Cressen III
With a horrendous crash the two knights came together in the field, both lances splintering cleanly upon the others' shield. Both kept their saddles however, bringing an ear-splitting cheer from the watching audience. Cressen was proud none of the men on the walls joined in – that was something at least. The two men wheeled their horses around gracefully, both were clearly superb horsemen. The squire's bout beforehand had not gone near so well, one had fallen off his horse before he even reached his opponent, while his foe had carved a long furrow in the earth with a lance he could hardly lift.
Ser Gawen Wylde began loudly commentating, the broad honest knight gesticulating wildly at the assembled tourney. "You see that, lads? Now that's horsemanship! Legs forwards and backs straight, that's how it's done, let's you use the horse as leverage see? When we sortie remember that – first knocked off first to die, that's the way."
The Tyrell men charged again – prompting shouts of "Look, look my boys! Watch their legs – gods watch them go!" from Gawen – thundering towards one another, colourful pennants streaming from their lances, grapes and huntsman coming together as the world seemed concentrated on those two points. The big huntsman-draped knight shifted in his saddle at the last moment, flicking the point of his lance up to the chest of the knight of grapes. The Redwyne had anticipated this however, shifting his shield up to deflect the iron fist while his own struck true at the right breast of the Tarly boy.
Leather straps burst, steel crunched, and the knight seemed to stop still in the air as the enemy rushed past him, hanging like a drawing for a moment before crumpling to the ground in an armoured heap. "Good show!" Gawen shouted, "Now that's a knight my boys, wouldn't want to meet him on the field, eh?"
"Doubt we will." Said Noye sourly, "Wish he'd stop with that sortie nonsense though, he's getting the men all riled up again."
It was true. The armies of the Reach had been camped outside the walls of Storm's End for months without a sword having been lifted in anger – only the occasional desultory arrows flying between defenders and the massed archers below. Every now and then some chivalric prat would ride back and forth in front of the gates, daring the castle to send out a challenger to face him, but Stannis had made clear the first man to accept would hang before he reached a horse. This latest tactic was only making the frustration worse – the sound of the trumpets blaring to announce the fight, the sight of blood and iron hitting the cold mud of the Stormlands and the inevitable feasting to come got up the blood of every man in the garrison. Every hungry, cold, and fearful man of them. The fearful ragged few abandoned here to die.
It was at that moment Roger the Hand sauntered over to Cressen, abandoning his post so easily no one bothered to correct him. Only Stannis ever noticed the fool's insubordination so easily did insolence suit him, but no amount of thrashing or guard duty ever corrected Roger. Luckily, Stannis was breaking a meagre fast with Renly, so the dimwit did as he was wont.
"From what old Gawen has to say of it, seems the battle of Storm's End has come so finally." He chattered, heedless of who was listening. "Dunno why he wants us to join in so bad – my old mum used to say to me – imagine this in a proper deep voice you lot 'cause my mum was half boar and I can' do the growl proper, don't have the tusks she had neither – she said 'look you here ma pet, if there's someone so greatly thick to smack their own mate when they should be fighting you, t'ain't an insult. Just cut his belt, pick his pockets, and steal his beer.' She loved beer that lady, bless her departed soul, though it got her in the end – and that be a warnin' to every sober man-jack here."
"Drank herself to death then?" Noye enquired impolitely.
"I would if I had to put up with him all day." Muttered the guardsman called Old Robert; despite the fact he had seen only eight-and-twenty name days. "Except I do have to, but don't even have a bloody drink to show for it."
"Wise words, my lordly Robb," Roger pronounced cheerfully, "all 'cept that you frankly don't know shit. Drink weren't anywhere near as lethal as the lady herself. Naw, she tried to nick a barrel from Old Toby down White Elk way - you know the one boys, half your mums work there - and it smashed her head in when she tried pullin' it down. And let that be a lesson t'all."
"And what lesson would that be?" Asked Cressen wearily.
Roger grinned and gathered his gangly limbs into a rough semblance of discipline. "To wear your damn helmets at all times." He snarled in a passable imitation of Ser Stannis, drawing his upper lip into a stiff line to show a glint of broken teeth, "Attack can come any moment and any sloven caught without will be eaten to encourage t'others."
There was general laughter at that and for a blessed moment the men nearby forgot about the display below, where the Tyrell men prepared the ground for a melee, flattening the earth well within sight of the castle walls. They wanted a show, and one which could be seen. Out of the corner of his eye however, Cressen caught sight of a straight-backed figure walking the walls towards them.
"Enough of that now, back to your posts." He chided gently, although it wasn't his place. Noye nodded stiffly and chivvied the others away, leaving Cressen standing alone between two massive crenels above the gatehouse.
Stannis was not long in coming; Cressen could place the speed with which he moved by the interval of barked orders and remonstrances. He joined Cressen in watching the Reachmen work below, carefully scanning their activities for any sign of hidden works. Once satisfied that they were only at their play, he turned to Cressen with a stormy look in his eyes.
"Renly is crying again."
"I'm sorry Ser."
"What do you have to be sorry for. Are you making him cry Maester?" Stannis said roughly.
"No Ser."
"He cries because he says he can't sleep at night for the sound of the trebuchets. He cries because he is hungry but won't eat his porridge. Whose fault is that old man?"
"Not mine Ser. Nor yours." Answered Cressen calmly.
"No." Stannis agreed. "It is not. I will say it plainly then. Robert promised to send us aid by whatever means he could but hasn't. His host ate into our stores, took my best men, and, if the Fat Flower can be believed, got himself thrashed at Ashford and a dozen battles since." He held up a hand to forestall an objection. "He lies of course, I know. But Robert has not returned to break the siege and Renly is crying again, and in a few weeks he won't have porridge to throw in my face."
Cressen knew he was treading on dangerous ground here, but he was sworn to Robert as much as Stannis and could not help himself. "I cannot believe Lord Robert has forgotten us Ser. He took those men because he needed them. In any case there are fewer mouths to feed with them gone."
"One-hundred and twenty-four." Stannis snapped. "Down seven from the siege's start. One-hundred and twenty-four to hold against forty thousand unless I mistake my guess. And spare me your prattle about useless mouths. If he cared about that he would have taken Renly with him, if not for the fact he did not want to babysit the boy. Nor would he have left me with that – thing."
Cressen knew how much Roger's presence irritated Stannis. He had been a leaving present from Robert as a reward for the man's service and in recognition of how he rankled his brother. Roger had shown no desire to leave before the siege began, claiming he had never felt so at home as in his supposed illustrious ancestor's keep. That point Cressen happily conceded to Stannis and kept his silence.
"Nothing more to say then? Good." Stannis said, squinting down to where the Tyrell knights prepared their horses before abruptly changing the subject. "How far away would you say that field is Maester?"
Cressen patted his pockets for the fine Myrish glass that had been a gift from Lord Steffon as a thanks for delivering Renly safety. It had been a hard birth for the Lady Cassana; neither she nor her lord husband had expected another son, for she had past her fortieth name-day some years before. Steffon had married the Lord of Estermont's third daughter despite the objections of his father, for she brought little in the way of dowry and advantage, as well as being near ten years older than his son at the time of the sixteen-year-old heir's wedding.
But Steffon had insisted with that steeliness he could conjure at need, and his ever-mercurial father gave way. Thus, Steffon Baratheon married the beautiful daughter of a rocky island, with her dark hair and steel grey eyes, before sailing off to fight in the Stepstones, vowing to defend his new wife's lands from raids launched by the Band of Nine. There he had cradled Lord Ormund Baratheon in his arms where he lay struck down by Maelys the Monstrous, while battle raged all around. Cressen had saved Cassana from that bloody bed when that boy had long become a worthy man, only for her to die a year later, with the sea floor her bower, while Cressen had watched ineffectually through his lens. The gods play cruel tricks on us all, and they seem to delight in preying most on those who only wish to save.
"Here." Stannis shoved the glass at him. "Renly stole it to watch the tourney. He'll not do it again."
He would, but Cressen did not care overmuch. He would have given it to the boy if only he'd asked. Peering through the scope, Cressen could feel the lay of the inscription on his hand. In gratitude for the lives of my wife and son. S.B. The former was long gone on a journey she never should have taken but for the love of her lord, against Cressen's advice. But the sons perhaps he could still preserve.
"Two-hundred feet, by my reckoning. Maybe a hundred and ninety."
"As I thought." Stannis grunted. "Where is Ser Gawen?"
"Just beyond Ser ."
"You'll attend with me." Stannis said, turning to continue his walk. Storm's End had no towers – due to the sheer size and strength of its walls it needed none. The ramparts were a perfect smooth circle which guided the wind along without jut or depression. There lay in its only weakness, it had no position with which a commander could situate himself to be found at need.
They found Ser Gawen huddled with a group of three other knights, patently impatient for the melee to begin. If they're making wagers Stannis will have their heads. Wylde grinned as Stannis and Cressen approached, gesturing down below. "Look there, my lords, look!" Indeed, forty knights were readying their horses with the aid of their squires, hefting blunted axes, and checking their saddles in a final search for frayed leather.
"And what," asked Stannis, with what for him passed as infinite patience, "am I looking at?"
"A melee." Answered the thick-necked Ser Godfrey Twyl.
"I would thank you Ser, if that had not been plain to a child." Stannis said shortly. "I had hoped there might be some reason my brother's loyal knights had left their posts. Perhaps some reason Ser Gawen here had not seen fit to order bows be brought up against men well within shot. But a melee, I can see why that would prevent you from doing your duty."
Ser Gawen coloured at that but did not rise to the bait. "My lord is right of course. Of the four of us, only three have ever fought in battle before, perhaps we have let experience render us overconfident." Wylde coughed as if embarrassed, absently wiping his face with a plated forearm. "But Ser Stannis is wise – true knights would not dare allow the enemy so close without moving to correct them. Let me order a sortie, my lord and we'll drive these fools off before they can even mount their horses."
"Don't try to be clever Wylde, say what you will." Said Stannis. "I am young and inexperienced, and therefore should expect older knights to be somewhat hard of hearing. Bows I said, and to hell with your sortie. I am sick to death with the suggestion."
"But they're right –" Tried Ser Richard Rince, known to his fellows as the knight of the burning hand, and to Roger as the knight of the burning crotch.
"I do not hear you." Stannis said in a voice like a whip. "You think I insult your gallantry, but you insult my wits. Maester, the parchment."
Wordlessly Cressen pulled out a far too small roll of parchment from his sleeve and presented it to Stannis. "Cressen and I have counted our remaining stocks. Nearly six-hundred pounds of oats remain. At half rations that can feed the garrison for a month longer. Assorted barley and other grain will allow another two weeks."
"We will try to capture –" Began Elpard Horpe, still sore to have been left behind while his father and brothers rode off with Robert.
"No, you will not." Stannis insisted. "Maester, the sick list."
Again, Cressen reached into his sleeve and pulled out another list, on it written nine names. One had gashed his hand on his own sword in drill. Two were recovering from floggings for secreting liquor, and two more suffered terrible stomach cramps, which were caused, in Cressen's opinion, by the consumption of rats.
"Four of those men have reported to Maester Cressen with bodily weakness, loose teeth, and bleeding gums. He informs me the problem will worsen and spread as the men lack fresh fruit and meat. Here at least we have a solution. My lord brother –" Stannis sniffed, "in his boundless wisdom commanded me to allow the knights of the garrison to keep their horses when I ordered all livestock be slaughtered. At your request, I think. Well, I cannot gainsay him. But I do not need to feed the beasts."
Gawen's ruddy face paled at that, his perpetually cheerful face suddenly appalled. "Ser, surely… Your brother ordered that you listen to our counsel. A charge would not folly – we should have done it months ago! The men need to see us fight back, to strike a blow, sitting here will drive them mad. Let us take some skulls and capture some supplies – look at them playing at war down there, they would never see it coming! Lord Robert would tell you to be bold, and I for one agree. For the gods' sake Ser, can't you see we're only trying to help?"
"You may watch them die slowly or you will give them to the cooks now while there's still fat on them, it makes no matter." Stannis went on, heedless of any comment. Gawen should not have mentioned Robert methinks. "But I do not mean to waste more fodder while men go hungry. Teach your horses to pick up bows by tonight if you mean to keep them."
The other knights made noises of disapproval, while Ser Gawen studied Stannis and Cressen with forced impassivity.
With that, Stannis turned away, pausing only to give a final reproof: "And put your helmets on Sers, while you walk these walls you will do so fully dressed. You may remove them when we sup together tonight." Cressen had to stifle a chuckle as he hurried after his master.
Behind him he heard Ser Gawen call out to him, "You know he is wrong Maester. This isn't bloody right, and you know it. Lord Robert gave us orders, and we all swore to obey, you included. 'Be bold' he said, 'for I mean to be.' Would that he were here now." Cressen, smile wiped away, went on.
While they walked the initial trumpets began to ring out, summoning the Reachmen for their games. As he had so often Cressen marvelled at the men beyond the walls who proclaimed themselves sworn enemies of Storm's End. While the garrison shivered, with hunger ever clawing at their stomachs like an abandoned dog at the door, their sleep troubled by the futile pounding of trebuchets that shattered only dreams, never walls, their tormentors lived in another world. Here lay strife and slow torment. Then there was a world of games and wine, where whores walked through streets of canvas, and rough houses already springing up for the more demanding lordlings, where men were paid to doze in the sun, safe in their beds till they could bother themselves to piss or watch the next diversion organised by their generous masters.
Why does Lord Tyrell not send men Northwards? Does he speak true that Eddard Stark has fled to the Neck with his tail between his legs? That Robert hides like a bandit, his army smashed, all hope lost? That Jon Arryn has made his peace with the King? It was the only logical explanation. No news had come to Storm's End. The sea was closed tight against them, Cressen had seen himself from the eastern walls an endless line of Redwyne ships stretching across Shipbreaker Bay and knew there must be more beyond. Every raven that flew to and from the keep was shot down by waiting archers. That alone gave Cressen hope. If all is lost, who sends the messages? But Mace Tyrell continued to sit in sloth, fighting Stannis' iron strictures and ferocity with indolence. It was a victory of peace against war.
A victory Stannis was determined to reverse. "Blacksmith." He shouted to Noye, who swiftly approached, looking fearsome in a steel half-helm he had built with his own hands. "Your commander is indisposed. Send for every available man here with their longbows."
Noye gave a curt bow and rushed off shouting orders. "He would have made a good sergeant." Cressen observed, watching Noye cuff a runner westward.
"He is a smith." Stannis answered crossly. "Noye is a competent man, but a soldier is trained and drilled, knows discipline as well as his own hand. We all have our place in this world Maester, as your order knows, and Noye's is behind a forge. Robert should have left me soldiers, not smiths."
"Soldiers like Sers Gawen and Twyl?" Cressen asked innocently. Stannis cracked a small smile at that, the first Cressen had seen in weeks, so he continued, "My order knows best that there are many kinds of men, capable of much and more." He pulled the tight chain he bore across his throat until he found the right link. "Here is steel. Shoe a horse with it, forge a plough too. Wield a sword. I am proof enough that men can be many things at once; healer and clerk, historian and astronomer. My order says we bear chains, but we are free within them, to add new parts to ourselves as we wish."
"Once a teacher always a teacher." Stannis said dismissively. "But tell me old man, if men are capable of so much, why don't I flog you until you pick up a bow? If any man is capable of being a soldier, why not you, learned as you are?"
"I swore a vow."
"You swore a vow to serve me and my lord brother." Stannis gave a rough laugh. "Fear not Cressen, I shall save your conscience this time."
They waited in silence as Noye arrived with men trickling in from the walls. Only those who kept the night's sentry were immune, and a few token eyes to watch the walls. Ser Gawen took his place at the centre of the rough line, bow in his hand. He was a notoriously bad shot, but he was a knight, and this was his duty and privilege. "How may we be of service Ser?" He inquired brightly, as if their last conversation had not happened.
"I would have thought that was obvious." Stannis answered. "The winds are low. The enemy is within shot, and you have bows. You have all become too distracted by these follies, it is time to remind you that you are soldiers, and them too. A volley, then at will until the enemy is out of range. Catapults too. I want blood spilled today. I want the enemy to fear us as they sleep tonight. See to it."
Ser Gawen nodded and sent his knights along the line to check every man had their bow properly strung and possessed a quiver full of arrows. "Nock." He shouted, no doubt certain his voice would not be heard over the shouts around the melee which had just begun, with a think knot of spectators around it, a circle of men so oblivious to the castle at their backs some were scarcely a hundred feet away. Cressen hated that these men played at war while the garrison suffered and knew the bowmen did too. It was one thing to fight an enemy, but for him to be so indifferent to the struggle…
"This is not practice!" Wylde called out. "This is dirty work. Don't bother picking a target, fire into them and you'll hit something, or you're truly bloody cursed and I'll knock you off this wall to be rid of you. Now draw!"
Ninety bows, including Gawen's stretched back in one great pull. These were men of the Stormlands, and though famous for its warriors, many here grew up in the Marches, where the bow was bread and butter, where the great yews hewn by their grandfathers were passed down the generations. For one mad moment Cressen envied them, wishing he could do something, anything against the men outside. That delusion left him as Stannis shouted – "Loose!"
Arrows sailed like falcons let slip, parting the air as they sang in a graceful arc towards the mass ahead – none of whom noticed the arrows till they hurtled into their flesh. It was like a faerie dream broken. While men still egged on the knights with cheerful shouts, some of their fellows began to scream in a dissonant harmony. A knight took an arrow while he fended off an axe on his shield. The man fought on heedlessly, with the dart snagged harmlessly in his surcoat, and began battering away with his morningstar. The unarmoured spectators were not so lucky – one arrow flew up with a gust of sudden wind, as if blessed by the finger of fair Elenei herself to take a man straight in his right eye as he turned to look back at the enormous castle as if startled to find it there.
More struck less auspiciously true, hitting arms, backs and legs. Some men in the stands – still ignorant of what was happening laughed and pointed at their fellows who seemed to have stumbled and fell on their faces like drunkards. So unready for attack were they that those who knew what was going on still took several moments to shake their head and begin a rush away to their camp. Already the Stormlanders had drawn their bows again – and Stannis shouted out –"Catapults!", while the knights still played heedless and men still drank and gambled and groped, and a ragged rain fell upon the cursed lot of them, sharp steel and stones the size of a man's fist launched from the two nearby machines. Kill them all, some terrible voice within Cressen hummed, that voice that he never knew he'd had until the pangs of famine came in the night, and when he looked at his half ration of oats in the morning. Let them die. The voice passed in a moment, but Cressen felt sick. He wanted to pull his teeth out, to ram his thumbs into his eyes, rather than stare at men wounded and dying without giving them what little help he could. He felt hungry most of all.
It had finally dawned upon the crowd at large what was happening as arrows pelted around and blood and bone sprayed in pulps of stone. The lords in their high benches, too far away for any shot to reach had begun shouting for their men, their voices lost in the din. The soldiers were running in disarray, trampling each other down, desperate to escape. In truth their panic did more damage than the meagre arrows the garrison could send their way. Cressen look through his lens to see some poor half-naked whore sent toppling to the ground by the man-at-arms upon whose shoulders she had been sitting and laughing a moment before, to be buried and broken as the herd stampeded away. A chunk of rock stuck a charging horse in the skull, sending it toppling comically with its legs straight in the air and its rider thoroughly crushed. And still the arrows flew. One of the challenger's horses was hit on the rump and began a bucking charge, heedless of his rider, straight into a tangle of still-duelling warriors. They all went down, and began laboriously dragging themselves away, their horses bolting or broken.
Within a minute the field was clear, save for the bodies left upon the ground wounded and dying. It was impossible to say how many the garrison had hit – not many in truth. The men on the walls laughed and jested – feeling like heroes to have slain with such ease and to have suffered no injury in return – laughing even harder when Roger called that bollocks and began complaining that the blisters on his bow hand were the great casualty of the day. Ser Godfrey Twyl loudly proclaimed himself the winner of the melee having beaten all foes from the field, and proclaimed Ser Richard his Queen of Love and Beauty, leaving Roger to cry out to Tywl to clench his arse afore it began to itch.
It didn't truly matter. They had amputated no more than a fingernail of the massive body that besieged them. But Stannis was right. They will go to their beds afraid tonight. They will remember us. But Ser Gawen also spoke the truth, we have changed nothing – when perhaps we could have done more.
That evening, while the Tyrell host shivered like children in the dark, and the trebuchets began their pointless barrage, Stannis, Cressen, the eight remaining knights of the garrison and young Renly dined on a shank of Ser Gawen's horse. Cressen told Renly it was beef.