A/N: Longclaw: Well, here's the promised chapter. Back into the huge action!
Oh, I just came across a really interesting new story. It's called Gift of the Gods by Nielsen1984, an AU story just published that looks to be an intriguing take on Jon and Daenerys. Really recommend it!
BRuh4: Here we are, posting 13 on Wednesday as we promised. Thanks much for all the comments and support, it helps a lot. I feel like I say this every time we post but I really like this chapter.
Hope you enjoy it.
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Chapter 13: The North Remembers
The markings upon the map displayed in front of the collection of men and women signified far more than mere squiggles and figurines on paper. Fresh upon the soil of the Riverlands, the Baratheon army had found their Lannister counterparts. The host commanded by the Kingslayer himself, camped only two miles to the west, straddled upon the road to the Twins abbutting the Kingsroad. A titanic clash inevitable between them.
There wasn't any snow falling in the Riverlands, but that didn't make it any less cold. Braziers burning hot to ward it off. "I remember riding with my father down this very same road," Smalljon Umber remarked, standing with his hands over the fire. "We needed the Twins then to get to Riverrun, and we need it now - else we get cut off from the North."
"Agreed," said Davos. "We must engage the Kingslayer. Bad ground or no. Defeat him, and take the Twins."
"Taking the Twins will destroy House Frey's reputation, regardless of whether that oathbreaking fuck manages to escape." There were few people that Jon fully despised. Walder Frey was one of them. "The entire Riverlands would likely defect to us as they did to Aegon the Conqueror if we secure a victory. And this is our best chance."
The young Lord Cerwyn spoke up. "Are we sure that Lothar Frey hasn't brought up his bannermen with the Kingslayer?"
Howland Reed shook his head. "My scouts have only found the banners of House Bracken, House Piper, House Mudd, and House Mallister. Around four thousand men, more or less."
"So the Kingslayer outnumbers us." When the King spoke, all fell silent. "Not as decisively as the Boltons did, and we defeated them." He looked to his Hand. "Any word of the Blackfish?" Two thousand men of House Tully - they could go a long way.
Davos shook his head. "No, your Grace. Neither hide nor hair of him has been spotted since news of Riverrun's abandonment."
Stannis mouthed something, and from his position Jon could make out the word 'shit.' "Very well, our plans will not change. Everyone but Lord Stark, Lord Seaworth, and Lady Melisandre will retire to their commands. Including you, my Queen." Casting a hateful glare at Jon, Queen Selyse led the Lords out.
Hands splayed across the table, Stannis stared intently at the map. Jaw locked firmly in thought. But to those that knew him, they could tell the King was in pain. Teeth clenched in agony, bracing his upper body through the table. His Hand, his prophetess, and his most trusted field commander, all of them saw the bevvy of maesters and healers trudge into his tent with fresh bandages. All heard the screams and muffled grunts of the King, followed by the blood and puss stained washcloths marked for burning afterwards. Stannis' leg wound was acting up again. Plunging him into mild fever and a quite non-mild pain.
Glancing over at Jon surreptitiously, Davos cleared his throat. "Your Grace. Perhaps it would be best if…"
"I know, Davos," the King replied gruffly. "Believe me, I know." It seemed as if he was using all his strength to keep from collapsing. "But I can't be a true King if I don't stand with my men on the field of battle. Robert did it. Rhaegar did it. I must."
"No one is doubting your bravery, your Grace," Jon interjected. He understood - hells, his wounds still ached, even the ones that happened months ago - but there was no point in fighting if one was unable to fight. "But you are the King. What purpose would it serve if you allowed yourself to be killed?"
Stannis said nothing. Letting the low firelight dance upon his face. The Baratheon brothers were driven, that much was clear. Stannis… he fought. Fully able and willing to engage in the hard slog, in acts some would say were mad. Not even the most debilitating of wound fevers would keep him from the object of his ambition.
"Lady Melisandre," he finally said. "Have you seen any visions in your flames that can give me guidance?"
The Red Woman blinked, the red of her irises shimmering from the fire. She had seen an image in the flames. An image clearer than the daytime sun, but one that she could not share. "You must ride on the battlefield, my Promised Prince." Both Jon and Davos opened their mouths to retort, but her next words cut them off. "But if you draw your sword upon the first clash of steel, you will lose." She looked up, upon the trusting look of Stannis, the resigned belief of Davos… and the skepticism of Jon Stark.
Sighing, swayed by her definitive answer, Stannis made his decision. "I will stay with Lord Selmy's reserve cavalry, guarding our southern flank." Around seven hundred men, the cavalry muscle for many a Stormlands army. "Lord Stark."
Jon looked up. "Yes, your Grace."
"If I cannot fight, I wish to leave command of the main army to you. Four great clashes have earned you my trust." Castle Black, Hardhome, Ramsay's Raid, and Winterfell. "I would be honored for you to lead our army on the morrow."
Jaw dropping slightly, Jon composed himself enough to bow. "The honor is mine, your Grace."
"Good." Motioning for two of his personal guards, Stannis slung his arms around both of their shoulders. Allowing them to prop up his aching leg. "Get some sleep, my Lords. We'll need it upon first light." Gritting his teeth, the King made his way out.
"The King has excellent advice." Davos clasped Jon's shoulder. "Don't brood for too long, Jon." With a chuckle, the Onion Knight followed Stannis.
Now, it was just him and Melisandre. "That wasn't the vision that you saw, correct?" Jon could feel the red gaze bore into him. "You lied to the King."
There was no hesitation from the Red Priestess. "Yes." The look of the shadowlands close to the edge of the known world... intimidating to most, but not to him. A perk of the 'bastard armor.'
"What… what did you really see in your fire?" Despite his instincts, Jon wanted to know.
Jon kept his hands on the tabletop as she circled around the counter to him, "For a long while my visions only contained King Stannis… but ever since we found you at Castle Black, it's been plenty of you instead."
Slowly, Jon regarded her as she drew close, "What do you mean?"
Melisandre pressed her front against Jon's arm, "You… are the one I see." Her hands snaked over his forearm, her chin resting on his shoulder. "I see you winning all these battles. Not Stannis."
"Me?"
"You," she whispered. Drawing as close to him as she could.
"Like what?" he frowned, ignoring her advances. He resisted the urge to shove her to the ground, instead he slowly retreated from her. Moving next to the table until he was on the other side away from her.
Slightly pouting, Melisandre replied, "When I look into the flames, it's you I see standing over the corpses. Having won the battle, sword raised high, cheering with your men."
"What battle? When?"
"I don't know when but it's in the snow," she answered with wide eyes, as if she's truly telling the future.
"The snow? A great battle in the snow?"
She nodded, "Yes. You will be victorious. Not Stannis. He is the weaker man now."
Jon began to question the woman, how could she sing Stannis' praises for so many years to then shed him? As far as he knew, Melisandre was Stannis' biggest supporter aside from Ser Davos. Why would she turns to him now for no apparent reason? Other than those supposed 'visions' she sees in the flames?
"How do you know all this for sure?" Jon asked, putting his hands on his hips. Then gesturing at her, "How can I truly believe a word you say? Why does your word mean a damn thing to me? How can you honestly think I can just believe you? When you speak of King Stannis this way, all I want is for you to leave."
Curiously, the Red Woman slowly cocked her head to the side, unmoved by his words. Making Jon feel uncomfortable with her gaze. She lays her hands on the table, then leans forward, "What if I could show you?"
Jon scoffed, "Show me what? A vision in the flames?" He spoke, filling his voice with mockery.
Her wide smirk unnerved Jon, and even further with her reply, "I can show you." Without waiting for his reply, she shifted over to a nearby brazier, motioning for Jon to come closer. Hesitant at first, eventually he forced his legs to move. He stopped mere feet from the fire, with Melisandre standing directly above it. The flames licked her cheeks, sticking to her face. She beckoned Jon closer still, and he hesitated yet again.
"You can't see from all the way over there," Melisandre laughed. When Jon still didn't move, she reached over and took his hand, pulling him over. When the warmth of the flames heated his face, his expression molded to surprise. He didn't see anything immediately, and he'd looked into many different fires many different times. Yet this became different when the flames started to appear like a picture or perhaps a painting. Not a clear one, it was muddled and dirty though very much visible.
Melisandre's hand snaked up his back, she whispered to him, "What do you see?"
A battlefield, thousands of men fought each other. Some looked familiar, yes, he saw his bannermen, direwolves on their shields. He didn't recognize the people his men were fighting, not like any army he'd ever seen, looking quite… foreign. Something in the distance arose, something he did recognize. A Dragon. A huge, full-grown dragon, scales black as night, shooting flames from its mouth. Roasting a bevy of his men, leaving just piles of bone and ash in its wake. The flames before him roared out near his face, making him rock back in retreat.
Though he kept his eyes on the fire, after that the image changed. A throne room, a space larger than any he'd ever seen, ceilings so tall light from the torches on the walls didn't reach all the way up. The throne looked very strange, carved out of some kind of rock. A person stood near it, with their back to him. In an instant the person turned towards him brandishing an ornate dagger of sorts, the light glinted off the blade, blinding him. The fire roared again, brighter and hotter than ever before.
Jon backed all the way up until his back hit the table, so hard some of the pieces on top fell over. The image burned into his eyes, even when he closed them he saw the dragon and the man with the knife. He rubbed his lids profusely, trying to rid himself of it. It just seemed so real.
A dragon? A fucking dragon? Burning his men? A sight he wouldn't soon forget and hoped he'd never have to actually witness it. And who was that man with the knife?
It all seemed so unreal, but it didn't feel like a dream. It felt like he was there.
"Seven hells," Jon gasped, breathing hard. He put his hand over his heart, feeling it beat hard, threatening to break out of his breastplate. The Red Woman started to move forward, opening her mouth to speak but Jon held his hand up to silence her. "Don't... Don't start. I'm going to get some rest. I don't want to see you there."
With that he stomped out of the tent, leaving Melisandre by her lonesome.
When he finally climbed into his makeshift bed, he desperately wanted to sleep. But sleep wouldn't come to him, his mind wouldn't stop wondering about what he'd seen in the flames. The image of that massive black beast torching his people ingrained to his mind. The numerous questions he had about the man with the blade. Watching his brazier in his tent, almost wishing he could put it out, but then he'd miss the warmth.
Eventually his mind tired and he slept.
Despite the dragons obeying her commands when she needed them, once in the air, Drogon wouldn't hear it. Daenerys watched Meereen fade away in the distance, pleading with her child to take her back to no avail. The dragons would come to her in a time of need, but still weren't the most obedient beasts. It wasn't as if she could just get off, being as though they were hundreds of feet in the air. So she got as comfortable as she could on Drogon's back, there she stayed.
Sometime later Rhaegal and Viserion broke off from formation. Daenerys assumed they became hungry. She thoughts confirmed as Drogon began to descend.
They landed on a hill in a wide open grassy field, with slight mountains in the distance. Dany slide off as soon as she could, desperate to feel the ground beneath her feet after hours in the air. Her legs buckled after not using them for a while, she stumbled into the knee high grass. When she arose again, Drogon grumbled louded, blowing smoke out of his lungs. Before Dany could blink, Drogon opened up his wings. Bellowing air downward as he jutted into the air, taking off in a moments notice. Daenerys was nearly knocked off her feet.
She called after her child, "Drogon!" The thought of being left in by herself was too pleasant. But Drogon didn't seem to want to listen, he kept on climbing, not even glancing back at his mother. Nonetheless, Dany yelled out again, "Come back!" Still her words falling on deft ears.
So there she stood, in total disbelief. That her child would so blatantly abandon their mother. Feeling hunger rise up in her own self, she had nothing else to do but start walking. She did so until her feet felt as they began to bleed. Her flimsy footwear wore away long before now, along with her dress, the whiteness turned mostly to the color of ash. Her hair had been braided so neatly before, the wind had whipped it much looser, all the soot made it look gray.
Eventually she heard the ground rumble. It continued to rumble until it got louder and louder, her head snapping all around trying to ascertain which direction they were coming from. Though she didn't have to search for long, a sizeable calvary of horsemen crested a hill near her. Once they got closer, she couldn't help but recognize that they were Dothraki. The riding leathers and long braids weren't hard to spot.
They circled her in the same path of the already trampled ground. Her capture imminent.
Dany found herself wishing she'd been dropped off at the Slaver Master's doorstep.
Warmth had returned to the northernmost point of the Riverlands. Large and powerful gusts of warm air from the Narrow Sea, broiling the southernmost belt from Maidenpool to Seagard with an unseasonable heat wave - a welcome respite from the coldest of autumns that threatened to further ravage the already battered land.
However, in reaches close to the mouth of the River Trident, the warmth barely reached. The northern chill still predominated. Soldiers wrapped themselves in thick wool. Campfires burned throughout the night. But the warmth did reach the lands of House Frey in one manner.
The mud. Oceans of mud. The melting autumn snows left much of the ground waterlogged. Pockets of woodland interspersed with bare grasslands and uneven, rocky terrain. It made for a hard slog. Favoring a defender, but neither true Baratheon King nor the Kingslayer was a defender on that day. For Stannis Baratheon, the foe upon the field had to be annihilated in order to open the Riverlands to him. For Jaime Lannister, his host outnumbered the usurper King's - if he was to end the war to bring peace to King's Landing, he would need to seek Stannis out and crush him.
Thus, there would be no retreat. No holding back. Both sides would be hitting their enemy head on. And all knew it.
"I'm getting a sense of history repeating itself, my Lords," Jaime Lannister breathed. He sat astride his best horse, a cream-colored stallion bred outside Crakehall. Much like the Whispering Wood, but with him only an observer. "Our massive forces, clashing with the northerners in the Riverlands."
Roland Crakehall snorted. "That was against Robb Stark, the Young Wolf. This… Jon Snow is but a bastard." No one recognized his legitimacy, since no one recognized Stannis as a true King.
"Tread lightly, my Lord," stated Bronn flatly, always willing to show up his betters. "Met many a bastard, and a lot show better promise than there trueborn relatives."
The force of the Westerlands were battle-hardened veterans. Adeptly generaled, they arranged themselves in their standard assault formation. Four divisions abreast of each other, north to south. To the north - better suited to the more waterlogged ground - rested the lighter shields of the Crownlands lords under Lord Renfred Rykker. In the center were the Lannister forces themselves, lion banners proudly waving as the Kingslayer's own uncle Tygett rallied them. And bringing up the south were the heavy phalanges of houses Westerling, Lefford, Swyft, and Marbrand, divided into two divisions, one under Lord Addam Marbrand and the other under Lord Leo Lefford.
In reserve were the Riverlander forces and a detachment of House Crakehall heavy cavalry, ready to exploit any advantage gained or patch in any defect. At the direction of the Kingslayer, the heralds blew their horns, banners unfurled and men crashing their shields together.
While Jaime and Bronn sat atop their horses, staring across the field at their opponent. Without a word, Crakehall moved off to trot around his men. Stannis' forces looked formidable, even from a distance.
"How you feelin'? Your balls shrinking?" Bronn laughed, slapping Jaime on the back.
"Shut up," Jaime jeered, shaking his head. "I don't need you jesting right now."
"Oh? Does Stannis have you shaking in your boots, aye?" Bronn smirked, pointing across the field. "We outnumber them. Most of their army is from the North, they don't know how to fight up here. Roose got fucked because he and the Northern army were totally driven by their hatred for each other, he was driven into a trap because he was blinded by his need to destroy Jon Snow. Stannis fed on that… now the Boltons are no more."
Jaime half-laughed, "How does that speak well for us?"
"We won't be duped such as that," Bronn said as if it was obvious. "I won't let you fuck up and die because you still owe me my goddamn castle."
Jaime frowned and began to say, "A Lannister always-"
"Don't," Bronn sighed, holding his finger in the air. "Don't fucking say it."
Opposite, men parted by as the Lord of Winterfell walked to the van on foot, his faithful sworn sword Breinne of Tarth by his side. Stark direwolf emblazoned on his cuirass and gorget. No horse for him, no rearguard for him. Jon fought with his bannermen, and soldiers from the Reach to the True North loved him for it.
"No snow," he said softly, only Brienne hearing it. "Does not bode well."
"The mud will slow us down, my Lord. But it will slow them down further."
"Such is true." Jon did not want Brienne to know of what Melisandre told him, of the battle in the snow. Of the only victory preordained being such. "Stay close to your banners, men!" he announced rather matter of factly. "I don't need to tell you what to do today. Just know, these are one of the three fucks that did the Red Wedding." A hiss arose from the northerners, soon spreading to all of them. "We killed the fucking Boltons, and we will kill the fucking Freys. But today, we kill the fucking Lannisters!"
"The North Remembers!" boomed the army, weapons high in the air as they snarled their bloodlust.
The forces of the Stag King were arranged in a single block. Jon, seeing the vast line of the Kingslayer's army strung along the opposing ridgeline, decided to keep his men together and close to their banners - given the mud and broken terrain, the flanks were guarded well. Smalljon Umber commanded the right guard of Umber, Manderly, and Cerwyn forces, Jon personally commanded the center of the Free Folk and remaining Northerners, while Aemon Estermont had the left of Stormlands infantry. The few northern horse under Larence Hornwood screened the right flank, while Arstan Selmy guarded the King with the remaining horse further south.
"And so it begins, my Lord," Brienne murmured as they saw the glittering line of the pride of the Westerlands starting their advance.
"Aye, it does," Jon replied. "Men! Forward!"
"Nock!" yelled Karsi, her own Free Folk bowmen joined by the northerners and stormlanders. "Loose!" A wave of arrows erupted into the air, arcing precipitously before making their journey of death to spill first blood upon the field. The deadly projectiles exploited chinks and exposed flesh… soon the screams of men joined the din, arrows slamming into limbs and torsos, spraying blood over the soggy ground. Soldiers collapsed, some loud and hoarse while others shockingly still. All ignored by their comrades as the advance took an almost crazed quality.
The first to clash were, ironically, the heaviest forces anchoring the south. While weighed down their arms and armor, the westerlands phalanx and the stormlands men-at-arms benefitted from far dryer ground. Arrows not as much a nuisance, the men were hungry to settle their longtime rivalry and set upon the other with an unparalleled ferocity. Swords hacking, spears thrusting, blood and intestines spilled upon the dead grass as corpses began to pile up. Phalanx advancing while the opposing men-at-arms wheeled to try and flank their foes.
Bogged down by the mud, the north and center joined a full ten minutes later. Spearpoints became slick with gore as the two middle clusters of hoplites crashed into each other. Lannister men colliding with former men of House Bolton - their shields now painted with snarling Stark direwolves - the center descending into a vicious wrestling contest where each force tried to steamroll the other. Lannister crossbowmen unloading their bolts at point blank range while the lighter infantry of House Glover and the mountain clans tried to break the stalemate.
To the north a disorganized mess broke out. Tough as their inhospitable lands, Smalljon Umber's men proved the steadier in the ensuing bloody melee. Light leathers and mail adept to the thick mud, they held their ground against repeated attacks and joined with Lord Hornwood's light cavalry to push them back in a veritable slaughterhouse. Rykker lost one of his senior bannermen, Osmund Kettleblack, in this early clash. Only fortitude and superiority in armor prevented a complete rout.
At the thick of the fighting was Jon. Immersed in the carnage, the same ferocity that made him a legend in the north was on full display. Valyrian steel cut through shields and plate. Decapitating and disemboweling as he single-handedly led a furious assault to break through the Lannister phalanx. A sword slashed against his chest but Jon shrugged it off with a snarl, men of the Westerlands getting flashbacks of the Young Wolf defeating them time and time again upon this same kingdom. Only this time something far worse. A bastard, fully trained in the wilding fightins style and bled through years of torment, wolf roared out with an almost dragon-like fury - his sworn bodyguard Brienne of Tarth just as frenzied to protect him as they both hauled a Lannister soldier out of the shield wall. Northern troops pouring through the breach as Tygett Lannister was forced to withdraw. Unable to find any weak spots of their own to probe.
In the Lannister command tent, the dispatch riders were running back and forth, Jaime and Roland Crakehall barking orders like mad to manage what order was left within the battle. Every instinct within the golden lion of Casterly Rock was yelling within him to join the battle as Jon Snow had - but every word of sense kept him out. Only luck had kept his left-handed swordsmanship from killing him in Dorne, and House Lannister would not be served by its heir dying upon the field.
"Where is Mallister?!" Roland Crakehall hissed. Without him, the Northern-led forces outnumbered the Westerlanders, and Jaime was hesitant to commit his cavalry reserve against Jon Snow after learning what happened at Winterfell.
"Terrain is muddy," Jaime reasoned. "Perhaps they're bogged down."
Crakehall shook his head. "Too obvious. Mallister was always a lazy fucker…"
But just as he complained, one of the dispatch riders finally arrived, caked in mud. "Lord Jaime, Lord Roland." He pulled his horse to them, bowing in the saddle. "Lord Mallister informed me to tell you that he's not advancing."
"What!" Jaime was stunned, Crakehall furious, while Bronn just shook his head, not surprised. "That lazy cunt disobeyed a direct order?!"
"He stated that he's worried about Stannis outflanking him." The Stag King was absent from the field - if he had some alternate force ready to strike… It was just like something Stannis would do. "Says he's holding in place."
Bronn whistled. "He's planning to switch sides if ya' lose. Mark my words. Riverlanders hate House Lannister, and House Frey is a joke to them."
Crakehall just growled. "I doubt Jason Mallister has the intelligence to do anything but wipe his ass." Jaime didn't care as to motivation. Without the extra reserves he did not trust his Westermen to overcome whatever Stannis or Jon Snow came up with.
"Lord Jaime!" Up rode Ser Alyn Stackspear, Jaime's aide-de-camp. "Stannis! Stannis is on the field!"
"But Qyburn's birds said he was wounded?" Confused, Jaime lifted his spyglass, trying to spot the usurper King. "Where the fuck is he?"
"There!" Bronn pointed across the field, far to the southeast. "He's on the flanks with their cavalry reserve, cowardly fucker." The former sellsword spat on the ground. "I've fought with a festering chest wound and didn't complain a fuckin' damn."
Quickly, Jaime found the banners of the Stag King. Surrounded by about a thousand stormlands horsemen of various houses. Fully separated from the main host under Jon Snow by at least a mile of uneven ground. Not attempting to intercept the main army… just, in reserve. The opportunity to end this war right then and there.
"My Lord." Crakehall must have thought on similar lines. "Send me and my mounted knights. I'll slay Stannis and the War of the Five Kings ends right now!"
"Don't do it," Bronn warned. "They sent a trap for that Bolton cunt. They'll set a trap for your knights as well."
Running his good hand through his coiffed blonde hair, Jaime was faced with the decision of leadership. Should he be bold, or should he be cautious. Father would have known what to do…
Father isn't here. It was up to him to make the decisions. Looking back at the history of his father's campaigns… it was boldness that won out. Always. "Go," Jaime told Crakehall. "Bring me Stannis alive." He would treat with Jon Stark once the Stag King was captured, hopefully negotiate a peace between Tommen and House Stark - his youngest was innocent in the murder of Lord Eddard.
Grinning, Crakehall motioned to his son Lyle. "House Crakehall! Form up!"
"Hold the line!" Gripping Longclaw with both hands, Jon brought it down with a furious snarl. Splintering the iron-bordered shield in two and leaving the trooper a bloody mess. "Keep by the banners!" So used to fighting in the North, Jon kept an eye on his men and on Lady Brienne, copying their skills in assaulting the heavily armored Westerlands hoplites. Deflecting a sword blow, Jon barrelled directly into the man's center mass, sending him into the ground. Grabbing another by the scruff of his woolen gambeson, Jon threw him into the waiting Oathkeeper.
All around him, the stench of death coated him in an unbearable vapor. Each spurt of blood and voiding of bowels adding to the fetid poison clouding the very air of the battlefield. Only the burning desire for vengeance on each side and the iron will of their commanders kept them going. Smalljon Umber breaking skulls with his bare hands, Tormund hacking with his axes despite three crossbow bolts protruding from his chest, Brienne ripping through armor as blood stained her blonde hair, and Jon fighting like a man possessed. To the smallfolk, their Lords fighting with them kept their spirits up against the seemingly impenetrable phalanx.
The echoing clatter of hooves boomed over all as house Crakehall began their thunderous charge. Lances depressed in a single line, sunlight glinting off the shiny plate armor. Led personally by the towering form of the Strongboar, Ser Lyle Crakehall, the reserve crested the last hill between them and their objective to panic from the milling stormlanders. Gripping the reins of his steed tightly, King Stannis was ever mindful of the Lady Melisandre's words. Nevertheless, if he couldn't fight then he could certainly general.
His barked commands soon became reality, the wildling archers raining down a fusillade of steel-tipped arrows upon the charging westermen. Arstan Selmy gathered his outnumbered knights into a countercharge. Brown grass and clumps of dirt kicked into a cloud of dust as the two horse charged towards each other.
The line rippled, descending into madness. Lances ran through men, bodies thrown back as the screams of dead horses brought terror to man and beast alike. Winter chill - once reviled - was begged for after mere seconds to clear the stench, mere minutes passing before the Stormlanders prayed for reprieve after the second line of Crakehall cavalry slammed into them. Roland Crakehall himself leading a charge to break through and capture Stannis. Hacking through the guarding knights, he came within yards before Arstan Selmy beat him back with his own personal guard.
At first the sound of booming horns from the far south attracted a rather confused response. The second Crakehall charge having descended into the same furious melee as befalling the entire battlefield, it took moments before a muted shimmer paused all but the most imminent fighting - many a knight lifting their visors and searching wherever they could for the source of the horns.
Galloping at the fastest speeds, the trout banner of House Tully rippled in the high winds as the horsemen charged forth towards the Lannisters. At the van was the aged but still spry Brynden the Blackfish, leading his men from the front. All were mounted, ditching coherence and strength for speed. A decision that could have spelled doom, but under the current circumstances proved to be a brilliant move by the Blackfish. For they had arrived just as the battle was in the balance.
Using the cover of the thick woods as a shield from Crown scouts, the disorganized cavalry charge was actually perfectly suited to weaving through the underbrush. The Blackfish divided them into two columns, the first he led personally at the mass of knights battling each other over the Stag King. Lances piercing mail and plate, horses and men toppling over in broken piles of bone, flesh, and metal from the impact of the hundreds of riverlanders. Shouting over the din, Stannis guided the reinvigorated stormlanders to double back - assaulting the Crakehall knights head on. With the first swing of the Blackfish's sword, the balance decisively shifted in the Stag King's favor - a small smile on his face as yet another battle proved the Lady Melisandre right.
Revenge for Blackwater Bay was sweet indeed.
Wheeling around the three-sided cavalry battle, the second prong charged directly for the main Lannister flank. Mounts taking advantage of the drying ground to crash into the flank guards of House Lefford. Built for strength and momentum, the Westerlands phalanx was notoriously inflexible. A fact taken advantage of by Robb Stark at the Whispering Wood. A fact Jon exploited to keep his lighter command going. And a fact exploited by Brynden Tully as his bannermen brought lance and mace into the soft underbelly of the royal phalanx.
What followed was a slaughter. Spotting the charging Riverlanders, Jon grabbed a Stark banner of a dying boy and raised it in the air. "THE NORTH REMEMBERS!" he bellowed, direwolf fluttering in the sun as Longclaw caved in a westerlander's skull. Brienne beside him, armor dented and smeared with blood as she added Oathkeeper to the fray.
The resulting cry was deafening. "THE NORTH REMEMBERS!" Jolted with a newfound energy, the northerners threw themselves at their enemy. Greatsword tasting Lannister blood, Smalljon Umber led the northernmost house at the crack Lannisport battalions on the far north of the enemy flank, joined by the mermen of White Harbor. Glover and Cerwyn men held the center, while the final line of wilding shock troops snarled their fearsome battlecries for the join between the royal center and left.
Inadvertently, Jon and Tormund - fighting near alongside - had discovered the Lannister weakness. Unlike their tightly bunched forces, the Lannisters had divided up their legions. Creating gaps the frenzied wildings exploited. To the boys of the westerlands, wildings were the stuff of nightmares. Fur-clad savages hacking and killing everyone in sight, Karsi raining volley after volley of arrows while the Riverlands horse gutted their own bowmen.
When the mighty Wun Wun emerged from his position as the final reserve, decapitating dozens with each swing of the massive log he hefted, the phalanx broke.
Attempting to disengage, furiously shouting commands, suddenly Roland Crakehall felt his horse give way, javelin slamming into its side. Neighing pained bleats as Crakehall pushed himself up off the ground - realizing with a wince that the proud horse was dying. A swift slice of his blade gave the beast some mercy.
"Father!" Lyle rode up, finding the Lord of Crakehall gathering around a hundred dismounted knights for a final stand. "I've rallied the remaining horses. We can charge them!"
Roland shook his head, looking upon his large, strapping son. A noble warrior to continue his line. "Don't be a fucking fool, my son. They outnumber us and you know it." Horns blaring in the distance, he knew that they were readying a charge of their own. "Get out of here, Lyle!"
"Get on my horse, then!" Lyle was not about to let his father die on the field of battle. "I won't let you die here!"
"Gods forbid that I retreat one step. I will either win the battle as a Lord of the Westerlands, or die as one." He reached up, patting Lyle on the leg and handing him his sword. The mighty blade Tusk, proclaimed to be one tenth Valyrian steel. "Take this and get out of here. Save our house." Tears in his eyes - a rarity on the great Strongboar of Crakehall - Ser Lyle handed his father his own blade and rode off. Yelling at the other remaining mounted knights to join him. Fleeing south down the Kingsroad.
Looking upon his remaining men, Lord Roland Crakehall held his sword aloft, banners proud as the oncoming horde of Tully and Selmy horsemen bared down upon them in a single shimmering wave. None so fierce!
To the north, the phalanx had collapsed. Several battalions of Houses Westerling and Lefford fought like wildcats, engaging a delaying action so that the savaged main body could retreat in good order… in practice, it was more a rout in some semblance of order. Many ditched their steel plate and their shields, giving them far more speed in squelching through the mud and the muck towards the safety of the Kingsroad.
Battered, bloodied, and exhausted, the northerners and stormlanders did not give chase. In spite of their King's frustrated commands, the fresh Tully reinforcements were too tired and small in number to do anything but collapse on whatever dry ground there was. Still by his banners, Jon refused to open up his men to a potential Frey envelopment. Instead, continued volleys from their archers kept them fleeing while the Lords reformed their men and guided them towards the final intact enemy unit on the far hills.
"Seven fucking hells," breathed Bronn. He had seen battle before - and was even quite cynical before that - but the marching Lannister host had looked close to invincible. Pessimist that he was, even he couldn't comprehend how they lost. Brynden the Blackfish, you lucky fucking cunt. House Tully had gotten its revenge, alright.
"Get back in the fight you cowards!" Jaime yelled, more out of desperation than actual malice. He made to grab a trooper, armor half stripped and shield nowhere to be found, only thing in his hand being a spear and a sword on his belt. The boy looked at his liege lord with wide, fearful eyes, but kept running. "Some one form up and counterattack!"
Bronn slapped Jaime on the cheek. "We fucking lost, Lannister!"
"There's still time. Send a raven to Walder Frey…"
"Walder fucking Frey won't save us! Our only hope is to get out and hope to the fucking gods that Jon Snow hates Frey more than us!"
Image of Cersei and Tommen's heads on a spike forefront,Jaime nevertheless was forced to agree with the former sellsword's assessment. "Sound full retreat!" he told his herald. "We regroup near the Ruby Ford!" Several trumpeters began to give the orders, dispatch riders racing to wherever the commanding Lords were as the entire Lannister command tent was set to the torch.
Clad in a perfectly polished plate and mail armor, Lord Jason Mallister of Seagard cut a completely different pose from Jon - the latter's simple northern leathers drenched in mud and blood. Much of it not his own, a fact worthy of bragging about had Jon been inclined to do so. Behind Jon, the Northern host of mostly Umbers and Manderlys halted. Grizzled veterans of the war with the Riverlands face to face with the fresh bannermen of their former allies. Pledged to fight for the Lannister King.
Finding the Warden of the North on foot, Mallister took his squire's hand and dismounted his steed. Allowing his boots to squelch in the mud when not necessary. A legitimate act of humility, Jon acknowledged. Brienne beside him, Jon stepped beyond his men to approach the Riverlord. One highborn to another. Eagle met Direwolf, silence stretching between them.
But to Jon's surprise, Mallister bowed slightly. "My Lord Stark, House Mallister offers you congratulations in defeating the lion."
Jon blinked, sensing the sincerity in the Riverlord's tone. A quick glance was spared to Brienne for confirmation. Daughter of the Lord of Tarth, she nodded imperceptibly, knowing what Jon sought of her. Giving a bow of his own, Jon wiped a smear of blood from his forehead. "Would have been harder had your men joined the battle."
A wry grin formed on Mallister's face. "I suppose so." He motioned to his bannermen. "Lord Stark, we here all fought for your brother. Our swords tasted lion blood in the past, and I seek an audience with King Stannis so that we may taste it again." Essentially equals, Mallister nevertheless confessed to his lower position by extending his arm. Offering it to Jon to take.
Unable to stop the grin himself, Jon reached out to take the proffered hand. Behind and in front, cheers rang out from the two armies. Heralding the end to the battle in favor of the Stag and Direwolf.
A/N: BRuh4: Big shoutouts to Longclaw here people, as this being a battle chapter, he did a whole lot of this one. I did some of the other sections but he did much of this. All sorts of credit to him and all he does. As you all just read, it was fucking awesome.
The Melisandre scene was a cool one to write, it kinda evolved as it came off the fingertips. I thought it ended up pretty cool. What y'all think of what Jon saw? Hmm? I wonder. Was it the past? Or maybe the future?
Longclaw: The battle was based on the Battle of Bosworth Field. Thought it really fit well.
Kudos to BRuh for the Jon/Mel scene. Lots of big things going on there. Interpret it how you will ;)
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