Disclaimer: I do not own A Song of Ice and Fire by George RR Martin, other than my own the original character(s) in this story. This is purely a work of my personal enjoyment so don't expect anything worthy of GRRM. I fully welcome criticism/suggestions/questions. The story will eventually be finished (I hate leaving things unfinished) but I have no real schedule. Please review as I'd love useful thoughts :) feedback goes a long way to encouraging my writing.
Chapter 35: Words are Wind
"An extraordinary moment."
– Prince Willam Stark
Rook's Rest was a deal more formidable than Antlers, even at a mere glance; the keep rested at the edge of a mighty cliff overlooking Blackwater Bay – with tall greystone walls and taller towers, the seat of House Staunton looked down on them from the distance. Black winged banners flew on checkered fields of black and grey.
A siege here would be costly indeed… but then Willam planned no such siege, if everything went as he'd like…
At the base of Rook's Rest, flanking the cobbled southern road, was a thick forest of pine and oak and elm all of whom the castle watched over from its rise. "Let them look," Willam had told his commanders when they'd expressed doubts. "They'll see what I want them to," he'd told them with a shrug; that none dared question.
They wouldn't see much at this hour from such a great distance at any rate. Not without wargs, at least…
"Prince," the voice of Lady Rowana called on him.
"Aye?" He asked her as they rode through the woods.
"The others are in the skies," she said with a frown. "I really ought to help-"
"You're on break lass," Willam fought the urge to sigh. "Keeping you close too – you've a tendency to ignore orders…"
"I-" She blushed at that. "I don't-"
Willam merely laughed it away, but in reality, the young woman had indeed been pushing herself too hard lately. Whatever her reasoning.
Warging was a virtue in peace and an asset in war, especially here where these andals were quite so inept at countering them; it was tempting no doubt to rely on this crutch… but there were downsides to the art… for if one spent their days and nights in the sky, souring through the clouds, then they'd quickly lose the desire to land.
Sooner or later a warg would forget what they were; flinging themselves from some high place – just to sour through the air again.
"We've intercepted all ravens from the castle," She informed him, still notably upset. Her eagle flew lazily above the treetops.
"Good," Willam hummed his thoughts.
Staunton might well have spotted glimpses of their army though from trees from atop his castle, but he'd tell no one; nor have an exact count of their numbers.
"Aedan," Willam turned to the man. "Take a hundred of our best riders and circle to the rear, would you?"
"Um," Aedan raised a brow. "Are you expecting trouble?"
"Not at all," the prince smiled wide. "Keep a wide formation and ride fast, kick up some dust, eh?"
Aedan didn't delay further, merely nodding as he pushed his horse into action – calling on near a hundred men with ease.
"Prince?" Rowana asked him, riding alongside.
"Lord Staunton is watching," Willam told her with as smirk. "I'm just giving him something to look at is all…"
The man wouldn't be able to make out their numbers from so far away, even with the vantage of his castles rise; overlooking these treetops – he'd see little but ants with torches moving through a canopy of trees – doubtlessly seeing Aedan's men at the rear soon. Who was to say from so far away if Aedan's men were new or old arrivals?
After all, an army marches in one direction. Any fool on Rook's Rests battlements was liable to count Aedan's men twice over.
That was the thought at least. And if not, then it was no loss for them…
"Trust me," Willam smiled his best smile.
There was a clearing up ahead, just before the cliffside where Staunton was roosting.
"Ed, see to the camps – light three fires for every man…"
"Three?" Edwyn raised a brow at that order.
"Aye, you heard me cousin, three. Spread them through the treeline."
Edwyn hummed agreement as he rode off, barking the orders to his men.
In the dark, the Lord of Rook's Rest would be busy counting their rear-guard while countless campfires came to life.
By the morning Willam woke to the sound of trumpets blasting from the south, forcing him from bed sooner than he'd have liked – though it was a restless sleep – it seemed that the advancing force was in quite the hurry. "Come on boy," Willam nudged the sleeping form of his direwolf, curled up at the foot of his bed.
Wraith groaned as he woke, stretching with a yawn before padding his way out of the tent and into the light of dawn.
"Prince," the Greycloaks greeted him warmly as he left the comfort of his tent.
"Lads," he gave them a nod as he passed by.
Walking through the camp he eyed men hard to work, bustling around performing their many duties; some digging ditches in the damp forest floor – aided by the rains from the night past – while most scurried about with spear and shield or sword or bow; ready for the fight ahead.
"No fight to be had ideally," Willam muttered as he walked through the muddy grounds towards the forests edge.
Taking a step out into the clearing and turning his eyes to the horizon, he could see the sun beginning to shine over Rook's Rest in all its glory. All towers and grey stone walls, just as Buckwell had promised, with the Staunton banners flying proudly and defiantly above the battlements.
There laid Rook's Rest and its cliffside to the east, with their camp to the west and more trees to the north… but to the south…
The trumpets blared again, da-DAAA da-DAAA da-DA da-DA da-DAAAAAAA, they screamed atop the wind; up from the southern road in full view of Rook's Rest.
The banner of House Buckwell fluttered in the wind at the head of this advancing host, flying beside that of Stark and Baratheon – with a silent and reluctant Lord Buckwell at the hosts head alongside Prince Suko and a thousand or so knights at their back. It made for a fanciful sight, Willam thought, all smiles as they approached.
"See them, my Lord of Ravens?" Willam looked up at Rook's Rest with a smirk on his lips.
His men in the woods had been staggering their movements all morning, keeping to the denseness of the forest.
Suko's arrival came with the sunrise. If the gods were good, their arrival would appear like the vanguard of a reinforcing army…
Lord Bryce had informed him a great deal of Staunton's nature. A cunning and ambitious young man, Buckwell had claimed with some disgust; noting how the lord had spared practically no soldiers when King's Landing called its banners. The lord was also fond of a game called Cyvasse if Buckwell was to trusted...
"I outnumber you my lord," Willam thought in silence as Suko lead his thousand men into the clearing. "Your move…"
"Stark!" Suko had ridden over to him atop his black stallion, all dressed for battle; he held the same shit-eating smirk he always had.
"Pleasant ride Lóng?"
"Oh quite pleasant," Suko leaded forward slightly in his saddle, looking down at his friend.
"Let's pray our friend sees your arrival, eh?"
"Hard to miss us!" Suko scoffed in amusement. "We've been blowing those trumpets all the way up the road!"
A risk, that, for no doubt word would spread… though that was a bridge they'd crossed and turned to cinders when Antlers burnt…
"What of our dear friend Buckwell?"
"Oh him?" Suko chuckled suddenly. "He's been a good little lordling, no fear there Stark."
Lord Buckwell had proven a useful piece in this game, if for nothing else than make Staunton believe the man had turned his cloak.
If all had gone to plan then Lord Staunton would believe their numbers tenfold their true size, plus how Buckwell rode with their 'reinforcing army' from the south – and how the wargs had seen to his rookery a day past – what would a man think? What hope did he have against such odds? Even the Buckwells had joined Stannis…
They hadn't officially, as was clear by the glare on Buckwell's face as he passed them by now… but well… the Staunton's did know that.
"The banner," Willam gave a sharp nod to the yellow-black banner of House Baratheon.
It was with a nudge of his horses reigns that Suko galloped just out of arrow range, planting the royal banner of Baratheon into the filed.
Suko's thousand men began to set up camp just shy of that banner, with their backs to the forest – where as far as the enemy knew; another whole army waited at their rear. "And now we wait," Willam muttered, walking to the banner of the stag as it fluttered in the breeze. Time would tell if the ploy had paid off…
It didn't take an hour for the gates of Rook's Rest to swing open, allowing passage for a group of some twenty riders to exit the castle under the white banner of peace – they rode in full steel plate half painted black, flying the raven wings of Staunton on a checkered black and grey field.
Willam found himself walking out into the grassy field some foot from Suko's thousand, towards the stag banner.
At his side stood Lord Buckwell, with Aedan and Edwyn and a handful of Greycloaks to act as their shields.
"Remember now Bryce," Willam spoke low as the riders approached. "A toe out of line, and I have Bolton flay one of your daughter's toes, eh?"
"Bastard," Buckwell growled at him.
"What was that?"
"Aye," The lord scowled. "I'm your man…"
"Good little lord," Willam ruffled the old lord's hair, as if he were a child; shorter by a foot.
"Stark," The man at Staunton's head spoke first, all bluster and courage as he came to a halt before them.
He seemed unafraid of their numbers, or the man was simply good at hiding his emotions…
"Has he seen through the ruse?" Willam wondered yet didn't let his face show the doubts.
"Bryce," The rider glared curiously at Buckwell from atop his horse.
"Staunton," Bryce replied with a grim look, looking like he wished to say more – but thought better of it.
"Talkative fellow our friend Buckwell is, isn't he?"
"To the contrary Stark," Staunton looked to him, eyes scanning; judging intently. "He's always been a damn bore of a man…"
Buckwell growled at his least favourite neighbour but said nothing. His head was hung low in thought now.
"Is that it?" Staunton stifled laughter. "You see, my knights? The wolf has taken himself a set of antlers!"
The Staunton Knight's laughed heartily at their liege's jest.
"The only antlers of importance here are the ones of this banner, Lord Staunton."
The man scowled, squinting his eyes up at the crowned stag of Baratheon.
"Aye," his joy seemed to die on his tongue. "What stag is it though, Stark? I've seen so many of late."
"The true one," Willam offered with an uncaring shrug. In truth it was little but cloth to him.
"Oh?" Staunton scoffed at that. "I heard you ride for Stannis, yet the raven he sent bore a flaming stag…"
"I can get a torch and set it aflame if you'd like my lord," Willam offered kindly.
There was brief moment, however brief; where he feared he'd made an error with that jest.
"A Stark with humour!?" Staunton laughed as loud as thunder then. "I met Ned Stark once, wasn't a cheery fellow – and you're no son of his, no?"
"Ned Stark is my kin," Willam said simply. "I am a Prince of Winterhold and the Sunset Sea."
"I know," Staunton hummed. "I saw you fight, in the capital…"
"Simpler times my lord, for us all…"
"That they were Stark. Now, enough talk – what is it you ask of me?"
Willam found he much preferred this man to Buckwell, by quite the margin.
"King Stannis asks for your allegiance my lord," Willam declared simply without much heart.
"Asks, is it?" Staunton frowned then. "Last raven I received; the man was demanding – not asking."
"I'm asking," Willam countered. "As the one with an army, it's my prerogative, no?"
Another stifle of laughter at that, the man smiled down from his horse.
"My family have always been loyal banners," Staunton looked to Bryce then, narrowing his eyes. "We stood by King Maegor when the realm turned against him, then we stood by Queen Rhaenyra when the realm turned on her too – for men will always seek what isn't theirs to take…"
"My house fought for-"
"Maegor too," Staunton admitted. "I'm not so old as you, Buckwell; but my father taught me well before he passed…"
"Lord Symond was a good man…"
Buckwell frowned at the memory of the dead lord.
"Aye," Staunton hummed his agreement, recalling his father. "Loyal to his king, no matter how far he may have strayed in the end."
"Loyal to the lawful king," Buckwell said, though the words seemed to burn his insides.
"Stannis is your lawful King," Willam added easily, hiding his surprise at Buckwells performance well; though the man did have an axe over his children's necks. "Ned Stark spoke as much to me and others, now the Lannisters hold him in a cell for his loyalty. The lengths they'd go, to maintain their grip on power…"
Something seemed to flash in Staunton's raven black eyes.
"My mother told me stories of Rhaegar's children," he mumbled, barely a whisper.
"The fate of those that stand between the lion and its prize," Willam told the lord simply, making no effort to hide his disgust.
"What they did then was-"
"Monstrous," Buckwell agreed, though his eyes laid on the man he knew as demon.
"I-" Staunton's frown grew. "I require time, to think… if that is acceptable Prince Willam?"
"You have until the sun is highest my lord," Willam told him with a smile. "There is much work to be done."
Lord Staunton took his leave then, turning on his reigns and galloping back to his castle. By the time the sun rose there was a stag above Rook's Rest.
They bickered and bickered, all while he spun Ashlyn's dagger in his head; a simple motion to clear his mind – as the bickering became little but a buzzing in his ear. What to do. What to do. What to do. And just like that, in a flash; a faint memory struck him – though it had never truly left. An old lesson he'd been taught so long ago.
"I was taught about war by Lord Jaune Frost, in what feels like a lifetime ago now; but I remember the lesson he'd never let me forget." Willam could picture Elssa's father lecturing him on matters of warfare and strategy in warfare, as clear now as if he were standing here – as if it had happened only yesterday. "He told me that it is often wisest to engage an enemy with what they expect; as it is what they are able to discern and confirms their projections…"
This could work, Willam paused in thought; though doubts pestered him from the shadows.
"It makes them predictable, occupying their minds while you wait for the extraordinary moment…"
The lords eyed him curiously as he spoke to them, their bickering long ceased.
"An extraordinary moment; which they cannot anticipate."
"And where is this wise Lord Frost now?"
"Dead," Willam answered Ser Helman coldly. "They're all dead."
That had set a less than cheery tone for what was to come. Good, for his thoughts were filled with little but risk…
"Frost rode against my father – some of you may have heard whispers of the tale by now – but the gist of the thing is simple enough: He faced a larger army and split his forces into groups of four assuming my father would mirror his movements. His intent was to react to his foe's reactions; moving to reposition and punch a hole into my father's line using greater numbers while father's men were split apart. A fine tactic, in theory…"
"Except it didn't work," Edwyn pitched into the conversation. "King Brandon didn't take the bait."
"Instead of mirroring Frost's movements, my father ignored him entirely and charged headlong at Frost's centre – calling the man's bluff to smash through his line and easily defeating him in the field. Lord Frost died in that battle, and the rest was frankly butchers work."
Frost had underestimated his foe. They couldn't afford to make the same mistake here.
"What's the point of this story, Stark?" Harrion had asked calmly enough, his face a mask of stone.
"I purpose one of two plans," Willam sighed; leaning forward in his chair and tapping on the table with markers for Jaime Lannister's host. "We can either flee to the northern shore, likely sacrificing our footmen, but escaping to the Manderly fleet at Maidenpool; or we can create ourselves an extraordinary moment…"
"Well," Robett Glover asked with a huff then. "What's the plan where we kill Lannisters?"
"We trick this sister-fucking Kingslayer and go down in the annals of history," Willam remarked with a beaming smirk. "It's risky though my lords, don't mistake that. I'll not cover the truth in honey for you; it could all go terribly wrong. It could well be best that we cut our losses and-"
"Stop teasing us and just spit it out lad!"
Robett had such a way with words that it almost made one miss Cregan. Almost.
"Jaime doubtless thinks me a simple green boy," He was willing to gamble that much was true, since before now he'd only been a sidenote in Robb's campaign and Jaime's arrogance had been plain to see from their interactions. "It's his projection of me, certainly; and I say we enforce that – nay – that we exploit it. Let him think I've spread us thin. Let him think us easy prey. Let his lions pride lure him into a trap… where he'll pay the price…"
"Frost's ruse," Harrion commented, raising a brow; leaving the question unasked. That ruse had failed after all.
"In a manner," Willam pointed at the map with Ashlyn's dagger; right above where Sow's Horn laid. Lord Frost's ruse was far too much of a gamble here, however. If they could appear to move without actually moving though? Appearing to underestimate Jaime might just pull on his tail hard enough to lure him out…
Jaime's host was some six thousand strong, having ridden out from King's Landing to rally the Crownlanders against them.
It was to be a ruse within a ruse. All it required was for the Kingslayer to see exactly what they wanted him to see.
"You mean to use the ravens," Aedan's mind clicked, saying it aloud without thinking.
"Aye," Willam confirmed, tapping at Duskendale on the map with his finger. Jaime was there, at present…
As the old saying went, wars were won in the sky – and they ruled these skies unopposed. The advantage was theirs, though not in numbers.
It would either work or not but with wargs, even as few as they had, it was possible – at least in a land so shocking unaware of the danger warging posed in war. This would never work back home where any army worth its salt had eyes in the sky of their own; but here? It just might work perfectly.
"Fetch us Staunton and Buckwell, they have letters to write for me…"
For once Willam found himself glad that Westeros was quite so damn backwards.
Dear gods, how had this happened? That's the question that rang against Lord Renfred Rykker's skull, bouncing off its walls with every swing of his castle-forged sword as every cut he landed on one of these savages was answered with the same damn question. Everything had gone to shit spectacularly fast…
How. Had. This. Fucking. Happened?!
All reports indicated the northmen had split their hosts; not that it mattered – with the differences in their strength defeat wasn't even a remote possibility – and yet here he stood, hacking away; with that damn question taunting him. "You shouldn't be here!" He wanted to scream as he swung again and again.
"FOR KING JOFFR-"
Now, that was an ugly death…
The man that rushed past him screaming the name of the boy king was rewarded for his bravery with a crossbow bolt between his eyes, sending him to the dirt with a thud. If he weren't bound to die soon; he'd have knighted that brave fool. Rykker wasn't a young man by any stretch, he'd seen war before, so he wasn't afraid to die – but the gods were cruel – for this hadn't been how he'd planned to leave the world. Again, the question taunted him.
It mocked him as nothing else ever had, feeding the man's rage.
"HOW!"
He swung his blade, cutting into the neck of a northman.
"IS!"
He pulled the blade free with some difficulty. His body was failing him in its old age.
"THIS!"
His arm was tired, his swings becoming lazy and aimless.
"Happening…"
So very damn tired…
Things had gone swimmingly at first. They'd approached from the south without so much as encountering a single outrider – because the stupid Stark boy wasn't even using scouts – and with twice the savage's numbers; plus a few hundred heavy horses under his eldest son's command, victory was assured!
It started with the screams of agony, as in his sad experience war often started. That was the first sign of trouble. The screams of men and horses…
It was odd, beast or man; the sound was near enough the same – be it horse or human – though in this case Rykker's son had ridden through the western treeline STRIGHT into a hell of spikes and pitfalls. How the savages had the time to prepare that was beyond him! They weren't even using outriders!
It was almost as if they'd known they… were… coming…
The 'how' in his question only seemed to grow more prominent.
"THE GARRISON!"
The cry brought hope, but it wasn't to last.
"THEY'RE SALLYING TO US!""
Rykker could see – barely past the blood and muck – the gates of Rook's Rest swing wide open; and men in Staunton tabards rushed out to join the fray. Some good news! The old Lord Staunton had always been a friend to Duskendale once, though Rykker feared the new lord's efforts would be in vain; they were still heroic!
At the head of the Staunton charge was a man wielding a flaming sword…
Annnnd the men in Staunton tabards were in fact NOT attacking the Starks….
A horn sounded to the north of the battle. It seemed then like the seven had truly deserted them as it sounded. Harooooooooooooooooooooo, it cried, it's voice as long and low and chilling as a cold wind from the north; accompanied with the chanting of thousands of men pouring out from the trees to the north.
"We've been betrayed," Rykker could only mutter as it happened.
Somehow their information was obviously false – as was clearly the case with Staunton's letter to him – but the idea that Buckwell was a traitor too was madness, wasn't it?! The stark boy didn't have the men to put the fear in him! He just couldn't make sense of it all…
Had the seven truly forsaken them?
Was the Staunton boy always so ambitious!?
"For the North!"
They were completed surrounded…
"For King Stannis!"
They were supposed to be at Antlers!
"WINTER IS COMING!"
He'd read the damn letter himself! THIS WAS WRONG!
The rider wore no helmet as he charged, his raven locks blowing in the wind as he thundered towards him like some kind of demon straight from the seven hells – with a hauntingly pale blue crystalline sword and ice-grey eyes – he swung the haunted blade and time seemed to slow to a crawl.
This was the end.
"Alice… Richard…"
He thought of his wife and son, never feeling the blade cut though his skull like a hot knife through butter.
The last thing Renfred Rykker saw was the blur of a giant black wolf leaping over his fallen body before the darkness took him. "How did this happen?" The question leaked out from his open skull, onto the wet muddy ground outside Rook's Rest. His men were run down and slaughtered around him.
Winter had come for them all and it took no prisoners. Expect for one. The seven weren't wholly without their mercy, or so it seemed.
Ser Richard Rykker had decided in an instant that he did not enjoy war. This was his first battle and likely, his last…
It was to be an easy thing, his father promised; a simple battle to teach him the ways of war. He'd lead the charge though the easternly treeline while his father rode from the south – with the intent to flank the northmen's siege of the castle. All was well… until the ground gave way beneath his horse's hooves…
And then came the screams – by the gods the screams – the sound would haunt his dreams to come.
"Wake up," A stranger's voice told him. "Ser Richard, can you hear me?"
He could, barely; as the ringing in his ears was persistent.
"I-" He managed. "Where am I?"
"Rook's Rest," The stranger replied.
"We won the battle?"
There was a brief pause.
"Yes," The stranger told him.
"Who are you?"
"Tristan Staunton, the Lord of this castle."
The gods were good, he was among friends.
"We lifted the siege then," Richard said happily as his vision focused.
"Yes," Lord Staunton said stiffly. "We are no longer under siege…"
"Good," Richard smiled and allowed himself to sigh. "That is good…"
He strained his memory to recall the battle but found he could recall little beyond the cavalry charge. The treeline had been littered with traps and- was he was thrown from his saddle? Yes, that was right, wasn't it? He was thrown… It was all coming back to him now…
"Where is my father? He was leading the vanguard…"
His father had insisted after all. If he fell in battle, he'd said; then he'd have lived a good life.
"Gone," Lord Staunton spoke the word too easily for Rykker's liking.
"He's gone?" Richard focused, willing himself to sit up; but found he could not move. "Where has he gone? We were supposed to…"
Something was wrong. Something was…
"W- Why can I not feel my legs?"
"You were supposed to what?"
He couldn't move. Why couldn't he move!?
"Ser," Staunton persisted. "Where were you heading next?"
"Why can't I move!?"
He began to panic more and more.
"Your legs are still healing," Staunton vowed, placing a hand on the knight's shoulder. "It will take time for you to heal, no need for panic…"
"I-" Richard's breathing steadied. "Yes, that… that makes sense…"
Silence washed between the two men for a moment that seemed like an eternity, as the young Rykker franticly tried reassuring himself within his thoughts that everything was fine – that he'd see his father and sisters and mother again soon, and never again go to war…
"Lord Rykker left the wounded behind before he continued on…"
"To Antlers," Richard replied in a heartbeat; still uneasy.
"Yes," Staunton agreed easily with a hum and a nod. That was what he wanted to hear…
"They'll catch those fucking dogs," Richard scowled at the thought, daring to think on how many good men they'd lost.
We wondered too if his cousin Danton still lived…
"And the Kingslayer? Where is he?"
"Ser Jaime," Richard corrected meekly. "He doesn't much like his title…"
"Ser Jaime then," Staunton pried. "He's set for Sow's Horn?"
"Aye," Richard groaned in pain. "We were to rally Buckwell's forces and flank- ARHHH IT HURTS!"
A sharp pain had reached up from nowhere to stab at him in his chest.
"Flank the Starks from the North, yes Ser?"
"Please," Richard groaned in agony. "I-"
"Drink this," Staunton handed him a vial. "It's milk of-"
The crippled knight drank it all without a moment's hesitation, if only to stop the pain.
"Now, about the plan…"
"S- So…"
He'd drank too much.
"How many does the Kingslayer have?"
"F- F- Fi-"
"Ser Rykker!"
Staunton grabbed the knight's shoulders and shook him.
"Ser!" He tried to wake the man, but he was lost to a deep sleep.
"Well then," Prince Willam spoke then from the doorway to Ser Richard's room; having been listening out of sight. He bit into an apple as he stepped into the room with a wide smile on his lips. "We've learnt what we already knew then, it seems – the lion dances to the tune rather nicely."
"How-" Staunton thought for a moment, frowning. "How did you know already? You were right, but how?"
"Trade secret I'm afraid my lord," Willam patted the man on his shoulder.
"I can learn more with time," Staunton promised the Prince, turning back to the crippled knight.
"I don't doubt it my lord," He replied with another bite of the apple, taking his time to chew in thought as he eyed the unconscious knight. "Time isn't on our side however; but you're quite the talented liar Lord Staunton – perhaps I should be worried?"
"Everything I do I-"
"You do for your family?"
Willam took another bite of the apple.
He could've said king, but it would've been a lie. Staunton had big plans and Willam had promised him the king's ear to see them fulfilled.
"Very good," He eyed the crippled Ser Richard Rykker and truly pitied the young man. He was among the only survivors of the so called 'Siege' of Rook's Rest. All his fellows had died in the fighting and any non-nobles were put to the sword. Not out of malice, but necessity. They couldn't afford to feed the lot of them.
Glover had put up quite the fuss about it being dishonourable – because it was – but time wasn't with them and honor was for peacetime, not war.
"We can wager Jaime has five men at least," Willam assumed in jest aloud to the man. "Lord Rykker was to join with the Buckwells to the east of here – planning to surround us at Sow's Horn? It's a simple tactic if one believes we're heading for Sow's… but alas, we'll not be there…"
"I told you he'd be of use," Staunton said of the crippled knight, eyeing the young lad.
"Don't get too proud now Tristan – we're not out of the woods quite yet."
It had been a victory, yes, but Jaime still outnumbered them by a margin.
"Shall your cripple knightly friend ever truly walk again though, I do wonder?"
"No," Staunton shook his head sadly after a moment. The man was a turncloak, but it seemed he took no great joy in it. The things we do for family and power. "My maester tells me his legs were shattered in the fall, and they found his horse dead on top of him; as you well know Prince Willam…"
A shame, the man didn't seem the bad sort from what little he'd heard of him. He'd been a promising young heir once.
"Catch," Willam tossed his half-eaten apple at Staunton.
He could really use a damn drink right about now. It had been a long and tiring day.
The battle had been more slaughter than anything – with few if any surviving foes; and fewer losses on their side – Willam had walked among the dead after the battle as they were looted and put out of their misery. He felt numb to it all, even as men groaned and wailed; he couldn't find it in him to feel a thing at all.
He knew perhaps he should feel something, but he couldn't. Not a damn thing. Was this what all men felt in war? Or was it just him?
"We lost little under a hundred," Ashlyn had invited herself into the study he'd borrowed from Lord Staunton. This was becoming a habit.
"I know," He'd already done an account of their numbers.
"Compared to their thousands; or two – I'd say it's quite the victory…"
Not quite victory enough though. Not by a long stretch.
"Ser Jaime still has near double our numbers."
"Numbers aren't everything," Ashlyn added for him, as if he needed telling.
On the desk before him Willam had spent well over an hour going over the markers, the numbers, the factors, the tactics, the damn everything humanly imaginable. "How did father or grandfather ever do this?" The thought was left unsaid as Willam's eyes shifted up to meet Ashlyn's.
"How are the wargs faring?"
"Jallin fell in the initial clash, I'm told…"
Fuck. They did have the men to spare, yet alone the bloody wargs.
"He was one of our few," Willam growled at the news. "He was supposed to be safely behind the damn walls!"
"Row told me that he didn't want to lay back while his friends died."
"An honourable thought," Willam sighed. "A foolish one though…"
One less warg. One less advantage. One less ray of light in the darkness. Damn it all…
"The lion won't fall for the same trick twice," He muttered and leant back in the chair. It was a comfy thing, made for a lord like Staunton who enjoyed his luxuries no doubt. "He'll have realised our ruse by now and he'll have to react to it one way or another."
It wouldn't take much for Jaime to notice when Rykker and Buckwell never show up.
The question was, would the Kingslayer retreat or push his luck?
"You'll come up with something…"
He wondered if leaving Harrenhal in the first place hadn't been some grand mistake.
All their options were limited. On one hand laid battle and potentially death, while the other was retreat to Maidenpool and safety for his people.
"We've only the two wargs left to us," Willam muttered under his breath, silently curing Westeros for being so different to what he'd been taught growing up. "Eyes on Jaime and eyes on our immediate surroundings; but no eyes to the north and not near enough to feel safe, with too few damn options…"
"The lords believe in you," Ashlyn added with some degree of hope and the flash of a smile.
They'd tasted victory and were high on it. Willam couldn't dwell on such things though, they weren't rooted in reality.
"We're far from out of the woods," He replied with a scoff and a tired scowl. "We've too few options Ash, none of them are grand – depending how Jaime moves will depend how we react… and I hate that! Gods, how long before my ploys get us all killed…"
Their eyes had reported Jaime being in the Brindlewood at last sighting with some five thousand men. He outmatched them even with their supposed victory here, that was the harsh truth – so any pitched battle was doomed to failure. If they were to clash, it would have to be on their terms… not the Kingslayers…
Duskendale however was only lightly garrisoned. If they could sack the city…
Was that even an option? A foolish one perhaps, but if they could somehow get inside the walls…
"What about the ships?" Ashlyn asked absently as Willam seemed to be lost in his own head, weighing the options.
"The ships?" He'd thought about that already and the truth was that there simply weren't enough to ferry their whole army anywhere. A thousand perhaps at most could flee to the ships, but what use was that? "There aren't nearly enough ships to be of any use… and where would they even go?"
"To this Stannis," Ashlyn said simply, walking around the desk to put a hand on Willam's shoulder. "Some could go to him, while the others retreat."
Would that be acceptable to the King of Stone, one wondered. Probably not Willam wagered.
"Aye," He could admit it was possible though, eyeing her as she leaned over his desk to look at the map.
"You're not as terrible as I thought," She blurted out, suddenly seeming too serious.
Willam scoffed and held a smirk at that. "Was that a compliment? Have you been drinking, Lady Ash?"
"Don't ruin it Stark," She rolled her eyes, pointing at the map north of Maidenpool where the fleets were anchored. "Most men would've lost half our number by now, you know – none of these lordlings could've taken two castles with such little losses but still you worry yourself half to death over losing men…"
"I'm not-"
"Oh, shut up Stark!"
He fought the urge to laugh at her and she could tell it.
"Anyone else would've gotten us killed by now and you know it!"
"You flatter me," Willam rolled his eyes at her.
She huffed at that. "Just calling it as I see it is all."
There was something there though…
Something she'd said…
"King Stannis…"
"Aye?" She huffed with a roll of her amber eyes. "What about the old stag? He's miles-"
"Shut up!" He'd stood from his chair and grabbed her by the shoulders, smiling all the while.
"What was that!?" She looked like she wanted to hit him, but he knew she wouldn't.
"Say that again Ash, the part you said before!"
Ashlyn blinked in confusion. "Anyone else would've gotten us killed by now or-"
"-the part about Stannis!"
"Are you drunk, Princeling?"
"Stannis!" He declared happily, smirking like a madman – and perhaps he was one.
He grabbed Ashlyn's knife off the desk and stabbed it into Duskendale on the crude map, earning an amused look.
"There are large docks at Duskendale," Willam said, still smiling like a lunatic. "If we could somehow seize the city while Jaime's host is heading northward – assuming he doesn't turn tail south – then we could join forces with King Stannis there and cut Jaime off from the capital… turning the odds in our favour…"
It was beyond risky. Madness, really; but then he'd done a great deal over the years that most would've called madness.
Stannis had ordered them to march… so the least he could do is sent a few thousand to seize the man who cucked his brother…
What happened next was arguably madder than all this, however.
"You beautiful fucking genius!"
He hugged her, then kissed her lips without a second's thought.
Wait, what? "Oh shit," The voice in his head panicked. "We're dead! We're SO dead!"
The high of emotions died quickly to be replaced by concerns. Why had he done that?
"Idiot," his doubts screamed at him. "She'll geld us for sure!"
"I'm sorry," He began with a nervous grin. "I shouldn't have-"
"Shut the fuck up Stark," She grabbed and kissed him back roughly.
In a heartbeat she'd pushed him backwards into the chair and straddled his lap.
Willam had spent hours covering every damn possibility this night, but this? This was a surprise.
Two options laid before them in the day ahead, as tonight the pair embraced in dalliance, come the morning they'd need to decide on their fates. If the lion headed north in search of them then they could move where he was not. If he headed south… then things would be infinitely simpler…
All of that was trouble for later. In this moment however, brief and arguably foolish, none of it seemed to matter.
My Note(s): Rook's Rest falls to Willam's forces and some trickery is used (wargs are kinda OP if one considers all the possibilities) to lure a portion of the Crownlander forces into a trap while Ser Jaime is last sighted in the Brindlewood having gathered the local lordlings. The highest of this chapter for me is Ashlyn & Willam's little tryst; that I wasn't sure if it felt too rushed – but then they're not "in love" or anything of the sort, one thing just led to another. We'll see if it develops at all…
The next chapter may be delayed simply due to it being a fairly large one and I'm a little strapped for time in the coming week(s).