Andrew
The woods were full of whispers.
Moonlight winked on the tumbling waters of the stream below as it wound its rocky way along the floor of the valley. Beneath the trees, warhorses whickered softly and pawed at the moist, leafy ground, while men made nervous jests in hushed voices. Now and again, he heard the chink of spears, the faint metallic slither of chain mail, but even those sounds were muffled.
His army formed behind him, beneath the canopies of the trees of the Whispering Woods. His men spoke of another battle in a forest back in their homeland, the Wolfswood. His father had won a great victory that day, smashing a huge force of Rhaegar Targaryen, twice the size of his own and ending the Targaryen conquest of the North once and for all. Andrew sat on his warhorse in front of them, hearing and waiting. Waiting for death or victory, he could not say. No one was safe in a war, in a fight. No life was certain. He ought to know that better than anyone. His mother, Joy and countless other innocent lives... He waited thinking about them, the women in his life, violet eyes, green eyes, the maid of stars and the summer maid, listening to the whispers in the woods and the faint music of the brook.
It felt odd thinking about himself in place of his father, in front of his army. Most of the men he had with him had fought with him in all his battles, shared his victory and glory while Andrew was waiting for his royal father in the safety of his castle with his mother. They would wait for him in Winterfell, standing patiently on the battlements of the great grey castle as the cold wind of the North blew past them sending chills down their backs. He did not always come when he promised he would. That had not stopped the little boy from running to the battlements of Winterfell every day. Every day until he could see King Eddard on his great black warhorse, trotting along the Kingsroad surrounded by his Lords and warriors and the glory of victory shining behind him like sunrise. Andrew would run to him as fast as his little legs would allow him. "Papa! Papa! did you fight ice spiders?" he would ask when his father took him up in his arms to hug him. "Yeah, I did," King Eddard would say smiling. "I punched it in the face and grabbed it by the legs and swung it far away beyond the Wall." Back then he had no idea where his father had gone to and it hadn't mattered as long as he returned. And he always returned except from Starfall.
And now it him who waited as his father had waited for any army who would threaten his lands and people. He was not new to fight, had never feared for his life, but looking at all the men behind him, he could not help but think of getting them all back to their homes safely. Their sons would wait for their fathers as Andrew had once waited for his, their wives would wait for their husbands as Queen Ashara had once waited for hers. He remembered Joy Hill and somehow it felt as if it was his duty to bring them back to them safely.
Ghost moved restlessly beside him among the trees. His lords bannermen were making good use of time before they rode into battle. He knew not everyone would come back alive this night. They knew it as well but none showed it as they laughed with their arms around the shoulders of the other, sharing jests with one another, helping each others with their horses and armour. He could hear the soft clinking of armours behind him. All were covered in armour and protection except their king. Only Andrew had forgone the protection of armour much to the disappointment of his lords. "Your Grace," Lord Robett had voiced his concern. "Its dangerous going to battle without armour. What would happen should you fall?"
"Don't worry too much about me, my lord," Andrew smiled at him, sadly. "I did not come all the way here just to die." He was unused to fighting in armour and was mostly uncomfortable in it. It was the main reason he had come leading an army for a battle in just his woolen white jacket and a cotton shirt beneath it and a matching brown leather pants and boots. The clothes he always preferred, no matter what.
A gentle breeze stirred his dark hair, neat and slicked back. Andrew smoothed his beard and looked at Ghost beside him. Even with near forty thousand men behind him, he felt alone and the direwolf was his true and only companion. His cousin had left with Lord Beric and his band to deal with the Tyrell outriders and watchers.
The night was warm. They had arrived that morning with all their mounted cavalry leaving the footmen in the command of Lord Galbart Glover. Andrew had given the Lightning Lord three hundred picked men, and sent them ahead to screen his march. "The Tyrells does not know," Lord Beric said when he rode back. "I'll stake my life on that. No bird has reached him, my archers have seen to that. We've seen a few of Tyrell's outriders, but those that saw us did not live to tell of it. He ought to have sent out more. He does not know."
"How large is his host?" Andrew asked him.
"About twenty five thousand foot, maybe more, scattered around the castle in three separate camps, with the rivers between," Lord Beric said. "That will be their undoing. Four or five thousand horse."
"Tyrell has almost as our own numbers," said Lord Medger Cerwyn.
'True enough," Lord Beric said, "but the entire strength is split into three."
"That's the only way one can siege Riverrun," said Lord Jason Mallister. "The castle is situated at the end of the point of land where the Tumblestone flows into the Red Fork of the Trident. The rivers form two sides of a triangle, and when danger threatens, the Tullys open their sluice gates upstream to create a wide moat on the third side, turning Riverrun into an island. The walls rise sheer from the water, and from their towers the defenders have a commanding view of the opposite shores for many leagues around. To cut off all the approaches, a besieger must needs place one camp north of the Tumblestone, one south of the Red Fork, and a third between the rivers, west of the moat. There is no other way, none."
His host was greater than it had been when they left the Twins. Lord Jason Mallister had brought his power out from Seagard to join them as they swept around the headwaters of the Blue Fork and galloped south, and others had crept forth as well, hedge knights and small lords and masterless men-at-arms who had fled north when Lord Hoster's army was shattered beneath the walls of Riverrun. They had driven their horses as hard as they dared to reach this place before Garlan Tyrell had word of their coming, and now the hour was at hand.
Andrew mounted up then. Olyvar Frey held his horse for him, Lord Walder's son, two years older than Andrew and yet his squire. When he handed a shield Andrew avoided it. Fighting with a shield would nullify the use of his hidden blades at close combat. The only steel upon his person was his father's crown. Andrew took the crown off his brow and gave it to Olyvar. When he gave his crown away, Frost replaced it in his hands. The valyrian steel gleamed blue as if it was engraved with ice in place of steel. The sound of steel scraping on leather as he unsheathed his blade was more welcoming than the silence he had felt that entire day. He ought to ride down the line as father used to do. He could almost hear his mother explaining him why his father had always done that once he had grown older enough to understand. "Let your men see you, Andrew," she had said, "your face, your courage and valour. You can only win battles if you go to a fight knowing that there are a thousand men behind you to support you. But if those thousands behind you took courage from the knowledge that you are in front of them to support and protect them you can win wars."
Andrew raised his sword and trotted his stallion slowly in front of his men. Ghost shadowed his steps. Behind him his battle guard formed up as it had once formed for his father. He would have avoided that as well but the lords bannermen had insisted and he finally agreed to have his own Elite Royal guard. Most of the sons and heirs of the northern lords made up the guard. Many of them had clamoured for the honour of riding with the Dragonslayer, as they had taken to calling him. Torrhen Karstark and his brother Eddard were among his thirty, and Patrek Mallister, Smalljon Umber, Daryn Hornwood, Benfred Tallhart, no less than five of Walder Frey's vast brood, along with older men like Ser Wendel Manderly and Robin Flint.
He had never had anyone guarding him, not for some ten years or so. Now almost forty thousand swords surrounded him with Andrew at the head of them, bearing his banners, shouting his name and believing in him just like they had once believed his father.
A bird called faintly in the distance, a high sharp trill that felt like a song of swords. Another bird answered; a third, a fourth. He knew their call well enough, from his years at Winterfell. Snow shrikes. They were northern birds. Their sound was welcoming in this southern land.
Andrew walked his horse before the men assembled in battle formations. Olyvar Frey held his banner beside him, a great cloth of white velvet done in the shape of a large shield, with the racing direwolf done in silver thread. He stopped when he saw Rolf, a pikeman from Winterfell in the front lines looking as hard as anyone there. Andrew knew him and his prowess at battle from his father. King Eddard had hosted Rolf, a common man-at-arms, many a times in his own high table for the services he'd done for the Starks in battles.
"Rolf," Andrew called him. "You were a great soldier to my father, as great as any lords who are here. There hasn't been a day passed where I haven't thought about you and your family's service to my family and I thank you for that."
The man's face beamed as he straightened his chest and stood tall and proud. "I'll serve your family till I breathe my last, your Grace."
Andrew nodded and set his horse forward. "Lord Karstark," he called Lord Rickard at the head of his column of Karstark horses and men at arms. "I still mourn your son at Starfall, just like I mourn Ethan Glover, Old Lord Roderick Dustin, Dacey Mormont, Gait Cerwyn, Jon Locke, Lord Roger Flint and all the others who died bravely at Starfall. It's an honour to fight beside the kin of such brave men and women. We fight for them today." He wheeled his horse around and eyed his men again. "You've all honoured your country and your ancestors and now we've come to this place away from our own homeland where across from us Rhaegar has finally gathered a vast army. Yes, these men who side with him are so many and they have dragons. But ask yourselves, who is this great king who murders people under guest right, in a most despicable and cowardly manner? These men do not fight for the homes. They fight because this king tells them they must. And when they fight they will melt away like air before us because they know no loyalty to the king of slaves. But we are not here today as slaves. We are here today as free men." A huge cry erupted across the forest. Men shouted over their lungs, pikes were banged against shields and the clang of swords and axes and maces filled the Whispering Woods. "Some of you, perhaps myself, will not live long to see the sun rise over these lands tomorrow, but I say to you whatever you warriors have known since the beginning of time, conquer your fear and I promise you, you will conquer death." Lord Greatjon Umber roared into the night air and the men took up his cry. Andrew had to wait for the roar to subside before talking. "I am here this day as a free man and should I fall let men say that I died as a free man." He pulled the reigns of his courser suddenly and the stallion reared on its hind legs, it's front legs kicking in the air over the heads of men. "To Freedom and justice for the North." Andrew raised Frost and the blue sword shone like a bright star of ice, burning.
"To the North!" Almost forty thousand men roared at the same time that the entire forest seemed to shake, the trees swayed and ravens flew forth from their nests.
He moved away from the men at a trot, leading his men downhill. When he brought his stallion down and rode him down the slopes of trees of the Whispering Woods, the thread of many horses could be heard behind him. To the right by a hill, he could see the archers lightning up their arrows. Andrew did not look back or slow his speed as he charged towards the Tyrells. All around him, the riders raised their lances, and the dirt and leaves that had buried the cruel bright points fell away to reveal the gleam of sharpened steel.
The whispering wood let out its breath all at once, as the bowmen Andrew had hidden in the branches of the trees let fly their arrows and the night erupted with the screams of men and horses. A thousand arrows took to the air like some descending comets and lightened up the camps encircling Riverrun. The camps took fire at once, wood and fabric all burning alike and soon men started running out of the camps. Before they could do much another wave of arrows flew past and found men and animals alike. Wherever the arrows found purchase, they burned.
Even from afar Andrew could see that the camps were well organized and well set. Despite the sudden attack on their camps, the Tyrell forces quickly rallied. They were well led. Rafts were ferrying men across the rivers. The bulk of their forces were placed to the West in between the Tumblestone and the Red Fork facing the gates of Riverrun. Andrew wondered if Ser Garlan was trying to assault the castle gates.
As they moved closer the sounds of horses and men alike could be heard, both the cries of the burning and the shouts of others. The rattle of swords and spears and armour, filled the night air and the murmur of human voices, with a shout here, and there a curse.
The sounds grew louder. He heard someone laugh behind him and the splashing of water as they crossed a little stream. When they rode out of the ranks of trees of the Whispering Woods, he shouted a command and his Royal Guard followed him along with a great number of armoured horses split from the central host to take on the west camp where the Tyrell rose could be seen in plenty. They had planned to take out all three camps at once by splitting their army, encircling them from all three sides to push and break them against the walls of Riverrun. Andrew had taken the command of the west wing to deal with the west camp of the Tyrells by the gates of Riverrun. Lord Jason Mallister was given command to attack the camp north of the Tumblestone and Lord Roose Bolton was tasked with burning down the eastern camp.
Andrew led his men into four long columns of armoured horses across the Tumblestone against the western camp of the Tyrells. Back in the banks of the Tumblestone from where they had come from the north, Lord Jason Mallister had already taken the northern camp off guard. His men were already engaging with the Tyrells and the burning tents had lightened up the night so that the fighting could be done in clear sight.
Andrew could see Lord Jason in the front lines, his indigo armour chased with silver, gleaming in the moonlight. His knights came behind him, long columns of them, knights and northmen and other sworn swords and a quarter of his total cavalry.
The fighting had gone full-fledged in the northern camp. The Tyrells had now rallied forth to fight his men. Far to the east, he could not see if Roose Bolton had managed to get across the river to the eastern camp. The river would be deep on that side, Lord Jason had instructed. They had not had the time to build rafts to ferry them across. If Lord Bolton could capture some of them...
Before him the western camp spread out for leagues. Andrew could see the Tyrell standards in prominence here. He wondered if Ser Garlan was here. If so he could turn this battle to their side in no time.
The Tyrell men were already waiting for them in their camps, men groggy with sleep and clothed hastily with anything they could find. When he looked across the muddy road to the far bank, he saw the Tyrell knights had already emerged from their tents and siege towers. They formed up in a long line, an endless line, and as they burst forth from the riverbank to meet his own men all Andrew saw for a moment was the orange glow on the points of their lances, as if a thousand fireflies were coming down the road, wreathed in flame.
Andrew charged against them Frost raised in hand, blue ice against orange flames. Ghost raced in front of him, leaping upon a man and taking his head clean off his shoulders by the time he landed. The second kill came to Andrew as Frost cleaved a man's face clean in half.
He could hear the fighting all around him now, as his men crashed with the Tyrell men and the valley rang with echoes. The crack of a broken lance, the clash of swords, the cries of "Tyrell" and "Winterfell" and "Eddard! Andrew! and Dragonslayer!" The battle came alive around him. He heard hoofbeats, iron boots splashing in shallow water, the woody sound of swords on oaken shields and the scrape of steel against steel, the hiss of arrows, the thunder of drums, the terrified screaming of a thousand horses.
Andrew slashed down every foe he passed. Frost found someone or something to cut everywhere he directed it. The icy cold steel bit through mail and leather alike and soon his frost blue sword turned blood red. Dimly, he heard cheers from the men on the walls of Riverrun. They were fighting now as well. Shafts of arrows and boulders flew from the walls.
An arrow came so close to him that he could almost feel it's breath against his cheek. Andrew jumped away from his horse and the arrow at the right time. The arrow missed his eye by an inch. Had his jump come a heart beat later he would have been dead for sure.
Unhorsed and on foot, it slowed him a bit, but that did not stop him any way. Andrew cut down an archer, opened a spearman from shoulder to armpit, shoved Frost through the eye slit of a grape cluster-crested helm. Frost sliced off limbs, took off half the heads of helmless men, cut down knights and peasants alike.
Their rallied foes were now fleeing back, not being able to withstand the charge of his armoured horses. Andrew chased them ahead of his riders. As always Ghost followed him. The direwolf seemed as if he belonged there. He snarled and growled and wherever he went men and beasts alike ran away from him. Ghost tore the throat of a charging mount and then ripped the rider's arm right from his shoulder.
Wherever Andrew passed he left a scatter of corpses behind him. His white jacket was red to the elbow, glistening in the light off the river. Downriver, the men who tried to get across on rafts were pushed downstream and were soon pelted with rocks by the Tullys with the catapults on their walls. Andrew saw one raft smashed to kindling and three others overturned. He could see fighting all along the riverfront. Ghost took a knight down as the man came charging at Andrew and bounded off quickly once he ripped off the man's throat.
He heard anguished screams all around him, the hungry crackle of flame, the shuddering of warhorns, and the brazen blast of trumpets. Fire was everywhere and it seemed as if all of the Trident was ablaze. He saw the Lightening Lord and Thoros of Myr with their flaming swords routing a group of Tyrell riders. Ned Dayne was with them, eleven years old and fearless like a seasoned warrior who had fought in half a hundred wars. Knights twice his size fled before him.
There were still men for him to slay. The Tyrells were still fighting, he could see. Knights and lords alike fled from him when they saw who he was, or stood and died. Another spearman ran at him. Andrew lopped off the head of his spear, then his hand, then his arm, and put him out of his misery by thrusting Frost through his heart. A knight in the livery of House Tyrell thrust at him with his sword, trying to gut him. Andrew parried the blade away and before the knight could bring his sword back to defend himself, he drove it into his throat. A man-at-arms tried his best to attack him from behind. Andrew spun around knocked the blade aside and buried Frost in the nape of the man's neck.
Suddenly he was surrounded by four foes or more, he didn't know. All he knew was that he lopped the head off the first spear that came at him, and raked his blade across a second man's face on his backslash, shoved his left hidden blade on the third man's throat, caught a spear across the shaft, pulled the wielder to him and buried Frost right in his eye, snapped the borrowed spear shaft against the head of a helmless knight and cut down the last one across his chest, opening him from his shoulder to his hip.
Little by little, the sounds dwindled and died, until at last there was only a token force of the Tyrells still holding. A good amount of spearmen formed up a shieldwall, wide as the road to the gates of Riverrun itself, and three ranks in deep. Andrew walked to the front of his force, still a great force compared to the destroyed Tyrells. "Bring me a horse," he told to Olyvar Frey who seemed to have followed him. When his squire brought him a horse, Lord Beric and Thoros of Myr had already formed to charge against the shield wall. Andrew joined them at the front.
They rode forth in unison and charged against the shield wall. Most of the horses reared at the last minute afraid of facing the steel tip of the spears. Some were brave and died. The armoured horses did better by slamming against the shield wall but did not manage to break it. "Turn back. We'll swing around again," he commanded.
Lord Beric shouted, "Turn around!" And they were off again. They rode for quite a distance away from the shield wall and wheeled around again to face the spearmen. Before they could start the charge though, came the call of a great warhorn, a long low blast that rolled down the rivers from the walls of Riverrun. A moment of silence filled the air after that and then the gates of the castle opened to the riders from the inside. Before the Tyrells could make out what was happening, the rivermen were onto them and took them in the rear. The shield wall crumbled at once and when his own men smashed them in the front any hope the Tyrells had of holding out were thwarted.
Soon after that sounds of victory were announced. HAAroooooooooooooooooooooooo the sound split the night air as the Greatjon winded his own horn, to tell their allies that they had destroyed the camp between the rivers. From the far banks to the north, the trumpets of the Mallisters and Freys blew vengeance signalling their own victory. There was nothing but silence to the east, as he waited for an answer.
The Greatjon rode past him to the siege towers the Tyrells were building. "Let's give the fucking dragons their own medicine," he said and flung his torch over the unfinished wooden structures. The wood and hide took fire and the tower started burning. Rickard Karstark joined him and burned the other two towers.
He thought about gathering his men again and riding for the eastern camp to find out what had happened there. Then the rivermen who had come forth from Riverrun met him at the drawbridge. It only took one look for him to find out their commander. Lord Tytos Blackwood was mounted on a black destrier. Very tall and lean, the Lord of Raventree Hall had a hook nose, long hair, and a ragged salt-and-pepper beard that showed more salt than pepper. In silver inlay on the breastplate of his burnished scarlet armor was a white tree bare and dead, surrounded by a flock of onyx ravens taking flight. A cloak of raven feathers fluttered from his shoulders. "King Andrew," he said offering his hand in friendship.
"Lord Tytos," Andrew clasped his hand by the forearm. "My father always said you were a good friend to the Starks."
"So are the Starks to me and my family," Lord Tytos smiled. "The sight of you here relieves me, my Lord. The Lords of the Trident thank you for your help against these invaders."
"The pleasure is mine," Andrew told him. "Do you know what happened in the eastern camp? I haven't heard anything from them."
"Worry not, my lord," Lord Tytos said. "The Arryns are here. The camp is overrun."
Lord Arryn was here. So Asher has kept his promise. He could not wait to thank his men and the Arryns. As if to answer his thoughts the warhorns added their own deep, mournful voices from the east and Knights of the Vale echoed them with their own.
There was nothing much left to the battle after that but pure slaughter. Anyone who refused to yield were cut down at once. Those who put down their weapons were given the gift of mercy and were imprisoned. Among captured were a lot. Lords of great names and small, renowned knights and other men-at-arms.
The most important of the prisoners was delivered to him by Lord Beric and the Red Priest. A mob of men followed them, dirty and dented and grinning. Between them they dragged Ser Garlan Tyrell. They threw him down in front of Andrew and Lord Tytos. "Tyrell," Lord Karstark announced, "how do you like them fires now? Thought you were safe from it by siding with the dragons, didn't you?"
Ser Garlan raised his head and looked up from his knees. Blood ran down one cheek from a gash across his scalp and his brown hair was matted with blood and sweat.
"Take him away and put him in irons," Andrew told his men.
"Aye," the Greatjon laughed. "There must be some room in the dungeons of Riverrun. We'll how roses fare in the dark."
"That we will," Lord Tytos agreed and gestured to his men. Ser Garlan Tyrell was led away to be bandaged and chained.
Ghost came back to him as Tyrell was taken away. "Ghost," Andrew called. "To me, boy." The white wolf's face had turned red with blood. Blood covered his white fur from his muzzle to the thick mane around his neck. His eyes were shining and the gleam was the only thing which set the eyes apart from the blood on his fur.
Andrew knelt down and rubbed him under the jaw. He could not help but see how much alike they both looked then. All clad in white and covered red in blood. The direwolf gave him the comfort he very much needed. Andrew mounted up his horse and trotted through the drawbridge to the castle of Riverrun with Ghost by his side and the lords and warriors following him as the eastern sky shone with the arrival of dawn.
Author's Notes: The first battle of Andrew Stark "the Born King." Hope I did a good job of it. I wanted Andrew to mirror his father as much as possible and incorporated some certain things of how Andrew remembered Ned and made a replica of it with Andrew himself in this chapter. Congratulations to anyone who find those similarities. Tbh, I wrote this chapter listening to the "Last of the Starks" soundtrack from Season Eight of GOT and some of the scenes(Andrew's past with his dad) actually made me sad as I wrote them. It's such a great and powerful music(congratulations to Ramin). Really recommend hearing it as you read the chapter to get the complete feel. The soundtrack perfectly embodies this chapter as it starts slowly in grief and then climbs up the steps of glory and lastly ends in a winning note.
Sorry for the long rant there. This chapter actually made myself feel as I wrote about it. Hope you guys like it. Leave a comment and let me know if you felt the way I did.