Chapter 16: Stand Vigil
As the morning twilight sky was inevitably banished by the dawning sun, Lelouch surveyed Lord Baratheon's encampment from the Seafyre's deck. The Plains of Naqes, as Cici had told him, were named for the yellow-gold grass native to the land.
He'd been busy all of yesterday overseeing the reachermen disembark without issue. They'd pitched their tents in the northern section of the camp with neat, straight trails ten paces apart, though the smaller tents away from the main thoroughfare was a haphazard heap that occupied any free space.
To the northeast flew familiar banners like the blue swordfish of Bar Emmon and the seven silver coins of Cressey and the Stars of Sunglass. Stokeworth, Langward, Mallery, Rosby, Staunton, Wendwater—the houses sworn to Dragonstone and King's Landing had come out in force under the command of Lord Darklyn. Only the Reach and the westerlands had provided more men, and for a region that could at most raise some fifteen thousand men, it was a great showing.
The southeastern banners were less familiar to him, but not entirely. Stags and griffins and crows leapt at every whisper of the wind. The quartered flag of Tarth he picked out easily among Caron and Selmy. Finally, the red and yellow lions dominated the southern segment of the camp.
Of all the men that had followed them east, two of three were here and the rest would arrive in a few days' time.
As Lelouch set down his fine Myrish far-eye, he spotted his cousin rubbing the sleep out of his eyes besides him. "What are you doing up so early?" Lelouch asked.
"I could ask the same of you," Donnall retorted. "You're the one who used to hate waking up early."
He shrugged. "I've grown accustomed to it these past months. It gives me time to myself, to think in silence."
Donnall hunched over the smooth taffrails, listening to the gentle sway of the tides. "Thinking? Aren't you afraid that brain of yours will explode if you do any more thinking than you already do?"
"You haven't been paying attention to Maester Banneth's lessons."
"And you've been paying too much attention." He yawned. "You worried?"
"Some," Lelouch admitted.
"You shouldn't be," Donnall said. "We've got the numbers and the knights and even the gods on our side."
Numbers can be beaten, knights can be ground down. Even the gods can be tricked. "You saw them on Bloodstone. The Golden Company is unlike anything we've ever come across." And the Golden Company would need to be beaten before they could hope to put Myr to siege…
Leaving a bloodied and disciplined force like that free to harass them would be the death of any conventional siege.
"They're a tough bunch of bastards, I'll give them that," Donnall said. "What's our move?"
"For now, keep the men on their toes. Double their drills with the Myrmen while we can," Lelouch said. "Once the last of the host arrives, I expect Lord Baratheon will seek out the Golden Company. We'll be on the move for the better part of the day."
Donnall nodded. "Most of your fighting men will be on foot. We've maybe a score of knights with mounts. It will be difficult to win renown in a fight with the chivalry of the reach and the west at our flanks."
Driftmark did not have wide pasturage for horses to graze on, and what horses they had were paid for with coin. At sea, horses were more hindrance than help too. While their foot was better trained and disciplined than most other houses, many lords saw infantry as little more than fodder to soak up arrows before a glorious charge of mounted men decided the battle.
"Artillery and the Myrish crossbows will suffice," Lelouch said. They will have to suffice.
"What will you be doing?"
Lelouch flexed his hand testingly. "My hand is nearly better," he said.
He had a standing invite to join Prince Aerys on the sparring field at the center of camp, not far from where the principal commanders convened. It was here that lords played at war while they waited for war, jostling for places of honor in the coming carnage. Even just past dawn there were already lordlings hard at it.
The whitecloaks, Redfort and Meadows, that had taken to watching Aerys in their every waking hour let him pass wordlessly.
Steffon Baratheon's two-handed swing of the warhammer had a murderous weight behind it, and Aerys flowed around the blow so gracefully, you'd think he was back in the Red Keep dancing with the maidens.
Aerys stepped inside his guard and swung his longsword, but Steffon was already jumping back, already preparing the perfect reply. Backhand, overhead, sideslash, the swings came so hard that sparks flew when their weapons locked lips. Aerys pressed on, strike and step, step and strike, the whirl of steel going faster, faster, faster...
...until, panting, Aerys stepped back, resting the flat of his blade against his shoulder. "You've gotten much better. Used to be I could end you once your attack broke."
Steffon let the warhammer drop to the dirt head first as he walked over to the watering bucket. "Father's drilled that out of me," Steffon said.
"Staying alive is half the point of a fight," Aerys acknowledged.
"I prefer the other half, the feeling when I'm carving in a man's chest," Steffon said, gulping down his drink before turning around. He paused. "Velaryon."
Aerys followed his eyes. "Lelouch! You're here. I was wondering when you'd show."
"This is only our second day here," Lelouch said.
"Exactly my point. So far, you've made yourself scarce for the entirely of our time here."
"I had matters to attend to," Lelouch said, twirling his spear.
"More training for those foreign sellswords of yours?" Aerys asked.
Steffon frowned. "Sellswords? The Myrish?"
"They're not sellswords," Lelouch clarified. "More a militia, you could say."
"Peasants then," Tywin said as he arrived clad in steel plate armor enameled a deep crimson and highlighted with gold. Each of its rondels were patterned as golden sunbursts. "I don't know why you bother."
"Would he be Lelouch without his peculiarities?" Aerys asked.
Tywin smiled. "A fair point."
"Another round, Cousin?" Steffon asked, hefting up his hammer.
"If you think you can manage it, you brute," Aerys said cheerily, placing himself in a guard.
As the royal cousins played their song of steel once more, Lelouch turned to Tywin. "I heard that the islands fell easily. Did your goodbrother conduct himself well?"
"There wasn't much fighting to be had," Tywin said. "He remains under my charge."
Lelouch frowned. Why would Blackfyre give up the islands so easily?
"I wouldn't be too concerned," Tywin said. "The war is not over. There will be more battles yet and soon."
"Soon?" Lelouch scrunched his brows together. "What makes you say so?"
"Our outriders have been skirmishing hard with the Golden Company since we arrived," Tywin said. "My uncle believes their cavalry means to pin us in place, buying time for the bulk of their host. They cannot be far off now."
"When does he expect them to arrive?" Lelouch asked.
Tywin shrugged. "Who can say? The scouts have not been able to break through their screening cavalry. It would depend on where they had camped and how large a baggage train they have. We'll spot them long before they arrive though. There isn't much shrubbery they can hide behind on flatlands like these."
Odd, Lelouch thought. What was Maelys up to? They had not been contested on the islands, nor faced serious challenge at sea. Even here they've deigned not to bring their might against us…
"You look perturbed," Tywin said, swinging his blade in well-practiced stances. "Is something the matter?"
"I find it curious is all. On both land and sea, Blackfyre has chosen not to engage us," Lelouch said.
"Mayhaps he's a fool."
"Mayhaps but it serve as naught to presume their incompetence. It could be we are merely ignorant of the greater scheme."
Tywin paused. "Could an attack on Westeros be launched? They have no lack of ports and ships from which such endeavors might be launched, and if they'd spent all this time denying our scouts…"
"It seems all too risky for Blackfyre's allies in Essos. He made pact with sellsails and sellswords and coin counters," Lelouch said. "Would they lend him their ships when they might soon be faced against a host as large as ours? Besides, such a gambit relied on taking King's Landing quickly and bringing the Lords Paramount to heel."
Unlikely given Lord Baratheon was uncle to the crown prince, and his own son would be next in the line of succession should anything befall Aerys.
"An ambush then, or some manner of perfidy," Tywin said.
"Plausible," Lelouch said. "The difficult is in knowing when and where they intend to strike."
"They knows these lands better than we do. Perhaps they wish us to overextend deep into the heart of Essos before cutting us off. Either starvings us out or forcing us to sap our strength on cities of little consequence?"
A defense in depth was not unreasonable from their position. Yet, he remembered his uncle's words just before Myr had fallen.
"It will fall without blood being spilled," Uncle said. "These merchant princes are a weak-willed people. They will bow at the first sign of a storm and sign a peace."
"These people view war differently from us," Lelouch said. "To them it is… almost a business of sorts. They've no reason to be loyal to Blackfyre, or to bleed us for his cause if they stand to profit more by letting us be."
Tywin made a face. "A disgraceful people."
When and where would the attack come? Lelouch found that he did not know, and he hated not knowing.
-ZeroRequiem-
"Twice," Cici said, walking her fingers up his arm, "is merely coincidence. Thrice is a habit."
Lelouch spared her a glance, before casting his sights back towards the eastern palisade. "I mislike this situation."
"Because the great Lelouch doesn't have all the answers. Maybe if you came back to bed, you could think clearer," Cici said.
"I wouldn't be able to sleep," he said, setting down his far-eye.
She sighed, and pushed a warm cup into his hands that chased away the nipping cold. "I thought you'd say that. Drink this."
A floral aroma reached his nose, lingering, before a northerly breeze stole it away. "What is it?" he asked after a sip. It slid down his throat easily and left a sweet aftertaste.
"Black Tea from the Isle of Leng," she said.
He searched his mind, only placing the location as vaguely to the far east, beyond New Ghis which was the furthest extent of most Westerosi maps. "That's a long way off from here."
"You'd be surprised what those pirate friends of yours come across," Cici said.
"I don't know how you find the time to do half of what you do."
"A woman has her secrets," she said, slipping back into the Lorathi Valyrian she'd favored while a slave of Rasporos. "It's not healthy for you to keep this up."
"I won't have to." Lelouch took another sip, savoring the fruity and slightly nutty tones. "The Redwyne Fleet will return any day now with the last of the host."
Cici tilted her head. "Then you'll finally stop standing vigil over this lot like a mother hen."
"Ha-ha," Lelouch said dryly, peeking through his far-eye once more to scan the edges of the camp. The eastern palisade was empty. He blinked, frowning as he did another sweep. "Where've the sentries gone," he murmured, looking up at the sky. Dawn's too far out for the watchers to have been relieved.
This was it.
"To arms!" he bellowed, stomping as hard as he could on the wooden deck. "To arms Driftmark!" He repeated his call, shouting as loud as he could, feeling his voice scrape the insides of his throat like a paring knife.
Cici had vanished when the first of the levies climbed up from beneath the deck, clumsily strapping on their helmets with one hand while holding their spears in the other. Their eyes blinked rapidly, not quite awake or conscious, but going through the motions hours of Donnall had taught their muscles.
Lelouch stepped up to the closest one and grabbed a fistful of his clothes, pulling the man into a slap. "Awake, damn you! We're under attack!"
"M'lord?"
"Spread the word to the other ships. All men to assemble as drilled, with crossbows and ballistas."
As the men began to come to their senses, running off to the other anchored Velaryon ships to repeat his message, Lelouch turned back to evaluate the situation. The gates were wide open and torches by the dozen were streaming in and spreading out—too fast to be anything but mounted men.
It would take several crucial minutes for his message to spread, time better spent if there was a means to signal the whole of his fleet at once.
Donnall appeared armed and armored, gripping the hilt of his bastard sword tightly. "Cousin, what's going on?"
"The Golden Company is making their move," Lelouch said.
Already the tents of the crownlands and stormlands were ablaze, and panicked men were being cut down by the heavy horse. Any lords or captains who'd thought to be brave were targeted by the roving bands. That whole section was lost, all fourteen thousand of them. Not all of them would die, provided their host survived the night, but in their state no defense would be forthcoming.
Lelouch looked back to the men already assembled. Too few, he thought, but there's not enough time. If left unopposed for much longer, the chaos would spread deep.
He could send Donnall with a little over three hundred men to—
They wouldn't hold if he led them, his mind whispered back. Donnall is not their lord.
Cici returned, carrying his longbow already stringed and a full quiver. "You'll need this."
"I'm leading the vanguard out," Lelouch said to his cousin, the yew cool to his touch. "I need you to stay here to continue the muster."
"My place is with you," he said.
"We've no time for this," Lelouch said, already moving down the gangplank. "I have no one else here who can ensure the men are prompt and in good order. They know you, and they won't question you. We'll hold them off long enough for the ballistas to get into position. Reinforce us as soon as you're able."
Donnall nodded tersely. "We've come this far together. Don't die on me."
"Don't take too long," Lelouch said, before lifting his fist into the air. "Driftmark, with me! The old! the true!"
"The brave!" answered some three hundred voices. Young boys clad in boiled leather with halfhelms for their crowns. He led them to their deaths with nothing but spears and shields of heavy oak. On their shoulders rested the realm, though no one would ever know their names for it.
At a brisk jog, they made good pace along the thoroughfare. The camp was beginning to wake now, all notions of sleep dispelled by the screams of the dying.
The smallfolk were rooted in place by fear, watching them march past dumbly. There was cursing and ringing metal to be heard from within the larger tents—lords and knights struggling to put on their cuirass and platemail in the dark and in their panic.
No one seemed to have a clue of what to do.
He called for a halt before the main camp road running north to south. This was as far as he dared take his men, for beyond the thoroughfare was a riot of screams and smoke. To some fishmonger's son with summer dreams, a knight crashing through the flames would seem like the dread tales of snarks and grumpkins and Others come to life.
"Lock shields!" Lelouch ordered. "Lock shields and spears out!"
A pimply lad with a crooked nose planted the Seahorse banner into the dirt, before taking up a place in the shieldwall. Men were trickling past them. It was easy to tell friend from foe by the fear in their eyes.
He heard the hoofbeats smacking heavy against the dirt before he saw them: a knight riding men down and opening a skull with each swing of his bloodied morningstar. Lelouch's hands drew, nocked, and fired in a single, smooth motion, and the fir shaft drove itself straight into the knight's eye. The corpse slid off the chestnut destrier galloping away.
"Driftmark!" The men banged their shields twice. "Driftmark!" The banging grew more spirited with each repetition; the voices louder, pushing back against the noise of war.
"DRIFTMARK!"
Their cheers were like a compass, leading men to them. The trickle of passing men turned into a stream of crownlanders and stormlanders. A contingent of heavy horse charged their bristling wall of tipped steel and study, oaken shields, but these Blackfyres were no Winter Wolves under Roddy the Ruin. They charged, hoping perhaps to break those sworn to House Velaryon.
In the end, the horsemen blinked first..
As they turned their horses and veered away, Lelouch emptied his quiver into the flesh of their horses, wherever the barding did not cover. A man in good plate might shrug off an arrow, and the chinks in their armor smaller than those of their mounts.
Smaller fires now raged to the south where the Lannisters and Reynes held command. Yet, he couldn't order them to move. Theirs was likely the only force left between the Golden Company and Aerys' tent.
More of his men now began to arrive under his lords and their numbers swelling to over a thousand. Myrish crossbowmen took up position to their rear, angling their shots in parabolic arcs. Their lines extended to a hundred men standing shoulder to shoulder, and packed ten ranks deep. The ground here was well trod, providing even footing for their men.
The problem was that Maelys Blackfyre knew that as well.
The small bands of cavalry weaved death and fire and chaos throughout the camp, but it was the foot Lelouch truly feared. Golden armor glinted under the dawning sun's light, as the phalanx advanced towards them, ignoring the arcing quarrels with contemptuous ease.
Lelouch glanced behind him and his heart fell. The ballistas would not reach them before the Golden Company did, and it would be the end of them. The spears of the phalanx were longer and their ranks packed tighter; it would be a slaughter to pitch his men against theirs.
Yet, what choice was there?
Lelouch picked up a fallen spear and shield, positioning himself at the very back. "Driftmark, forward!" And they followed.
The two masses crashed into each other, and for the briefest of moments, the Golden Company paused as a furious contest of strength and will ensued. Men shoved against each other, shoved the men in front of them forward, shoved the tip of their spears into the face of their enemies.
Then the cracks showed. A Velaryon man was felled and no one stepped in to fill his place. The Golden Company took a solidary step forward, wedging the break. Another of his men died, and another and it was clear to everyone that they were losing.
The men besides Lelouch, closest to the rear, dropped their weapons and broke rank. More and more ran away, and without that weight, their front collapsed. Like a tide against stone, his men shattered, and the golden phalanx advanced slowly, inevitably, grinding the dead beneath their heels.
How many men had died at his word just now? Fifty? A hundred? Lelouch dared not look as his feet carried him to safety, behind a new line of Driftmark men forming around their banner.
"Ballistas, loose!" Lelouch shouted even as he ran.
Bolts longer than a horse streaked through the air, and a number of them skewered fleeing men. But more hit their mark, and swathes of the golden men were brought low. The ballista crews could only manage one shot per minute, but that was enough to utterly shred the enemy formation.
A trumpet blared, da-DAAA da-DAAA da-DA da-DA da-DAAAAAAA.
"Beneath the gold, the bitter steel!" screamed the men, dropping their spears for drawn swords and crashing into Driftmark's lines just as Lelouch reached it. Dozens of men fell punching a gap through the Velaryon shieldwall, but scores more forced their way in. Steel rang and steel sang.
With a hastily drawn sword, Lelouch parried a strike that would've sewn through his face cleanly. He pushed himself away, putting distance between him and the scarred man with a hard look. Before the scarred man could close, a man old enough to be Lelouch's father put himself and his shield in the way. The scarred man rained blow after blow down on the wood, sending chips of oak flying, until his sword found an opening.
The fight was brief, but it brought Lelouch a moment's respite and time enough to fall further back.
All around him his men died as greater skill and better arms carried the day. Even the greenest boys in the Golden Company was veteran of a dozen battles.
A horn sounded from the south.
Two hundred knights swept forth, the crimson-and-gold lions of Lannister pouncing with them. Sunlight flashed off the points of their swords and maces as they crashed into the mass of gold.
Their enemy had not crumbled beneath the hammer of a mounted charge, but the losses they suffered were significant. Their flank now turned, their enemy was pushed back for the first time.
Another trumpet blared, different from the first. The sound it made was deeper, and when it ended, Lelouch could hear hissing.
His shield came up over his head as a vast flight of arrows fell on them like hail. Where they came from Lelouch couldn't say, but they fell on friend and foe alike, rattling off shield and armor or biting into flesh. The flight of arrows felt unending—then it stopped.
When he lowered his shield, the Golden Company had somehow managed to break away from them without routing, leaving the Westerosi to their dead.
Lelouch looked around him, heart clenching as a thick layer of Velaryon men covered the field, interrupted only by the occasional golden corpse. At a glance, he'd lost some five hundred men. Too many for too few, Lelouch thought.
He spotted Old Lord Dromin, last of the male Chasemans, riddled with arrows. A suitable marriage would have to be arranged for his daughter, who'd lost a father and a brother in the span of a year. He made note too of Ser Dennis, who'd taken a nasty gash to the chest and was quickly bleeding out.
Tywin cantered up to him, face streaked with blood not his own. "It's good to see you alive."
"You as well," Lelouch said. "If not for your cavalry, we might not have held."
"We would have come sooner, but they struck our section as well. The men who assailed us didn't wear such garish armor though," Tywin said, dismounting. "Had you not lasted this long…"
It would have been total disaster.
As they walked, he noticed a scrawny body wearing not Lannister red, but silver-grey dyed red with blood. Lelouch paused, kneeling down to get the boy's pulse. Nothing.
"At least he died proving himself," Tywin said.
Lelouch nodded, closing the eyes of Emmon Frey for the last time. He'd conspired to see this boy dead, and now that they'd succeeded…
Lelouch just felt empty.
Did he truly deserve this?