communication with the Lannisters and the Tyrells as traitors to King Stannis' realm. If Stannis would recognise him as king in his own right. He hadn't been specific, but he needed that guarantee if they were going to start negotiations. If Stannis agreed to open communication, negotiation in good faith, he would bring another five to the negotiations.
But now he had to stop and wait. He couldn't do it forever. While they marched, while they fought from one victory to another, his men would follow him, but if they seemed to lack purpose and direction in a foreign land, they would long for the comforts of home. But he had to know. Something was happening, he felt it in his bones, Grey Wind felt it too. Ever since the news had arrived he'd been on edge, waking quickly at sudden noises, baring his fangs at any who came close. He was always more protective when something big was beyond the horizon.
So he'd marched, taking ten thousand men to move to a new position to the west, leaving Tytos Blackwood and Helman Tallhart to watch the crossings of the Mander to the east. Now he was waiting in the lee of some hills, just to the north east of the dead mile, the corpseroad some called it, waiting for Brynden to bring him news.
His uncle came to them, later in the day. "It's the Lannisters and Tyrells," he said, panting, his bow was out, most of his arrows spent.
"They marched from Highgarden?"
"Aye, all the way up the roseroad."
"Do we know who they intend to fight?" were they trying their luck against him, Stannis, both?
"No one," Brynden replied. Was that admiration in his voice. "They're escorting a massive supply convoy, probably all the way to the capital."
"A supply convoy?"
Brynden nodded. "Aye, and a big one. We couldn't get too close, their outriders are too skilled. But there must have been hundreds of wagons, thousands of head of cattle, months of supplies."
"How large is the escort?"
"Thousands, I don't know more."
Robb didn't know what to say. Hadn't he beaten cowardice into his enemies by this point? When the Tyrells came for him, they were fresh and brought massive numbers, and they still crawled along, desperate to avoid battle until it suited them, until they had an opportunity to attack his army in little pieces. And the Lannisters, how many times must he put them to rout before they learned not to march against him! He took a breath, no. No anger. Think.
The escort couldn't be a full field army. If it was then they wouldn't have made it so far without being spotted. Most of the Tyrell men from the earlier defeats had fled back to King's Landing, perhaps a few had made it through to Highgarden, but not many. That meant that the only forces that could have been marshalled to guide this convoy were those from the lands around Highgarden itself, and many of those would have been at King's Landing anyway. This had to be a small escort, not much more than ten thousand men at best. He could beat ten thousand men, and if Brynden was right, take months of supplies back to the people of the Riverlands. He couldn't help but feel a kernel of admiration for whoever had decided to march up the road. What made them try to march a huge supply convoy between his army and Stannis Baratheon's? It may have been mad, it may have been desperate, but by the gods it was bold. No matter. He could beat them, but he'd need the rest of army. "Do you think they'll continue to take the roseroad?"
"With their wagons, they'll have to stick to the road."
"Then we know where they're going to be," he said. "We can prepare for them."
"Where, your grace?" Brynden asked.
"Where are they now?"
"They're approaching the corpseroad."
Robb hated that name. What on earth had Tristan thought he was doing, unleashing Lord Bolton on the people of the Reach like that. He'd seen the bodies, smelt the rot, heard the flies, had Tristan even known what Roose intended? He knew war was violent. He knew his men had carried out savage and brutal acts in fighting his enemy, but that. That was too much. But Tristan had been acting with Robb's authority, he would undermine his own command if he punished Roose Bolton for it. So Robb would let this stain stand. If he could free the North then it would all be worth it, he just had to free the North. "We'll need the army, as much of it as possible. Send riders to Tytos and Helman, order them to meet us north of the corpseroad. We'll attack them there."
()()()
"They're coming, your grace!" Cley cried out, pointing down the road.
Robb held up his gauntlet to try and shield his eyes from the rain. Shapes shifted in the grey gloam ahead, he could see what he thought were the shapes of horses and men. "Riders, to Lord Blackwood and Ser Brynden, everyone else, get ready to attack."
Robb's march had gathered nearly fifteen thousand men to his banner, with more coming in dribs and drabs. But what he had was assembled on both sides of the road, ready to pounce, if he missed them it would take time to re-organise before he could attack again. No, this convoy had marched under his nose and between his teeth. He wasn't going to let them go without taking a bite.
His army was assembled in four battalions. Lord Blackwood held a strong force of two and a half thousand infantrymen with a small reserve of horse to guard the roseroad and block the convoy's path. To Robb's right, Ser Brynden commanded a harrying force of horse, half heavy knights, half light riders. They were to harry the rear of the column, tie down as many of the foe as possible and keep constant pressure on them from that direction. His most aggressive commander, Lord Umber was situated across the roseroad from Robb. They had the largest battalions, and would charge against the enemy together and crush them between their forces.
They clutched their weapons tightly, the rain beating uneven rhythms on their helms and hauberks, droplets running down spear shafts and soaking cloaks and furs. But they had to wait. They would join battle only when they heard the trumpets from Lord Blackwood's riders to say that the enemy at the front had spotted them. Then, they would close the vice.
The shadows of the enemy moved slowly, crawling along the road which Robb couldn't make out in the heavy precipitation. Come on, do it, get closer, let me kill you. He spurred his horse just a little forward, letting himself go ahead of the men, let them see that he led them from the front, he shared their risk, they shared his glory.
Still the convoy moved, still it shifted in shadow, still he waited. Grey Wind shook his fur, sending droplets everywhere.
The trumpets shrilled through the air and Robb raised his sword. "Charge!"
Horns and warcries rent the air as Robb's army attacked he led the cavalry ahead, with the infantry following close behind. The shadows in the rain were still moving, twisting and forming shapes of men and horses and wagons. As they came close Robb's eyes widened and he yanked back on the reins. "Stop!" He cried.
His men saw the danger and desperately pulled on their reins. One was too slow, the horse shrieked at the sudden command, it's hooves skidded on the slippery mud and careened into the enemy infantry who had rapidly formed a shield wall before the wagons. Where the horse had crashed into them, spears thrust and axes fell and rose red, the horse silent and still, the rider gone. Robb looked to the left, nothing, to the right, there!" With me!" He ordered and turned his horsemen to charge to a small gap where the enemy shield wall hadn't formed yet. They reached it just as a trio of enemy footmen tried to claim the gap. Robb lashed out with his blade, splitting the head of one of them and pushing into the opening.
But the enemy were already reacting, a body of footmen, led by a brute twirling a battleaxe was racing to the gap, bearded, weathered and clad in fine mail with round shields, they slammed into Robb's horsemen. Isolated, without the momentum of the charge, they would be overwhelmed. He saw one of his riders pulled from the saddle, another run through, a bloody iron spearhead punching out of his back while others thrust down with blades and spears. One came for Robb, spear pulled back to lunge. Grey Wind was on him, he leapt up, jaws snapping shut over the spear arm, crushing bone in a welter of blood. As the warrior screamed, a powerful claw raked across his thighs, turning his legs red. "Retreat!" Robb roared, "back out of the wall!" But they couldn't hear him, not over the din of battle. Cursing, Robb kicked his horse into action, if they couldn't go backwards, they would press onwards, swing around and punch their way out. As he rode forward, his guard joined him, soon joined by the horsemen. Robb led them towards the wagons for two dozen heartbeats, then swung around they turned in a great arc.
Enemy horsemen were riding up the road desperately, guided by enemy infantry waving them on. This wasn't good, if they joined the battle now. But they didn't, a few diverted to keep a watch on Robb, but most carried on, waved on by some of the enemy reserve infantry. These weren't the heavy footmen who had created the wall of shields and spears, these were lightly armoured archers, crossbowmen, and teamsters and shepherds who'd had spears thrust into their hands. He could break through them, take the wagons, but no, not yet, they had to break out. So they continued their arc and found themselves behind the shield wall. From behind, they had no defence. Robb's riders smashed the wall apart, cutting down soldiers left and right as they burst back out of the enemy lines. They fell, brains spilling, blood still pumping, bodies squelching in the muddy grass.
They were free. Robb turned his horse a safe distance away and watched the carnage.
His cavalry charge may have failed, but his infantry slammed into the enemy infantry formations. Swords slashed, spears thrust and shields shuddered. Limbs were cleaved and heads crushed. The scrabbling feet kicked up mud and tufts of grass mixing with blood and severed limbs.
Robb looked up and down the line, desperate to find a place where his horsemen could swing the balance and break through, but he saw nothing. Bands of warriors slammed crashed together and bounced off like waves. Archers were useless, but spears and axes hurled at each other. He saw one warrior hold his shield too close, the heavy point of the spear breaking through the linden boards and punching into his chest. He went down, bleeding and gasping. Another of his warriors snatched up a hatched from in the chest of a friend and hurled it back at the shield wall with a roar, it took a warrior in the face, cleaving half his head off.
Behind them, the convoy still trundled on. Every time there was a break in combat, the enemy formations shuffled along to try and keep up with it. Still horsemen were riding at full tilt to the front of the column.
Then he saw the figure, he stood on top of one of the moving wagons, gleaming in steel plate worked with scarlet and gold, a lion crested helm atop his head. Three subordinates were with him, each of them staring intently in each direction, as the lion crested man, waved and shouted, gesturing with his sword, guiding soldiers and horses.
One of his subordinates grabbed his arm and pointed to where there was a bend in the line. Tully infantrymen were close to breaking through the enemy shield wall. "With me, quickly!" He ordered, leading his horsemen to go and tip the balance. As his horse pounded along the battleline, urged on by the screams of the dead and the dying, Robb saw the lion crested man command his wagon to halt. When a small gap had opened up he waved with his sword frantically, and a stream of warriors stormed through, making for the weakening point in the line.
By the time Robb had organised his cavalry into a wedge, the reinforcements had strengthened the line. Another chance, gone.
He tried three more times to break the enemy line, but each time they managed to reinforce at the last minute. At his last charge they were turned back by a hail of thrown spears, one of which skimmed off his greave before squelching into the dirt. It bought a few seconds, but that was all they needed. What was happening elsewhere, why hadn't the convoy been stopped yet?
He saw his infantry break through, but as they swarmed forward, before he could even order his cavalry to wheel and take advantage, shapes emerged from the rain. A lance of heavy knights tearing back down the line of the convoy. The man atop the wagon pointed his sword. They lowered their lances and charged, driving the infantry back.
"Get ready!" Robb ordered, turning to face them. This was their chance to- no! The enemy didn't pursue, they broke the infantry, sent them into flight, but then turned back to the wagons, taking up position, ready to charge in again where they were needed. Why couldn't they have charged out, then he could have cut them down in the open. Instead the enemy infantry reformed and shuffled along the line.
Still the convoy moved on.
Then it stopped and his heart rose, but no, it was just another gap opening up. At the order of Lion Crest, half the horsemen turned and raced through to the other side, as well as a warband of resting infantrymen who dragged themselves back to formation and jogged on behind them. Then the wagons set off again.
Curse it all. "Two riders, find out what's happening with Lord Blackwood, why isn't this convoy stopping?"
The day darkened as he attacked again, but again failed to break the enemy line, gods these bastards were stubborn. He looked at Lion Crest standing on his wagon still. Who was he? If only they had their archers, but no one could throw a spear so far.
Then Lion Crest was suddenly frantic again, gesturing wildly with his sword and remarkably, some of the enemy infantry broke off from the rear of the shield wall and raced back towards the convoy. "Ready," he commanded cautiously. Then the sword was rising and falling, he saw the flash of a spear point from the other side of the wagon before the commander thrust down and drew back a red blade. The teamster of the wagon behind him leapt off in fright and ran. Robb saw shapes in fur start to clamber on it. One seized a bag and raised it above his head in triumph. But a hurled spear punched through his belly, he dropped the bag on his head and tumbled off backwards as the redirected infantry raced through the gap, one of them leaping up to take the teamster's position and crack the whips. "Lord Umber has broken through, attack!" He ordered. He led his men again into the melee.
They drove into the enemy infantry, the weight of their horses pushing them. Robb whipped his sword down to redirect an axe blow before cutting the offending warrior's face off. He screamed, clutching at the bloody mass of his face. One of his friends shoved him aside and thrust with a spear, but Robb deflected the strike and drove his blade into their face. They pushed through, the line was buckling. Robb and his men drove through, hacking and slashing, the enemy near them were breaking, the infantry casting down their arms and running back towards the wagons, they were through, they were through!
"What will you do now?" He whispered through burning lungs. He looked to the wagon where the enemy Lion Crest had situated himself. He was being helped into a warhorse caparisoned with heavy scarlet cloth and barding. Was he fleeing? Had he seen that he'd lost?
Lion Crest urged his horse forward, standing high in the saddle, sword raised high. A few horsemen massed around him, only two still holding lances. Then a dozen. Then more. Then they charged towards him.
"No, not now," he whispered, "forward!" He urged his panting horse onwards, sweat pouring off it's flanks, steaming. He could feel his guard around him, but how many others? No matter, it had to be enough.
The blood thrummed in his ears. In the second before they met, it was all he could hear. Then they clashed, swords flashing, horses screaming as lances tore into their flesh. Robb raised his sword, where was the leader? He blocked a blow, then another. Grey Wind howled, a knight reared away, before one of the wolf's claws ripped out his steed's guts. The knight collapsed, raising his hands to keep Grey Wind away, and behind him, Robb saw him. Lion Crest. He turned his horse and forced it into the gap. He hadn't seen Robb coming. Daryn rode past at full tilt, with a great blow, Lion Crest's sword was ripped from his hand. Now was his chance, Robb charged in.
Lion Crest saw him and fumbled at his waist. As Robb aimed a swipe at his helm, he raised his scabbard, belt still swinging from it like tentacles and battered away Robb's blade. Robb hacked at him, chipping away at the jewel encrusted scabbard. Just who was this man, with a jewelled scabbard. Robb aimed high then twisted his wrist, as Lion Crest raised his scabbard, Robb thrust low, finding a gap in the hip joints and getting the tip in. Lion Crest yelled in pain. Robb drew his sword out and stabbed again. Lion Crest twisted, letting Robb's sword spark off his breastplate. Robb rained blows on him, again and again. "Yield!" He spat from behind his visor.
A knight appeared on Lion Crest's other side and held out something. As Robb brought his sword down towards his head, Lion Crest lashed out and met the strike with the longaxe he'd just been given. Robb growled as Lion Crest used the axe to pull his sword and hold it away. He could feel the man's eyes rake him and his horse from behind his visor, see Grey Wind. "The King in the North I presume?" He grunted.
Robb freed his sword and attacked again, his blade slashed into the crook of Lion Crest's elbow. With a scream of pain, he dropped the longaxe. Robb raised his sword to strike, but too late, another knight in Lannister crimson forced his way between them and took the blow on his shield, raising his sword and countering, screaming at Lion Crest to retreat. The chance was lost and Robb wheeled away. Horses and men clashed in a swirling melee, he saw a knight in Manderly colours raise his arms in terror, but he couldn't stop a horse's hooves crashing down on him, while a man in Tyrell green tried desperately to pull himself out of the mud.
"Your Grace!" He turned, it was Cley. "Your Grace, we have to go!"
"What?"
"The enemy infantry are coming back, we'll be swamped!"
"Fuck it all!" He screamed. He looked around, he couldn't see them, but Cley wouldn't lie. Would he? No, they'd come this far, he must have made a mistake. "Keep attacking!" He roared.
"Your Grace!" It was Smalljon, on his other side. "More of them are coming, we have to get you out of here!"
"Protect the King!" Cley yelled and a wall of riders fought their way close, surrounding them in a wall of horseflesh and grey steel.
"Your Grace?"
Robb nodded. "Go go go!" They kicked their horses into canters and broke away from the engagement, back through the gap they'd made and out into the safety of the field. Robb turned, panting nearly as hard as his horse. He fumbled with his visor and raised it, gasping in relief as oxygen flooded his lungs. He rubbed his horse's neck and turned back to the battle. Cley had been right. Footmen were rushing around the wagons, some clambering up from underneath them and rushing to pull down the straggling riders and fill in the opening in the shield wall, only now clogged with the dead and wounded.
"If they're coming back," he gasped, "then… Lord Umber's attack… it's been driven off. He looked up, the enemy cavalry were retreating and, sure enough, Lion Crest was being helped back onto a wagon. Who the hell was that?
"Your Grace!"
He turned, it was one of the riders he'd sent to investigate what was happening with Lord Blackwood. The convoy was still moving. Robb nodded, gesturing for him to speak.
"Your Grace, Lord Blackwood can't stop the convoy. The enemy have massed horsemen at the front of the column, every time he tries to form a shield wall they scatter it then retreat back to the column, he can't lure them out of position to try again, they're keeping the road open."
"Fuck!"
"Your Grace," it was Daryn, he ripped his helm off, he was dripping sweat and panting heavily. "We can't keep this attack up if the convoy hasn't stopped, it'll be night soon."
Robb felt the exhaustion in his arms, saw it in his guard, the attacks on the convoy were losing momentum, the men running back too easily.
He turned back to Lord Blackwood's rider. "Return to Lord Blackwood, tell him to stop trying to block the road, he's to send a rider to Lord Umber, tell him to stop the attack, pull back, when the convoy has passed he can come back through to join us. The rest of you, sound the retreat, no more attacks today."
He looked over the enemy convoy, still moving steadily onwards. Lion Crest still stood on his wagon, his back to Robb, directing affairs on the other side of battle.
They'd suffered losses, but consumed by blood and mud and the encroaching blanket of night, he couldn't tell who had lost more, his army or theirs. It had to be theirs, his attacks had been relentless, they'd breached the line multiple times, and the enemy had failed to follow up when they'd thrown Robb's army back, that was where the true losses in battle were suffered. And next time, Robb would do better.
Lion Crest paused in his action and turned his head slightly, his visor was raised again and he was looking over his shoulder. It was too far, but Robb was sure they must be looking right at each other. Whoever this man was, he was good. Very good.
He couldn't help the smile that crossed his lips, the thrill of battle in his chest. "We're not done," he promised.
