Robert III
"Duty is iron my lord. It is heavy, brittle and rusts with time and use. But death, why, it is feather light. Death is easy." Robert leaned back and looked at his captive with a stern eye. "All too easy. How many great knights have I felled this past day? Men of honour and valour all, who rode because they were dutiful. And they found that duty was heavy, but their dying easy. But the easy way is not always best."
Robert sat in his pavilion surrounded by hostile swords, completely at ease. Around him were men whom scarcely the day before he had tried to slay. Yet he had had their wounds treated, their stomachs filled and their baggage returned. Only one man bore chains, a squire with a runty look, pale-skinned with hair to match, and eyes as red as Summerhall. He glared up at Robert, still covered in his father's blood. His fellows avoided those wretched globes, occupying their guilty hands with goblets, and their attentions with their lord.
Young Criswell Storm had led the last desperate assault of House Fell, though a pup still in silver spurs. Yet he had tried his damndest to die in battle, slaying half a dozen knights, and taking none captive. Though scored with many wounds, he had refused all physic, nearly strangling one barber-surgeon, so he must continue to drip blood onto the Myrish carpets of Robert's pavilion.
"I offer you mercy still. I would have your wounds stitched and your life saved. You would be sent with all honours to Storm's End to await the end of the war, where you may grieve for your father in peace. Of all men else, I remember you. You fought gallantly; all agree. Were it not for my good Gower, you might have slain me." Robert was wise enough to know his prisoner yet had no words for him, so spoke with all leisurely speed.
"Ignore him, Lord Robert," said a big man from the corner. "My lord father ever gave this baseborn freak too much freedom; now he thinks he has a lord's dignity. Trueborn sons of my house know my father died as he would have wished, and would not be so quick to scorn mercy."
"Still I must ask, why? Young Criswell drove at me as a man possessed, dragging your father alongside him a heedless race to battle me. You knew all was lost, yet you fought all the same, and made a dozen widows. Did you think the rebellion would be ended by a single stroke? Or does duty lie upon you like an iron casket, that you would sacrifice love and honour to serve the Mad King? For those who would fight for me do so for love, not duty. The men you slew could attest to that." Robert was no longer speaking to the bastard boy, and allowed his words to billow about the room.
"Fuck you." Came a growl in answer. "Fuck you, and fuck your love and fuck all these false knights who stand beside you. Fuck your duty, fuck your mother and your father and the fucking wind you call words." Criswell Storm spat a bloody gobbet on his boot, whilst Robert waited patiently for him to finish. " I have seen you, Robert Baratheon, in my dreams a thousand nights. I have seen your victory, and it is as weak and rotten as you yourself. I have seen your death, traitor. Tell me, my brave boastful knight, would you know what I have seen?"
Lord Grandison doggedly overcame his wounds to rise to his feet, looking down on Criswell. "Be silent, boy. Lord Robert has treated us gently, and offers you that same grace. I mourn for your father, as does every man here, but honour demands we grieve with dignity."
"Sleep on little lion," Criswell mocked, his eyes manic and unafraid; blood bubbling on his teeth like the weird wet mouth of a crab, "for you slept well when battle came, and traitors took you at dawn. And speak not of my father; do not muddy his memory with your toothless words. I'll hear no more craven speech, not from one well-placed to kneel before a rebel and undo his breeches." He turned his head to stare into the eyes of the kinsman who had already forsaken him in word and deed. "As for you, brother, you are well named for that ridiculous weapon you bear – you truly are the softest prisoner a man could wish to claim, and hold an edge as well as a wet cheese. Now go polish that silver axe of yours while men speak." He turned to Robert once more and smiled, "Heed not these gnats, my lord. Let me tell you of what I have seen. Or are you too much a coward to face what is to come?"
Robert laughed, and pulled Criswell to his feet to face him. He's right about one thing, that axe has to be the most absurd weapon to grace the earth. "You have heard nothing then. I do not fear death, nor do I believe in your dreams. For if you had seen my death you would have run from that battlefield, knowing that you were not man enough to match me."
"No." Criswell agreed amiably, "I know that now. For no man shall kill you my lord. You will not die in battle, there will be no honour in your passing. You shall die a woman's death, in the bloody bed of a barren marriage. Your only comfort will be sweet lies, your legacy to be ashes and slaughter and the breaking of the world. I had hoped to avert what is to come, yet I see now I can do nothing – I merely foretell. But the day will come when you wish I had changed your fate. Think of me then my lord, when you learn that death is never easy."
It was those words that reverberated in Robert's skull as he observed the host arrayed on the ground before them. I lost this race, whether I knew I was competing or no. His men were tired from the forced marches he had insisted upon to break the Stormlords at Summerhall, and then from three battles fought within the same day. Three won, true, and all three with their foes surrounded, cut off and destroyed almost bloodlessly. Men were already singing of the Storm in the Night, who had been carried by the wind to take the Royalists by surprise unseen by scout or sentry. Some of the men singing had been on the other side of the battle, but it mattered not. The King was not likely to welcome routed warriors with honour, nor a surfeit of mercy.
That was Robert's duty it seemed. He had spent the night cajoling his young captive to live, all in vain. On the poor squire's last wish, mumbled through pale fluttering lips, Robert had dubbed him Ser Criswell of Summerhall, and buried him with his arms intact. He had not forgotten poor Rogered-by-Hand's sons, yet that was war, and the boy well knew it. 'Why me?' He wondered all the same. 'He despised me, laid his doom upon me, and died to spite me. Yet he would suffer no other man to lay their sword upon his shoulder, not even those he had fought beside. Traitors he called them, and he was twice right.'
Their loyalty was to be tested earlier than Robert would have liked. The hilly ground ahead was bursting with roses, and the route to Ashford had been blocked. He had planned to leave a garrison at the castle, knowing it to be a strong enough position to hold off the Reachmen and delay their assault on his home country. The way west was lost to him, he would be lucky to break for the north, and leave his people to the caprice of Highgarden and the orders it received from the crown for their care. By no means without a fight. There are too many of doubtful loyalty with me to refuse battle, in any case I'll not leave my rear open to be harried the whole way to Riverrun. Robert knew there would be no great victory on the fields of the Reach this day, only the hope of delivering a quick hard slug to cover his flight.
So he moved with haste. With a hurried signal Lord Estermont was sent to march the bulk of the foot north, to rendezvous with the Marcher Lords and Robert's remaining vassals, they who had simply taken the best position to join with the victor of Summerhall, whichever side that may be. Robert meanwhile gathered each and every horse he had, and prayed the action would be too sudden for the treachery of men to take root. And so they cantered up the gentle slope like the holy knights of old, their pennants of a hundred colours singing in the wind. Robert formed the point of the arrow, Ser Cortnay Penrose had taken his left and the new Lord Fell his right. His life was in hands already filled with a garish axe. Already he could see the Huntsman of Tarly twist in the breeze, as it bowed to the left, bringing about a mass of men to wrap around Robert's cavalry in a stranglers squeeze.
So Robert headed left himself. The movement had exposed the glittering ranks of knights kept behind the main body of the host, and it was to them Robert moved in a sudden twist, dragging a tail of cavalry behind him like iron to a lodestone. There he went, juggling his lance even as his horse swayed beneath. Robert hated lances, yet soon, soon he would show them what he loved. The enemy commander realised Robert's intent, even as Robert increased his speed, closing the distance between the two hosts. But the infantry were on the wrong side of the field, and must regain their order, but arrows cared not for the feint. Already they were drawn in their bows and death fell like rain.
There it was again. The first darts fell, at this range most simply bounced off helm, shield, and barding. Yet here and there some struck true into soft flesh, or the wide eye of a beast jolted by sharp spurs into a gallop, and there men fell into a tangle of screams and kicking hooves. There it was: the haze of the world fell back, and all fear of the men ahead and behind left him, the dread of princes and kings, and the loss, such loss. All were gone in the moment of sheer consciousness, when his armoured charge filled the world, and Robert felt born anew, a titan awakened to reshape the world to his will. It was better than wine, more powerful than sex. As Robert began his dance with oblivion he felt strong.
He'd had hardly the time to revel in it at Summerhall, the battles had been brief, and Robert determined to take captives instead of corpses. Yet here was a field full of grain to reap, and in that labour was a singular joy. His war cry burst again from his lips as he rode through the pelting steel, "Lyanna! Lyanna! Lyanna and justice!" If only she could see him now as he bore down upon the enemy, how well she would know how she was loved by him best. The enemy seemed to respond to the song, their lords and knights countering his charge with his own, ever closer as hoof and lance and iron filled the world.
Robert's lance struck true, the gait of his black destrier swinging upwards exactly right to plant the tip under the first knight's gorget. There was no dramatic spurt of blood, Robert simply released the handle to allow the foe to drown within his casing, whole but for fourteen feet of wood and iron jutting from his throat, still ahorse. There was no time to congratulate himself, the next fellow's lance drove at him with all speed, only the hasty action of his shield saved Robert from being thrown. Even so he could have sworn a bruise must a blossomed in that moment like a sunflower, from shoulder to hip to paint him blue. The sound of battle was everywhere, his men had the momentum, and carried their charge forward. Robert pulled forth his hammer from where it lay astride his saddle, heedless of some foolish squire (his?) offering a fresh lance. He raised it forth and he heard his men cry out "The Hammer! The Hammer rides!" The words of that minstrel's song made flesh, as the Storm in the Night broke upon the enemy.
The weapon tugged him forward by its own will, smashing straight into the head of a richly garbed lord too slow to raise his own shield. His helmet cracked even as the skull beneath shattered under the power of the blow. Then came the next man, his axe dismissively tapped from its hand as neat as you please, the next ploughing underneath the ribs. With a yell, that warrior's companion, draped in the colours of the butterfly, moved for his vengeance, only to be struck down in turn as Robert brought down his hate time and again. "I'll not lose!" Robert shouted. "Never again! I'll not lose to any man!" The butterfly shield cracked and broke like kindling, and the next shock broke the arm with ease. Thus neutered and hardly worth the killing, Robert rode on through the fighting, struggling to locate the next foe amidst the chaos of which he was king.
He found it was easier for men to find him, dressed as he was in the dread garb of a demon. That which marked him out saved his life, as a morningstar crashed into his lobstered elbow, light as a mother's kiss. The man bore the Tyrell rose on blue, some cousin no doubt. Robert snipped the family tree with a backhanded blow, the spike of his hammer pinned itself through a chink in the bastard's thigh into the horse beneath, and jerked out again to deliver an uppercut to the chin. The crack was so loud Robert heard it over a thousand screams. Then his horse was murdered.
It happened so quickly Robert scarcely saw the lance coming. Yet the well-practiced drill of the yard kicked in, and he threw himself from the poor creature, even as the shaft sank three feet into its flank with a great sucking noise. Robert landed in a messy sprawl, only to spring up, waving his hammer as a madman. "Bastard!" He screamed. "Others take your blood and seed!" Mayhaps the knight heard. Certainly, he came about again with a fresh lance, pointed at Robert's chest. Smooth as a Volantene bull fighter, Robert spun at the last moment, and lashed out mid-roll to break a speeding leg with his hammer. The knight did not land as he did, and Robert enjoyed killing him.
Men found him once more, as the first of the Tyrell foot arrived, pacing the edge of the battle but unable to enter the disorder. Robert's plan had worked. A group of men-at-arms with armour cracking great axes advanced, finding Robert all alone at the edge of the battle. As they came he drew himself up, tall as a tower, near eight feet from foot to antler, as broad and terrible as the Stranger's hand. He looked at the wide eyes behind their broad nasaled half-helms and smelled fear.
"Come and face me if you dare!" His cried in a voice of breaking stone. "Come you miserable wretches. I'll not fall to the hand of man, for I am protected by geas and the right to vengeance! Come you fuckers and meet your death!"
They came, and they died. Robert simply ran at one screaming, the fool too paralysed to properly defend himself. The hammer stove a gruesome pit into his chest. The next two advanced, but Robert was in high fettle, he tripped one on the slimy grass and kicked at his head like a mule. The other took the iron-rim of Robert's shield to the face, and the back of his hammer to the neck. Robert ripped out his throat like a fish. All that was required then was to slowly turn, and gaze with the pitiless look of that terrible visor, that true genius of Donal Noye, onto the last as he crept forth. Robert motioned his mercy, and strode on.
He found his men once more, only to find their line being cut to pieces. The enemy had brought up their reserve, no doubt realising infantry would only be sucked into the whirlpool. At their fore was a dismounted lord wielding a huge greatsword that sang grey in the bright sun, Even as Robert watched, he cut down doughty Lord Cafferen with such a strike to almost cut him in half, armour and all. The next left handsome Gower with twice the faces he'd had the day before. Now there's a battle worth a song. Lord Fell presumably thought the same, still ahorse, his axe shining as he galloped, he ran to fight the striding huntsman who had slain two great lords in seconds. Robert jogged to reach him, but was forced to defend himself against a hundred strikes. Almost bored by the mere men who bothered to block his way, he watched the duel with half an eye. He had to admit Silveraxe made a good showing, his beautiful grey danced nimbly about the unmounted warrior, and his oversized axe came down to counter Tarly's reach. Even as Robert knocked one knight from his horse and broke his shell open, Silveraxe sent another blow straight into the Huntsman's head, hard enough to kill.
The Tyrell men turned as if by some signal to watch as their commander wavered on his feet, bound to fall. One helmetless retainer galloped forth, only to be beheaded by Fell, and then the axe came down with unstoppable momentum… to be intercepted by that great blade. How, Robert knew not. But the Huntsman seemed to have told his death to fly, struck in turn, and met the sparkling weapon with his own deadly steel, cutting its head clean from the handle. With six feet of reach, Lord Fell's soon followed in its turn. Robert roared curses and charged forth, only to feel steel hands upon him. He lashed out but they were everywhere. No, not like this. He turned to butt his captors, only to find a Ser Cortnay's dull face staring up at him, with the men of his guard.
"My lord, look, look!" Ser Cortnay pleaded. Robert did, and liked what he saw little. His force had pushed through Tarly's heavy horse, but the men on the flanks had finally reordered and were beginning to swing about again. Behind them had come a new host rushing to meet the Stormlords, vast beyond measure, the world was filled with flowers, foxes, and herons. And yet… No.
"We ride!" Robert shouted, and bringing his horn to his lips he gave three short blasts, taken up by the others of his host. He seized a riderless horse, still dripping blood from its saddle and passed it to Cortnay Penrose.
"No my lord, I shall find another. Flee, before we are surrounded." Ser Cortnay begged, almost on his knees.
"I shall earn my own horse, rally the men so we may break out as one." Robert jogged away without hearing any further argument. He almost stumbled upon his next man, fighting desperately with three of Robert's own. The hammer took him at the base of the spine, and Robert dragged him from his horse to leap into the saddle.
The final charge was thick and bloody, worse than their entry. Tarly would not soon let them go and urged his men about, having taken a steed of his own. Yet the Reachmen were not fast enough, and the Tyrell reinforcements were blocked by their own van. Tarly aimed straight for Robert as he dashed away, separated at one point only by a man between them, soon dispatched by that monstrous sword. Robert would have dearly liked to have turned and faced such a worthy lord, but alas, he was already ahead, pushing his wheezing horse so hard its flanks dripped. And they were free, and freedom had a music of its own. Behind he could hear the trumpets of Mace Tyrell's host, "Do not pursue" they shouted, "regroup, regather, halt. We are weak, we are afraid."
Freedom tasted sweet, but the losing was sour on Robert's tongue. 'Never again," he vowed. 'I'll shall return, and flee never again.'