章 126: The Battle of the Rhoyne Part 1
Maegor grimaced as the sun crossed the horizon, sending long black shadows stretching into the twilight of dawn.
This was no way to fight a battle.
And yet it was a battle that needed to be fought. The bridge must be his by dusk, lest he be trapped here on the Rhoyne's banks forever.
He eyed the enemy camp, all frippery of the Lord's of Westeros, banners, and flags flying high across the opposite hills. They stood betwixt him and victory for Volantis, mocking him with their speed.
They would be broken today, forced to flee, or destroyed by his men, it mattered little which one, as then he would have time on his side, and the advantage. He just needed to take the offensive now, and cross the river.
He grimaced choking down a bit of honeyed wine to bolster his spirits before he called men to battle. His old hand, so wrinkled and greed with age, clutched the cup, and he shuddered, once.
It was time for war once again, and it would be death or glory as always.
He felt the spirit of war enter him again, his eyes blazing, his old bones no longer creaking as he stood to his feet atop his mounts back, rolling his neck. Withered old muscles filled with new vigor. That was how he felt, at least. He reached down, clasping his warhorn in his hand and moving our of his dwelling, up to his throne which sat at the very top of his Howdah. The Axe of Norvos sat at his feet, and he grinned at its ruined form.
The horn found his old lips, and in a practiced blast ten thousand times over, it echoed over his camp, calling his army to war. His officers called in-turn, each for their rank, one by one as of their station. It filled the air and shook the palms of the Rhoyne with fury and bloodlust. At his mounts footfalls, the very world shook, and he smiled as he cleared his throat, raising a hand into the air.
"Let us show these Barbarians how real men fight!" He said plainly, and his men roared in return, before beginning to march down towards the bridge, array in glorious lines along its banks.
With the blowing of the horns once again, the Spearman of Volantis began their advance, their great round and painted shields like a river of colors as they advanced onto the bridge.
'Now,' he glanced at the enemy camp, which was only now beginning to rally to action, 'we will see what you are made of.'
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"Well, they certainly aren't lacking for numbers."
Renly chuckled at Lora's comment. "No indeed, though they may yet by the end of the day, being caught with one's back to the river is rarely good fortune for any army."
"That's certainly the case my lord," Lora said, winking. "Though still, I hope that he has more for us than that rabble of footmen."
"Are you aiming to bring home an elephants tusk Loras? That's a bit much, even for a knight of your stature."
"Ayy, but I've heard it can do wonderful things for a man's virility and youthfulness."
He reached over, punching his former squire on the arm, though he likely felt little of it through his armor. "Don't be indecent, we have a fight to win."
The two had ridden out ahead of the rest of the Knights of the vanguard, to find a good spot to from which to enter the battle. Lord Stark was keeping behind the hills, for now, hoping to spring the trap after the enemy had crossed the river halfway. Renly was to lead damaging but not crippling charges in and out of the enemy vanguard to draw more of the enemies forces across the bridge, making the trap to be sprung all the more devastating.
He raised his blade into the air, a shining and glimmering thing of finely worked steel, while it was not the mystical weaponry his brothers held, but it served his purpose well enough. It drew the eyes of his army, and though he knew that most could not hear him, he still felt the need to shout, and wave it about in circles above his head, getting the point across.
"Men, just as I spoke to you before, can you feel the heat in your veins? The fire in your gut that rises to battle? The Iron in your hands that cries for bloodshed? Do you now wish to see your oaths fulfilled? Men of Westeros? Are you prepared for war? Then ride now, charge with me, and we shall cast these fools into the river!"
He thrust his sword before him with a roar, and it was met by his men, though their voices were soon drowned out by the growing din of their hooves. The Knights of the Reach given easy prey and honest glory set before them on the field as if it were a feast.
"My lance." He said, and Loras handed it to him with a smile, his banner was strung from its length, and with it in hand, he turned to his retinue. Cadets from the great houses of the reach, and a few from the Storm lands that did not go with Robert, those were the colors that followed behind him, and they raised their lances even as he did his own.
"Let us Ride Now, as knights of the Seven." He shouted, matched by their cheers and with a smile on his face he clapped his visor down.
War might be ugly, uncomfortable and disgusting, but here? Here on the plains before him?
There was glory to be won, and he could feel a thrill in his veins at the prospect. Glory…
Glory!
That alone might make the campaign worthwhile.
____________________________________________________________
Samwell stared down at the battlefield below him.
It was a frightful thing, the sounding of horns, the thundering of hooves and the shouting of men he wished that he were not here.
And yet, here he was, left at camp like the coward he was as is father led their retinue to war.
'Or father's retinue, nor like…' he knew that the man cared little for him, offspring or not, and how could he blame him? His father was a great leader, a commander of men and a warrior of repute. He was a pudgy lordling, without a competent bone in his body. He could ride, and he could write, and that was perhaps all the value he had.
The fire Lord Renly described that filled the blood of men simply wasn't there. Not for him at least. There was not an ounce of it in his body, just fat and grease, and perhaps a bit of ink, he thought. He was quite good at writing, at least.
He stared down the hill, five thousand knights, well, more like four thousand and seven hundred on account of the group of hedgers from the Kingswood who all caught some feverish nonsense or another, charged down that hill towards the hastily forming defensive lines at the bottom.
He hoped they won, mostly because he doubted he would survive long in Essos. For all the pointless talk in Lord Renly's speech, all he had read of the Red cult seemed to agree with the man.
He didn't fancy being captured by them.
He could see his father's greatsword of Valyrian Steel, Heartsbane, flashing above the Tarly knights. He had seen it on the mantle for years, polished it for his father during the campaign every damn day though it didn't need it. it was a bit odd to think that now he might see it covered in blood.
Odd and a bit disgusting.
He tugged idly at the folds on his side. They had shrunken, he was sure, due to the campaign's hardship. His father had a firm hand on his diet here, and the cooks knew well not to give him anything above it. He was still pudgy to be sure, fat even, but he doubted he would remain so if the war dragged on.
He missed the music the most. That and the books.
Sighing he withdrew his own journal, scanning the pages. His father had ordered him to take an account of the war, so as to put his "one worthwhile capacity to use"
He supposed he may as well do shill watching the battle. He went to find a pen and ink.
Now what would the tactical description of a charge and a quick retreat be called, he wondered?
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Maegor grimaced as he saw the charge of the Westerosi Cavalry send his front ranks flying from the impact.
He wondered if he had not perhaps underestimated them slightly, he was expecting a crash like that of the duplicitous Qohori, but this was more akin to the charge of an Elephant, clearly, there was more power behind it than that of the Cataphracts. Perhaps because of their lances. Shields were knocked spinning into the air by the devastating impact that carved into his ranks like a hot knife through soft cream. Perhaps hundreds of men were trampled below or even thrown backward above their comrade's heads by the bone-breaking impact of the enemy charge, driving his men back into the shallows of the river or onto the bridge as they painted the fields with fine Volante blood.
Yes, he had underestimated their charge, if an elephant was a boulder, rolling through the ranks, this was a tidal wave.
Still, the Westerosi seemed to withdraw almost as soon as they impacted, and he smiled as they began to pull back, only a few being dragged down by his spearmen. Yes, a tidal wave indeed, and like a tidal wave, it would withdraw.
He smiled.
They feared his spears. They could not fight in a prolonged melee. They would need to retreat and regroup after their devastating charge, and that would take time, time he could exploit.
That meant opportunity. Did he not need only a beachhead? An area to move his elephants into so as to terrify the Westerosi horses with their size alone?
The issue, was whether that was what the Westerosi were planning or not, for surely they knew the same things which he did. Surely they knew the terror that horses held of elephants.
'Then again, perhaps they don't.' He idly rolled his hand along the side of his throne, watching as the last of the cavalry left in amongst his forces either escaped or were dragged down from their horses.
They didn't have any elephants in Westeros after all, perhaps they were underestimating them.
Or perhaps this was simply the way they always fought.
'Either way, I cannot let the fear of a trap hold me back from my advance, lest I be sick here forever.'
Maegor felt the Warriors fire return to him as he stood, raising his horn to his lips once again, and gesturing to his servants to raise his banner.
He had trampled the Warriors of Norvos underfoot, and these Westerosi would be the same way.
At the sound of his horn, his warriors on the opposite shore and on the bridge surged forward, spreading out gradually into a great half circle to shield the bridge, while his elephants began to make their way across it.
His own was, of course, at its head.
He gripped tightly to his throne, his blood burning bright as he grinned at the approaching fight.
'It is Battle once again then.'
__________________________________________________________
Ned looked on through the Myrish eye that Lord Stannis' men had gifted to the commanders, and he could deny it's utility as he gazed more closely at the monstrous creatures now crossing the bridge. He could pick out the one he assumed was Maegor sitting atop the greatest of them, a two-trunked creature from as far away as Yi-Ti if the Pentoshi spoke true. He had to admit, it was fairly intimidating. Almost a walking battlement on the field.
But still, Robert had said that when they started crossing the bridge would be the time to strike, and he felt himself agreeing with his friend in this case.
"May I see as well Lord Eddard?"
Ah, and there was something that he agreed less with Robert on. The man seemed to dislike his son, perhaps too much.
He had to admit that he couldn't see it. The boy was no stark to be sure, a bit delicate perhaps, but he was a boy still, and he had not been particularly impudent with Ned at least, addressing him properly, and handling him well. His Temper was sharp to be sure but no worse than Robert's own.
To be frank, he didn't seem that bad a child, if a bit entitled with regards to the smallfolk and knights. But that could be taught against in time.
He handed the boy the device after a moment's thought. "Just be careful with it."
"I will be, thank you." The boy said quickly, and Ned was unsurprised as the boy turned it northward across the bank almost immediately.
"Your father won't be here for another few hours yet."
"I know" the boy snapped, a little too harshly. And then recoiled after a moment, as if realizing what he had done. He pressed his eyes together, looming as if he were biting into a lemon. "I am sorry for my discourtesy Lord Eddard, only, I have never seen my father fight before."
There was a bit more there, some underlying issue which Ned was sure might flare up in time.
'Probably a pile of insecurities too.' Ned grimaced as he took the Myrish Eye back from the boy.
"I need to lead the attack now. Your father asked you to accompany me yes?"
The boy nodded, still looking pained as if torn between berating him and apologizing further.
'Odd child,' Ned thought, though he could sympathize with the boys disconnect with his father. He had not been the heir himself after all.
"Well then come on, you've seen the cavalry. It is time for you to see how infantry fight."
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