A/N: Hello all! Here is a new chapter for you, hope you enjoy it. This one took me a little while to assemble (started a new job while looking for more permanent employment), and my brother is back at university. Nonetheless, we hope to continue to update with some regularity. Special thanks to Kalstorm99, Tom2011, TMI Fairy, Raimon, dire213, HarwinSnow, and Aegor for your reviews on the last chapter. I also wanted to give a shoutout to all of you that have followed/favorited since the last chapter was posted: welcome to the club!
P.S. Hold onto you hats, ladies and gentlemen. We approach the final few chapters of the Dance (Less than ten now!).
Veron VI
Cold and fetid mud squelched beneath Veron's boots as he took another step. Pulling his cloak tightly about his shoulders, he scowled and attempted to ward off the winter's chill. From where he stood at the head of the column, he could hear the sound of hundreds of feet struggling through the morass that inevitably formed when snow and soil mixed underfoot. Casting a glance at the army behind him, he could not help but observe its diminished state. Much has changed since they sailed from Lordsport. One in three of our reavers have fallen so far. He did not doubt that more would soon join their fallen brothers.
When Veron and his brother had received calls for aid from their allies on the shore, they had wasted no time in gathering forces to lift the sieges of both the Crag and Kayce. And like that, we were forced to split our remaining forces in twain. Amongst the Ironborn, it was said that every man was a King aboard his own ship, and while Lords could command their loyalty by respect, they could not demand anything from them. Thus when the Ironborn gathered for war, the tensions between their Lord Reaper and his brother became even more readily apparent. Veron was unsurprised but relieved when Torgon had rallied to his cause, followed by Lord Ygon Farwynd and Lord Arthur Goodbrother. Lord Sunderly joined their numbers, even though he was loath to pay the butcher's bill any further. Veron had been far more surprised when Lord Angred Botley had volunteered to join his expedition. His presence is no accident. Whether by my brother's request or by his volition, Lord Angred accompanies us to ensure our continued loyalty to my esteemed brother. Regardless, the support of so many esteemed Lords, loyal or otherwise, had been exactly the vote of confidence Veron had required to rally sufficient forces to attempt to relieve the Crag. He sincerely hoped that Melwick Myre still held it, for taking it once had been a formidable challenge. He had few doubts that conquering it a second time would require a grievous price in blood to be paid. While Dalton does not shirk from paying such tributes, I do not believe it worthwhile. If victory is only achievable with such measures, we will be bled dry before the winter even begins in earnest. While Greenlander Lords could seemingly draw upon limitless numbers of levied peasantry, every Ironborn reaver was an irreplaceable warrior in his own right. Many held a blade or pulled an oar long before they shaved their first whiskers. Years of fighting had honed the Ironborn into a wickedly sharp scythe, capable of cutting through swathes of enemies. But his brother's road to power had been paved with countless corpses, and not all of them had been his enemies. Our blade becomes blunted, and will snap, if wielded too callously.
From beneath the steel of his helm, Veron gazed up at the hills that surrounded his forces. Dark and foreboding, trees rose about them on all sides, resembling long and wicked fingers closing all about them. Veron was certain that the enemy knew of their presence. In the distance, riders watched them approach, before disappearing into the winter gloom. In the night, fires glowed distantly in the hills and hollows of the west. Horns sounded, their mournful peels announcing the arrival of more foes. Lord Tarbeck bides his time, allowing his numbers to grow whilst ours remain stagnant. Veron could not help but respect his strategy. So long as he keeps the Crag besieged, we will be forced to come to its aid. He will be able to select a battlefield of his choosing, and on his terms. We must either press onward, or have our grasp on the mainland slip, perhaps forever.
Matters were not helped by the Ironborn's lack of provisions, either. As seafaring people, they had few pack horses or mules, and were forced to shoulder any and all provisions they required for journeys. Armor, weapons, and food were all borne by each reaver, exhausting each of them by day's end and leaving his forces particularly vulnerable during encampment. Further compounding matters, the lack of creatures to bear their burdens meant that each man could only rely on as many provisions as they could personally carry away from their longship. We came lightly provisioned as it is, Veron thought to himself grimly. Fair Isle's stores are all but exhausted. Most creatures that walk on four legs have already been butchered to sustain us this long. Without successful reaving to sustain us, we will simply wither on the vine. He had, against his better judgement, allowed for some of the men to attempt to 'forage' inland, but none had returned. The men of the West are watching and their hearts are as cold as the steel in their palms. Our ways have ensured that all of them, from the mightest lord to the lowliest member of the smallfolk, despise us, and savor any opportunity to redress the wrongs we have done to them.
The voice of Merrick shook him free from his grim thoughts. His indefatigable brother in armshad chosen this moment to raise his voice in song. It only took Veron a moment to identify the tune, a popular one with reavers.
Leave her, Hagon, leave her
Oh, leave her, Hagon, leave her
For the voyage is long and the winds don't blow
And it's time for us to leave her
After the first verse had concluded, several men joined for the next, including Torgon, who gave Veron a pointed look, clearly meant to encourage his participation.
Oh, the wind was foul and the sea ran high
Leave her, Hagon, leave her
She shipped it green and none went by
And it's time for us to leave her
Smiling despite himself, Veron drew in his breath, adding his own voice to the growing throng.
Leave her, Hagon, leave her
Oh, leave her, Hagon, leave her
For the voyage is long and the winds don't blow
And it's time for us to leave her
It took but a few moments for the entire column to begin reciting the words of the tune. It is as well known to each of us as tying a knot or manning an oar. Veron frowned. There has not been nearly enough time for singing. It is hard to find the spirit when there is killing to be done. A small pang of sadness emanated from within him. The last time I sang this, it was for a giggling girl with raven black hair and a golden kraken sewn into her bodice. He allowed the bittersweetness of the memory to carry him into the next verse.
Well I pray that we shall never more see
Leave her Hagon, leave her.
A hungry ship, the likes of she
And it's time for us to leave her,
Leave her Hagon, leave her,
Oh leave her Hagon, leave her.
Oh the voyage is done and the winds don't blow
And it's time for us to leave her.
There was something surreal and somewhat comforting about being surrounded by so many voices, many of them filled with the same sort of longing that Veron himself felt. Few, if any of us, left no one behind when we sailed from the Isles. As he sang with his men, he watched their faces, and saw his pain in the eyes of others. As they sang the final verse, Veron was struck by the hoarse passion of Lord Sunderly. The old man's beard was streaked with tears that ran freely. When the music finally ended, the silence lingered.
On the fifth day of their march Veron estimated that by midmorning they were only a few hours away from the Crag itself. He had walked this sea road before, still able to smell the salt of the sea but unable to hear the rhythmic tumbling of its waves. Soon, they would come upon a narrow defile, where the road would descend between two hills whose slopes were treacherous and adorned with rocks who bore the withering scars of ages past. Lord Tarbeck will face us here, if he has any wits about him. He could not ask for a better battlefield. Veron had considered splitting his force into three, sending the main thrust through the defile whilst sending smaller forces to screen the flanks. While initially appealing, he had developed serious misgivings about such an attack. We are likely outnumbered already. Allowing Lord Tarbeck to defeat our forces in detail whilst we are unable to reinforce one another would be disastrous. Thus he had turned to a simpler, yet potentially more effective strategy. As Ironborn, we still possess infantry far more armed and armoured than all but the dismounted knights of our enemies. If Lord Tarbeck chooses to face us, we will simply form a great mailed fist and smash his line. Beneath his helmet's steel tentacles, Veron grimaced. It is inelegant, but it may be our only option. To turn back now, without a fight, would be tantamount to admitting defeat.
Crossing the crest of the hill that led into the valley below, Veron was unsurprised to find an army arrayed before him. What did surprise him were the extent of its field fortifications. Lord Tarbeck had arrayed his forces in a massive shield wall several ranks deep on the valley's opposite slope, and before them stood rows of trees hewn and sawed into lines of sharpened stakes, accompanied by deep ditches where fires had been lit. Glancing quickly at the hills that loomed to either side of them, he could see dark forms milling about their peaks, their numbers appearing to be in the hundreds at the least. Pausing his march, he released a long sigh that he hadn't realised he had been holding. As a commander, he could not help but harbor a grudging respect for his opponent. If I send men to clear the hills, they will be exhausted by the climb and harried by a hail of arrows. If I ignore them, we will all be exposed to a murderous fire during our advance through the valley. The obstacles he has erected will prevent a quick and united advance. In his mind's eye, Veron could see the ensuing carnage unfold before him. Alas, we chose this fate. This is the true Iron Price to be paid. As more and more of his men gathered behind him, Veron removed his helm, breathing in the cold, wet winter air. The air was filled with the smell of sodden earth and woodsmoke. Turning to his men, he waited for a few moments in silence as the many hundreds who had marched behind him assembled, each jostling to obtain a view of what lay before them. Many in the host before him were faces that he had known for nearly all of his life. Old and young, some scarred and foreboding, some too young to be fearful.
Finally, he spoke. "Brothers, what lies before us is our greatest challenge yet. Before, we have faced the old, the young, those who were left behind by their lion lord when he marched east. We attacked them while their backs were turned to us, taking advantage of their foolishness to win great victories. The men before us today have gathered from every corner of the West to resist us. They have heard tales of our savagery, of our prowess. But they have come nonetheless. Each and every one of those men before us will not hesitate to plunge a spear through our hearts." He paused, taking a moment to lock eyes with the soldiers before him. Drawing his sword, he grinned, with all of the savagery he could still muster. "But we have beaten these men before! They may have come in greater numbers than before, but they still possess Greenlander hearts, and Greenlander spines. They are herdsman, farmers and tanners, led by pampered lords! Whilst they have only borne arms for a fortnight, we have wielded them all our lives. WE PAY THE IRON PRICE! WE DO NOT SOW!"
In near perfect unison, hundreds of voices took up the ancient words of the Greyjoys. "We do not sow! We do not sow! WE DO NOT SOW!"
As the power of the sound washed over him, Veron could not help but be buffeted and swayed by their reverberations. With men like this behind me, death itself may be forced aside. He steeled himself for the battle to come. There is only one path ahead of us now, and that is forward. We must fight ever onwards, through the mud and the blood to the green fields beyond. He took the first step forwards, his own crew shouldering past the men behind him to form the first line of the shield wall. The defile was large enough that approximately one hundred men could march abreast, and thus a massive column formed behind them, tightly packed with shields raised overhead. Next to him, Veron felt the familiar presence of Torgon Blacktyde.
In his characteristically droll tone, Torgon began to speak. "That was certainly a fine speech, Veron. It almost made me forget that we are playing right into Lord Tarbeck's hands. You have realised by now that we fight completely on his terms, correct?"
Veron sighed to emphasize his feigned exasperation. "Indeed I have. But there is no turning back."
Torgon nodded. "We all know that. But that hasn't stopped me from praying to the Drowned God himself to prevent any Greenlander arrows from finding my feet or my eyes."
Veron chuckled. "If only our watery father possessed the arms of an octopus. Perhaps then he might be able to spare us all from the Greenlanders' feathered wrath."
As if prompted a hail of arrows traced their path from one side of the defile to the other, lancing down with merciless speed. Fired by young, inexperienced, and overeager hands, they mostly landed harmless in the soft earth that lay untrampled before the advancing Ironborn. Somewhere behind him, Veron heard a grizzled voice shout.
"See for yourselves, lads! As harmless as spring rains!"
Laughter echoed through the ranks as they continued onwards, and Veron gritted his teeth in preparation for the next volley. He was jolted out of his concentration when the first arrow of the next volley struck his shield with a resounding thunk. The wood, somewhat sodden from the misty winter air, stopped the dart, but it still made him uneasy. There will be far more of that before the day is done. He preferred enemies within his reach; enemies that could be cut down with a skilled swing of a blade. Arrows and bolts from afar killed men indiscriminately, and deprived them of the opportunity to face each other manfully. Reaving is like arrows, a small voice rose, unbidden. Cutting a man down without offering him the chance to fight honorably. Is that not what this war has been? Veron bit his lip in annoyance. While he was not a man opposed to self-reflection, to be distracted on the battlefield was to court death.
Another hail of arrows descended from the heavens, whistling softly, promising death. This time, the archers had found their marks. A wave of percussion sounded off the shields of the Ironborn host as hundreds of arrows slammed into upraised shields, and men cursed beneath them as they bore the brunt of the assault. Laughter no longer echoed throughout the host, and a grim silence descended, interrupted only by the occasional shout, scream, or curse when a dart found a means of snaking through a man's defenses and into the flesh beneath. To march beneath arrow fire is a terrible test of men's discipline. Veron could not help but be proud of the men who marched unflinchingly beside him, refusing to break ranks or scramble for better cover. Seasoned warriors, all.
The real trouble began when the Ironborn reached the valley floor. By now, they were in range of all of the archers, both those who had been arrayed behind the Greenlander spearwall and those who dotted the high hills all about them. Arrow fire rained from three directions, with only brief pauses between. The screaming then began in earnest. Arrows found hands, feet, and faces. The weaknesses in Ironborn mail and plate were laid bare under a torrent of barbed fury, and Veron grimaced as he began to hear the wet and sudden collapse of bodies, brought low by a particularly deadly shot. Only a few ranks behind him a man fell, gurgling in terror as an arrow found his slightly exposed neck and he drowned in his own blood. Veron did not need to see the man to envision his wound; he could tell from the sounds alone that it was fatal. While few men were outright struck down by this assault, many more were wounded in a manner that caused them to break ranks, screaming in pain and hobbled by a wound that limited mobility. Their comrades often attempted to keep them moving, for to become a straggler was to become a round of target practice for the enemy. In his mind's eye, Veron could see the valley and slope behind him becoming more and more dotted with the fallen. Nevertheless, they reached the next hurdle somewhat intact.
The row of sharpened logs before them was not a deadly obstacle, but it was time consuming. Men armed with axes came forward to hack the obstacle into splintered kindling, but all the while the army remained subjected to a murderous fire. Veron was growing increasingly frustrated. This sort of fight was an absolute worst-case scenario for him. He had been stripped of any opportunity to use his mind for tactics. What lay before him and his men was a simple slogging-match. He had few doubts of their ability to win it, but he also was certain that this opponent of his, this Lord Tarbeck, was quite aware of the odds. They need not win here, only bleed us. They will line the road to the Crag with our corpses, destroying our army with a thousand cuts, replacing their losses daily with men from further inland. Shaking his head free of the thought, he helped his men to muscle the barrier apart, making a path forwards for the men behind. The process quickly became ingrained within them, and they slowly, but surely, made their way up the slope towards the fire pits and the enemy that lay beyond.
As they reached the pits, the Ironborn expertly began to file between them, wielding their shields with the expertise that only hardened veterans were capable of. Despite their best efforts, some arrows still found their marks, sending men flailing into the mess of branches and pitch that had been heaped at the base of each pit. Veron wasn't certain which was worse, the smell of burning hair and flesh or the agonised screams of the wounded that fell into the hellish depths and could not climb out. Steeling their hearts against the suffering of their brothers-in-arms, the Ironborn pressed onward, reassembling into their ranks diminished but thirsting for blood and battle. It was only once Veron had hefted his blade into his hand that he saw the white garbed men and women striding in front of the Greenlanders' ranks. Singing and swinging bronze incense burners, they walked in front of the massed ranks of the enemy, shouting blessings and encouragement. In near perfect unison, the assembled martial might of the Westerlands knelt, the grey and unforgiving winter sun shining behind their backs. Beside him, Merrick scoffed, hefting his axe.
"D'ya see that, Veron? They still think to pray for mercy!" He spat in the cold earth at his feet.
Veron frowned. "Aye, they pray for mercy. But from their Seven gods, not from us. These men will conquer or die."
As the last of his men assembled behind him, Veron raised his sword far above his head, allowing its blade to catch the waning rays of the Sun, giving the signal to advance. It is time, then. As they advanced men beat the flat of their blades upon their shields, and when he closed his eyes, it was almost as though he could hear the roar of the sea. One hundred paces. By now, all swords had been raspily drawn. Seventy paces. Across from them, the Greenlanders had tightened ranks, and hundreds of shining, bristling spear-points lowered to face the oncoming charge. Forty paces. By now, Veron could make out the features of his enemies, young and old, fearful and grim. Twenty paces. Shouts rang out across the Greenlander lines as Lords urged their men to steady. Ten paces. His lungs burned with the exertion of sprinting such a distance in plate.
The two forces met with a resounding crash. Shouts, screams, prayers, orders, and the song of steel combined into a rush of sound that was found nowhere else but the field of battle. The black tide of reavers ran headlong into the massed spearwall of the West, the sheer force of their weight sending their enemies a few paces back. But where before Veron had sensed his enemies waver, he found no such encouragement amongst his foes on this day. His first kill was a grizzled man who lunged for Veron's helm, hoping to guide his spear into the eyes of his foe. Veron caught the spear between his shield and chest, snapping the point off before driving his own blade deep into the man's chest with a wet crunch. Twisting and wrenching the black steel free, he slashed his next victim so deeply across the throat that he nearly beheaded him, sending a warm bubbling red spray across his blade and his armor. Stepping across the fallen bodies, he advanced, constantly watching his periphery and making sure to keep ranks. In the chaos of battle he was only able to see a few arm lengths to his left or to his right. He had every intention of keeping his foes before him. His next kill was accomplished with a backhanded slash that made a red ruin out of an overeager young lad's face, and the boy's screams were hideous as he was trampled underfoot by the sheer weight of the Ironborn advance. To Veron's relief, someone in the next ranks silenced the noise with a quick thrust of his blade.
While the enemy refused to retreat, they were forced to give ground ever so slightly as each moment passed. Veron dispatched another man who jabbed at Torgon from the side by chopping his arm off at the elbow, followed by running him through with a bodily shove. As the man collapsed backwards onto the winter earth, he took Veron's sword with him, wrenching it out of his hand after the handle went slick with blood. Veron pulled at the Kraken-hilted blade for a few moments to no avail as his lifeless enemy's eyes gazed upon him with glassy mockery. Like wolves sensing a weakened stag, his enemies converged, lashing at him with wickedly sharp spears. He knew better than to allow them to keep him at a distance, so with a shout he knocked their spear points aside with his shield and fell upon the nearest foe. He may have lost his sword, but a shield was a weapon enough in the hands of a bloodlusted reaver. The nearest spearman's skull caved inwards with a wet crunch under a hail of blows. Veron was shocked that his recent victim continued to scream long after his face had become a bloody ruin, only to realize it was himself roaring and shouting in complete incoherence. The enemies around him began to back away at the sight of it, showing fear for the first time.
Raising his shield, he advanced on the next foe, only to have his world set spinning by a powerful blow on the side of his helm. He struggled to remain upright as he stumbled backwards, finally sent tumbling backwards when he tripped over the corpse of a fallen man-at-arms. Turning his head to face his assailant, he suppressed a groan as he saw the hedge knight approach. The man was at least twenty-one stone, and solidly muscular at that. It had only been the quality of Veron's helm that had prevented the blow from being fatal, and even then he still had to blink back the distortions in his sight. The hedge knight had foregone wielding a shield, and instead bore a great axe in two hands. Dazedly, Veron raised a hand to the left side of his helm, feeling the savage scar that the blow had struck through the black steel. Several of the tentacles that adorned the bottom of his face mask had been completely sheared off. Raising his shield in front of him, Veron was able to raise it at an odd angle in order to send the next blow of the axe flying awry. The force of the blow alone still splintered the shield, however, and sent a shock of pain up his arm. Somewhat sluggishly, he attempted to raise it again, expecting the blade to bite through shattered wood and battered steel and find the fragile flesh and bone of his arm beneath. Instead, his assailant was bodily knocked aside by Torgon, recognisable by his black-and-green checkered cloak. While the two men grappled, a screaming Tommard drove a dirk between the hedge knight's helm and gorget, sending dark red blood flowing out from beneath the metal. Warriors from behind filled the ranks, pressing ever onwards towards the setting sun that lurked behind the crest of the slope. Veron crawled onto his knees, resisting the urge to vomit bile at the sudden movement. He still felt light headed, and had to be helped to his feet by his saviors. He asked to be handed the great axe from the fallen hedge knight, and Tommard placed it in his hands as the tide of Ironborn warriors continued to surge by. Leaning his weight upon it, he gazed about him.
The entire hillside was by this point covered in the fallen. Greenlanders and Ironborn piled in heaps across the slope of the entire defile. Clothed in countless colors, they all now share the paleness of death. He noticed that the bodies towards the rear of the fight had arrows protruding from mailed backs. Their archers have been shooting at our backs as we advanced. As the rearguard approached, he turned, his movements slow, but measured, which helped to shake some of the uncertainty from his limbs. Stepping gingerly over the bodies of the fallen, enemies or otherwise, he checked the straps on his helm and let the ruin that had once been his shield fall from his grasp. Hefting the axe, he felt a gauntleted hand come to rest on his shoulder.
"You need not lead from the front any longer, Veron. You have done more than enough to inspire the men. There is no need for tactics or ingenuity now, only butchery."
Veron nodded, letting a long sigh escape his lips. He was so tired. "I know, Torgon. But this is about more than what is required of me. If I am to expect my men to be hewn limb from limb forcing this damned slope, I had best be fighting alongside them. My brother will be doing no less at Kayce."
He couldn't actually see his lover's face, but he knew him well enough to know he was frowning beneath his helm. While Veron was certain he wished to say more, he did not, apparently respecting his decision. Hefting their weapons, they advanced to where the line of battle had progressed. Shouldering his way past the men advancing in lockstep, he made his way to the front of the line. As he passed the men, a great roar went up. It heartens them to see me here, alive and well, fighting alongside them again. He smiled, though there was little joy in it. I owe them that much. A path was cleared for him to the front, where he could see the remnants of the Greenlander spear wall fighting desperately against the tide. A blow from the great axe splintered the shield of one of the commoners, likely shattering the arm beneath. The man went down writhing. Veron allowed himself to ease back into the flow of combat, which had become largely rote by this point. Battles that lasted this long ceased to be tests of skill. They instead became tests of endurance. We have the advantage there, at least. He hacked away at the enemy, who after a near solid hour of uninterrupted combat were finally beginning to show signs of wavering from exhaustion. The hate never leaves their eyes, however. Its chill was something Veron was unused to seeing in an enemy. Fear, rage, bloodthirstiness? All common. Hate? Hate was something colder, reserved for only those one truly despised with all their heart. These men do despise us. They have heard of how we descended upon the lands of their countrymen like a plague of locusts, and have been whipped into a frenzy by their holy men. We fight for glory. They fight for survival. A cornered animal is dangerous indeed.
Opening a man from groin to chin with his axe, he realised that the spearmen were finally disengaging. He also realized that they were no longer standing upon a slope. We've made it. We've fought our way to the crest. Anxiety roiled in his stomach. While the enemy withdrew, it was clear it was no rout. The spearmen withdrew in orderly columns, streaming away from their foes, most of whom were too exhausted to mount a pursuit. As the Ironborn massed at the top of the slope, Veron gazed out upon the road beyond, surrounded by rough but relatively flat earth. To their flanks, he could see the archers that had harried them throughout the day withdrawing at a quick pace, retreating in the same direction as the foot. His exhausted eyes traced their path, watching as the columns passed between the ranks of something far more worrisome. He cursed himself, internally. Of course. I should have anticipated this. It seems Lord Tarbeck certainly did. For as the spearmen retreated, they filed in an orderly fashion between the serried ranks of the West's assembled chivalry. It was suddenly all so clear to him, at that moment. Bleed us, exhaust us, and lead us to the fields beyond. Your knights would be wasted in a slog. But not in an open field. Not where they can ride over the remnants of my army like an unstoppable steel wave. Horns blew in the distance, sounding an advance. As the captains of the Ironborn shouted in shrill and hoarse voices to close ranks, and the stunned reavers complied, Veron looked for the banner of his enemy.
Where are you, you bastard? At least show your face, that I might see the man that dealt me such a defeat. Let me see the one that humbled the brother of the Red Kraken himself. Try as he might, he could not find the seven-pointed silver-and-white star of the Tarbecks. He was rather surprised that the Lord held no interest in leading the charge that would win the day.
It wasn't until he looked to the right flank that he found his answer. Beneath a proud seven pointed star, a group of handsome knights sat, sounding the horns for the advance. His heart sank when he saw what had been planted on stakes before them. Even from a distance he could make out the head of Melwick Myre, along with those of his most-trusted adjutants. So it was all for naught, then. The Crag is lost.
At the head of the self-same party sat his foe, as their banner waved overhead. Bedecked in a shirt of shining mail and wearing a knightly doublet over it, atop a formidable charger, awaited his foe. Veron scoffed. What sort of Lord rides side-saddle? It was only as the Lord removed his helmet that the rest of the puzzle became clear. As the brown mane of curls fell past her shoulders, streaked with grey, Veron could not help but chuckle grimly. The sheer irony of the situation was not lost on him. For the Lord Tarbeck was no Lord at all, but a Lady. He could feel her gaze from across the field, no less cold than those of her men. Raising his axe in a salute of sorts, he steeled himself, as the very ground shook from the weight of the charge. As the knights approached, the sunset behind their backs, one final volley of arrows soared above their heads, burning from where pitched-soaked rags had been tied about their shafts. As the burning volley returned to earth, a shudder rippled through the ranks of the Ironborn. As the horsemen transitioned from a canter to a gallop, the Ironborn wavered, clutching their weapons tightly. And as those same horsemen lowered their lances, the first reaver broke. Veron's eyes widened as all about him his brothers-in-arms simply ran. Shouts of despair, terror, and anguish filled the air, and in mere moments the pride of the Iron Islands collapsed and ran headlong down the slopes of the hill they had paid so dearly to take.
Veron hefted his axe. A Greyjoy does not flee. For a brief moment, he faced the oncoming wave of steel and horseflesh by himself. He would have continued to do so if not for the gauntleted hands that wrenched him backwards. Stunned he found himself being led down the slope by Torgon and his crew, their faces darkened with anger and something else.
The knights of the Westerlands hollered and jeered at them the entire way down the slope, unwilling to risk their necks or their horses charging down a defile so steep. The archers, however, were not bound to such constraints, and within moments had begun to fire volley after volley after them. The arrows burned through the evening sky, like so many murderous shooting stars.
If terror had hounded the Ironborn's flight through the defile, shame haunted their steps after they had left it. Not once before during this entire campaign had the Ironborn been so humbled. Veron had known the minute that they had arrived on the battlefield of their foe's choosing that the casualties would be heavy, but the numbers still stung nonetheless. Out of a force that numbered nearly twenty-four hundred men and one hundred and forty-some captains, seventy eight of those seasoned commanders were either confirmed to have fallen in battle or were missing. Five hundred reavers had been killed, and another six hundred or so had to be left wounded upon the battlefield or soon after. The force that had departed Fair Isle only a little while before had been utterly decimated. The losses are painful. I'd wager, however, that it is the defeat that burdens the men even more terribly. Until this point, they had all been able to deceive themselves that the disaster at Crakehall had been due to the folly of Lord Sigfryd Harlaw. No longer. This is our own defeat, our own shame. Veron had already put his mind to work attempting to salvage whatever he could from the situation. He had halfheartedly assured himself that the loss of the Crag, while dire, removed the need for the Ironborn to commit forces to the mainland. Despite his attempts, he could not help but see things for what they were. It seems that despite our best efforts, we had already lost the war. We just hadn't realised it yet. He frowned. We lost the war the moment our so-called allies refused to send us aid atop dragon's wings. There was nothing for it. They would have to withdraw to the shelter of the Sunset Sea entirely. We still command the waves, and barring any nasty surprises, should be capable of continuing to do so. Perhaps we can force a peace out of mutual exhaustion. As his feet crunched atop the gravel and stones of the beach, he leaned against the hull of the Misery, listening to the waves gently caress the shore. They had made the journey back to where they had disembarked quickly, hurried onwards by their shattered morale and the ever-present fear of knights and outriders harrying their withdrawal. Veron and his captains knew that they could ill-afford to lose any more irreplaceable men. In the distance, lit torches began to sail through the air, setting captainless ships alight. With so many commanders gone, and their crews devastated, the decision had been made to consolidate the survivors so as to fully man the remaining vessels.
Despite himself, his eyes began to sting with the presence of tears as he watched the beautiful handiwork of Lordsport begin to go up in flames. As the sparks drifted into the night sky, Veron scooped some of the beach's rocks and sand into his hand. Something to remember the mainland by. Joining his men, he helped to glide the Misery back into the waters of the Sunset Sea, her hull groaning in protest at the sudden exertion. My deepest apologies, my Lady. As the men clambered aboard, and took up the oars, he turned one last time to observe the shore as they put out to sea. All about them, the darkened hulls of other longships glided out almost silently into the bay, save the odd creak or sound of the oars. The beach was alight with the fires of nearly fifty longships, their silhouettes glowing against the night sky. A chill ran down Veron's spine. It was not a sight he cared to see again. Turning to the men, he settled into the captain's seat and let his mind go blank. He drifted off into a dreamless slumber as he rested before his turn at the oars. His last conscious thoughts were of Pyke, and of home.