Part 19 – Stannis (Begrudgingly) Unleashed
Barristan (VII) - December 12.
Stannis Baratheon was nothing if not dutiful, Ser Barristan observed. A small tower, more just a raised platform, sat atop the highest rise, more just the lip of a crinkle in the terrain, on the north side of the Tourney Grounds. And atop the platform stood the King's stiff as iron brother, occasionally turning his stern eye to watch another part of his slowly growing army train.
Five days earlier Lord Royce had departed King's Landing for the Riverlands to confront Gregor Clegane's marauding Westerlanders with two thousand men: the cream of the Crownlands chivalry, many of the hedge knights and free riders who invariably hung about the capital, and a smattering of the nearest Stormland nobility who'd come directly here instead of to Lord Renly's designated mustering point at Bronzegate. The four thousand plus fighters remaining gathered at the Tourney Grounds represented those less blessed with the skills of the Warrior or tardy in answering their King's summons. From the look of the ill organized units Ser Barristan passed through on his way to deliver the dark message to Lord Stannis, the grim man had his work cut out for him.
"Ho! Ser Barristan!" a voice shouted out. "Ser Barristan!"
The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard turned his head towards the cry and spotted the yellow field and black nightingales of House Carron trotting towards him. He pulled his mount to a halt. "Lord Caron," he replied, acknowledging the presence of the Lord of the Marches. "So you did not return to Nightsong to levy your banners?" he asked in a tone that showed
"Please, Ser Barristan, 'tis Lord Bryce," the smilling young man said with untoward familiarity. "And no, I am not. With my seat so far away, abutting Dorne you remember, Lord Renly thought it if I stayed here to keep an eye on things," and the lord accompanied the statement with a knowing wink, "instead of going to the bother of bringing my men at arms all the way here. Besides, it's best to leave the marches well-guarded; the Martells have never loved his Grace, and it would be just like them to stir up trouble at a time like this.
Though Lord Caron was an accomplished knight, Ser Barristan found the man, like most in Lord Renly's crowd, boastful and vain. "Yes, I can see how Lord Renly might think that," he answered in a clipped tone. "If you will pardon me, Lord Caron, I have news for Lord Stannis' ears."
The man's smile hardly waivered at the lack of encouragement in the white cloaked knight's voice. "Then I'll join you, Ser Barristan," he announced, starting his horse moving before the old man spurred his own. "I've been aiding his lordship," Lord Bryce confided. "Seven help us if the damned Lannisters attack before Lord Renly's host arrives to stiffen this sorry lot."
"Quite," Ser Barristan agreed, not letting even a trace of the irony he felt slip into his voice.
They rode for several minutes towards Lord Stannis' observation deck, passing by clearly new formed squadrons as they struggled to perform standard cavalry drills in unison. Their slightest failures exclaimed upon by Lord Caron and attributed to a lack of skill that was of course found naturally in a Stormlander. But the Lord Commander knew from experience that the skills for a successful massed charge were vastly different than those honorably displayed in the crossing of lances on the even pitch of a tourney. Those skills would only come through the hard work of practicing together over and over again. Lord Stannis had the tenacity to see such training performed in full.
The more the man blathered on the happier Ser Barristan became that, in the interest of continuing his houses primary lineage, the long ago orphaned Lord Caron had declined the illustrious invitation to take the now empty place of Ser Meryn Trant in the Kingsguard. Robar Royce, a fine enough swordsman and another of Lord Renly's sycophants, would likely have been the first choice had he not already ridden out of King's Landing as part of his father's command. Aron Santagar, ten years younger than Ser Barristan, had been considered and found, without any sense of irony, too old.
As if reading the Lord Commander's mind, Lord Caron interrupted his latest complaints about some men at arms wearing the coat of arms of emblazoned with the flaming while of House Edgerton, "I say, Ser Barristan, has the Small Council given any consideration to my suggestion of Ser Rolland as the next member of the Kingsguard?"
"Several spoke highly of your half-brother's valor and fervor for the Seven, but as he is not currently in the capital another name now heads the list," the old knight answered.
"Who, if I may, Ser Barristan, boldly ask?" the man quipped.
"I believe he is here aiding Lord Stannis too, Lord Caron," trying to imply it the reason he was at the Tourney Grounds. "'Tis Ser Timon."
"The Scrapesword?" Lord Caron's face drooped for a moment at the news, then quickly rebounded as he chortled, "Oh this should be fun, look there!" and he pointed to the south.
Somewhere over two hundred tourney lances dropped down, more than a bit raggedly Ser Barristan noted, as a mixed group of knights and free riders spurred their mounts from a trot to a canter. This exercise was as much a training session for the disparate attacking forces, likely never having maneuvered as a single unit before, as it was for the block of men waiting expectantly to receive the charge. A hundred yards still separated the riders from the large mass of Romans. Four whole cohorts, over a fifteen hundred men, were assembled together in four ranks; the first row crouching behind their wide shields with short swords drawn, the second and third sporting their newly received pikes (spearheads protected by wooden guards), and the last readying to throw those soft shanked spears of theirs (again, with the heads protected by wooden guards) that bent to encumber an enemy once they struck. He shook his head in disappointment at the Roman's formation. The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard had seen enough of the well-disciplined sell swords over the last few weeks to know they wouldn't flinch from the intimidating thunder rolling toward them, but he could tell by their disposition that they'd never before received such a weight of force; plate wearing knights wielding lances from atop immense destriers in chain mail they were securely braced into by stirrups and high cantle saddles.
A senior centurion shouted in the sell sword's native language, not that queer Valyrian dialect some of them used, and the back row very much in unison launched their odd javelins through the air.
Perhaps a hundred struck; most bouncing off the chain mail off horse, but some rebounding off plate armor, helmets, or shields. While carrying blunted blades, the shock of impact nevertheless startled some horse and their riders, resulting in a few tumbling to the turf and creating obstacles for their fellows to dodge around. While just an exercise between the two opposing forces, it was obvious more than a few cuts and broken bones, even a death or two, would occur this day.
Approaching the wall of pikes some horses shied and pulled up. However most of the chargers and all the destriers carried the blow through. A tremendous whirl of noise arose as lances and spears shattered upon impact with shields and armor. And then the avalanche plowed into the front row of shield men, pushing them backward and crumpling the cohesion of the line. The first row of pikemen began bowing backward. More knights, squires, mounted men-at-arms, and free riders fell from their horses or were turned back by the obstinate, hard fighting legionnaires. But the Roman lines continued to waiver and give up ground. In places the second row of pike wielding sell swords started to brake as well, though swift thinking centurions were already shifting unengaged reserves in groups of eight at the weak points.
"Drive through!" roared Lord Caron.
One bulge got beat back by a Roman counter attack, then a second.
'Now,' thought Ser Barristan.
A tight wedge of six knights, lances lost and swords drawn, bulled a hole through the line of reserves and then suddenly more horsemen followed through the break, peeling off to ride down the back of the Roman formation. Well trained officers commanded their legionnaires to form square and not give the knights an unprotected rear to strike at. Here the sell swords lack of experience with the long pikes showed through and only the rear line that had initially thrown the javelins could turn successfully; pikes began getting tangled with pikes as the interior lines made a hash out of any sort of movement.
DU-DA-DUUUUU! DU-DA-DUUUUU! DU-DA-DUUUUU!
A horn reverberated from Lord Stannis' platform. The horseman began to disengage and move their mounts away from the sell swords. Legionnaires started to help both their injured mates and any fallen riders up off the ground. Several squads of Roman stretcher carriers ran in from where they had gathered by large tents set up just outside the walls of their fortress to retrieve those most badly injured and bring them to the foreigners' medics and physic practitioners.
"I really don't see what Lord Renly seems to like about these sell swords," Lord Caron muttered. "They hardly held any better than peasants with scythes and pitchforks."
Ser Barristan kept his mouth shut for his opinion differed greatly than the arrogant lord's. He would reserve his expertise should Lord Stannis ask for it. From near the foot of the platform he gazed up at the heir's stern, immobile face at it watched the aftermath of the engagement. Sitting these many years on the Small Council with Lord Stannis, he understood the man's incredibly strong sense of honor and duty, but not a whit about the bitter seeming man inside those shields. 'What are you thinking?' he wondered.
Dark, brooding blue eyes locked on light blue eyes. "Lord Commander," Stannis Baratheon called down, having taken note of the white haired white cloak.
"My Lord," the knight answered.
"Lord Stannis," Lord Caron cried out as well.
The jaw reflexively clenched before opening to speak. "What is it?" he asked tersely.
"News," Ser Barristan answered succinctly.
The dark blue eyes shifted from the Lord Commander over to Lord Caron and back to the Lord Commander.
Ser Barristan barely wiggled his head no in response to the unspoken question.
"You may come up, Lord Commander," Stannis Baratheon announced coolly.
"May I be of service, my lord?" Lord Caron inquired, clearly yearning to be deemed worthy of inclusion.
"Yes, Lord Caron," Stannis Baratheon replied. "A contingent of two hundred men-at-arms from Duskendale arrived this morning. I would like your expert opinion on their worth and that of their mounts. They are over there somewhere," and he waive vaguely to the north east.
The Marcher Lord's fake smile couldn't quite hide the grimace of his disappointment "Certainly, my lord." He saluted Lord Stannis and then nodded his goodbye to the dismounting Ser Barristan before tugging on his reins to take his leave.
The old knight nimbly climbed the twenty foot ladder to the platform.
"Water, Lord Commander?" Stannis Baratheon asked.
"Yes," he replied agreeably, happy to be rid of the vainglorious Lord Caron.
A squire walked over and handed him a pewter mug.
He took a sip and discovered a strong, sour citrus tang to the cold water.
Stannis Baratheon took a long draught of his own. "The lemon, the only thing of worth to come out of Dorne," he declared, before demanding, "What news, Lord Commander?"
"The Riverlands, my Lord."
"Have the Lannisters at last come into the open?"
Ser Barristan nodded. "They have. Their van under Jaime Lannister …"
"Ser Jaime," Lord Stannis corrected.
"have routed an army led by Lords Piper and Vance beneath Golden Tooth. Lord Vance was slain."
"When does his Grace wish me to leave?"
"Not yet, my lord. The Hand is concerned this may only be a feint."
Stannis Baratheon ground his teeth at the mention of the Hand. "Lord Vance did not find it a feint."
During the Master of Ships week long return from Dragonstone to King's Landing his antipathy toward Lord Stark, a seemingly knee jerk reaction to take the contrary viewpoint on almost every issue before the Small Council, was well known to all. The Hand had not helped himself by the semi-public exclusion of Lord Stannis from the secretive meeting to view the startling correspondence from the Wall. Lord Stark's personal affirmation as to the character of both the Night Watch's Lord Commander, his former banner Jeor Mormont, and the Lord Commander's personal steward, his very own bastard son Jon Snow, had pushed the King into believing their incredible tale. But none had a clue as to what the proper response might be. The temporary Grand Maester, Denys, had sent a raven to Old Town asking the Citadel for any answers they could dig out of their dusty tomes. And for what good it might prove, Lord Stark had sent a raven commanding his son Robb to exclude the levies of Bear Island, Last Hearth and the Karhold from mustering at Winterfell; but not the reason why.
"Lord Commander, you may tell his Grace that the Crownlands banners, hedge knights, and sell sword scum gathering here will need another week of my firm guidance before they would be ready to ride to war," Stannis Baratheon proclaimed, giving his own reason, and not using the Hand's, as to why he should not march yet.
"Very well, my lord." He knew the Master of Ships well enough to guess when the man desired to be alone with his thoughts. Still, there were a few other issues that needed to be addressed. "Should I say anything about the Romans to his Grace, your lordship?"
If there was one thing Stannis Baratheon agreed with Lord Stark, it was a lack of trust in the King's pet sell swords. Yet their discipline and attention to duty could not help but speak to part of his hard soul. "There is much for them to learn, Lord Commander," Stannis rumbled, stroking thoughtfully at his tight cropped beard.
The lack of specific negative commentary by Lord Stannis indicated to the old knight that though the Romans had lost today's exercise, nevertheless their first showing against a true knightly charge had impressed the Master of Ships as much as it had Ser Barristan. "Pray tell, my lord, could one of your squires lead me to Ser Timon?" the old knight asked, bringing his audience with the heir to the Iron Throne to an end.
December 15.
The Hand had called them all to the Small Council's hall. Dark wings, dark words undoubtedly, Ser Barristan expected; Lord Stark held a folded parchment in his hands. After the defeat of the first of the Riverlander's hosts by the Lannisters near Golden Tooth, more ill news from between the Red Fork and the Tumblestone could be the only reason for the day's gathering.
As they awaited the presence of the King, an almost palpable tension rested over the room, overlaying the unusual quiet as none of the members of the council seemed to wish to address each other this morning. In the main, Ser Barristand would not have minded the peace, for he had been woken from a deep slumber in his rooms atop the White Sword Tower. Last evening he had had duty standing outside the King's apartment where his Grace, if Ser Preston's report from the previous day had been true, had enjoyed a second night's pleasure with the young widow of Lord Lothar Mallery, who'd met his unfortunate fate as part of Lord Dondarrion's doomed expedition against Ser Clegane. The cobwebs took longer to shake free from his skull than they would have only a few years earlier. His eyes flicked down for a moment at his hand resting on the council table, to spy upon the age spots that betrayed his advancing years.
For a rare change the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard wished the normally querulous lot would return to form. The only inquiries seemed to be directed to their newest member, the temporary Grand Maester. Unlike the soon to be Wall bound Pycelle, Denys was a new commodity, whom everyone tested with fiendishly innocuous questions meant to get him to reveal where his allegiance resided. Normally the chatter revolved around the now departed Lord Renly. The King's spoiled younger brother could provoke Lord Stannis into a rant with a simple glance, engage himself or Lord Stark on the topic of horses or swordsmanship, revel with Lord Varys in the latest sordid amusement to arrive by ship from Essos, or discuss the latest in fashion or wine with Lord Baelish. Much like the younger days of his eldest brother, Lord Renly had the talent for ingratiating himself, making friends, and promoting himself.
Ser Barristan himself seldom ever thought of friendship. All his friends, his brothers, had died fifteen years ago thanks to this King and his Hands, both old and new. The Lord Commander had held no acrimony for that towards old Lord Arryn nor Lord Stark either; the men had simply done what their Warrior driven duty and honor demanded of them. Like with the rigid, bitter, ferociously dedicated Stannis Baratheon, he could respect Lord Stark's character and abilities, but never be the man's friend. He found it interesting that the two pairs of councilors who to him seemed most alike in character; Lord Stannis/Lord Stark and Lord Varys/Lord Baelish appeared to loath each other the most. He pondered the possibility of hate and love being the opposite sides of the same coin until Littlefinger, as he frequently did, disrupted the dynamic in the room.
"Lord Stark?" the Master of Coin queried.
"Yes, Lord Baelish," the Hand responded solemnly.
"Any word yet of that Braavosi ship docking at White Harbor?" Lord Baelish asked with a minimum of his usual smarm.
Ser Barristan watched as Lord Stark's icy face went colder still at the mention of his two daughters. The ruthless and lengthy inquiry by the gold cloaks amongst the rogues and scum for hire in the sewers of King's Landing, like Flea Bottom, had turned up surprisingly few leads as to the root source of the almost successful ambush of the Ladies Sansa and Arya. There were hints of Lannister gold by the captured, and now executed, assassins; but the puppeteer who'd paid to manipulate the strings of vagabonds remained frustratingly in the shadows.
"No," came the clipped answer.
Littlefinger smiled sympathetically. "The winds may have delayed them. Fear not, if any can master an ill autumn storm on the Narrow Sea surely it's a crew of stout Braavosi. Chill sea water practically runs in their veins, my lord."
Lord Stark's fingers whitened as he clutched tightly at the parchment in his hands. "Yes," the Hand answered in monotone.
Lord Baelish reached into a pocket and drew out a small black velvet bag. "As the Lady Sansa is not here to receive a Name Day present from me in person, I thought it wisest to pass it on to her father, who would guard it until it can be safely passed over to her." Littlefinger set the pouch on the council table and pushed it gently toward the Hand.
Lord Stark stared at the little black purse, contemplating whether or not to receive the gift. Perhaps the fact that Lord Baelish had provided the extra guards for his daughters escort which had allowed them to reach the Wind Witch played to the Hand's sense of honor. He laid raven born message down and reached out, picking up the black purse. Lord Stark tugged on the strings to open the mouth of the pouch. He peered in and juggled the sack a bit, revealing a green silk mockingbird sewn into the velvet. "A necklace?"
"Your daughter is a pearl beyond price, Lord Stark," the Master of Coin intoned sweetly.
"Oh do let us see, Lord Stark," the Master of Whispers begged unctuously.
The Hand upended the bag, dumping the necklace on to the table, revealing not a string of shiny white orbs but of emerald.
Grand Maester Denys whistled his appreciation of their beauty.
"Are you offering this as a dowry for the Lady Sansa?" Lord Varys tittered.
Lord Baelish's eyes cut to slits. "At least I could satisfy a lady in the marriage bed, eunuch!" he spat.
"Enough!" bellowed Lord Stannis. "This is unseemly. Apologize to his lordship, this instant!"
"Forgive me, Lord Stark, I meant to cast no aspersions on your sweet daughter," Lord Varys oozed.
"My apologies," the Master of Coin added, bowing his head. "Perhaps this was not the time to show my appreciation of the Lady Sansa."
Before the Hand could respond the door to the chamber swung open and his Grace strode forcefully in. "What now, Ned?" he near shouted. The King's face was ruddy and dabbled with sweat; but from the exertion of hard work, not as would have been true less than a fortnight ago, from his dissolution through the drinking of spirits.
Lord Stark bit back whatever retort he might have planned for the two improper lordlings and as he scooped up the pearl necklace off the table he addressed the King. "Your Grace, another raven from Riverrun."
The King grimaced. "And?" he demanded.
"Wayfarer's Rest fell to the Lannisters five days ago."
The King harrumphed in irritation, facing tightening up at the unexpected bad news. "They should have lasted longer," he stated.
"Carelessness, sheer carelessness," Lord Stannis complained. "or did they leave the gate open and let the damnable lions prowl in freely?"
"Enough Stannis," commanded the King curtly. "How many days until they close on old Hoster, Ned?"
"Say two weeks from Wayfarer's Rest to Riverrun," the Hand responded.
The Master of Ships snorted his disagreement. "For scouts, maybe. They first fought on the Westerlands-Riverland border what, ten days ago? Then five more days from there to Wayfarer's Rest? Too soon, your Grace. Only a scratch force riding their horses near to death could have made that march in five days. The main Lannister force likely hasn't even reached Wayfarer's Rest yet and when they do they'll want to take a day or two to rest. They're not likely to reach Riverrun in force for twenty five, maybe thirty days."
The Hand looked thoughtful as he contemplated Lord Stannis' words.
"Ser Barristan, what think you?" the King asked.
"Lord Stannis is likely correct, but for two things to consider," the old knight answered, then paused.
"Go on," commanded the Stag, a hint of energy and impatience in his voice.
"First, will the Tullys wait for the Westerlanders to come to them or will they try and meet them in open battle again."
"They're outnumbered, why risk battle when they know …"
"Just like you Stannis to tell a man to fall back under siege," his Grace said with withering scorn. "What man deserves to call himself a lord if he can't protect his lands.
Lord Stannis' face clutched as tight as his stiff arse at the King's scolding.
"What else, Ser Barristan?" the Hand prompted, looking to keep the brothers from erupting at each other.
"Is Riverrun actually Tywin Lannister's goal? Or will he turn east, southeast and cross over the Red Fork to head here?" the Lord Commander concluded.
"Interesting," the King muttered. "Bronze Yohn and his men are heading cross country toward the Red Fork, ain't they. Tens of thousands of men and horses and supply carts heading over the foothills to the Westerlands for the Blackwater Rush would leave a trail big enough for even a blind septon to discover. Lord Royce couldn't stop'em of course, but he's wily enough to make their march miserable and let us know what's coming."
"But what if he does capture Riverrun, your Grace?" Lord Varys prodded.
"That castle'd be a bitch to siege," the King proclaimed.
"High walls didn't slow the Lions at Wayfarer's Rest," Lord Stannis muttered darkly.
The King curled his lips unhappily at his brother's words. "Did Hoster give an update on the mustering of his banners?"
The Hand opened up the folded parchment and stared at it. "The Brackens and Blackwoods were already there. The Vances of Atranta have arrived. With Lord Raymun Darry dead at Mummer's Ford and his son only a child, they have been slow to muster but have started coming down River Road. The Rygers , Smallwoods, and Wayns are also marching to join him."
His Grace struck the table with a heavy fist. "Damnit, that's what, fifteen, twenty thousand men at best!? Where are his other noble houses!? The Whents!? The Late Lord Frey!? The Mallisters!?"
Lord Stark frowned, setting the page aside, "He does not say."
"Any word on how large an army that lion bastard has?" the King grumbled.
"No, your Grace," the Hand answered. "Only that his van, under the Kingslayer, was somewhat over ten thousand."
"Your Grace, I have near six thousand men at the Tourney Grounds, all with mounts. We could leave tomorrow, taking the Kingsroad over to the River Road and reach Lord Tully in …" Lord Stannis paused as he calculated the speed and distance of the proposed route, "forty days."
"And leave King's Landing defenseless?" Lord Varys asked with evident dismay.
"There are the gold cloaks and the Romans," Lord Stannis answered gloomily.
"Why not make the sell swords earn their keep?" Lord Baelish suggested. "The fewer of them we have to pay the happier the Treasury will be until gold from the Lannister mines starts filling our coffers again. And this time as taxes and not loans," he added smugly before saying with disgust, "The Iron Bank's rates are simply usurious."
"They lack mounts," Ser Barristan interjected. "Though they seem prodigious marchers on feet alone, I'd hesitate sending them so far and then expect a force fresh enough to fight."
"The Romans cannot withstand a charge by knights," the Master of Ships stated baldly.
"Is there something wrong with them?!" the King demanded hotly, not liking in the least the accusation against his pet sell swords.
Lord Stannis ground his teeth, an explosion waiting to happen.
"There is nothing wrong with them, your Grace," Ser Barristan said calmly. "They simply need more practice with pikes and thickening their formations to receive the weight of a charge."
"Alright then," the King barked, then turned his back on his brother to look at his friend, the Hand. "Ned, when will your boy be able to march out of Winterfell with your banners?"
"Likely not until the first of the year, your Grace," Lord Stark replied.
"Too damned late to be any good. When will Renly leave Bronzegate again?"
"Ten days," the Hand answered succinctly.
His grace pouted. "And the Tyrels and your good sister? Where are they?" he grumbled unhappily.
"Some forces have already left Highgarden, your Grace. But it's a long way up the Rose Road. And Lady Lysa's responses have been … vague, at best."
"Seven Hells," the King spluttered and sat back heavily in his chair that sat centered in the council table. "Does anyone have good news for me today?"
A tension filled silence filled the room again.
"Others take you then," the King shouted in frustration and slapped the table with both hands. He turned to face his brother. "Stannis, you're the best choice from a bad lot. You've got your wish, tomorrow I expect you to be gone."
No gratitude shown in the Master of Ships dour face. All he did was dutifully bob his head and say, "Yes, your Grace."
"Good. Now while I'd rather hoist a glass to your success, wine is wasted on you Stannis. Besides I've other things to do," the Stag announced with ill grace as he stood up. "Come with me Ned, I expect you to cheer me up after listening to all this shite."
With a lively step the King in company with the Hand departed the Small Council's hall; Ser Barristan followed on their heels, he too had much to accomplish before he stood his watch over the apparently rejuvenating Stag. His eyes took satisfaction upon seeing Ser Timon, the newest ordained brother of the Kingsguard, promptly slip seamlessly in behind his Grace and closely follow him across the Outer Yard towards the Small Hall. Publius Postumius undoubtedly waited within to run the King through the gamut of his highly effective legionnaire drills. How much of the King's recovery could be laid on the resurgence of his Grace's knightly spirit in the face of coming battle and how much at the rebuilding of the man by the Roman's Senior Watch Commander, Ser Barristan neither knew nor, and though he pondered the question frequently, frankly cared.