Chapter 28: Eastern Warfronts
POV Ser Marlon Manderley, 20th Day, 2nd Moon
"Where the fuck are they!" the young Ser Hunter shouted, throwing his hands at the charcoal map before them.
It was a fool's question, but Marlon knew it resonated with every man there.
For the Lord of Lannister's army was slippery as an eel, only one of Marlon's outriders had managed to spot them and live to tell of it. Yet even when they found their location, and a large force of Northern foot arrived to hold the enemy in place, the army had already packed up and disappeared. Not only that, but the land was unlike any of their own, littered with rivers and dense young woods as it was. It slowed the progress of their larger forces considerably.
There was only so much their local rivermen allies could do to assist in that regard, they had too few for them to serve as guides to the outriders. That, and the Vale and Northern troops that made up most of their army hadn't nearly enough time to learn the land yet, and what few Riverlanders they had with them hadn't come from this region.
All told, old Tywin was playing a game of cat and mouse with them in a house they'd never been in before, and not a single man there was enjoying it.
"We all know the same things, lad." Lord Royce wearily stated, "We know Lord Tywin to be south of us and within at least fifty leagues. Anger will not bring anything worthwhile."
Ser Hunter, who was at the table solely due to the command his Lord Father entrusted to him, flushed and backed away like a scolded child. Although, to Marlon's eye he was hardly a few years older than his cousin's little granddaughters.
Then their commander, of the Northerner part of the army anyhow, finally chose to speak up, "Aye, that we know well, and now at this point we also know that no amount of chasing will drudge up anything more."
"Then what are we to do, Lord Karstark, bypass the Old Lion and make for King's Landing?" some other fool boy said.
"And what, siege and take the city before they strike us in the rear?" Marlon asked him.
The young knight, surely no more than eight-and-ten despite his scars, had the capacity to look away and shut his mouth.
"Perhaps we could divide our numbers, spread ourselves thinner so that we may cover more ground. Find the Lannisters that way." one man said, Marlon couldn't recognise him, nor the sigil on his mud-splattered tabard.
"We don't have the numbers. If we break apart any further, we won't be able to defend our supplies, and lord Tywin's larger outrider parties will take us apart piecemeal." Marlon said, quick to bat down that line of thought. He'd seen and read how that would go, it would be a wasted effort and wasted blood. The skirmishes between their outriders were out of their favour as it was, casualty for casualty.
"Mayhaps we don't need to find them." Lord Coldwater said, drawing the attention of the entire group, "We could reach an agreement with Lord Lannister, neither of us benefit from this game. We must reach King's Landing, as honour demands, and he must crush our will or ability to resist the Iron Throne to secure his grandson's rule."
"Are you suggesting we wait for the Old Lion to come down on us?" Ser Hunter demanded angrily, "Like some dockside whore for evening tide?"
"I suggest no such thing, young man." the older lord said, anger tightly held back by his experience, "I say we send a man or two, under flag of parley, with a letter signed by all of us. In it we offer to find neutral ground, where our armies shall meet in full for pitched battle. Let it all be decided then, for good or ill.
"And you expect a Lannister to honour such a thing?" Marlon said, he'd never known a Lannister who didn't try and weasel or cheat everything out of you, "Lord Tywin's more like to watch us form ranks at the agreed location and strike us from behind."
"And yet we must do something decisive, and soon. Before our supply dries to the bone."
"I agree, Lord Coldwater." Ser Symond, quite suddenly, said. His harsh blue eyes were locked on their map, and all shifted from Coldwater to the Knight of Ninestars, "We need something to force them to come to us in a place where we have the advantage of terrain."
"And what would you suggest, Ser?" was Lord Karstark's reply. Marlon didn't know the man all that well, and what little he did was all from what his Lord and cousin Wyman had told him. So, he had to admit that he was curious how this conversation would go between the famously cautious lord and the as-of-yet quiet knight.
"I suggest that we find ourselves an advantageous position and construct ourselves a fort." Ser Symond stated, waving at the general area that would likely become the border between the Lannister Kingdom and King Stark's. Or rather, Prince Tully's. "We find one where we could make a comfortable border between the Crownlands and that of the Rivers and Hills, then quickly build the fortifications. Ones sturdy enough to-"
A fist pounded against the table, threatening to collapse it, "I dinna' come all this way to secure a border!" an old Locke shouted, "We're here ta avenge Lord Eddard, nothin' less!"
"That isn't what this is for, Ser." the Vale knight said calmly, "While starting this fortification on the new border will strengthen it, we needn't even finish it. The main purpose is to force Lord Tywin to face us directly in a place of our choosing. Lest his grandson's authority be so clearly spurned, and our forces so entrenched."
He leaned away from the map then, before adding lightly, "We could even make a show of it, invite local village men to aid in construction in exchange for hearty meals or somesuch. Do everything in our power to ensure Lord Tywin's knowledge of our work."
Once it was clear that Ser Symond had finished his proposal, Lord Karstark leaned back and stroked his beard, clearly deep in thought.
"There is great risk in what you propose, Ser." he finally said, "The likelihood that he simply ignores us, circumvents us to pillage the lands behind us once more, or that he attacks at the worst possible time, are all too high."
"Everything in war is a risk, my lord." Ser Templeton countered, "And we may make plans to avoid being taken unaware, ones that have been proven against the Mountain Clans in my lands."
Karstark went quiet once more, then shook his head, "While that may be the truth, there is simply too much of it in this trick of yours."
Ser Symond nodded as their commander continued, "We shall send an envoy, with a flag of parley, riding slowly in the direction of King's Landing with the terms Lord Coldwater has detailed. And we shall await the results."
Some men groaned quietly at that, others nodded their agreement, and a few even sighed. But none spoke up, Lord Karstark was given command of the Northern part of the army. And while Lord Royce had that of the Vale by the word of their Regency Council, he'd clearly voiced his support of Lord Karstark's decisions before. Thus, there was naught anyone would do.
"Go amongst your men, and search for a volunteer." Lord Royce told the group, that they were to find one fine with their likely demise went unsaid, "Dismissed."
Marlon couldn't help but shake his head as they all left the command post, this couldn't go anything but bad. They needed something surer, faster, no matter how risky it was.
This would just get their men dead, and their supply lesser.
He prayed for events to be better in the west.
He could feel his heart thundering in his ears as Mayflower trotted in-between the camp spikes and trenches, but he kept it all under the surface. Marlon was learned enough not to let his anger show before the men, he was no young minnow, and keeping a neutral expression was second nature at his age. Still, it had been weeks now of the armies dancing around one another, and his fists trembled within his gauntlets.
They'd done as Coldwater had said, sending an Arryn Valley greybeard near his death on an old nag riding towards King's Landing with their letter and flag.
Not two days later, one of their outriders came upon his severed head nailed to a tree with the letter torn and stuffed into his mouth.
They never found the body, nor the horse.
After that had come yet another week of small skirmishes, as Lords Karstark and Royce stewed over their course and gave the rest of them naught but silence.
But Marlon had had enough, he'd lost nearly a score of his light horsemen to death, good men all, with half as many and a knight to injury. Even now, there was a riderless horse trailing at the end of his line, her master lost in one of the many skirmishes. The addition of his nobler horsemen and Marlon himself had staved off many losses, but they were still piling.
As he neared the pasture he and his men kept their mounts, the Manderly knight made up his mind.
He'd hardly dismounted before he tossed his reins and helm to the approaching squire. Neither did he look to see if the boy had caught them as he marched his way to the Karstark banner, the white sun on black swaying not too far away.
It didn't take all that long for Marlon to reach Lord Karstark's tent, his anger fueled legs making the journey even shorter.
Marlon ignored the two men-at-arms before the tent flap, letting the make of his armour and the colours of his tabard announce his presence, and threw the cloth aside.
"Lord Karstark, I say this with no disrespect, but we must-" Then he froze, mid step and mid-word, when he saw the group gathered in the tent.
All around a table, heavy with maps and scrolls of parchment, was a group he didn't expect.
There was Lord Karstark, staring at him with something between anger and resignation, a blank Lord Royce, and Ser Templeton. All three of these men surrounded by most, if not all, of the Rivermen they'd managed to gather along the march.
"Ah, Ser Manderly." Ser Templeton greeted with a polite nod, "Good of you to join us, I'm told your House contributed much of our supply, and I was meaning to invite you."
Quick as he could, Marlon recovered his composure and then approached the table, taking the invitation for what it was.
"What is it that you wish to know?" he asked, the previous anger quickly having flooded away from the quick shock, and the implications of the group.
"It's regarding the... distribution of our foodstuffs." he started, "So that we may better know our range, and how much time we may afford to keep our horses in one place."
"Then I shall tell you all I know." Marlon easily said, with Ser Templeton and Lords Royce and Karstark here, such a question could only mean that they were planning an attempt at luring Lannister out. With the Rivermen around, no doubt to tell of what they knew of the land, it was certain.
He'd do his utmost to bring this game to a close.
Thus, he told them all he knew of the fodder, for both man and beast, that his cousin had sent down with them. Of what portion of that his nephew Wylis had allocated the men sent under Marlon's command, and even the rate at which it dwindled.
"As for those of the other lord's companies, I know little. However, should all their supply disappear on the morrow, that of White Harbour should last the entire army up to three weeks if tightly rationed. A moon, if we do not march."
The other men nodded in thought. No doubt impressed by the might of White Harbour, to be able pack foodstuffs for both the men and animals into so little space on their wagons.
"Then our course is set." Ser Templeton said, "When shall we inform the others, my lord?"
"Aye, it is." Lord Karstark agreed, "And we will do so by this time next eve. Then we shall make for the ruins."
POV Tyrion, 25th Day, 2nd Moon
Myrcella, the thoughtful look on her little face profound despite the crumbs, thumbed through the sheets of parchment.
Tyrion knew well that she would find nothing amiss in the false ledger he'd drawn up, but he'd wanted someone to join him in consternation after weeks of finding nothing in Littlefinger's dozens upon dozens of ledgers. It would also be a good exercise for her young mind, as the acolyte burdened with teaching her her numbers was running out of material for their lessons and he refused to let Pycelle educate her.
That, and he'd already made it to see if it would give him inspiration.
It didn't
Yet as she turned to a certain page for the fourth time, while simultaneously scarfing down a small cheery tart, Myrcella's eyes narrowed further.
No...
Even if it wasn't nearly as well hidden as Baelish's must be, he'd still done it well enough.
"Uncle." She said, putting down the ledger and twisting it towards him. "Tis here, in the charcoal."
Myrcella gingerly placed a finger on the number next to said charcoal's shipments column, "There are no inconsistencies in the numbers themselves, but in their purpose and need. No one could possibly need this much charcoal, not even father's largest tourneys possibly could have needed this much."
Tyrion smiled, he enjoyed how clever she was.
"Well done." he said, "We might have a new Master of Coin on our hands, eh?" and he meant it, there had been wives doing the work of their Master of Coin husbands before. Perhaps Myrcella could be the first to work the position officially.
"Truly, Uncle Tyrion?"
"Yes, my dear. I believe so, and with further education in such matters, I know so."
Then three sharp knocks boomed from his door, and Tyrion knew that his lunch, along with his break from the constant labours of the Hand, was over.
He hopped from the heavily cushioned divan, kissed his niece's cheek, made his parting excuses, and went on his way. Leaving the ledger behind.
Bronn closed the door behind him, and they, Pod included, set out to return to the Tower of the Hand.
The walk from Myrcella's chambers in Maegor's Holdfast to the Tower of the Hand wasn't a long one, even for his stubby legs, and yet it still took near two hours. The reason for such being all the oh so very loyal lords and ladies stopping him to tell him how invested they were in the successful defence of Joffrey's realm.
"Good day to you, Lord Tyrion. Give my best regards to his Grace, and my confidence in his imminent victory, should it please you." One would say, very nearly simpering.
"Lord Hand, we were just speaking of how well you've steered his Grace as of late." Another would lie, just before trying to subtly beg for him to release him to his lands. Or some other favour if they weren't an unofficial hostage.
It was all nauseating and exhilarating at the same time. Is this how father feels?
To each, Tyrion performed the same song and dance. He smiled his grotesque little smile, gentled concerns, agreed to sentiments, and nodded politely all the while.
Until Varys appeared from around a sharp corner.
The Master of Whispers was a largely unnerving man, seemingly able to simply appear wherever and whenever he wanted without notice. He was also, allegedly, all knowing.
"Have you heard the news, Lord Tyrion?" The Master of Whispers purred.
"I suspect that I have not." rare was the time he would know something before Varys would teasingly tell him.
"It seems that the army arrayed against your Lord Father have come to decision." he said, false emotion playing over his round face, "They have moved to give him an offer he cannot refuse, as though desiring to force action from him."
Now this was new. From what little news his father sent them Tyrion thought the cautious Lord Karstark would keep playing the... game of positioning, as Jaime would call it. Was it Royce that pushed him? Or another lord of import?
"That is, indeed, news, Lord Varys." Tyrion said, "Do you know what that offer is?"
"I'm afraid I do not, whispers of such have not come to me. But I pray for your Lord Father's success, and the swift resolution of that front, my Lord." he said, and yet Tyrion, for some imperceptible reason, believed that to be far from the truth.
They fell silent a moment, and Tyrion started to go back to his too long walk. But just as me moved to do so, hesitation broke over Varys's face, and he asked in a soft voice what his plans were against Stannis and the alleged dragons over his island.
"His grandmother was a Targaryen, I fear he may bend one to his will."
Tyrion listened, as he did his mind replayed what Varys had told him of the day he had lost his manhood. And Tyrion wondered if the very slight fear Varys showed was true.
"There is no possible way for us to attack Stannis directly in any way that matters, you know this." Tyrion said, it would only be giving Stannis yet more ships to fill out his fleet and give up their first line of defense against his inevitable attack.
"Blows must not be large to have an effect, my Lord."
"Are you suggesting I assassinate a Lord in his own castle?"
Tyrion would if he only could. Stannis was a very guarded man, and many of his followers fanatical enough to follow an apostate to the Seven. Sending one of his men in disguise to slit his throat in the night would be nigh impossible, and had a good chance of losing them more support in the crownlands.
"Of course not, my Lord, I simply worry."
"Well, don't then." Tyrion said, turning away to close what little distance remained to his tower, "Our defense against Stannis will be ironclad, and paper dragons are nothing to fear."
Varys let him go without another word, and the little lord finally passed through the courtyard, then over the Tower of the Hand's threshold.
The Mountain Clansmen, those that he hadn't sent on various tasks in and around the city, all shouted their greetings as he went through the Small Hall. Some drunkenly, others with stuffed mouths, but they acclaimed him all the same. It gave him an odd feeling, deep in his chest.
All he gave in return was a wave and an ugly smile, then they all shouted once more and returned to their feasting and games. For a brief moment, he thought they would have gotten along famously with the late king, but then again almost everyone did.
He went on to the stairwell, and up up up to the very top of the Tower of the Hand, and then into the solar with burning legs and a sweaty back.
Tyrion hadn't done much redecorating to it, so the noble trappings of the late Lord Arryn, and what few baubles Lord Stark had left, remained.
While he had found it grimly amusing to look at the other men's things at first, the tapestries, cups, paperweights, and especially the reading material had grown on him. One of the reasons was the sheer lack of gold, even the colour itself, which was rather refreshing. The other was that neither Hand before him had brought anything pointless into the room, everything had a practical use or must have brought about a truly fond memory.
His two favourite items were Lord Arryn's candelabra, and Lord Stark's cups. The first was an outstanding work of art, made from steel and silver that had been twisted together like rope, then split near the top. Then each separated thread was bent into the shapes of flacon's heads to hold the candles. Polished to perfection, it shined under even the faintest light. It was also heavy as sin.
The cups, instead of pleasing his eyes, sparked curiosity. There were four of them, all roughly the same, and they were clearly very ancient. Their bowls were made from a thick, cloudy grey glass, and were held firmly in place by bands of silver that came together underneath to form the stem and foot. They were so old that, when he looked closely, Tyrion could see that the glass sagged downward and around the bands. Bands that had tarnished from the sheer force of time.
He was curious at how old the pieces actually were. He knew that a Maester some hundred years ago had theorized that glass was actually a slow-moving fluid, one that moved so slowly that it's movement could not be perceived by mortal eyes, but only in the span of decades.
Perhaps he could get send a letter to the Citadel, when the war was over of course, to send an interested Maester or Acolyte to inspect them.
Regardless, both men had brought such curious things, it was somewhat embarrassing. All he had added was a small lion of worked gold, something Jaime had gifted him, standing proudly beside his inkwell.
But he had work to do.
So, he heaved open one of the stiff drawers of old Lord Arryn's desk and pulled out his first draft of a new war-time taxation law. Tyrion proceeded to gently set it upon the palely varnished birch desk, and set to work. He hoped that it would straddle the line between ignored by the major populace and inspiring hateful mutterings.
He was just about to adjust some of the wording when his door slammed open and his sweet sister stormed in.
"What in the Hells have you done?" she demanded, her eyes nearly aflame despite her ever-even voice.
"Yes, please, do come in. Have some wine." he said, waving at the pitcher clutched in Pod's now trembling hands, "As for what I've done, well, that's a rather vague question. I have been clarifying the bounds and legalese of taxing steel, for one, and the pay of whores for another. Oh, and breathing as well."
Cersei ignored both his offer of wine, his mild snark, and the comfortable chairs before him. Instead, she came right up to him, pressed her hands onto the desk, and loomed over him.
"You know what I mean." she said, "Myrcella, you've put a fool's notion in her mind."
"What notion is that? Mathematics? Deducting? Reasoning?"
"This Master of Coin business." Cersei said, cutting off his growing list while standing straight and snatching one of Stark's cups from their pedestal. Pod rushed to fill it as she continued, "You very well know that the copper counting Baelish does is beneath her."
He sighed, and set a scrap piece of parchment over his work to protect from stray droplets, "Myrcella is an intelligent girl with great potential. I only want that potential realised."
Cersei drank a middling pull of his wine, "Hmm, sour." she noted, before turning her back to him and drifting towards a window, "Her potential should be focused on more worthwhile endeavours, not this child's fantasy."
"If Myrcella should wish to pursue something, I will do my all to assist her in such."
His sister scoffed, but said nothing. Not until she finished off the glass of wine.
"Wishes to pursue something..." she muttered, then spoke in a louder voice, "And what of the duties father gave you? While you're having lunch with my daughter, how goes it all."
"Rather well, with the circumstances as they are." he said, not needing to clarify just who those circumstances were. His sister was cruel and vain, not stupid. "Our preparations for Stannis have been going smoothly, and our scouts have reported that Renly is still dallying. As for the search for those who stole away lord Stark, I suggest that you surrender that."
His sister snarled at that last point, and slammed the cup down on his desk. Miraculously leaving both undamaged.
"Just get all the small scheming done, Tyrion. It's all you're truly good for anyway, so get it done quickly."
The Queen Regent then swept out of the room, not doubt relishing her petty insult, and Tyrion got back to work. He was well used to his sister, and he wouldn't let her distract him. He'd prove her wrong, he'd shatter all their shitty expectations.
The white marble stones beneath Tyrion's boots were beautiful, now that the dirt and brush of a decade and more's negligence was all cleared away.
King Aerys, Tyrion had read, started a great number of projects, and had finished none. From a great fleet and reconquering the Stepstones, to underground canals in Dorne and a wall beyond the Wall. The foundations he stood upon now where one of those stillborn plans, the new marble city to answer King's Landing's issues of stench and overcrowding.
Now, it would help answer the problem of Stannis.
"The ditch is done, an' chain tower 'ill be up right quick mi'lord, but this... err..."
"The parapet." Tyrion supplied, although it was more of a high-walled terrace just behind the ditch.
"Right." the bearded city mason said, "The parpet 'alf a moon more than that."
"We don't even have two moons for this project to be built." he said, though it may be a lie. Tyrion had no way to know how much longer Stannis would be content to brood and pool strength on Dragonstone, but he'd take no chances. "You must finish it all in one, at the most."
"B-but mi'lord!" the man's eyes went wide, "With da men we got 'ere it ain't gonna happen!"
"Then I'll get you more men, and have the stone come more quickly, and buy extra tools." Tyrion said, "All in whatever amount and pace you need to get this done quickly."
The mason gaped a moment, then bowed, and started rambling off numbers as Pod furiously scratched them down in the little book Tyrion had given him. For all the boy lacked in assertiveness, Tyrion felt he made up for it in diligence. That and with his truly excellent handwriting.
Once the man was done, Tyrion dismissed him back to his hard work of barking nearly incomprehensible instructions to the junior masons and worrying.
Now done with the mason, Tyrion turned upon his heel to face the kind man he wasn't all that eager to speak with.
A jittery Pyromancer.
POV Tristan, 6th Day, 3rd Moon
The old knight looked out to the ruins the rebels had retreated to, and although he could only see surging colours and blurry figures, he could tell that the assault had devolved into a grind. The enemy had been allowed too much time to fortify their location. And while wooden stockade that ringed the mound alone would prove troublesome, what was still left of the castle would be worse.
The rebels had dug in like ticks well before they had even arrived, the old castle ruins that Lord Lannister had caught them refortifying still gave them a strong defense despite much of the walls and towers having been long ago reduced to slag. Combined with the ditch and stockade that ringed around near the base of the mound... Well, it was trouble to say the least. Much like assaulting a small, fortified town he had thought.
When word of it was first confirmed, Tristan had suggested to his liege that they starve the enemy out. Since according to the reports from the scouts, those that had managed to lay eyes on the enemy supply anyhow, the rebels had only enough food and fodder within to last them somewhere north of a moon.
Lord Lannister had deemed such a wait unacceptable and had commanded that Tristan lead the assault the very day that they had arrived.
The old knight had swiftly accepted the command and his liege left to return to the rear command, trusting Tristan to the duty he had borne for decades now.
Thus far, however, their assault was going poorly.
But as he watched, futilely many might say, the figures he knew to be his own men could be seen among the grey and brown walls of the castle. He let himself feel a dash of optimism, before asking for the reality.
"Have we breached them already, Leo?" he asked his squire, squinting in vain. It would be a surprise if they had broken through, for all that it would be a welcome one. Tristan knew the Valemen to be more disciplined than that, and the Northmen infantry's stubborn resistance was damn near proverbial.
Young Leo looked up from whatever his thoughts were lost in and paled as his eyes focused. "Ser, they... stakes-" he doubled over then, spewing half-digested sausage and viscous yellow sludge. It took him a moment to recover, and Tristan let him.
Eventually, he learned what had disturbed his squire so.
"T-they're adding the bodies to the barricades..." the young man said, wiping the leftover spew from his chin, "Securing them in place with wooden stakes to fill any holes made in stockade."
Tristan grunted his understanding. It was times like these that he didn't mind his weakened eyesight.
"I see." Tristan said, kicking some dirt over to cover the foul-smelling discharge, still looking to the blurry figures moving about in swelling masses a few hundred paces distant.
He grimaced and scratched at his beard. The old knight had been through many battles, it was one of the reasons Lord Lannister had trusted him with the middle command, and he had learned through blood to trust his instincts. And now they were prodding him, something wasn't quite right.
Lord Lannister hadn't put the Rebels in such a bad way that fortification was their only option... and the likelihood of allies coming to support them was low. They couldn't be waiting for support from the Riverlands, the only houses with a strong enough force to sway things more comfortably in their favour were all much too far away to come to their rescue before they fell. Even if another army had been sent for them just as they had begun their back and forth, they would still have to find this place in time. And that was unlikely, what with the preparations his liege had surely made.
No, it couldn't be an outside force.
Tristan thought on what Leo had told him of the enemy composition, of the Vale knights on foot and the sheer number of Northern men-at-arms. The whole army with nary a single group of peasant levies, something he had half expected from the reported numbers of the North's armies and what he knew of the Kingdom. They had likely left all the smallfolk that they could behind to work their trades.
This left them with lesser numbers compared to his Lord, but in a siege like this one their numbers mattered less than on the open field. Each man's individual quality would keep the defense strong, and their resolve from cracking.
But the enemy had had many outriders, some Manderly knights among them from the reports. Surely they couldn't have killed them all?
"Leo." he called, "Do you see any of their horses?" Tristan himself couldn't see them of course, but the shape of the fort and the wooden stockade build around it seemed too small to hold all the supply and the horses, along with the fighting men.
"A few looking out from within the fort, Ser." he dutifully replied, "It could be that they've been hidden inside to protect them from arrows?"
While it was possible, Tristan strongly doubted that. The thought of it didn't sit right in him. No, that doesn't feel right at all.
If he assumed that, as his instinct lead him to believe, the enemy horse and Northern knighthood wasn't within the fortifications then... then that meant that a force of potentially heavy horse numbering somewhere in the hundreds was somewhere, free to do as they pleased.
A sharp stab of panic lanced through him, before he quickly took hold of it.
If most of the enemy horse wasn't within the fort, and his outriders hadn't found hide nor hair of them, them where were they?
Could the enemy commander have sent them away for reinforcements from part of the army that had gone West? From what he'd heard of the recent successes the rebels had, he could believe that they thought that front secured.
But to send so many?
No, the enemy's commander was cautious, that much was clear from how long the skirmishing period had taken before he'd made a defining decision. However, to send so many of his knights and trained horsemen away to carry message was so cautious that it rounded back to recklessness.
It was an attack then, but how would it be carried out? From what direction would they come, what would they target?
His mind shifted to the terrain, if the man commanding the enemy horse was in any way experience it would tell him how they might mean to attack.
Summoning up the map in his mind he went over what he knew.
The advantage afforded to the Rebels by their fortified position was indisputable, and would hold for at least until nightfall while under constant assault. East of it was only gently rolling plains, the bend too shallow to sustain any cover according to Leo. They'd be fools to attack from there. To the west was a dense wood, large enough to hide a force of mounted knights, from there they could either strike the rear of the men assaulting the fort, or the flank of Triston's command along with the reserves he held close.
South of their position was the King's Road, bending out from the wood to snake its way down to King's Landing. Should they take the risk of being spotted before their attack, and go unnoticed, he could have heavy horse cutting into his rear.
Damn.
If they did that he would have to pull back the assault immediately, have the reserves turn and reposition to the rear as to blunt the coming charge to give the rest of the men time to reinforce them.
But if he stopped the assault completely the defending rebels might abandon their fortifications to strike him while on the defensive, and that was too great a risk. As was hoping the horsemen were few, and leaving his men as they were.
Tristan thought back to old battles, old maneuvers, and considered taking half the men from the assaulting force. It would leave them with manpower keeping the rebels in check, albeit weaker than he would like. Still, it was the best course of action available to him.
Although the enemy were still likely to attack from the wood, Tristan had been taught to plan for the worst. And that would be an attack from the south. Besides, the rebels probably believed that Lord Lannister was leading this attack and would never pass up the chance to fell him.
He couldn't even imagine the reprecussions of such a loss.
Then again, a commander as cautious as Lord Karstark would surely place someone of similar temperament to head such an important strike?
Tristan grit his teeth. No. Plan for the worst, hope for the best.
Now the only remaining question was when . When the unaccounted horse would arrive. His men wouldn't be able to stand ready to receive them for more than a few hours, any longer and they would tire too much. Should they be attacked then, the enemy should sheer through them with ease and then the men within the fort would fall upon them.
He wondered if he should reposition them now, but doing such without giving reason would only cause concern amongst them. No, he would have to move them at just the right time, when he heard the hooves in the distance perhaps, and command their readiness.
But as Tristan fought to calculate the timings, how far the enemy sent their horse for them to be outside the effective range of his outriders, and how quickly they would travel, his questions were rendered moot.
POV Ser Arlan, earlier
It was pure luck that saw the King's Road winding so near to the ruined castle the army had taken up in. That the road turned east just south of it was nothing short of the Gods' favour.
Hours ago, when they had finally halted their flight away from the ruins, Ser Manderly had told them all the true plan. That they were to swing east on the road, and then charge north to strike Tywin down.
Thus, the tension in the air was high, almost a solid thing, and it set his courser's head to tossing even as Arlan's heart beat faster than it ought to.
The usual thunder of the horses was somewhat muffled by the cloth tied over their hooves as they very nearly raced down the well-beaten dirt road. Neither of them enjoyed it for all that it was necessary to ensure they weren't heard too soon, or so the Vale knight that was Ser Manderly's second had said.
Ser Manderly, and the Vale knight whose name he couldn't for the life of him remember, led their group at a canter to spare the horses' endurance. So, Arlan's thoughts had plenty of time and just the right amount of attention to lead him into a spiral of nerves. The longer their ride wore on without any sort of action or distraction, the worse it became.
Eventually, his desperate need for air surpassed his fear of possible death by ambusher's arrow, and he fought to raise his visor with the hand that held his shield. It was a challenge, one that grew more heated and panicked as he struggled, but to use the hand that clutched his lance would have been impossible.
With a gasp, he finally succeeded, and tiredly let his left arm fall to his side.
From his position near the front of the loose formation, and with his visor now raised, Arlan could breathe in the cool air unimpeded. He breathed as he was taught, deeply and slowly, to try calming his heart and mind.
The air, and the nearly unimpeded view of the road, did him good for the first few moments.
But when the glimmer of steel shimmered in the distance, growing only brighter and clearer as they went, Arlan's heart felt like it had fallen into his stomach.
His eyes felt like they would pop from their sockets as he saw the lion banner.
"They knew?" he breathed, "How? That's impos-"
"It's not that he knew we would come this way, man." an older knight said, snapping at him and pulling his eyes from the front, "The Old Lion can't attack the old fort with his horse, it'd be sendin' them to their graves. So, here they are, both as a precaution and somethin' for them to do."
"But that's-"
"It's nothin' is what it is." he said calmly, before horking up and spitting out a glob of green phlegm, "We break through 'em, all there is to it."
Arlan admired the man's confidence, and when Ser Manderly shouted for a wedge, he did his very best to summon up anything close to it.
The beat of his heart smoothed, and his breaths deepened as their formation tightened. Even Arlan's racing thoughts were pushed to the very back of his mind by the time they were ready.
Cries came over from the enemy, and they surged towards them at once.
As two masses of steel and horseflesh, they roared their war-cries and lowered lances. Just before he slammed his visor back in place, Arlon cried for The North, but the sound was ripped away into the rest the moment it left his throat, and he could only grimace under his steel.
They raced closer to one another, everything about the enemy becoming clearer and clearer. Even through the slits in his visor.
Strange, so few have full plate...
Only around a dozen of them were clad in plate from helm to sabaton, most had only partial plate armour, but that didn't make their lances any duller, nor more fragile. Although it was strange, for all told of the Lannister army's wealth of equipment, but Arlan through such thoughts aside. He'd think them through if he lived.
Ser Marlon was the very first to meet the enemy's counter charge, the blued steel of his ironwood lance punching a fist sized hole in the neck of a horse. With too little barding it ripped straight out of the animal's flesh, and the large knight continued onto his next target without so much as a grunt.
Arlan was forced to look away and to the front as his layer neared the enemy.
His thighs tightened, he twisted to bring his shoulder back, and kept his shield high against his chest. Just as he was taught.
The seconds stretched to ages, as the old rhyme pranced through his head.
Oak and iron, guard me well, or else I'm dead and doomed to hell.
Nearly directly in from of him was a shining knight, the steel plates of his armour polished to a perfect shine and his lance painted in a blue and silver spiral.
For what seemed to be an eternity, Arlan's gaze was fixed on the glimmering edge of the lance's steel.
Then a roar struck him, and his eyes snapped up to his opponent's helm.
Gods, he's close.
It was nothing like this in the yard, or even in tourneys. Arlan could see the whites of the other man's eyes, wide as they were with a primal rage.
Seeing those eyes, almost everything within him drained away and a fire sparked in his chest.
The flame raged outward and poured into every fiber of his beings, it burned inside the muscle of his back and flared in his shoulders. While embers settled in his core and hips. Everywhere the furious heat scorched felt filled with strength, and flared with power.
Arlan felt as though he breathed steam, and as though his armour itself was heating from his inner flame.
Leveraging his newfound strength, Arlan twisted his shoulder even father back. His core coiled and flexed like a great serpent, ready to strike.
Finally came the clash.
Arlan let out a roar from deep in his chest that rattled his bones, the inside of his helm was blasted with heat, and he whipped his shoulder forward. Both to add to the force given by his charge, and to strike out with his lance all the sooner.
Even when he struck the man's shield, in his heart he felt nothing but resolve, and with only the slightest resistance his steel tore straight through it.
A split second later he heard a sharp clang and felt his lance stop, but for only a moment. The obstruction quickly gave in with a sound he had never heard before, and his foe let out a pained gasp.
What came next passed in a blur.
Somehow, he had ripped the knight from his saddle and tore his war-lance free, keeping up his speed as he did, easily matching pace with the strong Ser Manderly.
From then on, any man who dared stand against him stood no chance. His lance fell upon them like thunder as the roar of the flames in his flesh grew greater with every kill.
For a time, his entire world was flashing steel, half-panicked horses, and blood.
He reveled in it, in the strength it gave him.
But suddenly, he found only road before him. Glancing to his left, he saw Ser Manderly thrusting his shield into the air in triumph.
We're through?
He and Ser Manderly had shattered their way through the counter charge, and from what Arlan could tell by the sound of muffled hooves, most of his comrades had done so as well.
It was almost bewildering, and in that strange feeling his fire flickered.
But the Ser Manderly, his shield still held above his head, shouted out to them all. "ONWARD!" he roared, "TO CRUSH LANNISTER!"
Arlan grinned wildly under his visor, and his flames crackled with hunger. He almost regretted that the horsemen blocking their way broken, but now there was nothing stopping them.
Time to cut the head off the snake.
He, along with the men who had trampled their enemy under hundreds of horses, roared with him.
1. The reason that Tywin is as slippery as he is, is that his army has a lot of the men he had with him back when he was Hand to Aerys and their local advantage is supplemented by all the Crownlanders they have with them. With the game between the two sides happening basically on the border between the Crownlands and Riverlands, they know the land very well. Tywin just left too few Riverlander knights and nobles alive to really help the Vale and North in the same way. (The Western and Northern Riverlands castles people are mostly untouched, as characters said in earlier chapter, but he wasn't so pressed for time with the south-east castles given that he's had more time and men to bring each of them to fire or surrender.)
2. The Northern Army under Karstark + the Vale knights that came with Royce is slightly smaller than we last saw them. But even with that and how big they made the fortifications on the castle ruins, the place is full nearly to bursting.
3. Tristan doesn't know about the horsemen on the King's Road, because Tywin never trusts any of his subordinates with more than half the full picture. He didn't even place them there to stop Marlon's group in particular anyway. They were for both a show of force for anyone passing that way and to "tax" any goods that might pass that way that were carried by people no one would miss. Tywin also keeps most of the important people with him in his roving HQ to keep an eye on them, meaning that most if not all the commanders under Tristan aren't nobility (At most low-ranking landed knights). Which also means he had less than half the footmen Tywin could have comfortably given him.
4. In my mind, the King's Road is a lot like the autobahn in Germany, a massive country spanning road that was supposed to be a straight shot but ended up twsiting and turning around everywhere due to politics. So, the King's Road bends around this old fort (That was Destroyed by Aemond One-eye during the Dance of Dragons) is a sort of L shape. Going down east of the castle grounds and turning west south of it.
5. I wasn't sure how I felt about Arlan at the start of writing this, but I'm starting to like him. He's a guy who trained his best despite being a bit of a coward, who in his first real fight discovered his fire (Which at first I had metaphorical, but made into a sort of "super adrenaline" magic. Imagine Eren's berserk state when he fought Annie in the walls.)