Eddard III
The two armies once more marched companionably together, with only the river separating them – a sword that separated knight from chaste maiden. It had been thus ever since Ned had skirted the Twins, preferring the longer route along Green Fork to the ominous silence of Lord Frey. That had proved to be in error; his plan to cross the Hart's Ford and from thence take the river road parallel to the Tully's castle had fallen to pieces the morning a host had appeared on the river's opposite bank. Darry, Ryger, Mooton, the Wayfarer Vances; all had sent a portion of their strength to deny him passage in the name of the King. They had moved together ever since, like pieces on a board.
The northmen had the advantage of the kingsroad to be sure, which in these parts was remarkably well-maintained. But their shadows were all mounted, and easily kept pace with Ned's train. Though he had near five swords for each foe, Ned was loath to force a crossing. No doubt Robert would have hurled this host against them, with rafts and swimmers and pontoons to win a great victory. Aye, and lost five men for each he slew.
It appeared he might have no other choice however. Ned could expect no help from Jon; the last he had heard Lord Arryn was slowly fighting his way through the High Road through blizzards and rockfalls, whilst his baggage was being torn to pieces by the Clans of the Mountains – no doubt they smelt blood as the knights of the Vale departed their lands. No message had been sent for some time now, and Ned must consider himself to be alone. The war councils he felt compelled to hold each day only compounded the feeling, as each lord undertook the straight road from counsel to remonstrance and to outright reproach with dizzying speed. As Ned readied himself for another he knew exactly what they would say.
Bolton would have him to strike East, to join with Arryn's host. Between the two forces they would have the numbers to sweep past any royalist army with ease. Rickard Karstark would call this the prevarication of a bloodless cur, nor would he serve under some bloody foreign lord. The look he had shot Ned then was unpleasant to say the least. Karstark would then bellow they should continue their march whilst unleashing their horse on the surrounding countryside, from east of the Twins to north of Saltpans, he would make a desert to force the foe into a meeting. Hard Hamfast Umber would have a crossing now, and damn the numbers he would offer to lead it himself. The Wull advocated retreat, but only to the Twins, which could be taken by surprise in the night. Ned heard this argument over and over again, his gentle counters becoming more brittle with each repetition.
It was in this mood that Lord Howland Reed entered his pavilion, early as he was wont. Ned had grown to enjoy the little Crannogman's company, he was a patient voice amongst his lords, but little regarded. He had emerged at Moat Cailin with two-hundred bows, promising the remainder would hold the fortress and Neck against any attack should their march fail. When everything falls into utter ruin. When I have led twenty-thousand northmen to wrack and grief. And alas, poor Catelyn Tully will once more have to suffer a groom late for her wedding.
Howland joined him at the table to stare at the map, just as intently as he had the day before, beginning their daily ritual. Reed altered it however, by bothering to speak. "My lord, you mustn't lose heart."
'Whose?' Ned wondered to himself."Never, Lord Howland, but I'm afraid we've lost our way." He sighed, "This stretch of the river is quite the same as the last, and only guides us to further dangers. We must cross, and soon."
"You would attack."
"I would, but not as Umber would have it. I could divide my force into three and force Darry to do the same. It could be done."
"At cost."
All this had been said before. The map loomed as large as ever in Ned's gaze.
Then Reed broke with tradition as he touched upon a subject Eddard had dreaded to speak on since black news arrived on black wings. Perhaps until now Lord Howland had suspected how loath he was to have it mentioned, as if by its very whisper, it should be made true.
"Eddard, are you sure you do not do this for naught?" He refused to quail under the look Ned gave him. "It may well be enough blood has been shed already, and that peace could still be within our grasp."
"And what peace would that be, my lord?" Ned asked him icily. "Should I abide by the terms the King offers me, and lay down my sword? Do you suggest I should allow my bones should rot in the south beside those of my brother and father, and give injustice the bastard name of peace?"
The small Crannogman looked at him steadily with those queer eyes of his, with irises stitched in shades of black and green. " You misunderstand me of a purpose my lord." he said quietly, "You know I have debts beyond my oath to Winterfell, you know how tightly I am bound."
"And I would ask you to forget them."
"You speak of injustice and ask such a thing?" For once Howland lost his temper, colour rose in his cheeks and he bounced on the balls of his feet upon the fur draped floors. "My life and honour have been bound to your blood since that day at the God's Eye. No my lord, I would not be shamed so you may forget!" His eyes flashed in the candlelight as he stepped forward to Ned, almost pinning him to the table, a scene which to an outside observer would look utterly absurd, given the aggressor menaced his collar-bone. "You would fight this war as blind as Lord Robert if you had your way, no matter the cost! Damn it Eddard! We know where Lyanna is, and the fate that awaited her had she remained in the South. Send me to find the Prince and he may very well join us, and return Lyanna to your custody."
Ned recovered himself after the assault and bulled forward, forcing Howland back lest they collide. "You- You have no right suggest such a thing, nor to chastise me as you do. You talk of paths not taken, of best intentions and speculation as if they yet matter. If Lyanna has done as you suggest, then that does not change our path, nor the damn river." He ended in what he hoped was a ringing tone: "It is not enough anymore Howland!"
"But if we were to lay forth our suspicions to the realm-"
"We are beyond suspicions! We are at war Howland, not with Rhaegar, though I refuse to countenance the sympathy you imply, but with a king that would see us all dead. Our war exists, and I will not bury my head in the sand. That means death Howland, death for us all."
It was at that moment the first of Ned's councillors entered the grey silk pavilion, the handsome young newlywed, Willam Dustin. If he was surprised to find Ned and Howland at such opposition he did not show it, but moved to take his seat. Behind came the cavalcade of eager young lordlings who served as Ned's guard. Crude Theo Wull, already merry so early in the morning, Greatjon Umber, Jorah Mormont with his formidable aunt Maedge, she who wore mail as southron ladies did velvet, Ser Mark Ryswell - dubbed by Prince Lewyn Martell himself after his triumph in the melee at Seagard, Galbart Glover and his brother Robett who pestered Ned ceaselessly of their rights to Deepwood, Medgar Cerwyn, Martyn Cassel, Marlon Manderly, Edgar Hornwood, Harford Locke and more.
Through the noise and shouts, Ned was seized with disquiet. Their fathers have not come. Willam and Howland are the only true lords here. He wondered how things fared at the twin council the rest of his noble lords were no doubt attending.
"My father sends his excuses, Lord Stark," Theo Wull began, as he reached for the pitcher upon the table, his eyes bright with mischief. "one of our champions is due to duel the Liddle boy at noon, and he has sworn to attend."
"Have him unswear then, I'll have no duelling in the camp."
"You must understand, my lord," Wull dissembled, combing his fingers through the prodigious beard which so often made Ned forget they were of an age, "it is an affair of honour. The Wull has every right to watch that piss-pot grovel, and it is our custom to see that boys are taught not to yap when men are speaking."
Ned ignored the sally and fixed his gaze on Theo, who held it even as he drank from his curved horn, banded in bronze glyphs no doubt illegible to the boy. "I am aware of your customs, Wull. The blood of the mountains runs in me as surely as it does your father. However I have inherited traditions from Winterfell also, and custom teaches me that men who disobey their lords are wont to regret it."
He allowed this to sink in for a moment before resuming, "Find your father, inform him that this duel he is so willing to bait is called off." He re-considered as Wull made to storm away, "For the duration of the war."
Wull departed, taking his horn and his humour with him. At least he didn't swipe the pitcher on the way out.
He had their attention at least, and was determined not to become bogged down in further excuses and increasingly feeble banter. "We will begin, my lords. Ser Mark, what do your outriders report?"
Ryswell stretched his long legs and yawned an answer, "As before my lord, the river remains as wet and wide as yesterday. The smallfolk we question are too dim or too cunning to provide any useful information and there's no sign of the Tullys bestirring themselves to take their vassals in hand – or from the rear."
The Greatjon laughed at that, "When has that dread Blackfish of theirs ever been afraid of taking a man from the rear! Plainly Lord Hoster is content to let us deal with his lords while he waits behind his moat like a fat frog on a pad. Only kissing this frog won't make him a gallant prince."
Ned was growing irritated with the big man's mouth; he'd heard enough about the bloody Tullys as things stood; his lords had not been entirely happy with the betrothal. "I am not required to kiss Lord Hoster Jon, and in any case I think we have quite enough princes to deal with already."
The Greatjon hooted at that, his sheer volume bringing smiles to the faces of the others. Martyn Cassel took advantage of the pause to speak. Ned pitied him, for though the man was doughty a sword as any, he was deathly shy, and never more so when surrounded by men of better birth. Though known to him from the day of his birth, since Ned had returned as his lord Cassel's nervousness had become almost interminable.
"My men have found much the same as Ser Mark's, my lord." He mumbled, clearly only relaying his message out of an iron sense of duty. "We have found the river grows only swifter ahead. The smallfolk tell us nothing except to cross at Hart's Ford, and every holdfast shuts its gates at our approach. We might not even reach the ford if we tried. My father sends word of halted wagons and lack of fodder for the baggage, and my foragers come back with less and less each day. Begging your pardon but as your orders stand Eddard – I mean my lord Ned, Eddard…" Martyn trailed off nervously as if expecting a reprimand, finally muttering, "We cannot continue without more determined forage. Or a change from this same course."
"This stretch of the river is not the same as the last though." the Lord of the Neck ventured. "Every step we take brings us farther from my lands, already the water shines bluer, and tastes less of the moss of home, for this is rich country. I know my lord is of a good heart, but it may be we can forage without undue harm to your betrothed's homeland."
"All the worse for us then little Reed.", Maedge Mormont grumbled. "The fork has swollen as it approaches its brothers and gathers in its tributaries."
"True," Howland acknowledged, "then perhaps this is where we should make our stand rather than to march for nothing, that is, if we expect no better crossing. Here where the waters still flow with the powers of the old gods."
Ned grunted, and turned to the map again, but some piece of his mind considered this. "We did not have to wade at any point through the Neck." He wondered out loud.
"No my Lord, nor did I." replied Reed. "The False Spring caused an early torrent – at one point we were practically bailing out Greywater with our helms. But my keep is as close to settled now as it can be."
There is something to this if I have the wit to see it. The Freys controlled the only bridge across the Green Fork, everyone knew that. The river was the least easily navigable of its brothers, and temperamental. It had been within the calculations of every Stark that had marched south for six-hundred years. It was only with the connivance of the Lady Sabetha Frey that his ancestor Cregan could become the King's Hand ever so briefly; and the lady had been more viper than weasel. 'Yet how had it been done in years past?' Ned pondered. 'How had the smallfolk brought their cattle from one side to the other? Surely it must have been done, to bring goods to Fairmarket rather than all the way down to Maidenpool before the Freys built their bridge.' And then he knew.
"There's a ford." And with those words he knew it must be true. "There must be at least one to the north. Dozens in all likelihood. Unmarked by map and without a lord's toll."
They looked at the outburst with surprise. "No doubt about it my lord," Lord Willam said gently, "we knew of this when we set out. But we do not have the guides to locate them. These are not our lands, and Lord Ryger's smallfolk have proved loyal. He marches with the foe and they will not soon betray him, unless you allow us to resort to harsher methods."
"No, and nor will we receive any help by those means," Ned said, still excitable as he grasped on his idea with a mental fist lest it slip away. "But we shall not need to. The river was still swift as we passed, was it not?"
"As my lord knows." Willam answered patiently. He thinks I am clutching at straws. If only I could make him see.
"But the waters of the Neck are low as we speak. How often does this occur?"
"It is nothing new I'm afraid." Howland put in. "It is most common once the autumn rains have washed away and when the coming summer melts the new streams to nothing."
"Exactly," Ned smiled. "And what do the smallfolk do then?"
"Why, they go to market." Howland finally caught on. "You think…?"
"I do indeed Lord Howland, I do." Ned began to pace around the table, speaking before he bothered to think. "The fords must exist. They must be used in the spring for those who know where they are. But what of those coming from further afield, who do not know the area? They must come with the season, and know what to look for, and when it is safe to traffic wagons. And this is the right season." He had it then. "We were looking for the shallowest points to cross, but there the river runs swiftest with the rain and streams come from the mountains of the Moon. But the waters of the Neck have already dried this past the False Spring. Send out your scouts Lord Howland, they know the waters best of us all. Tell them to look for markers, to examine every stretch for twenty miles northward for points where the river seems to run so deep and broad crossing would be utterly foolhardy. If it were obvious we would have seen it."
He knew how it must appear, but he instructed that they march that day. It was imperative the enemy did not notice the Crannogmen's reconnaissance, so they must move once more, south and south again, but slowly, and with many halts. Despite these being best of conditions, only five miles were covered, and his cavalry lagged with the baggage train, having actually lost ground. For all the world to see it was as sloppy an army that had ever marched.
It was the following day the dividends were paid. There was a ford, a strip of hardened white clay lined with stones that ran the length of the riverbed at its widest point northward, a point that could only be seen at lowest tide and from the very edge of the water by some illusion of the light. Yet it was great enough that for a few hours at least, twelve men could walk abreast with the river only up to their knees, and plunging precipices on either side. Ned rewarded the young Crannogman who had brought the news with a purse of silver and good land to go with it, counting the bargain cheap. He had bought a geographical oddity, a tiny flaw in a relentless current surely known of by the most common villein who had ever driven a herd across for fear of the Freys. It was a chink that Ned was going to shove a dagger into.
His lords watched Eddard as they would a conjurer about to perform a trick. They did not like me, he knew, but with a sword in my hands I am suddenly worth watching. And suddenly he realized that he would have to lead the attack after all. The northmen expected it; he could feel their thousand wills pressing forward irresistibly, heavier than the armour on his back, more alive than the horse between his legs. At this moment in the clarity before battle, Ned grasped the hollowness of his dominion. Though seemingly the conductor of the piece; in reality he was only a puppet to be moved by another will. He was their Stark, and could not yet command for the rear. A lord wears a mask, and his face grows to fit.
All had gone well so far. As his host camped for the night, Ned had taken a thousand picked lances through the wood he had reached that day, their hooves muffled and all metal secured to limit noise. The sound had seemed deafening even then, but there had been no cry of alarm, no war horns screaming in fright. His small host moved with all speed once out of the trees, dashing to escape the bottle. By the time the last horse had crossed the promised earth, finally reaching the west bank, the tide was rising once more to reach its chest and the way was shut. There would be no return without battle.
Thus he found himself at the breaking of day concealed behind a small hill, a place ironically the perfect position for the foe to place their sentries. But they had found none, and the way was straight. The only points Darry had only bothered to guard were where the river was at its narrowest, and he did not seem to expect the Tullys or Mallisters to interfere from where they waited in the West. It had happened then. As Ned organised his ranks into three columns his guard had swooped down, young lords and proven warriors came unbidden to protect him in the coming battle. They wanted blood and glory, and a Stark to lead them. They had been his council where their fathers had doubted. They were his men now, following a plan that defied an impassable river, seemingly aided by the gods of the North. All this they knew, but they would not stand to watch from some misbegotten hill.
Ned had no words for them, his throat was dry and his tongue heavy. In any case the fear that his voice might carry stayed any impulse. He nodded and that seemed to be enough. His iron fist poured over the hill, the brash horns of the north blowing from a dozen lips as they charged. Eddard was at the fore, his lance couched and his breeches heavy with piss as they fell upon the men below.