*I would advise viewing the 'Map of the Riverlands' by WordPress as you read this. It is the map I used while writing this chapter.


299 AC

Smalljon Umber

He had been assigned to Edwyle Stark's host during their campaign through the Riverlands. It was not as glorious as if had joined the march for Harrenhal, but at least it wasn't as bad as those poor bastards lazing about at the picket just north of Riverrun. When their host first broke camp, the forces under Lord Karstark marched south, for Pennytree. Lord Karstark would call the hamlet his quarters for the duration of the picket.

Lord Robb took his host and marched southeast, avoiding Riverrun, to march for Sallydance, before continuing on to the Crossroads. As per Lord Edwyle's orders, Jace Flint was sent southwest, around Riverrun to run attacks against the supply convoys coming from the Westerlands, as well as to harry the western forces from Pinkmaiden, to Atranta.

Another force of Lord Edwyle's contingent was sent directly south, to harry the Lannister forces all the way south to Acorn Hall and relieve any Riverlander forces that could join them. This is where he had been assigned, to serve under the command of Lady Maege Mormont, Lord Robb's goodmother.

The last group of Lord Edwyle's host was to march with him directly. Though he could once again ride, his arm was still too injured to participate. It is where his own father was serving as his right hand, attacking the cut off Lannister forces to the northeast. It had been Lord Edwyle's expressed hope, that he would meet up with the Vale forces to hammer the Lannisters between them.

He himself was honored with the command of a force of one thousand mounted troops. Mostly from the lands of the Rills, but a few from Flint's Cliffs. They could outrun any attack, but it was better to strike without the enemy knowing…or so his father had once told him. He didn't really care; all he was looking for was a decent fight and a good fuck. He had been annoyed at his command, he preferred to the fighting of infantry to that on the back of horses. He was mean with his greatsword of his.

With him was a small band of other sons and minor lords. Perhaps the most prominent was Lord Edderion Frost. House Frost had been a house that the Starks exterminated thousands of years ago. But later, when the need for a new house arose, the individual chose the formerly taboo name. House Frost is not nearly as powerful as their ancient namesake. Neither do they possess their own demesne. Like Houses Cassel, Poole, Tanning, and Mollen; House Frost was a personal house sworn directly to House Stark. Edderion's heir was his cousin, Maynard Frost and his twin sons, Alyn and Jon Frost.

Alongside him, he also was assigned the knight Ser Kyle Condon, the only direct heir of Lord Alwyn Condon. Lastly, his own brothers rode with him; Harlow and Robard. His youngest brother Wil, and his two sisters, Larra and Jorelle currently remained in Last Hearth. Last but not least was Willam Cerwyn, the brother of Lord Medger Cerwyn.

But he didn't care about that. No, at the moment, he could finally smile in the war. He had found a force of Lannisters! A force of roughly two thousand footmen just strolling through the land. It was too good a prize to miss out.

"Mi' lord, are you sure? This is the largest group of Westerman we've seen. Lord Edwyle gave us words of caution." Ser Kyle spoke.

"Aye, yet he also ordered us to harass and deny the Lannisters of their movement. This force is large, aye, but it is in the open."

"But mi' lord, they march with purpose, they have drums, and have no issue with trying to hide themselves. Would it not be better to scout them, and send word of their movements?"

"Where are we Ser Kyle?"

"Mi' lord?"

"Where are we?"

"Um…High Heart, I believe."

"Exactly. These Andals find this place to be haunted, but I feel nothing but comfort here. I feel my ancestors flowing through my veins at this very moment. As should any proper Northman. Now, just some leagues north of us, a force of two thousand Westerman march to an unknown destination. This is a sign; we ride, and on the 'morrow, we'll send these bastards to the seven hells they so fear."

"…very well."

"Harlow!" He bellowed.

Within moments, his brother rode just next to him. If he was Robb, Harlow was his own Edwyle. He trusted the man like no other.

"Aye?"

"Ride ahead. Take Robard and Lord Edderion with three hundred of our riders. Do not engage but shadow them. I'll ride up with the rest of the force tomorrow. Together, we'll rush them. The last scouts reported that they have a large group of crossbowmen and spearmen. This means that it will be difficult to take them without a surprise attack. Otherwise, our riders cannot stand against them. We must attack before they spot us, but that, that is for the next day. Go!"

Harlow tugged on his reins and galloped back to organize the riders necessary for his assignment.


The day had come. They awoke early to intercept the band of Westermen. It had been a hard ride, but it had paid off. By the time they had reached the enemy's force, it was midday, and they had stopped for a midday meal. They'd have to get to this quickly, while they were relaxed and enjoying food. Approaching from the south, he and his force were behind a large set of hills, perhaps only a fourth of a league away from the camped soldiers. There he waited for his brother Harlow, who was sent just yesterday to keep tabs on the party.

"Something's wrong, why isn't he here yet?" Willam Cerwyn commented.

"Peace, he'll be here. Give him time."

"We don't have time!" The man whispered…loudly.

Just then, they heard a set of hooves and just as they looked to their flank, a rider cleared the bend.

"Ha, what'd I tell you? I know he'd be here."

By this time, his brother had pulled back on his reins bringing his mount to a stop just before he would have run into them.

"Harlow, fill me in."

"Aye brother. We recounted their forces late last night, and it appears they have slightly more than two thousand. As confirmed, most are defensive troops." At this, the excited attitude of his force somewhat mollified. "I saw no Lannister lions, but a boar on brown was quite prominent."

"It doesn't matter, they obviously Westermen. Listen here; we'll split into two groups. Harlow, you will take half our force and ride west behind them, and attack from the north. We'll attack from the south and meet in the middle. I'll launch our attack as you launch yours. I will not attack before you do."

"Understood brother. We'll meet on the field within the hour." Harlow held his forearm out. He grabbed it roughly and brought him into a bear hug. "Keep your head straight out there."

"Of course."

He nodded before shoving the man away. "Go, go now."

As Harlow rode off with half of his force, he turned around and Willam Cerwyn and Edderion Frost were remaining.

"After Harlow launches his attack, we will as well. I'll lead the center; Lord Frost, take the right-most flank and ensure they do not counterattack us. Willam, you'll take the left and cut off any avenue of retreat they possess. Do all of you understand?"

Willam gave him a worried look, but Lord Frost simply bowed in the affirmative.


It was just past an hour since his brother had ridden off. They were waiting in a small grove, that hid them, but they could see their prey through the branches.

He shifted his weight on his mount to get more comfortable. Just as he began to wonder what was going on, they began to hear shouting. And he grinned, the time to end these bastards was upon them, finally!

But then his mood dropped, for what ran out of the woods to the north was not five hundred northern riders, but a footman, obviously a picket.

"Attack! Attack! We're under attack!" They could barely hear him shout out.

"Damn it!" He roared. Already, the Westermen began to flank to the north and set up a defensive stance.

"Attack now!" He yelled.

"Mi' lord, let them set their lines and as they are focused on our other forces, we can take them from the rear." Lord Frost advised.

"That's my brother down there." He shot back aggressively before raising his blade. "Charge!"

And with just that, chaos upon the field of battle reigned supreme. Just as his force left the cover of the brush, his brother's force finally met the first lines of the Westermen defenses. But gods damnit, Lord Frost was right.

He had charged to early. Though the Westermen had wheeled to face the threat from the north, they hadn't been fully set yet. So when another force from the south rode to ambush them, they still had time to set defensive lines on both sides of the camp.

He cursed the well-trained troops of the West.

He lost view of his brother's front. It seemed like they collapsed upon the spearmen like water upon rock. He grimaced as his mount threw him and his men of the first line down upon the ground. When he got back up, he quickly dispatched a charging swordsman before getting knocked back down by a bolt from a crossbow. It narrowly glanced off the broad face of his greatsword, but the force still sent him down.

When he recovered a second time, his face fell. His brother's front had fallen apart, and many were retreating back to the hills to the north, he could only hope that he was among them.

His own line wasn't much better except for one; Lord Frost's men had managed to pierce the heavy defensive line of the Westermen. Yet the battle still hung in the balance. Taking cover behind dead men and horses and wagons, he made it to them. He saw Lord Frost engaged with a large man that reminded him of himself.

Just as Lord Frost was about to disengage to rally his men, the large man, using a mace with his left hand, bashed Edderion Frost's blade aside and used his own in his right hand and slipped it into the crevice between his chain and leather.

Edderion, of House Frost, was dead before he hit the ground.

The large man laughed and rallied his men. "Ha! These northerners are nothing men!"

Anger coursed through his blood and as he was rushing the large man, he was grabbed by someone. Turning around to kill the bastard, he was met face to face with none other than Willam Cerwyn.

"Let me go damnit!"

"We must leave Jon! Now! Another day!"

As the Westermen hurriedly began to quick-march away, Willam continued to whisper into his ear.

"Another day."


"Beck." Beck was a Riverlander, a sworn soldier to the small, currently displaced House Vance. A grizzled veteran, perhaps he held no title, one only had to look into his eyes to see the vast experience he held.

"My lord?"

"Take two others and ride for the Inn at Kneeling Man, 'tis where Lord Edwyle Stark currently resides. Inform him of the battle.

"Aye, my lord." The man bowed and left the tent.

The Smalljon leaned forward and held his head in his hands. He was foolish, too foolish. He should've listened to Lord Frost, perhaps he'd be alive if he had. He was so focused on bloodshed that he rushed what should've been an easy route.

He knew he brought disappointment to himself, and his House. Harlow had thankfully been spared any grievous injuries, but Robard…young Robard had found his right arm lame. It had not been cut off, but an enemy blade had cut it through its tendon, severing the control of the arm. It hung uselessly by his side. He had to give his brother credit though, since the day, he has been training relentlessly with his off hand.

But nothing made him feel this shame like his superior. Only in the late day after the battle, had Lady Mormont galloped into his camp. Her usual scowl deepened even further. He had barely stood from the fire as she bumped shoulders with him as she strode for his tent.

"Your canvas, now."

The Mama Bear had her men thrashed, and she was pissed off with the man who led them.

"What were you thinking!?" She had yelled at him.

"I recognized an opportunity and took it!"

"And where did that 'opportunity' bring you?!" She scathingly responded. "Lord Edwyle expressed clear caution! You are not fighting wildlings 'Lord Jon!' These are men of the Westerlands, men who are trained weekly for war!"

He knew she was right, he knew it to his core, but he was an Umber. Accepting defeat was a hard syrup to swallow. He didn't know why he kept trying to defend his actions, perhaps it was in his blood. He just couldn't, or wouldn't, admit his failure to someone else.

"My apologies! Am I boring you?" Lady Mormont yelled, no doubt noticing him nod off somewhere else.

"Apologies mi' lady. What were you saying?"

She gave him an angry look. But instead of ribbing him anymore, she simply continued.

"I said; you are no longer to have command. You, along with the remainder of your troops, are to rejoin my party. No longer will you possess an independent command."

"On whose authority?!" He boomed.

"ON MINE! Or perhaps you would like to discuss it with Lord Edwyle, or perhaps your father?!"

He fell quiet at that.

"Oh, no words? How surprising. You shall be a party-of-detachments, you shall fetch and carry." She responded without yelling but sternness in her tone.

"For how long?" He quietly asked as she made her move to exit the tent.

"For as long as needed! Once you can prove that you are no longer incompetent."

She moved to leave the tent once again. After the flap fell behind her, he let out an angry sigh and sat on his low bedroll.


Edwyle Stark

"Damnit!" He swore under his breathe. He had been slipped the message by a soldier as he and his lords were gathered 'round him.

"Mi' lord?" The Greatjon asked.

He wasn't going to like it. Not one bit. He handed the slip of parchment to the large Lord of Last Hearth. The man frowned like a corpse as he read the message.

Edwyle leaned over as the rest of the men and women gathered round were murmuring, wondering what had happened. Using his finger, he placed it on a dark square in the Riverlands.

"Some days ago, a force of about one thousand riders led by the Smalljon Umber were in High Heart. They discovered a band of Westermen marching east. All footmen, no riders. Smalljon moved to intercept. Riding north, he finally engaged them just outside Castle Lychester. He split his force in two, one led by him, and another by Lord Harlow Umber. They meant to conduct a pincer movement and cut the Westermen in half."

The Greatjon picked now to engage in the report. "Unfortunately, the Westermen were all defensive troops. Archers, crossbowmen, and spearmen. My idiot of a son charged before the force had fully set into defensive stances, allowing the enemy to engage both of them."

"Calm yourself. I'm sure my brother's goodmother has already berated him enough. However, his engagement is not my concern. My lords, I believe Lord Umber's son has accidently stumbled upon an important piece of information."

"Mi' lord?" Rodrik Forrester asked.

"Look. They engaged a large force of defensive troops around Lychester. They were reportedly marching east…"

He let the statement hang in the air, allowing the gathered lords to wonder over the large map. He almost ran out of patience until Lord Gregor Forrester's mouth opened.

"Oh no."

"Exactly." He sat back, content on Lord Forrester explaining. But the minor lord did not such thing. Instead, he silently used his finger to trace a line from Lychester, eastward. Ending with his finger over a large dot, just north of the God's Eye.

Harrenhal.

"My lords…I believe that Smalljon Umber chanced upon a massive relief force sent to Harrenhal."

"If they reach the castle…then Lord Robb will have much more difficulty taking it! A rider must be sent to him immediately!"

"Nay. Riders, we cannot chance this upon a single rider." He turned to the Greatjon. "Lord Umber, organize a dozen riders and escorts. Have them take different routes. I want my brother informed that he may be marching into a far more heavily defended Harrenhal then he thinks."

"They cannot be allowed to reach the castle!"

"I think my lords…we are long past that goal."