Chapter 94: Battle of Fallen Flowers
29 AC
Rickard
He was abruptly awoken by his cousin and squire 'Rion'. "Your father has demanded that you meet him in the command tent immediately, Prince Rickard." The Cerwyn youth told him, as he hovered over him.
He wiped away the crusts in his eyes, as he adjusted to the dim light around him. It looked to be early dawn, and if his father needed him now then it must be serious.
He got out of his bed, washed his face and put on a tunic and some light pants. He didn't bother facing away as he changed in front of his fifteen-year-old cousin. After a year of sharing a tent, there was nothing that he hadn't seen before.
Before leaving, Rion handed him his sword belt and he adjusted it, and the dagger hanging from, it as he left in a hurry. Ser Dickon silently marching next to him.
When he approached his father's tent, he could see Cedric Cerwyn standing watch. While walking past him he nodded at the Kingsguard, who bowed his head in response. Rion stayed outside, as he talked with his distant kinsman outside the door. Ser Dickon silently took his place next to his sworn brother.
He found his father standing around the wooden table, maps scattered across it. His uncle Jon was already there, as well as Lord Umber and his cousin Hoster. His royal father looked up at him and seemed pleased at his arrival. "Thank you for coming so quickly, son. Your brother, uncles and the other important nobles will arrive here soon."
His father's words rang true, as over a dozen men, all heirs or lords of important houses, arrived in the next ten minutes. He greeted his brother, uncles and cousins, before his father got down to business.
"Welcome to all of you. I know that you are all wondering why I have awoken you all this early and abruptly. Well, it seems that Tyrell has finally come out to play. His army has been spotted four miles to the west from here. The scouts tell me that they are in the process of taking their battle formations. Garlan Tyrell is inviting us to do battle, and I am planning to oblige him." His father started off, the tension in the room quickly rising as everybody reacted to the news.
Some looked concerned or serious, others grinned with grim satisfaction. Now was finally the time that all of them had been preparing for these past months.
"You all know the battle plans by now, but I will quickly summarize them again before the meeting with our allies after this." His father continued. "Our army numbers sixty-two thousand men, the largest army we have ever fielded. We will fight in a classic formation. Our infantry will be divided into three blocks who will be fighting next to each other. We outnumber our opponents and we will make sure we keep a long front to stretch them thin." Grunts of approval came from within the tent.
"The center will be made up of fourteen thousand Northmen, under the command of my son Rickard." Many looked at him and voiced their support. He nodded back in gratitude. "His seconds-in-command will be my brother Brandon, Lord Jon Umber and Lady Dacey Mormont."
"The left infantry, also fourteen thousand strong, will be under the command of Lord Hoster Tully and will consist of the Riverlander and Stormlander infantry. Prince Stannis Baratheon and Lord Brynden Blackwood will be his seconds-in-command." All seemed to accept this.
"The right infantry, again fourteen thousand strong, will consist of Valemen and Northmen. Its leader will be Ser Allard Royce. He will be aided in his command by Lords Symond Templeton and Cley Cerwyn."
"The right cavalry will consist of six thousand Northern horse and will be commanded by my brother Jon. My youngest son Prince Jon will aide him in this endeavor, together with Lords Domeric Bolton and Timothy Flint." His father decreed, and now he saw some of his younger countrymen shuffle. All Northern commands this far, except those of himself and his brother, had gone to old war companions of his father. He knew that some, like the Karstarks, Dustins and Manderlys had been hoping for a change in command to get a chance to prove themselves.
Their king just ignored it. "The left cavalry will consist of seven thousand horsemen, coming from the Stormlands, Vale and Riverlands. It will be led by Prince Consort Edric Baratheon and his seconds-in-command will be Lord Redfort and Ser Patrek Mallister.
"Four thousand arches will be just behind frontline, under the command of Lord Damwell Deddings. The rearguard will once again consist of two groups, one cavalry and one infantry. I will personally command the fifteen hundred Northern horse, while Prince Rickon will command the two thousand five hundred foot hailing from all possible regions. He will be aided by Lord Hayford and Harlon Sumber."
The last two names surprised him, but they were clever additions. Harlon was a friend of his, the heir to a new house with deep ties to both the North and the Riverlands. Lord Martyn Hayford was a few years his elder, but he also had strong ties to the North, while ruling in the Riverlands. This at last ensured that some people from the new generation received commands, although some still looked annoyed. Both of their lands were also situated close on the border with the Stormlands, which had as a result that they had good relations with some of their allies.
His father answered questions about the battle plan, while he went over to talk to the three men that would serve just under him in the coming battle. All three congratulated him again with his command, as he told them how he envisioned everything.
Fourteen thousand men were too much to control directly, so he would divide his own block in three smaller ones in the front and a fourth one in the back. He would take control of the middle one with Lord Umber taking the right and Lady Mormont the left. His uncle Brandon would be in charge of the backlines, his most important task to ensure that the troops were rotating in and out of the fight. He would only charge into the fight when forcing a break or stopping holes from forming in their lines.
After the meeting was finished and everyone had left the tent, he walked over to his father. "You mostly chose veterans from your past wars for command. My generation is getting restless." He remarked.
His kingly father scoffed. "Let them be restless. The men from your generation have gotten more than enough opportunities to prove themselves during the past campaign, and they will get many more of those once we have defeated Garlan's host. This battle will decide the future of this campaign, and the position of our kingdom south of the Neck. This is no moment for young men to demand easy glory."
He nodded understandably. "Nonetheless, we will need to give them something. In the future, these will be the lords that I will need to count on during my reign. I would like them experienced and not disgruntled, if at all possible."
His father sighed. "Aye, you're right, but today is not the day. We keep to the plan. Smalljon, Cley, Dacey, Domeric, your uncles, … I know them through and through and they are loyal to the bone. They will not fail us. That is what we need now. Nevertheless, I will give the youth more opportunities after the battle."
"Especially those who are here to represent their houses alone, I'm thinking about the Karstarks, Dustins and Manderlys, but also Ser Lymond Bracken, Lord Barthogan Rosby, Meeron Reed, Lord Gawen Glover and Lord William Mooton." He added.
His father nodded. "Aye, you're right, but not now. Now, we prepare for this battle." He commanded, as he clapped his shoulder. Together they walked outside of the command tent. Silently, they split up to go to their respective tents. His Cerwyn cousin quickly fell into step.
In his tent, Rion helped him to adorn his armor. After his mail and partial-plate was strapped-on, he helped his squire with the latest preparations for his own armor. Eddarion would not be fighting on the front lines, but he would serve by his side as a messenger and would need to be shielded against all kinds of harm.
Together, they walked out of his tent and saddled their horses. He nodded to Ser Dickon Brune and Cedric Cerwyn the two members of the Kingsguard that would serve at his side during the battle, and together with a small guard they rode towards the enemy.
Two hours later, he was examining the enemy line from amidst his soldiers. Tyrell had gathered some forty thousand men, he estimated. They were similarly positioned as their own men: the majority of the infantry in the middle and cavalry on the flanks. Archers stood in front and a reserve could be seen atop a hill in the back.
He knew that the battle could start at any moment and tightened his grip around the worn leather-wrapped hilt of his sword. To his right and left, the men of Winterfell's northern levy formed a steadfast spear wall, their faces grim and determined. He took a deep breath, letting the sharp tang of iron, sweat, and churned earth fill his senses, grounding him. Finally, the waiting was over.
A dozen horn blasts split the silence, the shrill sounds of trumpets echoing in response from across the field. He raised his own sword, signaling to his men. He knew their loyalty was not just to his house but to him. 'The unsatiated wolf' some in the army had started to call him, because of his habit to continue on until all objectives were captured and all enemies defeated no matter how long it took. He didn't mind.
"Advance!" He shouted, his voice echoing over the field. War horns blasted, taking over his command. Thousands of soldiers started to march, the rhythmic sound of their boots hitting the ground accompanying them on their march. Arrows flew in both directions, but he paid them no mind. Luckily, they didn't have to walk far, as the enemy also closed in on them.
"SHIELD WALL!" He screamed, and the first line raised their shields, before crashing into the enemy. He steeled himself for the impact, which he felt even from somewhere in the eight rank. His heart hammered in his chest for a quick second, but he felt a surge of fierce pride as none of the men around him moved a step backwards. Both lines had crashed against each other, none of the lines budging an inch as the thousands of bodies behind them held the men from the first line in place, quickly replacing anyone that was struck down.
"Hold the line!" He shouted, his voice cutting through the low hum of murmured prayers and the clang of steel. He could see the fear in some of his men's eyes, a mirror of his own inner turmoil at the sight of thousands of Reachmen soldiers crashing against their line. But he straightened, letting his gaze harden. A prince of Winterfell had no room for fear. A direwolf didn't fear roses, he trampled them.
The first minutes were brutal, a cacophony of metal on metal, screams, and the sickening crunch of weapons meeting flesh. He himself was too far away from the fighting to be in danger, which gave him an opportunity to assess the situation and exchange messages with his commanders. All went according to plan for now, but slowly and surely, he was pushed forward as dead men were replaced and the first exhausted soldiers were rotated out.
Eventually, he found himself face-to-face with an aging soldier clad in battered armor, his face smeared with dirt and blood, eyes wild with desperation. He dodged a blow aimed at his head, feeling the wind of it as it passed, and countered with a quick slash to the man's side, feeling the jolt as his blade found its mark.
Around him, his men were locked in close combat, the line shuddering but holding. The stench of blood and sweat filled the air, and he could hear his own breathing, ragged, as he parried and struck, moving with practiced precision. For a moment, it was as though he had been transported back to the training yards, the clash of wood on wood replaced now with steel and sinew. All that was missing was the stern voice of his Uncle Torr, who had taught him most of his sword lessons.
A man to his left fell with a strangled cry, clutching his side, but another took his place almost instantly. The enemies kept coming. He dodged, blocked and countered, but for every enemy that he hit, two more came to take his place. He fought for what felt like ages until he finally felt his arms tire. He shouted for the men behind him to rotate and take his place, as he stepped back into the relative security of the Northern line.
He gathered his breath and looked at his guard of friends and protectors. His father had gathered an honor guard for him, consisting of nobles from all over the North. Most seemed to be here, although he couldn't find Torben Flint, Lord Timothy's amusing cousin.
He looked around, and awaited messages to reach him. However, all that Rion had to tell him was that the line was holding. He gathered his thoughts and stretched his arm, before walking forward once again back into the fray.
Jon Whitefyre
He sat at the front of his cavalry force. Six thousand mounted Northern warriors ready to pounce on the enemy when he gave the command. Lord Timothy Flint was in the rear, ensuring that the group stayed together during the charge and giving him the possibility to rally the troops if something went wrong.
His nephew and namesake, 'Littlejon' was beside him and together they would control the main charge. Domeric had been given special command of fifteen hundred riders. He would command the middle, and was allowed to direct forces to split off from the force to exploit gaps in the enemy lines. Domeric was by far the best and most mobile cavalry commander. He trusted his judgement with his life.
He watched the battle commence, as the infantry crashed against each other in the middle with the flanks doing the same not much later. The enemy right flank, his main target, had charged down from the slight hill to clash into their own troops. The line of fighting was vast, hundreds of men wide, and only stopped some two hundred yards from a close by tree line.
The enemy cavalry was fainting to get them to commit too soon, but he wouldn't fall for that. He raised his hand in a fist, to let the men know they had to hold. The horses were getting restless from the sounds and smells of battle, but now was not yet the time.
Ghost and Fang stood beside them, quietly taking in the battle that was unfolding on their flank. They were both in extreme control of their companions, his nephew having been trained and instructed in his warging capabilities by his family in secret for almost a decade.
Suddenly, to his surprise, the enemy cavalry opposite them moved in earnest. Their most recent faint didn't seem to be a faint at all as thousands of Southern horsemen galloped forward, clearly aiming to charge at their right flank. They already neared the tree line close at the edge of their infantry formation. He cursed loudly; they had taken him by surprise. "Charge men!" He screamed and the war horns were sounded, as he urged his horse forward.
Thousands of veteran riders followed him, as they surged forward. He cursed again, as he saw the enemy cavalry in front of him turn and barrel straight into the flank of their own men. The far right of their line, consisting of Valemen under Lord Symond Templeton was buckled severely with hundreds of infantrymen being trampled in front of his eyes.
It was a bold move which heavily damaged their position, but it was also desperate. They fielded more infantry than the enemy did and, while this helped the enemy greatly to even the scales, it wouldn't break their own flank. The desperate move would come to cost them dearly. He would turn and charge the enemy in the back, pinning them between the Vale infantry and his horsemen. He would annihilate the cream of the Reacher nobility at the start now, maybe Domeric could exploit the opening to wreak havoc in their rear.
He slowed down slightly, to allow the horsemen behind him to fall in line with him. In front of the tree line, they turned in a similar motion as the enemy had done before them. He lowered his lance, preparing to pierce it into some knight's back, when he was suddenly interrupted with the sound of bows loosening. He looked around and, to his shock, he saw how a few hundred archers had emerged from the closeby tree line. They must have been hidden behind it long before the battle had started, how they had missed this he did not know.
The arrows flew into the sides and backs of his cavalrymen, as confusion and fear spread to parts of their grouping. Its damage weakened their charge but was not nearly serious enough to break it. Before he could contemplate on what to do, he charged into the fray, and thousands of his riders with him.
He missed the first rider in front of him, as he was wrapping his head around the archer situation. Luckily for him, Ghost barreled into the opponent's horse, neutralizing any threat the knight would have posed to him. He shook of his doubts and struck his lance into the thigh of a knight who was charging towards his nephew. He left it there, pulling out his sword as he rode on.
Their horsemen pierced through the enemy backline, and it soon turned into a chaotic melee with riders from both camps emerging from all directions. A knight dressed in dark red colors rode up to him from his left and he brought up his shield to block the man's morning star from connecting with his helmet. The iron spikes took out a small part of the woodwork, but they didn't pierce through.
He pulled at his reigns to order his horse to turn and managed to swing at the knight with his sword as he did so. It was a well-aimed strike, but the knight had seen it coming and blocked it with his own shield. Instead of breaking apart, the knight turned his horse in the opposite direction of him, and they traded blows as they turned around each other in circles.
His sword flashed towards the man's helmet, shoulder and thigh, but was consistently countered by his opponent's shield. Similarly, he caught all strikes from the enemy morning star. They continued to circle around each other, until a powerful strike of the knight pierced his shield just under his arm. The impact of the blow could be felt through his whole body, but he didn't let the opportunity go to waste.
He pushed his shield forward, making it impossible for the knight to pull out his weapon, which had become stuck in his shield. He relentlessly hammered blows upon the rider, as he desperately tried to free his weapon. His first strikes were blocked by the shield, but a cunning slash managed to hit the knight's thigh. The maroon colors of his tabard turned crimson, as blood flowed from the wound.
Openings now began to appear, and he hit the Reachman upon his elbow and shoulder, before seeing him yank back in pain. The movement created an opening between his helmet and mail at the neck, and he immediately directed a vicious slash towards it. Blood spurted out, as he had cut the carotid artery. The knight fell from his horse, as blood was sprouting from his neck, mouth and nose.
He didn't spare him a second glance and continued on. In a flash, he recognized Ser Jeremy Bigglestone from the Kingsguard in front of him, but he vanished again as soon as he came while chasing behind some enemy rider.
He crossed swords with another rider, but his adversary was soon hit on the back of the head by a Northern mounted soldier. By the time his lifeless body fell on the ground, he had already started seeking another opponent.
Ghost was a constant menace at his side, who prevented any enemy from charging him in the back. Together they fought off multiple attacks, as friend and foe fell around him. They largely had the upper hand, and their advantage seemed to be growing.
Suddenly, everything changed, as numerous enemy riders seemed to charge in from behind them. Where they came from, he did not know, but fear quickly struck him. While fending off the incoming attackers, he frantically looked around for the direwolf banner, which would symbolize his nephew's presence. He saw it waving behind him, in the direction from which the enemy was coming. He rallied as many of his men as he could and charged towards it, blocking strikes from three consecutive enemies that raced past him. The fourth one who did so, he countered with a slash to the back of his head as he rode past. The stunned knight fell from horse, his body trampled within seconds by the hooves of his allies behind him.
In front of him, he saw the banner go down and he sped up even further. Ghost must have felt his fear, as he charged on. The terror his companion caused to the enemy horses clearing a path for him to follow.
The sight he came upon was bad. His nephew and a dozen of his companions were encircled by an endless stream of enemies. 'LittleJon' had lost his helmet, and blood was streaming from the side of his face. Ser Jeremy Bigglestone rode beside him, desperately protecting the prince's flank from all assailants. To his shock, he recognized another of the prince's companions as he rode towards them. His sixteen-year-old son Benjen was fighting back-to-back with his cousin, as both their companions Rhotri and Fang attacked in all directions.
He viciously slashed at a rider who had come up on his flank, severing the man's hand from his arm as his sword uselessly fell to the ground. Ignoring the shocked screams of his, now handless, opponent, he looked over his own shoulder and saw that a few dozen of his men had followed him. Together they charged to the aid of their countrymen and prince. His men formed a circle around the desperate group, as he saw another one of his son's protectors, a Dustin looking from his yellow tabbard, fall to an enemy axe.
"Benjen, Jon! We need to get out of here now!" He screamed at them. Both looked tired, but they clenched their teeth and nodded. He took charge of the situation and ordered the group to ride back towards the infantry line. They tried to do so, but only moved slowly, as dozens of enemy riders came at them from all sides. The continuous stream of attacks took their toll, as more and more of their guards fell under enemy swords, amongst them Brandon Woolfield, Lord Manfred's eldest son.
They seemed to be making ground, until a large group of enemy riders came upon them from the left wearing the colors of House Tarly. To his shock, he recognized Lord Dickon Tarly at the helm. The son of the late Lord Randyll was King Garlan's uncle and main military advisor. What was he doing here in this brazen cavalry charge? He would have never allowed his men to execute such a stupid move and where were all their reinforcements coming from?
Rhotri charged the group, severing the neck of the horse of Tarly's right hand man and scratching another's belly. However, the young direhound had charged in too wildly. Three Reachmen knights wounded the animal with their lances in quick succesion, as it pulled off the arm of a fallen Reacher knight. Lord Tarly rode up to it, and to their horror, he pierced his own lance right through the skull of his young son's companion.
"RHOTRI, NO!" His son screamed and blind anger took hold of his youngest. He broke ranks and charged the group of knights, his princely cousin charging behind him with his direwolf to his own horror and that of Ser Jeremy. They had no choice but to follow them.
Benjen, in his blind anger, sliced the arm off one of Tarly's mounted soldiers until he clashed with another knight decorated in the colors of House Peake. Prince Jon was right behind him, managing to protect his flank against the Peake knight's companions. Fang was not far away as he jumped a rider from his horse and mauled his head to pieces before they both reached the ground.
Ser Jeremy immediately engaged the incoming swarm of Tarly knights, and he stood beside him with Ghost. The two direwolves were clearly the only reason they managed to momentarily stem the tide of battle. "GET THE PRINCE OUT OF HERE! I'LL GET MY SON" He shouted at the member of the Wolfsguard, as his grey cape was sliced through by a Reachman's axe.
Without another word, the Riverlander knight turned his horse towards the prince. He took hold of the reigns of 'LitteJon's' horse and forced them back. A dozen Northern riders trying to cover their desperate retreat.
He quickly dealt with the enemy standing between him and his son. He drove his blade forward, slipping it between the man's arm and his breastplate. The enemy rider slumped, his sword falling from his hand as he slid lifelessly from his horse. Subsequently, he grabbed his son's reigns and forcefully turned his horse, but around him the remaining Northern riders were already falling left and right.
Suddenly, Lord Tarly himself was upon them. He wielded his ancestral Valyrian steel sword Hearthsbane from atop his horse, cleanly cutting off a corner of his shield when he raised it in response. He gritted his teeth and threw the thing away; it would be no use here. He pulled Frost, formerly known as Blackfyre, from his back in response. Neither his longsword, nor his opponent's greatsword, were made to fight on horseback, but none of them minded this as sparks flew in the air every time the weapons connected.
"GET OUT OF HERE, BENJEN!" He screamed to his son, as he exchanged blows with Dickon Tarly. However, his young son, too blinded by pain and overcome with rage at his companion's killer, didn't listen. He charged right at Tarly's back but was interrupted by two young knights wearing the same colors as his opponent.
"My sons", Lord Dickon grinned from underneath his helmet as he swung a violent strike at his head. He blocked the attack, its power straining his already tired muscles further.
One by one, the Northern riders around them fell, until only he, Benjen and Ghost remained. "I will give you this one opportunity to surrender." Tarly spat at him, as the lord deflected a strike he had aimed at his shoulder.
"WE WILL NEVER SURRENDER!" His son screamed, and as such he could do nothing but fight on. Tarly was good, and he couldn't get any advantage on him. Suddenly, he felt a jolt of pain in the back of his head. He twisted his head and saw how a rider had pierced Ghost's skin with a lance. His direwolf limped back towards them after killing the rider but was blocked from doing so by numerous horses from the Reach.
He blocked another attack, and took the opportunity to look how his son was doing. There, his worst nightmare suddenly came to pass. He saw the sword before he heard the scream, as one of the Tarly knights pierced his son's side with his weapon. He instinctively knew that the strike was lethal. Tears filled his eyes, as rage came over him. His entire life, he had tried to control the irascibility that ran in both his mother's and father's families. Seeing his young son killed in front of his eyes, all of this changed. In that moment, he didn't have any use for control. His son was dead, his life was already forfeit. All that mattered now, was to avenge his little boy.
He locked swords with Hearthsbane, before pushing it, and its handler, back. "A son for a son." He hissed back at him, as he violently turned around his horse. He charged at both Tarly's, one vicious slash dealing with the rider that came up to protect them, as his Valyrian steel sword cut right through the man's sword into the man's shoulder.
He rode right in between the two Tarlys, at the last moment twisting his body towards the knight on the right, as it was the right one who carried his son's blood on his sword. He swatted away the young knight's sword as if it was nothing, before swinging at him all the strength he had left. He put all his anger, confusion and sadness into that swing. To his grim satisfaction, he felt the sword cleave through skin and bone like it was nothing. The young Tarly's head came loose from his neck and time seemed to slow down as he passed the headless corpse of his son's killer, its head slowly falling to the ground.
He barely felt the pain in his back, as he concentrated upon the way the corpse of his son's killer fell unceremoniously from his horse. He rode on, but suddenly noticed that he had difficulty remaining in the saddle. His sword fell from his hands to the ground, and his hands slowly went to the dull pain in his lower back. To his shock, he felt blood gushing out of it. He looked at it, it was crimson red as it quickly covered his hands.
He lost his balance and fell from his horse onto his back. The fall didn't hurt as much as he had expected, nor did his wound if he had to be honest. He raised his hands, as he looked at his blood glistering in the blistering Southern sun. His gaze turned blurry, as he saw someone jump from his horse and walk towards him. He raised something, the object reflected more of the sun's light. He felt another sting, as his gaze turned dark. He barely felt it. All he could think about was his lost son, his remaining children and the sweet loving embrace of his Wylla.
Robb
He looked upon the events that were unfolding in front of his eyes with increased shock. Everything had started out just as planned. The infantry had clashed, and their archers had immediately supported them. The line had safely held and due to their extra manpower, it seemed like they would surely overpower them in time.
Then the enemy left cavalry, some three thousand strong, had rashly crashed into their right flank. Parts of their line had been swept away, but due to their extra manpower they had stabilized the front quickly. Jon had reacted swiftly and charged the enemy cavalry in the back.
From that point on, everything had started going awry. Hundreds of archers had come out of the woodwork and pelted their Northern cavalry in the back, still they had crashed in with significant strength and had quickly gained the upper edge, although it seemed messy.
A group of Northern riders from the back under the banner of Lord Flint had charged the archers to try and silence them, but suddenly, thousands of enemy cavalrymen had emerged from behind the hill. They had swept aside Lord Flint's men and charged the main body of cavalry in their back.
The enemy charge came as thunder, a surge of bodies and raised lances. Their shouts rose as one, the sound carrying far across the battlefield, as they crashed against the northern rear like a wave. It had turned the fighting into complete chaos. For once in his military career, he had been stunned, but he had quickly snapped out of it due to the quick thinking of his youngest brother.
Without waiting for his command, Rickon had advanced his infantry towards their right side, pikes and spears in the front and man-at-arms behind them. His brother's men quickly marched toward the right to stabilize the frontline and prevent the Tyrells from rolling up their entire formation. He had seemingly also sent a unit of a few hundred spearmen to guard their archers, just in case. Inexplicably, the movements of the soldiers were also accompanied by the harrowing howls of all the direwolves in the vicinity, including Grey Wind.
He quickly followed suit, having no time to think what his direwolf's howls meant as he rallied his horsemen and rode towards the fighting to prevent the enemy from exploiting their now open flank. He could see hundreds of Northern horsemen escaping from the melee to all sides, only a single group, waving around the banner of the flayed man, carrying some resemblance of discipline.
The pounding of hooves around him felt like thunder in his chest, each beat quickening as he spurred his warhorse forward. He mumbled a small prayer to the Old Gods, as he tightened his grip on his lance, feeling the weight of its pull slightly as they closed the distance with the enemy. Next to him, his goodbrother and commander of his Kingsguard did a similar thing. Together they crashed into the enemy side at the point of their formation. As always, Grey cut a path for them with a giant leap of a charge.
He plunged his lance to the left into the side of an enemy rider, before pulling out his mace and quickly hitting another on the back of his head with it as he rode by. He rode deeper into the enemy formation, to his shock finding no countrymen still fighting inside it. As he charged on, he exchanged blows with enemy knights but was never able to hit any others until their charge was halted.
In that moment, he got stuck in a duel with a knight wearing a light blue and yellow tabard, which had blood splatters all over it from earlier fights. Realizing that the blood must have come from one of his own countrymen, he channeled his anger into one of his swings. He hit the knight on the elbow of his sword arm, and he dropped his war hammer as a result. His next two hits were deflected by the Reachman's shield, but the third hit him right in the face. A sickening crunch could be heard, as a serious dent appeared in the man's helmet as he pulled his mace back. His opponent's body motionlessly fell back from his horse, and he quickly engaged another.
This one was dressed in the colors of House Tyrell. The knight aimed his sword at him, but completely missed his effort. As the rider barreled past him, he punched his shield into his face and followed this up with an overhead swing from his mace. He hit the rider on his shoulder. It wasn't enough to kill him, but it would seriously hurt. The rider quickly turned his horse around and rode away in retreat. He let him go; there were more than enough enemies around.
Everywhere he looked, the battlefield was a maelstrom of flailing hooves, swinging swords, and shouting men. In the chaos of the melee, there was little room for finesse; it was brutal, close work, fought not only with weapons but with elbows, knees, and every ounce of strength a man could muster.
His mace arced down, crashing onto the shoulder of yet another enemy, denting plate and cutting through chain mail and flesh. The man cried out, slipping from his saddle. He then saw something blink in the corner of his eye, and quickly kicked his horse to pivot, barely dodging a spear aimed at his side. He countered, slashing the spear-wielding rider across the chest, sending him reeling back in the saddle.
He threw a glance back, and saw Torr, Ser Edmyn and Grey Wind protecting his rear. Then a knight charged him from the left, shield raised high, sword poised for a killing blow. He threw up his own shield, deflecting the strike, then swung forward, hitting only air this time. The rider, wearing yellow birds on a field of green, barreled past him and disappeared into the fighting.
The smell of sweat, blood, and churned earth filled his nostrils, as he desperately looked around for his missing son and brother. The melee whirled around him, a blur of flashing steel and thrashing horses.
He saw one of his bannermen unhorsed, grappling with an enemy knight on the ground, and spurred his own horse forward to assist. Leaning down, he struck the enemy across the back, drawing the man's attention just long enough for his vassal to regain his footing and stab the enemy under his armpit with his dagger, before proficiently hopping onto a passing horse and rejoining the fray. To his shock, he recognized him as Edrick Karstark, Harrion's eldest son.
As he rode past, he felt a sting in his right shoulder. He quickly turned around in the saddle, noticing how a man on foot had managed to sneak up on him and land a glancing blow on his armor with his sword. Before he could lash out, Grey Wind suddenly emerged from behind the footman. One jump and one terrifying bite was all it took to deal with him, as he watched his direwolf spit out large parts of the soldier's neck and all the blood that accompanied it.
Suddenly, he could see some of the enemy turn around and flee. Why he did not know, but he pressed on and so did his men. More and more of their opponents began to falter and flee. Yet not all did so.
An enemy knight on horseback appeared before him, larger than the rest, wielding a massive warhammer. The knight's armor was blackened and spiked, his helm fully covering his face with only a small visor betraying a pair of brown hateful eyes. He gritted his teeth, urging his horse forward. They clashed, his mace ringing against the iron shaft of the knight's hammer. The man was powerful, each blow that the weapon connected on his shield reverberating through his bones. They exchanged swings, as their horses turned around each other, until he ducked under a sweeping strike, bringing his mace up in a vicious arc that caught the knight under his arm, crashing into the weak part of his armor.
He heard ribs shatter under his blow and the knight swayed back and forth in the saddle, a strangled sound escaping his helm. Seconds later, he toppled from his horse, leaving him panting, his mace meaninglessly hanging from his arm next to him, the arm in question feeling too tired to lift it again. He glanced around, heart racing as he took stock. His men were pressing the enemy back, as the enemy cavalry fully routed.
Torr rode up to him, he had lost his helmet, and a heap of half-dried blood covered the right side of his face. Nonetheless, he seemed to be well enough. Grey trotted over to him, suddenly whining softly. His direwolf took the reins of his horse in his maw and led them away from the battle to the back. In all their decades together, his direwolf had never done such a thing so he decided to allow him to take the reins. He quickly motioned for Torr to follow him, as his direwolf took the lead.
Grey Wind did so until they neared a hill with a small group of trees upon it a few hundred yards to the back of their formation. Torr, and Ser Edmyn Grey, the two loyal men of his Wolfsguard, who had protected his back during the fighting, had rallied some two dozen riders to follow him. As he neared the trees, he could see two warhorses tied to a low-hanging branch.
Grey Wind let out a low-piercing howl, and it was answered with a similar sound from behind the hill. Yet, the other howl sounded weak and in pain. Shock took hold of him, as he realized a wounded direwolf found itself on the other side and he quickly sped up, Grey happy that he finally understood the urgency of their mission.
They crested the hill, only to find Ser Jeremy Bigglestone and his youngest son there, looking concerned at the lying figure of Fang, his son's direwolf. The reason for their concern was clear, as the direwolf was bleeding from two bleeding wounds in his side, of which one looked very serious. Grey Wind walked over to his son and licked the young direwolf's face, as he whined softly.
He turned around to the guards that had accompanied them. "You, you and you," he pointed to the first three, "ride into camp and find a healer and my personal kennel master. Tell them that one of the direwolves is wounded and needs their immediate attention. Do this quickly and you will be rewarded beyond your imagination, act too slowly and punishment will await you." He barked his orders. All three lowered their heads in a small bow, before putting their spurs into their horses' flanks and racing off in the direction of the camp.
He jumped off his horse to take a good look at his young son. His armor had been discarded and was lying among the roots of the trees, as he stood bare-chested under the Southern sun. Caked blood could be seen all throughout his hair, probably coming from a small cut on the side of his forehead. Wounds upon his arms, shoulders and back had been bandaged with strips of his tunic. He was shocked to see so many of them, but none seemed to be too worrisome, as he moved reasonably normally when he came to hug him.
He did so lightly, mindful of his son's many bruises, but with immense relief, as he looked over his son's sworn protector. Ser Jeremy had also discarded his armor, but he seemed even worse for wear. The knight was in the process of bandaging a nasty cut in his thigh, while blood still dripped from unattended wounds on his upper body, which looked blue and black from all the bruises.
Torr and Ser Edmyn jumped from their horses, and after making sure the perimeter was secure, moved to help their sworn brother. They silently ripped parts of their tunics and started making make-shift bandages for his many wounds.
"What happened, Jon?" He asked his youngest son, who's eyes displayed nothing more than sorrow and defeat. Those grey-blue eyes, so like his mother's, looked to the ground as he started talking.
"We charged the enemy cavalry from behind, but from the start everything went wrong. Archers shot us in the back continuously, as we beat back the enemy horse. Then we were suddenly engulfed by hundreds of enemy riders. I still have no idea where any of them came from. We soon found ourselves surrounded in a sea of enemies. Just as we thought we were lost, Uncle Jon showed up with a few dozen horsemen."
His son's whole body shuddered as he retold the events. "He managed to get us moving again, and started to pull us away from the fighting, while my men and friends were killed all around us. Everything seemed saved, until Rhotri attacked too brazenly into oncoming Tarly horsemen and Lord Tarly killed Benjen's companion. Cousin Benjen charged to avenge him, and I tried to protect him, but we should have remained in line."
"Ser Jeremy and Uncle Jon charged the Tarly's to save us, and Ser Jeremy managed to pull me out. Both of us were wounded in our flight multiple times, but we would have surely perished if it weren't for Fang's help. He paid the price for it, as you can see." He said, as he pointed at the animal who was whining in pain to his direwolf father. Grey Wind nuzzled the young wolf, while he looked pleadingly into his eyes. Help him! He constantly heard through the decades old bond he had with his companion.
He closed his eyes for a second and pulled at the strings at the back of his mind. Inside of his direwolf, he soothed him. Help is on the way. It will be here soon. He told his companion from within, before pulling out again to listen to his own son.
However, his son stopped and refused to look him in the eye. Then it hit him. "Where is your Uncle Jon?"
His son let out a meek sigh, before steeling himself and looking at him. "Last I saw him; he was locked in personal combat with Lord Tarly while Benjen was engaging Tarly's sons. None of us saw anything from him anymore, but Fang let out a great howl when we were escaping the melee. I fear the worst."
"Grey and Shaggy also let out harrowing howls as we charged into battle …" He whispered in shock.
Without thinking, he slipped into Grey Wind and tried to locate Ghost. To his surprise, he managed to do so, and the animal seemed off in the direction of the army. He told his son as much, who still didn't look convinced it meant anything good.
He walked over to Ser Jeremy, who confirmed what his son had told him. He helped bandage one of his wounds on his right forearm, and his own small wound on his shoulder was also looked at. When that was finished, the guards returned with a healer and his kennel master who quickly went to work on Fang.
There was nothing more he could do here, so he left half a dozen guards under the leadership of Sir Edmyn behind to protect his son and Ser Jeremy and rode back to his army. There he was met commanders, who congratulated him on the victory. He asked around, but none had heard from his brother, as he realized none of the commanders he encountered had actually been part of the right cavalry.
He heard how the remainder of their battle plans had gone off as planned. Their left cavalry under Prince Consort Edric Baratheon had defeated its much smaller counterpart, before it had smashed into the enemy right infantry and had rolled up the Reachmen's line. King Garlan Tyrell had apparently been slain by Lord Redfort in the fighting in the middle, while trying to stabilize his frontline. After this, the whole enemy army had routed.
After a while, he finally found Ghost. The direwolf had also been severely wounded, and he was being tended to by a healer. Ghost's head lay in Edrick's lap. Jon's eldest son looked at him with tears in his eyes, as Lord Domeric Bolton stood next him, his hand on the boy's shoulder; his facial features hard. His eyes found his eldest son a little further away, talking with some of his Northern vassals. He would go over to him later.
"Edrick!" He shouted. "I am so glad to find you unharmed." He voiced, as he jumped off his horse. "Uncle," the young heir to Dragon's Lair acknowledged softly with an unconvincing nod of his head.
He walked over to him and scratched Ghost behind his ear, as the direwolf wined softly and licked his hand. Edrick just hugged Ghost without saying anything, which made him fear the worst.
"Your Grace," his goodbrother addressed him. He switched his focus to the Lord of the Dreadfort. "I am saddened that I have the duty to inform you of the grave fate of your family. Your brother Jon and nephew, Benjen, have both perished during the battle."
He looked at his nephew again in shock, who had seemingly lost his father and only brother, while a lump formed in his throat. "Are you sure of this?" He softly asked. Lord Domeric nodded. "I saw it happen with my own eyes, Your Grace. We were too far away to reach him to do anything."
"How … how did it happen?" He voiced slowly.
Lord Domeric threw a glance at Edrick, as if doubting whether it was good to tell this here. Still, he answered his question. "They got separated from Prince Jon and were engaged by Lord Tarly and his sons. When the young Tarlys struck down young Benjen, Lord Jon went into a rage. He leapt into a suicidal charge and beheaded one of Tarly's sons but was taken stabbed in the back because of it. My men are in the process of retrieving their bodies and his ancestral blade Frost."
He absently nodded in thanks, as he shuffled over to his nephew. Without saying a word, he took his place on the ground next to him. He put his left hand on Edrick's shoulder, as his right absently petted Ghost's flank. Grey Wind whined softly, as he put his head against that of his mute brother. His companion wasn't used to consoling his direwolf kin so much, but he did his best.
Ghost turned his head towards him and he looked into the white direwolf's eyes to see a small shift occur inside them, as they looked intently into his own. Ghost's red eyes turned almost … grey? With shock he remembered what one of his wildling captives had told him when he had ventured with Bran behind the wall. When a warg's body dies, it is believed that his mind passes into the body of his animal.
He bowed forward and whispered in the direwolf's ear: "Jon?" The wolf licked his hand enthusiastically in response, nodding slowly in between. His eyes turned white. He looked up to tell the news to his nephew, but he remembered the presence of Lord Domeric, and many other nobles and soldiers around him. He would have to wait to tell Jon's son what he had seen.
He stayed with Edrick for a while, until he finally got op to attend the commander meeting, from which he immediately excused his nephew. "Take care of your father's body. I would like nothing more than to join you in this endeavor, but I cannot. You can. All the nobles will understand your absence." Jon's son slowly nodded, as he kept absentmindedly stroking Ghost behind his ear.
With a heavy heart, and while fighting back tears, he climbed on his horse and rode towards his command tent with many of his nobles. On the way, some of his lords filled him in on other parts of the battle, while he remained silent. There he was informed about the last conclusive results of the clash. "The Tyrells had fielded some forty-four thousand troops. Ten thousand of them died, with a similar amount being captured. Those numbers will only go up, as hundreds of our horsemen are chasing the survivors to all corners of the land." Lord Hoster Tully explained to all the lords.
"What are our own casualties?" Lord Redfort asked.
His heir, who had taking charge in his absence, answered this question. "That depends greatly on which grouping. The losses to our archers are minimal, and infantry losses are also low, except for the Templeton detachment that was charged down by the initial attack on our right flank. Our cavalry suffered very severe losses, mainly the Northern horse. All-in-all, we lost around seven thousand men, half of which were part of the Northern cavalry. Some two thousand of our men have also fled the battlefield, but most of them are expected to rejoin us in the coming days."
"In contrast to many of our earlier battles, the toll on our nobility was high." Rickard continued. "From the Vale, we lost Lord Symond Templeton, his nephew Ser Matthos Templeton, Ser Hugo Upcliffe and Ser Jasper Melcolm. From the Stormlands, the most significant losses were Lord Cedric Buckler and Ser Jeremy Kellington. They will all be missed." His heir looked to the nobles from these kingdoms, as he told them this. The friends and family of those named nodding appreciatingly at the gesture.
"Sers Patrek Mallister, Lewys Smallwood, Alesander Goodwood and Ronnel Vance have fallen from the Riverlands." His eldest son then paused and let out a deep sigh. "From the North, notable losses include Lord Jon Whitefyre, his youngest son Benjen Whitefyre, Lord Gawen Glover, Lord Roger Ryswell, Lord Timothy Flint and his cousin Torben, Lord Edmyn Forrester, Brandon Woolfield, Hoarfrost Umber, Benjicot Dustin, Donnel Slate, Morgan Wull, Theodor Little, Baldor Crowl, and Hother Karstark."
He listened to all the names that were being called off. They hailed from all over the North, from Flint's Finger to Skagos, and from the Bite to the Rills.
The personal toll to his family was immense. The Gods hadn't taken been satisfied with only taking his brother and nephew. Eddara's husband Lord Gawen Glover and Arya's eldest son Medgar had also died. All four had died with the cavalry on the right, as had most of the fallen Northern nobles.
Medgar had apparently succumbed to a wound from an arrow in the back at the beginning of their charge. Witnesses had told him that Nymeria had gone crazy after Medgar had been lethally wounded. She had dragged him out of the fighting and stayed with him until he died. Afterwards, she had raced to the center to be at his brother's side.
Eddarion Cerwyn, Arya's second son, had been serving in the center as his son's squire. As a squire, he mostly stayed out of the fighting, although he often found himself very close to the frontline to relay messages and bring provisions that his son needed. According to witnesses, Nymeria had shown up near the end of the battle and had forcefully dragged 'Rion' away to the backlines, where she guarded him until the battle was over, growling and biting towards anyone that was willing to come between her and her objective.
It seemed like she did everything she could to keep her mistress's second son alive, even temporarily kidnapping him away from the battle and threatening their own troops. Some tongues even spoke about the fact that she had wounded Northmen when she had desperately tried to drag Medgar away from the midst of their horsemen, but Rickard had quickly silenced those rumors his son had quietly told him right before the meeting. An uncontrollable direwolf hurting Northmen was a horrendous story for morale, and Nymeria seemed placated now, although she refused to leave Rion's side.
The silence that had come over his Northern lords was deafening. All had lost kin here on the field today, and it showed into their sorrowful expressions. After a while, the Lord of Riverrun couldn't take it anymore and continued. "The Reach's nobility's losses have been huge. The cream of its nobility has either died or surrendered here today, except for Lord Tarly and a select group of nobles under his command."
A Riverlander squire handed him another list and he read off the names hastily scribbled upon it. "Some of the most powerful rulers of the Reach died today, including those from Tyrell's closest circle. Lords Gerold Hightower, Osgood Peake, Hobber Redwyne, Alyn Ambrose and Leo Tyrell of Brightwater Keep all perished on the field, as did Lords Ashford, Risley, Beesbury, Blackbar, Graceford and Footly and many of their family members, vassals and household knights."
"Almost as much have surrendered to us. We have in our captivity Lords Oakheart, Redding, Fossoway, Merrywheather, Varner, Leygood, as well as the newly acclaimed Lords Blackbar, Ambrose and Ashford. Over a hundred heirs, second and third sons, brothers, nephews and cousins have also put down their weapons. The only notable absentees are Lord Dickon Tarly and his heir, although he has lost his second son in battle to Lord Jon Whitefyre, Lord Bulwer, Lord Humfrey Rowan and the newly acclaimed Lord Gordan Peake."
"We have vanquished the Reach forces. The way to Highgarden lies open, as do all the spoils that its bountiful lands have to offer. These pompous flowers have tried to weaken us by sowing dissent in our own kingdom, even in my own family. They have invaded our lands for nothing more than greed and selfish ambitions. Let them pay the price for it now. Let them feel what the Riverlands have felt. They wanted to loot us and neutralize our threat to them for generations. Well, let's turn the table on them now. When we're finished, nobody will see the Reach as a threat any longer." Hoster Tully roused the present lords.
All the present nobles from the Riverlands, Stormlands and Vale cheered, while most of the Northern lords looked broodingly at each other. He had to intervene. This was indeed a grand victory, and his countrymen shouldn't forget that, no matter how sad they all felt because many of their friends and family members had fallen.
"What Lord Tully is saying is true." He jumped in. "We have all but defeated organized resistance in the Reach. This is a great victory." He spoke, as he took his place next to his Lord Paramount and his heir. "For this victory, we have paid a steep price, which all the more compels us to make the most of it. The Reach is open, and it will feel our wrath. We have come here because we were forced into a war we did not want, but we shall not leave these lands until all have submitted to our demands!" He waited for a second or two to make sure his words sunk in.
"We will break the last resistance and will enrich ourselves in doing so, we earned that right. Tonight, we will celebrate this hard-fought and well-earned victory. Tomorrow, we will honor and avenge the fallen; and we will loot enough of the wealth of the Reach to ensure that their children and their children's children will live far better lives in our home countries than their fallen fathers ever did. We will ensure that the Reach will never be able to threaten our lands again, not in our lifetimes and neither in the lifetimes of those children's children! After we are finished with them, the roses won't sport any thorns any longer!" He cried out loudly.
Now the Northern lords joined in and screamed their agreement. He smiled his typical fake smile, a necessity as a king. All he could think of was going to see Jon's body, and finding a Weirwood to pray in. Nevertheless, he would need to go see Edrick. His nephew needed him, now more than ever. He would push down his own grief as much as he could and be there for Jon's son, it was what his brother would have wanted.
This is it for this chapter!
The great clash between the Tyrells and the Stark alliance has finally come to pass. Garlan Tyrell and Dickon Tarly show their military genius, but it is not enough. Great losses take place, first and foremost Jon and his son Benjen, but the entire Northern cavalry is hit hard with losses that every house will feel. The Stark family is hit harder than it ever has been since Robb's birth, as our king loses a brother, two nephews and his eldest son-in-law.
Nonetheless, The Reach's losses are even harsher. Jon kills one of Tarly's sons before he dies, Garlan Tyrell is killed, and many nobles die in the brutal fighting as the entire army routs. Many others are captured too.
Many deaths (Stark, Cerwyn, Goodwood, Umber, Dustin, Karstark, …) are shown upon the family tree, the link of which is still in my profile description. You just need to delete the spaces that I put in between, otherwise it doesn't work with the Fanfiction website.
Thank you all for your support.
Fannic.
Reviews:
- RomanOrtega: That is the main reason that Willem peaced out. If he lost any more loyal subjects, he would be too weak to defend himself. He lost some of his greatest supporters (Swyft & his twin brother) and some of his strongest new allies (Crakehall). Any more defeats could have been the end for him.
- Yogurt9928: Thanks mate! Garlan is a great military commander, but his initial mistakes were too great to overcome. Robb had decimated the north of the Reach and has gathered a numerical advantage too great to overcome in the end.
The Westerlands will be interesting, more on that later. The new young Robert Baratheon shows promise, but he is not a replica of his grandfather/granduncle.
Glad to hear that you like it. Edrick doesn't have one for a reason, I won't say much more. What did you think of the battle?
- Scifiromance: Thank you! The long-time fallout will be interesting and will be described. The Starks have more distant family than most think, I love exploring that.
- Rebfan90: Thank you!
- Notyourpapa: Thank you! Everything has been going great, it was just very busy.
- Hank Jones: You have to keep in mind that he lost many of his troops and supporters. If Willem had continued, and lost more battles he might have faced Tyrell sponsored revolts. His grip over the Westerlands still isn't what Tywin had.
What did you think of the battle?
- Force Smuggler: Thank you so much!
- MartyJWykes: Thank you! Nothing ever goes one way. The battle here didn't either. Your instincts were right, but it wasn't Robb.
- Poly19hum: Thank you! Glad that you liked the balance between action and world building. What did you think of this battle?
- Supremus85: What did you think of the battle? The Ironborn didn't participate in the battle but Robb still fielded more than 50k troops against some 40k under Garlan.
- Blanketman13: Interesting suggestion. It is, in itself, a story about politics, family and war. All of these are inherently focused on the nobility. Nevertheless, one chapter to change perspective might be very interesting. I will look into it, but it won't be one of the next 2-3 chapters. Thank you for the idea.
- Foxy-Floof: Willas has been dead for a while ;-). Garlan did have a tough time, leading to his dead. Their lands will be stripped now, more on this later.
- Wolflord456: Thank you so much.
- Timdoe: Bedankt, doet enorm deugd om te horen! Wat vond je van deze veldslag?
- Gosopi1996 Fashl: It will continue until the end.