A coat of plates, mail, gambeson, billhook, shield, shortsword, and helm cost a great deal to a tradesman, and greater more to a farmer. They had to be sourced from city smiths, a day to two day journey - another hard to afford expense. But the common law demanded every five households in the Riverlands to equip one of their own for the levy. Part of the smallfolk's lot in life. A tradition dating back for longer than the people of Wendish Town could remember, though perhaps the Septon would know it's origin.
Roland sat in the market square, in his five-household-bought armor, and cursed the noon heat. His father and brother were needed for their trade of carpentry, Lymond only had a daughter, Old Pate was old, his son was lame, Myles, Damon and Lucas were needed at their farms with their wives and young children. So it had been up to Roland to join the levy. Still, he was glad that he only had to work half the day with his father and brother at the mill, and less on some days. Miller Lymond tried to keep busy, but while a second son may learn the trade, the mill only needed two carpenters, and his pa and brother took care of it well enough. They had left for Castle Darry three days ago, petitioning Ser Raymun Darry for greater logging rights in the forest along with a few woodcutters. Lymond hadn't needed much work done at the moment but wished to expand his mill, and had given them permission to go.
Half the day woodworking, half the day training with the other poor excess sons and under-talented tradesmen as Wendish Town's levy. Most days, at least. Today, Sergeant Manfryd could not be found. The levy lazed about in the market, sweating in their armor as they waited for their delinquent leader to show up.
"The harvest festival's in a few days." It was Marq, third son of the blacksmith who spoke.
"What of it?" Roland replied.
"You ask anyone to the dance?" Marq had a sly grin on his face. "The lads and I couldn't stand to see one of our own go alone."
Roland grit his teeth. "No, Marq. I haven't."
A hooked nose large enough to dip in any sipped drink, along with his less than impressive height, had kept Roland from asking any of the village maids to previous festivals. He knew himself, and wished to avoid more disappointment in his life.
"Come on, not any?" Marq's grin was still there. "No special maiden waiting for brave, powerful Roland to sweep her off her feet?"
"That's enough, Marq."
"I could ask Jeyne if she has a friend? She looked glad for me to have asked her, that gratitude might extend to-"
"Not all of us chase skirts all night, Marq." Roland interrupted. "Some of us have work to do in the morning."
The blacksmith's boy raised his hands in mock defense. "As you wish, as you wish. On to easier topics. Did you hear about the tournament in King's Landing, then?"
Roland nodded. At last, a subject he could speak on. "Lymond's cousin knew a man who had been there. He said that a few of the jousts near ended in bloodshed."
Young Pate, the butcher's second son, nodded. "I heard that some fancy Reachman knight almost got 'is head chopped off. 'Course, I reckon that wasn't true. You need a mighty great amount of strength to cut through the neck the full way. Takes me a few swings for a pig, it'd take more for a man."
"You did say almost got his head chopped, not did." Marq responded. "Would have taken less strength that way."
"It's a good point, for sure," Young Pate mused. "Could have just stopped halfway."
"Halfway would kill you dead, sure as all the way, right?" Roland asked.
"Not always.' Young Pate shrugged. "Sometimes it takes a bit."
"So did the Reachman die?"
Young Pate shrugged again. "Heard it was some knight as big as a mountain, 'e beat damn near the whole list, and crushed some other poor Reacher knight's head in the helmet."
Marq shook his head. "Couldn't be. A helmet like that wouldn't crunch that way, the metal would bend wrong."
"Reachmen took a few losses then, I suppose." Roland said. "Lymond's cousin didn't mention any Riverlander Knights, did whoever you heard your news from?"
Young Pate sadly shrugged a third time. "It's a poor showing for our folk out there, that's for sure."
The levy fell quiet, and more minutes passed. Roland unhooked his wineskin from his belt, and took a few sips. He passed it on to Marq and Young Pate. A little liquor helped keep strength up on a day like this. A few merchants sat at their stalls, some sleeping, others counting their meager earnings. It was a slow day at the market, with most of the town out in the fields for the harvest.
Alys, Miller Lymond's daughter, entered the market. Her auburn hair was up in braids, though a few strands had fallen loose to frame her freckled face. Her brown, muddied dress fit her tall form quite well, though not quite tight enough to earn a reprimand from the Septon. She gave a small wave to the levy as she passed by, a light smile on her lips.
Roland found himself responding with a small, shy wave himself, before quickly lowering his hand. He hoped no one had seen his response. It was instinctual, he told himself. Anyone would wave back. He resumed his lookout for the sergeant. Where is that old bastard? We should be at the training field, not waiting on a drunk.
The levy sat in sweaty silence for a few moments more, before Marq spoke once more. "So, Alys. The miller's girl."
"Shut up, Marq"
"She's a pretty one." The grin was back on Marq's face.
Roland stopped scanning for their sergeant, and turned to face the other man. "What are you doing, Marq?"
"Just making conversation."
"Make less of it."
When Roland turned back, he saw that Alys had left. Disappointment welled up inside him, before he quickly crushed it down. It would not do to think like that. Alys was the daughter of his father's employer. Skirt-chasing like that always ended in trouble, and Roland rarely sought out trouble of his own accord. Being friends with the likes of Marq and Young Pate brought enough of it.
A full hour later, Sergeant Manfryd appeared. He swayed from side to side a slight amount, and stunk of his pipe, but roared for the levy to gather together and head to the training field all the same. A hot, thankless afternoon followed, with Manfryd in ill spirits. Young Pate made a nervous joke about Manfryd's day, and was made to sprint in full armor until the morning meal passed through his lips a second time. Billhook exercises followed, how to stab, how to pull, how to cut, and on and on Manfryd went.
Partway through, a thoughtful look crossed Manfryd's scarred, cruel face. The levy eyed their sergeant uneasily, some murmuring at the sight. Manfryd scarcely had kind thoughts.
"Listen up, you louts!" He roared. "And listen good, because this might one day save your sorry hides."
Polearms slowly lowered, as the levy gathered round the sergeant.
"Poor bastards like us, we're the ones who will face the front of war. Screaming wounded, gasping corpses, all that shit. But the worst will be those fucking knights." At this, Manfryd spat on the ground, before he continued. "You're not going to fight some gallant duel like those dickless bards sing of in their songs. A group of knights charge your line, you're the ones who will have to fight back. But how? How do you kill some lordling who's been training with 'is sword since he stopped suckling his mother's teat? You'd lose a fair fight. You'd lose most unfair fights. But you can survive, and this fucking billhook is your friend."
Manfryd paused, before yelling out "UPWARDS PULL!"
The levy stumbled back from their small crowd, and thrust their polearms to the sunny sky, before pulling the hooked weapon back.
"Sloppy. Lazy. But we'll make good soldiers of you yet. This weapon has a hook for a fucking reason. To grab one of those fat lordlings 'round the neck, and pull 'im from 'is horse. But Manfryd, I hear you stupid louts bleating. What then?" A wicked grin grew across Manfryd's face. His hand went to the knife at his waist, which he gave a few pats. "Take your little dagger, and push it through that lordling's eyes. You might have to get your friends to help - sit on his arms, push on his chest, who cares. Shove that knife into the bastard's skull, and get back into the fight."
The tension of Manfryd's speech was undercut by the sergeant's burp at the end, but none of the levy mentioned it. The stench of Young Pate's returned meal made sure no one else wished to upset their commander.
The rest of the training passed without event, and before long Roland found himself trudging back home for the night. Marq and Young Pate had left to the tavern, but Roland had excused himself - With his father and brother out, Lymond needed his help more than usual, and Roland wished for an early, peaceful night before an early morning.
The house was quiet. A thin stew waited over a cold and empty hearth. The levy did not bring in much in the way of pay, and Roland knew that his brother and father needed their own earnings for themselves. Hoster, his brother, was saving every penny the they earned in hopes of buying a saw that ran on a waterwheel. Lymond had given his consent, but had said to pay for it themselves. It would cut work down, but-
Roland's thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door. He rose to answer, pulling the heavy wooden door open.
Before him stood Alys, basket in hand. She wore a small smile, and a dusty apron in addition to her usual dress. She smelt of roses and flour, as Roland quite quickly became aware of his own stench of sweat. "I'm sorry to intrude, I wasn't sure if you were home."
"Well, I… I am. Home. I'm home. What.. what could I do for you?" Inwardly, Roland cursed his awkward speech.
"I made a little too much bread for Father and I, and I'd hate to see it go stale." Alys reached inside her basket, pulling forth a small, round loaf. "You don't have to take it if you're not hungry, but, well, if you'd like it, it's yours."
She pities me. She pities my family. Roland thought. I do not need or deserve pity. "Well…" He trailed off. Despite his thoughts, the watery stew would go down easier with fresh bread. A small rumble from his empty stomach confirmed his decision. "As you like."
He paused, thinking. "Thank you."
Alys' head bobbed eagerly in response, her smile growing wider. The two of them stood in silence, as the moments dragged on. Alys shifted her weight, the tall woman's bright brown eyes moving down to her feet, where she kept them far too often. Do it. Ask her. Coward. You can do it. Just ask her.
"The harvest festival." Roland said.
"Yes?" Alys perked up.
"Are… are you going?"
"I am. Are you?"
"I am," Roland said. "We're both going."
"It's nice," Alys responded.
"It is nice."
The silence returned, and stretched on for longer this time. A bird chirped. The sheep kept by the mill let out their incessant baaa's. One of Old Pate's pigs, kept not far from the mill, let out a far too loud fart.
"Well, I'll see you tomorrow, Alys."
"Oh." Alys let out a breath. "You too, Roland."
She left, and Roland shut the door. To cowardly to ask. She most likely has had dozens ask her to the festival dance. I shouldn't have kept her this long. Coward.
He returned to his table with his warm, fresh bread, and thin stew. The bread smelled of roses and flour. Curse you, Marq, for putting the thought in my head. It's wrong to want what men of our station cannot have.
Before long, Roland found himself on his bed, and embraced the emptiness of slumber.
The raiders burnt the sheep first - the baying screams of the animals, screeching as they roasted alive from their engulfed wooly coats, woke Roland. He did not know the time of night or day as he rolled from his bed, and thudded against the floor. He winced at the pain, scrabbling for the trunk at the end of his bed. Throwing on his gambeson, fumbling with the belts to keep it on. The rancid smell of burning wool filled the air - the raiders could not be too far away. Was Alys alright? The chainmail hauberk went on next - would Lymond's mill distract the raiders? Could the old man delay them? Could he fight? Would Alys escape? Roland shrugged his coat of plates over his shoulders, buckling it on as fast as he could. The squeals of pigs reached his ears next. Old Pate's hovel and sty were by the mill, the raiders must have reached them as well.
Roland burst from his home, shield across his back, billhook in his hands. Before him was a sight from the seven hells. Orange flames danced against a black sky. Oily smoke choked the air. Screeching animals ran about aflame, spreading the fire to any dry wood or hay they touched. The outskirts of Wendish Town burned, and the demons responsible laughed as they killed. Lymond's corpse lay over a fence, Old Pate and his son impaled against the walls of their hovel. Lymond's daughter, Alys, cried out in anger and fear as armored men dragged her from her father's bleeding body. A few other raiders kicked at the doors to the other houses near the mill, cursing those that had barred themselves inside. An older man in a yellow tabard directed them, yelling for the raiders to move faster, that they would have more to enjoy deeper in the town. That they should just burn these houses and look for better loot elsewhere.
At the sight of Roland, the older man banged his sword against his shield. "Look alive, lads. Come on, one of the locals thinks he's brave!"
"Fuck off, Chiswyck, you kill the bastard. He's a sight worse than this lass!" The man dragging Alys cackled, a laugh cut off by curses as she kneed him in the groin. It earned her a mailed fist to the face when the man rose back up, breaking the girl's nose. The other man holding Alys laughed in response, giving the girl a shove. "She's more fight in her than her old man!"
The older man - Chiswyck - ignored the antics of his underlings. He strode towards Roland, sword languidly, his shield low."What is it lad? Fancy yourself a hero?"
A few of the armored men stopped kicking against the doors, and began to gather their torches. Roland's eyes flicked between them, the approaching man, and the two dragging Alys away from Lymond's body.
"Boy! I'm talking to you!"
Roland twisted his weapon in time to parry Chiswyck's sword. He could not be distracted. Not if he wished to live.
A jab from Roland's billhook was batted away. A second jab fared the same. Roland could see the man's face clearly now - dirt stained wrinkles, and black-grey sideburns. The man smiled, crooked, yellow teeth with a few empty spots. "What's the matter, boy? Lose your nerve?"
Fire licked at the other houses. With the dry summer heat, it did not take long before their timber caught flame. The raiders waited outside, half bored, half trying to grow the flame.
Alys' sleeve was torn as she struggled, blood flowing down her face.
"Come on, boy." Another attack from Chiswyck, another desperate parry. Roland knew the older man had far more experience than he did. This man was a killer, plain and simple. "Stop being a silly cunt, boy. Come on, hit me. Give it your best."
Roland swung the billhook like an axe, down with all his strength. His opponent took it on his shield, redirecting the blow to the dirt. Chiswyck's sword flicked forward, only a stumble back by Roland avoided the blade from cutting his throat.
"Stop fucking about, Chiswyck! This bitch's feisty, you'd like her!" The men had forced Alys against the fence, facing Lymond's corpse. Her dress had been torn more. The one who's groin had been kicked shouted out as well, "Fighter like this, you know she's got a maiden cunny!"
Those in the houses had fled from the heat, right into the raider's arms. Myles and his wife cut down without a second thought, their babe's head crushed beneath the hobnailed boot of a raider. Damon, Lucas, their families - all gone in the same way.
Chiswyck battered the polearm to the side, stepping within Roland's reach. His sword flew down, sparks casting off its contact with Roland's kettlehelm. Roland threw his weight forward, his should against Chiswyck's shield. The hit forced the older man to fumble his footing backwards, as Roland retreated back to his weapon's effective distance.
A first failed thrust against the other man, battered away by his shield. An angry smile formed on the older man's face. A second failed thrust, beaten away by the shield once more.
A final thrust of the billhook - upwards and to the right. Chiswyck's blade hit the shaft, turning the point aside. The smile was still on the man's face as Roland yanked the polearm back, it's hooked blade crashing into the older man's neck. Chiswyck wailed as it bit into his skin, stumbling forward until he fell. Roland pulled back and jabbed the spike into the neck, twisting it about and pushing his weight on it until he found resistance. With a scraping crunch and a scream, cutting against bone.
He pulled the weapon out. Bile filled the back of his throat. Angry tears blurred his eyes. His first kill. The smell of roast mutton, burnt wool, and men, women, and children shitting themselves as they died filled his nostrils. Cries from the raiders sounded out, muffled. Taking notice that their leader had fallen. One by one they approached, swords in hand, Alys now forgotten, the crushed corpses of babes forgotten. Roland readied his polearm. The raiders gathered before him in a semi-circle, tapping their swords against their shields, adding to the cacophony of screams.
Five to one odds.
No chance of victory.
No choice of retreat.
No hope.