They wouldn't break. They just wouldn't break. No matter how hard Robb and his men pushed, how many times their swords thrust out grey and came back red, they just wouldn't break. "Keep going!" He grunted, putting all his weight behind his shield, feeling the Lannister soldier behind the shield, boots slipping in the muddy roads, slickening with the steady rain. A shift, the soldier pushed. Robb bent his shield back. The soldier went up, he went low. A slash, a scream, an opportunity, a thrust. He was dead. Robb stepped forward and met his next foe.
Robb's square of men, pushing through the gap between huts, was made up of his best men, his personal guard and knights, all with heavy armour and shields. The enemy were levied footmen. Despite their stubbornness, they were outmatched. They may not break, but they were being pushed back. Almost every sword, spear or axe that slipped past their shields rang off helms, gauntlets or plate. But every now and then, the grunts and curses of his men were broken by screams, the clatter of steel on stone.
His arms ached, barely able to keep up his sword. He gritted his teeth, they had to reform. "Hold," he called. "Hold." His men steadied the line, those in the row behind touching their shoulders to let them know they were ready. He shouted, "push!" as one, they shoved the enemy back. Using the respite, Robb and his fellow soldiers slid back, allowing the second line to move forward and take their place, fresh and eager to fight.
The ranks swirled around Robb like the tide around a rock until he burst out the back of the formation. He and all his men pulled their helms off, gasping for air. Smalljon tipped his head back, mouth open to let the rain fall into it. Olyvar came running over, feet splashing in a puddle, waterskin held out, stopped already removed. Robb chugged half the skin back, the cold, sweet water soothing his throat. "My horse," he gasped. Olyvar nodded and hurried away to get Robb's horse. If he wasn't taking his turn in the front line, he had to guide his men. Another battalion of northern troops, Tallhart footmen, stood ready to sweep in once - if - Robb's elite could make a hole, behind them waited a square of Piper and Darry men.
Olyvar returned, Robb's grey courser behind him, the rear battalions parting to let him through. "Thank you," Robb said, taking the reins in hand and hauling himself up onto the mount. He turned the horse to face the battlefront. With fresh men at the front of the line, Robb's forces were making steady gains. The Lannisters held as best they could, but every time they retreated, they left bodies sprawled in their wake. Robb could see over them, they were nearly at the village square, just the length of one more house to go. A rider galloped up behind the Lannister soldiers, his sigil bore two crossed halberds, directing the enemy troops. Turning in the saddle, waving his hand furiously at something behind him. The sharp trill of trumpets filled the air, and the Lannisters broke into a retreat, the enemy rider leading them away.
Less disciplined men would charge after the enemy, and if they were mounted, it might have been worth it to do so, but afoot they couldn't risk it. But his men were not so foolish and advanced cautiously into the village square.
The Tallhart men fanned out to the right, and the Pipers and Darrys to the left behind them. Robb sat on his horse behind them and looked across the square. It was a small dirt patch of land, surrounded by huts with a well in the middle. The enemy had reformed on the other side, a deep line of infantrymen, shields held close. The line parted, just slightly, to allow the halberd rider to move through the line to the front of his men. He rode up the line slowly, carefully, at his men. Robb rode between his men and the Tallharts, taking the time to ride down the column. He looked down at his men, smiling at them. One young warrior smiled back and Robb reached down to pat his head. Behind him, Grey Wind bounded, his presence inspiring his men. Grey Wind had been left behind the main battlefront, he served no purpose in the tight clash of a shield wall. When he'd seen all the men in his line, he turned to lock eyes with the enemy commander.
The falling rain covered most of the sounds from beyond the village, where the rest of the battle raged. Then the commander spoke. "You must be King Robb Stark." His voice was hard and firm.
"I am," Robb replied. "And you are?"
"The man who has orders to hold this village," was all he said.
"You've lost this village ser, there's no need to shed more blood over it. Leave now, and your men will be spared."
The knight's horse shook its mane, water droplets flicking to the ground. The knight himself cocked his head. "You want to end the bloodshed?"
"Yes."
Robb saw him flash a smile, open his arms wide, and call out loudly, "then I will accept your surrender."
The Lannister men laughed, only a few at first, but soon the rest of them joined in the moment of levity.
Robb sighed and gestured forwards. More blood it was then. The men advanced, step by step.
"No surrender?" The knight mocked, not moving from his place ahead of the line of men. "Very well. Shoot!"
They sliced through the rain like silver darts, quarrels and arrows coming from the windows of the houses bordering the square and slamming home into his men. "No!" Robb cried. On the right, men of house Tallhart were cut down, long arrow shafts sticking from their bodies. Robb cursed as the battalions retreated to their positions. The Lannister men didn't move, just jeered at Robb's troops as they hunkered down, trying to weather the storm. His elite forces in the centre fared better, their heavy armour immune to arrows. Most of the bolts were caught on their shields, but Robb saw a quarrel punch through the visor of one of his knights, who jerked backwards, falling to the ground. But the footmen on his left and right were not as well armoured. Arrows that missed shields found leather, chain, and flesh.
Damn it all. Out in the open, archers were no use here, but under the thatched roofs, where bowstrings would be nice and dry, the enemy was free to shoot all of their arrows. "Back ranks," Robb called out, riding close up behind them so that they could hear him clearly. "Get those houses, now, front ranks keep moving forward." If they kept moving, if the houses containing the archers were behind his front line, they could snuff them out one by one.
Four men of House Piper rushed at the nearest house. One of them dived to the floor to avoid a crossbow bolt, but as he clambered to his feet, an arrow punched through his throat, painting the ground with thick, dark streams of red. The others reached the house and hammered on the door, the largest of them driving into it with his shoulder, but it wouldn't budge. "They've blocked the door!" One of them cried. A crossbowman leant out of the window, levelled his weapon, and shot one Robb's men dead.
At the next house along, five men had gotten the right idea, abandoning their attempts at the door to rush the window. One was cut down before they reached it, but the others made it, one starting to clamber through before a spear punched through his chest. "Curse it!" Robb hissed. The windows restricted the combat to one on one, and his men couldn't break through.
An arrow clanged off Robb's helm and he turned to find the offending house. Two Tallhart men lay dead on the approach, another was hacking at the door with an axe. He glanced over the battlefield again, the Lannisters still weren't attacking. They were holding fast, jeering at his men who advanced cautiously, shields raised. The rear ranks were turning to protect the formation from the archers behind them. This wouldn't do. It was getting dark, if they didn't break through now, they would have to retreat. Curse these shortening days. Robb slid off his horse, drawing his sword and unhooking his shield.
Robb moved forward, shield raised. Robb felt a heavy thud on the wood, then another as arrows struck it. In a flash of fur and fangs, Grey Wind charged past him. Robb lowered his shield to see his wolf go for the window, clearing the frame in a single leap. "Yes!" Robb yelled and broke into a sprint.
He heard the screams from inside first and smelled the blood as he clambered through the window. His eyes adjusted to the darkness, and saw Grey Wind ripping out the throat of a crossbowman, the man clutching for his discarded weapon.
Robb dropped down and slid aside to let the next man through, raising his shield and scanning the room. A spearman rushed him. "Loren!" He roared, thrusting. Robb sidestepped and battered the spear aside, thrust at his foe's stomach. The man dodged away, and Robb threw himself forward, slamming his shield into the man's chest. The blow made him drop his spear as he fell back against the wall. Robb charged and drove his sword deep into the man's chest. The blood steamed hot and foul, but the man didn't die. In his last moments, he reached up to seize Robb's pauldron, holding him, and turn his head to look across the room. "Shoot… him!" He cried through pain, spitting blood down his chin. Robb whipped his head around and saw the crossbow being levelled at him. The man's grip was tight, so Robb used his sword as a lever and gripped his shoulder, spinning him into the path of the bolt that ripped through his chest like a red talon. The man spat more blood and died, sliding off Robb's sword. Damn these Lannisters, they'd thought of everything. Not only had they wedged a table against the door, but they'd divided the house between the two windows with other detritus. Behind it another spearman held his spear ready, a second was loading a crossbow, and the third was levelling a fresh one at Robb. He raised his shield and crouched behind it, waiting for the bolt.
He heard one of the Lannisters cry. "Not the shield, get the wolf!"
"No!" Time seemed to slow as Robb turned. He heard the click of the crossbow, the twang of the string, and the anguished howl of Grey Wind as the bolt sank into his front left leg. "Bastards!" Robb charged. Suddenly the line of chairs, cabinets, and tables was nothing more than a little hedge, one he reduced to kindling beneath his armoured form. The spearman seemed stunned by the sudden move and was too slow to react to Robb's sword burying in his stomach.
"Gods," he whimpered, clutching at his belly. That was the one who told his friend to shoot Grey Wind. Robb left his sword in the man and drew his dagger, snarling in rage as he charged the crossbowman. The man glanced down at his weapon, then raised it like a club. Robb ducked under the pathetically wild swing and brought his dagger up, driving it beneath the man's arm. The man screamed. Robb took the dagger out. He screamed. He put the dagger back in. He screamed. Robb's hand drew out the dagger and charged towards the third man who had just fitted a fresh quarrel into his bow and was bringing it around. Robb seized one of the crossbow's arms and pushed it aside, slashing with his dagger across the man's exposed throat. His eyes bulged, and he tried to stem the flow with thick, gloved fingers, but the blood kept pumping. Panting heavily, Robb looked around to make sure there was no one else left before hurrying back to Grey Wind.
His wolf whined in pain, walking blood matting his fur, keeping his injured leg off the floor. Robb touched the quarrel, but that only made Grey Wind howl worse. "It'll be okay," Robb whispered. They just had to get the quarrel out, then he'd be fine. Curse it. He looked around but saw nothing, so he used his dagger to cut a length of cloth from his tabard. He reached for the quarrel again, and Grey Wind hissed, yellow eyes flashing in anger and pain. "It's okay, but we need to remove the quarrel, come on." Tentatively, Grey Wind stepped forward and offered his leg. Robb took the quarrel. Thank the gods it hadn't gone all the way through. "Ready?" Grey Wind looked at him, fierce, ready. Robb pulled, his blood slicked hand slipping off the shaft. "Fuck!"
"Your Grace!" He looked up. Olyvar was scrambling through the window, sword and face both drawn. Relief was palpable on his expression.
"Olyvar, get over here, now!"
"Your Grace, the men-"
"Here. Now!"
Olyvar hurried over. "Gods," he gasped at the sight of Grey Wind.
"Help me," Robb said. "I need you to pull out that quarrel while I hold him."
Olyvar swallowed and nodded. Robb wrapped his arms around Grey Wind to force him to stay still. Olyvar was one of Robb's closest companions, and as Robb trusted him, so too did Grey Wind. With a sick sucking sound, Olyvar pulled the quarrel out, and Robb quickly bound the wound with his torn tabard strip. "Come on, let's go," Robb said, leading them over to the door. He and Olyvar hauled the table aside and slid the bolt across, pulling the door out. As Olyvar stepped out, Robb took his shoulder. "I need you to take him back to the camp."
"But Your Grace you-"
"I'll be right behind you," Robb assured his squire, "go."
He looked uncertain, but he agreed in the end and led Grey Wind back the way they had come. Grey wind turned to look, pleading to stay, but Robb waved him away. When he was safely out of the square, Robb turned and ran back to his horse, pulling himself up. His men had stopped not even half way across the small square. Still the Lannister men jeered and taunted. One of them had dropped his shield and trousers and was taking a piss for them all to see. Apart from the house he'd just cleared, his men were being held out of the others. One of his men was striking a flint, trying to burn them out, against the wet wood, it was futile. Under fire like this, they'd be picked apart. The darkness was pulling across the sky like a blanket, it was too late now. "Retreat!" Robb called, "retreat!"
In disciplined order, his men pulled back, first the Pipers and Darrys, then the Tallharts, and lastly Robb's personal warriors. They kept their discipline all the way back to the camp, the only relief was that the rain died to a trickled and had nearly stopped entirely by the time they made it back to the camp.
They weren't the first back nor were they the last. He'd sent many horse and foot to outflank the village from their first attacks that morning. Indeed Robb had hoped to bypass the village entirely, but horsemen from the village and reinforcements from the enemy reserve had met them in the fields and checked their attacks. Whenever they seemed on the verge of success, the enemy horse had retreated back to the village. Behind a shield wall and hail of javelins axes and stones, rested, gathered new lances and charged out again. With half his army attacking the column under Lord Umber, Robb resolved to take the strongpoint, rip out the nail that was holding the canvass to the wall. He'd sent his horse out again to lure out the enemy riders and then begun his attack, for all the good that had done him. Now he'd lost near four hundred footmen and the village was still in enemy hands at the end of the first day.
Lord Umber's force returned to the camp shortly after dark fell for good. Battered, gloomy, and tired, blaming an expert Lannister defence, timely reinforcements, and the rapid descent of night for their failure. "If there is anyone to blame, Lord Umber, it is I," he assured him, loudly so that all could hear. "This is my command, and my defeat, but tomorrow," he raised his voice, speaking so as many as possible could hear his confidence. "Tomorrow will be our victory."
Grey Wind was lying by Robb's bedroll. The bandage around his leg had been replaced by the camp surgeons. Robb sat down on the roll, running his fingers through Grey Wind's fur. He could feel the pain through Grey Wind's muscles, but more than that, he knew that Grey Wind wanted to be at his side when battle resumed the next day. "Sorry boy," Robb whispered, "but you're going to have to remain here tomorrow." Grey Wind whined, but Robb soothed him with a few careful rubs. "I promise I'll be careful, I'm not going to die tomorrow."
Somewhat satisfied, Grey Wind settled down to sleep. Even injured, Robb knew he was safe with Grey Wind there.
The men slept, their camp ringed by scouts and fire. They must have pushed the enemy close to desperation. He wouldn't risk being overrun in a last gasp attack. Just to the south they heard the rattle of wheels on stones as the enemy wagon train continued to move across the river to safety.
At the crack of dawn, Robb was shaken awake by Ser Brynden. "Your Grace, come with me, you have to see this."
Groggily Robb got to his feet. Olyvar, already awakened but with puffy eyes, was pulling Robb's plate over. All they'd done to take it off last night was undo the fastenings on one side, then Robb just slid out. Now they put it on the same way, if they were attacked in the night, Robb would have been able to armour himself very quickly, and within a few minutes, Robb's body was covered in plate.
Brynden led him out past the western edge of the camp. In the crisp blue light of the clear autumn sky, he saw the caravan still trundling along, and not long after leaving camp, they actually reached the end of the convoy. Gods, how long had it been? Over a day and a night of constant movement, and the convoy still had dozens, perhaps more than a hundred wagons to clear. As the central column moved on, he saw the wagons either side take turns to slide in behind the centre column to create a single constant stream of supplies.
But that wasn't what Brynden had woken him for. Brynden had woken him because of the unfolding wall of men stretching along the fields to the south of the roseroad. They rode for another mile to confirm their identity, but in his heart, he already knew who they were. The flames from torches glinted off armour and flashed on banners covered in fields of birds, bats, hay bales, burning hearts and everywhere, black stags. "Stannis," he breathed, watching the Baratheon army stretch along the field, the end of the line rising over the road and falling onto the northern side. "Back to camp, now!" They turned and raced back to the camp to rouse his army, the clear sky shining above them, making the water on the grass twinkle like stars against the dark green grass.
As they rode, Robb's mind was racing, what should they do? Was this a battle to fight, or should he leave it to Stannis? He thought of the dead, the misery of the march and those who had given everything the day before. No, with Stannis approaching, the Lannisters would be forced to split their armies, they would be weak, and he could take advantage.
His lords were ready and waiting for him. "Brynden, take two thousand men, watch the rear, make sure that Stannis isn't going to try and attack us," Robb ordered. Lord Bolton, take another thousand and watch the baggage train, do not attack, only keep them from sallying against us. Everyone else, gather your men and come with me, we're going after that village." Robb glanced up at the sky, still clear and bright, the sun shining on the battlefield. Let it stay like that, only a little longer.
The army gathered, Rivermen and Northmen interspersed among each other. Six of every ten footmen were in the centre, with a small force of horsemen in reserve, under the command of Lord Piper. His left and right flanks contained the hard strength of his horsemen, under the command of Lords Umber on the right and Lord Bracken on the left. Robb himself commanded a reserve of three thousand, half mounted half foot. Without Grey Wind, Robb wouldn't throw himself into the thick of the action. It was like he was missing half his armour. He felt strangely vulnerable, a feeling he hadn't felt since the Whispering Wood, when he was riding into battle for the first time. And now Stannis was here. If he decided to attack while Robb was engaged with the Lannisters, he might need to react quickly. He couldn't afford the valuable minutes it would take to find him in the melee.
They waited at Robb's order. He gave the order for the men to relax, they wouldn't be attacking yet. So the knights dismounted and the foot sat on the grass. They remained largely in formation, just in case, but Robb couldn't go yet, he needed a little more sunlight, and if Stannis could draw away some Lannister forces, all the better.
The sun continued to beat down on them, shining on the grass and glinting off spear tips and helms. Still Robb waited. He waited as the sounds of trumpets reached them from the rear and soon the sounds of clashes as Stannis' army closed with the Lannisters and engaged, and Robb still waited. He saw a small detachment from the village race back to the crossing to reinforce some other part of the line. He smiled, all the better.
He waited until the sun had nearly peaked. That should be enough time. He sent riders to Lord Bolton and Brynden, to make sure the rear was secure. The riders returned with messages from each of them. Stannis' army was focussing on the Lannisters. Heavy fighting at the rear of the column. The village to the south of the road was under attack, but holding. A portion of Stannis' men kept watch on Brynden's force, but they weren't engaging.
So Robb's drummers beat assembly and the men scrambled to their feet, resuming their positions. "Advance, slowly," Robb ordered and the trumpets signalled the slow advance. The men marched in a steady line until Robb was satisfied that they were close enough. "Halt." The trumpets sounded a halt and the army stopped smartly. "Send the archers out, fire arrows."
The archers advanced braziers of fire going with them. He would have been able to force the Lannisters out of the village with his greater numbers, but he would lose hundreds, maybe thousands, they were clearly prepared. So he would burn them out. The clear sky and direct sun should have dried the thatch enough for it to catch with enough fire.
At Lord Piper's command, the first volley arced through the air, raining down on the closest houses. Almost immediately, Robb saw the Lannisters reacting. Some climbed onto the roofs and started beating the arrows with their cloaks, no doubt more would be coming soon. But even as they started beating out the odd arrow, the next volley landed along with the first, piercing the roofs and those trying to douse the arrows. Then the third volley came, and the fourth. The smoke rose, thick and black, and soon he saw the flames. "Archers forward, shoot deeper into the village."
The archers advanced and set up a few yards further forwards. But as they shot their next volley of flaming arrows, a rider came racing up to Robb from Lord Umber's flank.
"Your Grace. My lord's scouts can see deeper into the village, the fires are spreading, he request permission to charge."
"Not yet, tell him to hold until I order," Robb commanded.
The messenger swallowed, clearly not eager to deliver that message, but he turned his horse and returned to Lord Umber. They had to keep shooting, even aflame, that village was still a strong point.
The next messenger came from Lord Bracken's flank. "Your Grace. A report from the scouts. The enemy have started to vacate the village."
Robb nodded. "Excellent. Begin the attack, cut them down."
