Chapter 9: Acclaimed

"Grandfather wants us to do what?" Arthas asked, scarcely believing his own ears.

"To withdraw, Your Grace," Eddard said, "beyond the Green Fork's tributary that originates from the Mountains of the Moon." It was where they'd encountered Ser Barristan and Arya and the Holy Hundred under Bonifer Hasty.

Withdraw. Arthas gripped the corners of the table. The very idea was anathema to him, a paladin of Lordaeron. His predecessors had not withdrawn when orcs streamed from the Dark Portal. They'd not withdrawn against the undead, demons, and creatures foul and fel. Uther did not take one step back as he faced down the whole of the Blackrock clan, buying time for him to raise an army and put an end to their demonic rituals.

To ask a paladin to withdraw now against mere men… it was almost unthinkable.

"I've prayed," Arthas said, "that Lord Tywin would send word to us since this war began, but his first message grieves me greatly. Our position is not untenable. We hold the Ruby Ford against Renly!"

The only other fording available to Renly was the Widow's Ford about a hundred miles downstream, but there'd be no means for him to cross an army through it quickly. When the Andals had invaded, three sons of Darry held that crossing for a day and a night against hundreds of men.

"Be calm," Eddard said. "Why do you believe he wishes us to withdraw?"

"A paladin is also patient," Uther chided.

Arthas breathed out, and considered the map strewn across the table. "A trap?"

"If Renly crosses," —Robb pointed to the kingsroad which crossed the Green Fork's eastern tributary, the mountains of the Vale, and the Green Fork itself, — "he'll be boxed in from the north, east, and west."

"The garrisons at Darry and Harrenhal could not stop him from crossing back across the Ruby Ford by themselves, unless…"

"Unless," Robb said, eyes alight, "Lord Tywin has an army marching towards us as we speak! He could make good time if he marches along the river road. With Uncle Edmure's army at Stoney Sept keeping Lords Tarly and Rowan from crossing the headwaters of Blackwater Rush, our enemies would be none the wiser."

"Once the full might of the Vale joins us, we will have the advantage in numbers for once, enough to envelope and utterly destroy Renly," Eddard said. "Robb, would you inform the lords to strike camp on the morrow?"

"Yes, Father," Robb said.

When his son had left them, Eddard took a seat besides Arthas. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," Arthas said.

"I've never known you to be rash," Eddard said with a knowing look. "Betrayal is never easy to deal with, especially from friends."

Uther's eyes hardened. "You've just crossed a terrible threshold, Arthas."

Arthas turned away. It has to be done, his mind whispered. Stratholme must be purged, or we will lose all of Lordaeron. This is for the greater good. He heard softer footsteps trudging on the mud, away from him. "Jaina?"

"I'm… I'm sorry, Arthas." Her voice trembled. "I can't watch you do this."

"I'm fine," Arthas repeated, standing up. "I've always known Mandon had ambitions. I just never thought… I never thought he would turn his cloak like this, raise his sword against me."

"Renly is bold, but he has not gotten this far by being needlessly careless," Eddard said. "He will not be so quick to trust Mandon Moore, but that does not mean he cannot use him in ways to hurt us."

Arthas nodded. "He's smart enough to know that. I don't think he minds. He's never been the friendly type, not with others at least."

"Get a good night's sleep, Your Grace. Clear your head," Eddard said. "Anger clouds a man's judgment, and that's a dangerous thing to take into battle."

In the morning, their withdrawal began.

They'd already positioned their army on the northern banks of the Ruby Ford prior to the truce's end, and Renly had occupied the south of the river, though not with his whole force. Five thousand men were investing Castle Darry to ensure the men under Lord Raymun Darry would not sally out and take them from the side unawares.

While their main host began marching, the Blackfish led several hundred outriders and riverine rafts and barges to keep Renly blind to their movements. If Renly attacked while they were in the process of retreat, it might send the whole army into flight. Besides, Renly had to believe they were retreating, for if he sensed a trap he could just march back south and all of this would have been for nought.

By the time the Blackfish rejoined their host, the better part of a day had gone by and only then had Renly realized they were gone. According to their scouts, he'd already begun fording the Trident, but it would take another day for all of the stormlanders and Reach knights to cross. They'd have put at least twenty miles between them and their enemies once the chase began in earnest.

"Uncle Jaime, are you sure about this?" Arthas asked. "You can only manage to hobble, and you've been a prisoner for some months now. That does things to a man."

Jaime laughed, dressed in hauberk and plate he'd scrounged up from somewhere. No doubt he'd simply bought it, using his word as credit. After all, a Lannister always pays his debts. "A prisoner, but in a gilded cage," he said. "The Tyrells treated us very well while we were their guests, as Margaery liked to call it. We wanted for nothing but freedom whilst in her tender care."

"It pleases me to hear that," Arthas said. "What of Joffrey? Mother and Tommen?"

"All unharmed," Jaime said. "My sister though… I worry for her. She is not taking to captivity well."

Arthas frowned. "Mother needs to be patient for just a while longer. Once Renly is dead, Balon Greyjoy and Stannis will be easy enough to deal with. The Iron Islands wastes their strength on the north, and they've never been the most populated of regions to begin with."

"As for Stannis," Bonifer said, "he can call on no more than the lords of the narrow sea and sellsails. I'd be surprised if he has more than ten thousand swords with him, sellswords included."

"So it comes down to Renly," Jaime said, looking behind them. "If Renly sends his mounted vanguard ahead of him unsupported, he could still catch us,"

"If that's the case," Bonifer said, "we can't ask for a better man than the Blackfish to ensure we're forewarned."

"Have we received any more word from the Vale?" Arthas asked. They'd sent riders to warn them of Lord Tywin's planned envelopment, but that would be put to jeopardy if they streamed out of their mountains too early and scared Renly into retreating.

"No," Bonifer said, "but we've not spotted any movement from them either. We can only assume they've received our message and will not act until the time is right."

They marched hard for two days and two nights, watching mile after mile of lush greenery disappear behind them. They passed fertile valleys and green woodlands, the river's roar a constant companion to their marching feet and hooves, for the Green Fork ran deep and swift.

"Renly's vanguard is gaining on us," Tyrek said with a hint of worry.

If that were the case, he must've sent his vanguard ahead of his main host. There simply was no way Renly's larger army could make better time than theirs otherwise. "Good," Arthas said. "Each mile they march towards us is a mile they'll have to march back to escape."

"With this one trap, we'll end the war," Robb added. Grey Wind snarled besides him, keeping pace with their horses.

Arthas nodded. It was a strange way to fight, far different from how things were done in Lordaeron.

Oh, the knights and footmen looked the same, dressed the same even. Flanking, fighting in formation, making sure that the riflemen and mortar squads, priests, sorceresses and archmages were not in the thick of fighting—all of that was the same, though here they only had archers and the common man was of smaller frame. Yet, for all the emphasis on maneuver and numbers, none seemed to care much for the valor of heroes.

Uther the Lightbringer was an army unto himself, and the small force he led killed near a thousand ghouls before Arthas managed to bring him down at last. Jaina's blizzards, if cast at the right time, were deadly to an army and could single-handedly turn the tide of a battle. Muraddin was nigh unstoppable if he entered his avatar state.

A byproduct of having no magic, Arthas concluded. Had Westeros simply never cultivated their own talents, letting such knowledge die with time? In far Essos, rumors of strange sorceries persisted so at least some magic existed in this world.

And of course, there was necromancy and the Light of the Seven.

On the third day of their march, dark clouds began to loom overhead, and as if the gods were making a point, they brought with them dark words.

"Renly has stopped advancing entirely," the Blackfish reported to the war council, "and we're seeing a thicker screen of outriders. It might be that he plans to withdraw himself."

"Withdraw?" Arthas asked. "Are you certain?"

"As certain as I can be," Blackfish said.

"Has he become wise to our plans somehow?" Mandon had left before they'd even known of this plan, so it couldn't possibly have been him.

"Perhaps its just caution," Eddard said.

If Renly withdrew now, they risked letting him slip through Grandfather Tywin's trap. "We cannot let him escape us," Arthas said. "I will not have this war be prolonged. Can we do anything to entice Renly into staying trapped here?"

"We could offer battle," Barristan said.

"We are still outnumbered in both foot and heavy horse," Eddard said. "We will need a plan to carry the day."

Thunder rumbled outside.

"We need not win decisively," Blackfish said. "Just slow down Renly's host so they cannot escape before Lannister's army has trapped them. We also have the knights of the Vale coming to our aid soon."

"Depending on how heavy the rain falls tonight," Robb said, "it could turn the fields muddy and bog down Renly's knights."

"Ours as well," Bonifer pointed out.

"Aye," Robb said, "but we've less knights and I dare say more archers. The rain will be to our benefit."

"A slight benefit," Nestor Royce said, "but still a great risk. If Renly should decide to keep withdrawing?"

"We offer him bait he cannot refuse," Arthas said. "We offer him me."

"This is not wise," Eddard said immediately. "Prince Arthas, if you should fall in battle, Renly may yet win this war. The men… they may not fight without a figure to rally around. Our host could break."

Arthas drew himself to full height, and raked his eyes across the lords assembled. There was doubt there, fear and uncertainty mixed in a treacherous, dangerous concoction. For all that they'd rallied to his cause, he was still a boy in their eyes. "If Renly falls, we will have won this war," Arthas said. "I am not unaware of the risks to myself, but it is a risk I'm willing to take."

"I advise patience nevertheless," Eddard said. "If Renly should escape, so be it. He will be at a disadvantage once our allies in the Vale, the westerlands, and the riverlands join us. We can make for King's Landing—"

"And put it to siege?" Arthas asked, turning to him. "How many months will that take? How many years?"

It was time they could not afford. The White Walkers could break through the Wall any day now, nevermind the human suffering that'd be caused by the war. He could not—would not put his people through that again.

"My lords," Arthas said, "what we have here is an opportunity we may not have again. In one stroke," —he slammed his fist against the table, loud and proud— "we can decide the outcome of this conflict." He let his eyes rest on Lord Bracken. "Are my river lords not tired of having war ravage their lands time and time again? Are you not tired, my lords of Frey, Bracken, Mooton, Hawick, and Roote, of the armies trampling over your villages? Starving your smallfolk?"

"Yes!" Mooton growled, springing up from his seat to stand with him.

Arthas turned his head. "And you, Lord Royce? You have sworn yourself to our cause. Are the knights of the Vale not honorable and brave?"

"Yes," Nestor Royce's voice boomed like the thunder outside. "You'll find no cowards among us, Your Grace!"

"What of my stormlords?" Arthas asked, though they were the fewest present. "Do we not scoff at rain and storm, like Durran Godsgrief many centuries ago? Are we stormlords, or do the storms lord over us?"

"Stormlords!" Bonifer cried. "We are with you, Your Grace!"

He let his eyes settle on Eddard Stark's at last. "Lord Stark, I will not have this war drag on. Not when Renly has my family, has your daughter possibly. Join me on the morrow, and we can end this. We can save Sansa."

He dipped his head in acquiescence. "As you command, Prince Arthas."

"My lords, I ask you once more," Arthas said. "Are you with me? Will you help me end Renly's treacherous life?"

"YES!" they roared back, in open defiance of the storm raging above.

TheKingIsDead—

The rains last night had left the fields drenched with water, and the skies promised more rains to come as they day lengthened. There would be no light or grace to shine upon them, only tears from the gods for the butchery about to occur.

What I do now, Arthas thought grimly, I do for my people.

Ranks upon ranks of their twenty-five thousand men formed up, a forest of spear tips and halberds and pikes; a mass of chainmail hauberk, brigandine, heavy plate mail packed tight. The bulk of Lord Eddard Stark's northmen held the center, while the Vale knights under Bronze Yohn and another twenty-five hundred riverlanders held their right flank. On their left was the Blackfish leading another nine thousand riverlanders.

Arthas stood on their purposefully weakened right flank, closest to the Green Fork. With the swift running river—made only worse by the rains—to anchor them, Renly could not extend his line to turn their flank here. Still, leaving it weakened would be a tempting target for their enemy given the crowned stag flying, visible for all to see.

Across them were forty thousand fighting men, and facing Arthas down was the creme of Renly's forces—the black nightingales of Caron, Dondarrion's purple lightning, the battling swans of Swann among them… On the other flanks, Renly's forces outnumbered them only slightly, with ten thousand men a piece, but he'd send twenty thousand stormlanders to murder Robert Baratheon's son. There were not so many men from the Dornish Marches marching, but it was still too many.

"I would not ask you to be a kinslayer for me," Arthas said to Ser Barristan, gesturing towards the three stalks of yellow wheat on a brown field. The Selmys marched with Renly, as did all the lords of the Dornish Marches. "Your great nephew, Arstan, is Lord of Harvest Hall, is he not?"

"He is, Your Grace," Barristan said, lips set in a thin line. "I thank you for your consideration, but I set aside my family long ago when I donned the white cloak."

"You were dismissed," Arthas said. "A decision I will do my utmost to reverse, rest assured, but…"

"Being a sworn brother of the Kingsguard is more than just the cloak I wear, or a title bestowed," Barristan said. "It is who I am, who I choose to be, even before being a Selmy."

In that moment, as two armies stared each other down, as a true knight of the realm prepared to do battle, Arthas saw the likeness of the Lightbringer. "May the Light of the Seven keep you," Arthas said, slamming his greathelm on his head as Renly's foot began to advance. "May it keep all of us."

Thunder rumbled overhead, and a light drizzle fell, turning the ground slicker still.

The rain soaked them, seeping through the cracks of their armor and the pores of their skin, sending the chill running down the spines of men. The cold never bothered Arthas.

"Lock shields!" bellowed their captains of men, and shields interlocked like a turtle's carapace overhead.

Arrows fell with droplets of water, mixing them with droplets of blood; biting into flesh here and striking a man dead there. Yet no matter how excellent the bowmen of the Dornish Marches, they could only do so much with the rain and wind and interlocking steel.

The elves could manage in such conditions, Arthas thought. Then again, the night elves cheated with their nature worshipping druids, and the high elves used magic probably.

The stormlanders pressed against their ranks while the men of the Reach kept their center and left pinned. The heavily armored Reach knights were packed so tightly in places that when the push of the masses behind them came, they fell at the front, atop their own dead and soon sandwiched between corpses.

Robb, Tyrek, Robar, and Olyvar looked on with grim faces now, for it was nothing like their splendid tourneys. Ramsay, though, was smiling in delight as he continued to sharpen his axe. "How about a game?" he said.

"War is no game," Bonifer said in rebuke.

"It's the best game there is," Ramsay said. "I bet you all I can take the most scalps. Boltons have a talent for such things."

"Flaying is illegal in the north," Robb hissed, glaring at him.

Ramsay licked his wide and meaty, wormy looking lips, before smiling back. "We're not in the north anymore."

"Your first duty is to protect His Grace in battle, Snow," Bonifer said.

"Ah, so it is, so it is," Ramsay said, "but why can't we mix some vices with our vows?"

Bonifer gave him a final, warning look. "It denigrates their sanctity."

"As you say," Ramsay said, looking not the least bit chastised, but at least the bastard was shutting up now. It didn't stop him from sharpening a hunting knife—the type one would skin fawns with.

"No, not all the stormlords are pleased with Renly's cause," Bonifer had said.

"We will be taking ransom whenever possible," Arthas said to his battleguard. "The stormlanders will have clemency from me, if they're wise enough to grab it quickly." They would need fierce, brave men like these in the war to come.

Men fought bravely. Men fought nobly. Men fought valiantly.

So men died.

Outnumbered nearly three to one, the knights of the Vale and their accompanying riverlanders were bending inwards from the press of bodies and steel. That they held on for so long spoke of their tenacity, but in Westeros, tenacity mattered less than numbers it seemed.

I will have to show them all how a real paladin fights, Arthas thought, strapping on his shield.

"They're breaking through," Barristan said, putting himself ahead of Arthas.

"Then it is time we wet our steel," Arthas asid. "Stormlanders, valesmen, with me! Ours is the fury!"

"With the Pious Prince!" Bonifer cried out, and his Holy Hundred repeated his words.

"To the Young Demon!" Ramsay cackled as they rode forward. "Rally to the Young Demon!"

"To Prince Arthas!" Robb called out, eschewing his greatsword for a sword and shield.

The storm cackled overhead. The storm surged forward, and Barristan was its spearpoint.

Their mounts kept moving, closing the gap to mere feet. Arthas prepared his hammer to strike. "FOR WESTEROS!" he screamed, driving Tansy to join the frantic, unfolding melee; driving deeper and deeper in defiance of the storm of men pushing against him.

His first blow struck true, ringing a Penrose knight's helm like a bell. Arthas was already moving onto his next target as the man crumpled into a heap—some dead fool who'd thought to charge at him. Flesh, leather, maile, or plate, it made no difference. Whatever Arthas swung at, he smashed. Whatever he touched, he killed.

Arthas was the Stranger in this strange world.

Tansy reared back as some knight tried to stab at him, throwing Arthas off, but it did not even faze him. He was rolling, then standing, dancing around every sharp edge and murderous stroke with grace. He stepped over a dead man, parrying an axe blow, then swinging it the other way around to pulverize the man's chest.

There was screaming and blood; the air smelled like death and decay.

Daryn Hornwood took a spear thrust through his ribs. Olyvar Frey had his head caved in. Still, Arthas fought on, pushing onwards. He sensed more than saw the coming blow, leaning into battle-honed instincts to dodge just inches away from drawing his blood, before promptly slamming his hammer into the attacker. The man screamed as his arm snapped from the force of the blow.

"Your Grace!" Barristan called out from behind him—when had he overtaken Barristan? Bah, it didn't matter. "We must pull back," he said. "The other flanks are beginning to break too. Lord Eddard is signalling a withdrawal."

Arthas snarled. He was close, damn it all! "There will be no retreat!" he screamed, shrugging off the older man's hand with surprising force and lunging back into the fight.

Steel rang and his blood sang, his hammer becoming a rain of furious strikes that left dozens of jagged tears on dozens of men, blood pouring from every puncture. He fell a Fell knight, and a man of Musgood proved no good. Bolling, Errol, Grandison, Peasebury, Tudbury, Wylde—he knew all their sigils, knew the snap of their arms and the crunch of broken legs.

The ground was becoming slicker from blood rather than mud, but it bothered him none. Men who tripped were easier to kill.

"Surrender, Your Grace!" called out a stormlord.

Arthas glanced this way and that, eyes searching and half-wild and oh so very blue. He could feel the ice in his veins screaming, singing, burning. There was nowhere for him to go. In the fighting he'd lost all of his battleguard. He dimly recalled Robar and Tyrek standing back-to-back... Robb having his hand cut off. Was he alright? Greyjoy and Grey Wind had been standing over his bloodied form last he saw…

"We will not ask again, Prince Arthas," Mandon Moore said, pointing with his sword. "Set down your hammer. You are injured already, and will die without treatment."

Arthas reached for the spearhead embedded in his gut and broke off the shaft sticking out. He did not feel anything, though the blood seeping out was red and bright. "If I die, I die, traitor," he snarled, throwing away his shield that was now more a strip of wood with holes in it, "but I will not die alone."

There were five of them—two brothers of the Kingsguard, two lords, and Balon Swann—and Arthas stood by himself.

Light, give me strength, Arthas prayed and the cold washed over him, flooding his nerves, coursing through his skin. He kicked at an axe near his foot, snatching it from the space in front of him and settling into the stance of the mountain kings, as Muraddin had intended for him to use—hammer and axe, side by side. For a moment, they shared looks of disbelief as they circled around him.

Trumpets were sounding in the distance. Lord Stark is calling for an advance.

Young Balon came at him first, arms thick with muscle as he met Arthas' warhammer with his own. He was older, he ought to have been stronger, but Arthas parried his every strike by crossing his weapons together.

—Arthas jumped to the side, missing the sword slash Lord Beric Dondarrion aimed at his back. He was handsome, with red-gold hair and a breastplate slashed with the forked purple lightning bolt of his house. Unfortunately, he did not move as fast as lightning.

Arthas surged forward, ice in his veins, a furious rain of blows by hammer and blows by axe hacking at the Lightning Lord's black shield, chipping away at it. The others tried to help—Bryce Caron and Balon Swann both came at him from behind. Mandon Moore and Guyard Morrigen, Renly's white cloaks, approached from either side with their swords.

Slow, Arthas thought without even looking, battering aside Dondarrion's shield with his hammer, leaving his helmed head open. He made his ears ring with the side of his axe, turning as the man dropped to the ground, sword sinking into the red mud.

"STORMLORDS!" Arthas said, as he threw himself into the midst of them. "Where is your king?!" Parrying and blocking from every angle; swinging, breaking—and Guyard Morrigen's chest came away red.

"He's not going down," Caron growled out to Mandon.

"Swing harder," Mandon said.

Arthas could feel a few more holes in him than were there before. He shrugged them off.

"The Light is a balm on our wounds," Uther said. "Our faith is a shield against steel."

"And our righteousness is the hammer of justice!" Arthas knocked away Balon's shield with a powerful swing, even as he stepped away from Caron's axe and blocked Mandon's sword with almost contemptuous ease.

"You're fifteen!" Mandon cursed. "You're not supposed to be this strong!"

"I've been holding back!" Arthas said, pushing him away, and throwing the axe into Balon's shoulder. The boy dropped with a cry. Both his hands grasped his hammer in one smooth motion, and he slammed it into Caron's shield, sending him sprawling back several feet.

The stormlanders around them had gone deathly still, watching him as he marched up to Mandon.

"Demon," he heard them whisper. "He is the Young Demon."

It was quick and brutal and bloody, but Mandon fared no better than his companions alone. His sword bit down into Arthas' shoulder, and Arthas was forced to his knees from the force behind it. He was almost sure it had dislocated some bones.

Light, guide my path. He rose, slowly, to Mandon's utter disbelief, and his warhammer blurred before the Kingsguard caught his wits.

"Prince," others whispered. "He is the Pious Prince."

There used to be five of them, and Arthas stood by himself.

"You…" Mandon coughed out, "you should be… dead."

"You should have brought more men," Arthas said, looking into Moore's dead-fish, lifeless eyes, before leaving him lifeless at last.

There was a wide ring around him now, an empty space no living man dared to cross. He stared at the lords and knights, breathing in the storm winds, soaking in the rain, bathing in the brief light of lightning.

"Stormlanders," Arthas said, challenging them to come at him, daring them, begging, "Where is Renly? Where is the man you thought to replace Robert Baratheon's sons with?"

Their gazes dropped to the mud and blood. Light forgive him, he felt he could murder every single one of them if he chose to do so.

"STORMLANDERS!" he roared again, "Who is your king?!"

"Stormking!" roared one of the lords suddenly. Cafferen? No, too young. One of his sons mayhaps.

"Stormking!" another shouted over the din of rumbling thunder. "Yours is the Fury!"

"Fury!" they screamed. "FURY!"

The cold in his veins was bleeding out, but Arthas did not mind. "Stormking! STORMKING! STORMKING!" they chanted, and it sounded like both a confession and a plea. Louder, louder, louder went their dark chant, causing nameless deities of wind and wave to wake.

Renly's army was pulling away, though they'd left his army bloodied and near broken.

"STORMKING!" they proclaimed before the heavens, the storm as their witness. Their roars were a raw sound, a reminder of oaths not made since the days of the Darrunadons. The thunder cried back in acknowledgement, and their solemn words were written down in the lightning-scrawled sky.