章 94: 25
Chapter Twenty Five
Outside Eastwood
The Next Day, 16 Days after Coup in Storm's End
Evan Connington POV
Evan Connington, Lord of Griffin's Roost, rubbed his forehead as a grimace formed on his face. He was already regretting his decision to lend his support to Borys Baratheon.
Initially, it had seemed like a good deal. His son and heir, Roy, would marry Jocelyn Baratheon, the King's half sister. House Connington would be kin to both House Baratheon and House Targaryen through marriage. That alone had been worth his consideration. The additional incentives of tax cuts and free trade agreements had only sealed the deal.
For years, Buckler and his allies had fought a cold war with the Errols and their allies, vying for dominance in the Stormlands. Initially, he had cared not. Let the Lords scheme and plot while he grew strong independently.
But soon it became evident that the Errol-Eastwood-Tarth alliance would come out on top. And he had little to bring to the alliance. Through their crop, Eastwood Whisky, soap and other exports, the alliance had over the past few years, and more so during the advent of winter and the plague, created a stranglehold over the economy of the Stormlands.
Buckler, Fell and Trant could decry the same as copper counting and focus on their martial power, but the truth could not be denied. The Eastwood-Errol-Tarth alliance was already the dominant power in the northern stormlands and soon enough they would eclipse even the Marcher alliances to the south.
He had misread the situation and had over the past year been attempting to ensure that House Connington would receive more than the table scraps of the Eastwoods, Errols and Tarths.
So when the raven had arrived from Eastwood, offering his heir, the hand of Ser Ronnal Baratheon's daughter's hand in marriage in lieu of his aid or neutrality, he had considered it a good deal. While he would not be a full member of the alliance, he would nonetheless have a voice in Storm's End and a small share in the spoils.
A Baratheon marriage for sitting in his keep and doing nothing had been too good a deal to pass up. And he would have accepted it if not for Borys Baratheon.
There was little comparison between Lady Jocelyn and the daughter of a dead Baratheon knight. One was sister to the future Lord Paramount and half-sister to the king and queen. The other was the orphaned cousin to Boremund Baratheon.
Even so, he had been hesitant to throw his lot in with a man as volatile as Borys Baratheon. The man was a violent jackass. That much was clear. But that presented an opportunity.
Unlike Ser Garon, who was far more competent, Borys Baratheon could be controlled. The brute was utterly disinterested in the actual work of ruling. And if he lent his aid at this stage, he would be in the perfect position to influence him. His earlier inaction in remaining uninvolved in politics had left him disadvantaged. His participation in the conflict would allow him to take up the role of a major partner in the BFT alliance at very little cost to himself.
Buckler and Fell could have the northern Stormlands, for he would rule Storm's End in all but name. And that was the greater prize.
And so he marched.
And now he regretted it.
They were seated around a table in Borys's tent. The gathered nobility hurling curses at each other as they tried to salvage the situation. For the situation was not good.
"You cowardly cur! If you had not dragged your feet and arrived earlier, we would have conquered this damned town already!" raged Bryce Buckler at Jasper Trant, the Lord of Gallowsgrey.
And once again the tent was drowned in the sounds of the outraged nobles as Trant's bannermen raged at the Lord of Bronzegate for the slight to their Lord.
Buckler had a point though. Jasper Trant had most definitely dragged his feet. He should have arrived well before Borys and his own forces had. And yet he had only arrived earlier this morning. Obviously, he had thought it prudent to wait until House Connington committed its forces. It was only common sense, not cowardice. But Evan kept that particular opinion to himself.
"Silence!" thundered Borys as he rose from his seat.
And the room fell silent. Borys's temper and propensity for violence were well known. Few wanted to test it. The man embodied the words of his House, even if he took it to another level altogether.
"The shortcomings of Lord Trant will be discussed when this war is over," hissed the Baratheon as he narrowed his eyes at the rapidly paling form of Jasper Trant, "but for now we must focus on taking Eastwood and ending this war once and for all."
A round of "Ayes" sounded across the room as the assorted nobility calmed and took their seats.
"For now," continued Borys, "we have received some vital information that needs be discussed."
He motioned for Bryce Buckler to take the floor.
"Thank you my lord," said the old Lord of Bronzegate, "I have received news from my informant in Lord Tarth's household. He reports that Lord Boremund and Lady Mya arrived on Tarth with Eastwood's family."
"That was expected," nodded Edric Fell, "but in the end futile. As long as Ser Garon is eliminated, the Will can be disputed as a forgery and with no other contenders, the King will have little choice but to rule in our favour."
Borys only nodded, not even batting an eyelid at the blatant suggestion of murdering his brother.
"But that is not all that he reported, my Lord," continued Bryce, "the missive was received earlier today and was sent two days past. My informant went on to report that Lord Tarth would set sail with his forces, numbered near a thousand and five hundred, within two days."
"So for all we know Brynden Tarth may be crossing the strait as we speak," said Evan as he finally joined the conversation.
"Aye. The information is vague. Tarth and his forces could have already made landfall at Stormtower and could be upon us by day's end," said Edric Fell.
"On the other hand, he may have not left yet and could still be on Tarth."
"But is that a risk we can take?" said Evan.
"The chances of Tarth having mustered a thousand and five hundred men and set sail already are very low my Lord," said Bryce as he addressed Borys, "the Sapphire Isle is sparsely populated and gathering such a host would take Brynden Tarth too much time. It is extremely unlikely that he has set sail already. We should attack Eastwood immediately and take it before nightfall."
A loud cheer went up in the tent as most of the gathered men thumped their fists on the table at the thought of battle. Fools.
"But if Lord Tarth has left already, he could have already docked at Stormtower. The fucker will ride up behind us and bugger us in the arse as we assault Eastwood," countered Edric Fell, for once advocating for caution.
"If Brynden Tarth has managed to muster a thousand and five hundred men, gathered and armed them, arranged ships and crossed the straits in a little over half a moon, I'll eat my own boots lad. Speak sense for once in your life Edric!" retorted Bryce as he addressed his goodson.
"Does he have enough ships?" Borys's voice cut through the argument, "assuming that Tarth could have mustered his men soon enough, would he have enough ships to cross the straits with them?"
"It is unlikely," responded Evan, "we know that Brynden has expanded his fleet recently, but it is extremely unlikely that he has enough ships to sail his men in such little time. Most of the ships would be plying their trade across the Narrow Sea. With what few he would have left, he would be hard-pressed to carry even a thousand men, much less a thousand and five hundred."
"But even with a thousand men gathered, he could still inflict heavy casualties on our forces if he catches us from behind while we assault Eastwood. Tarth is known for its cavalry. Much of his force will be on horseback. If they charge at us while we are besieging the town, the result would be nothing short of disastrous for us," argued the young Lord of Felwood.
However, the Lord's argument seemed to fall on deaf ears as Jasper Trant spoke up, "I agree with my goodbrother Bryce, my lord. Brynden Tarth is an old man. A failed Lord who set aside his honour and pride to get in bed with the Bastard of Eastwood just to fill his coffers. The man is a copper counter. He could never in a million years pull this off."
"That may be so. But Lord Buckler's spy has reported otherwise and we must consider that his information may be true. While I agree that it is extremely unlikely that Lord Tarth may be upon us tonight, it is likely that he shall arrive on the morrow. Even if we attack with haste, can we take Eastwood in a day?" responded Evan.
"With Lord Trant and your own forces, our total strength stands at little over nine thousand men. By our own estimates, Eastwood and Errol have a little over three thousand men behind those walls. We would have had more men if Lord Buckler hadn't lost so many of our men besieging the keep," grumbled Edric Fell as he cast a dirty look at the Lord of Bronzegate.
Ahh. The Burning Siege as the men had taken to calling it. Or the Burning of Buckler when the man in question wasn't around.
Evan had to admit, that even he had been taken aback when had arrived at Eastwood to see the burnt-out husk of the Keep on the hill. Initially, he had thought that the overzealous Lord of Bronzegate had burned it down after taking it. But to find out that Aelon Eastwood had in fact burned it down himself, and that too using his own whisky, had sent a shiver down his spine.
That the spirit, burnt so fast and so hot, that it could burn down the Keep and the men inside of it before they could escape, did not bode well. In a single move, Aelon Eastwood had inflicted heavy casualties on their forces while denying them the opportunity to use the Keep to assault Eastwood.
However, it was the fact that Aelon Eastwood was willing to burn down his own Keep, in order to gain a strategic advantage, that made him far more wary of the man. Few Lords would be willing to abandon their own keeps. Fewer still would be willing to burn it down to deny the enemy an advantage.
"To burn down his own Keep," spat Borys in disgust, "that only goes to show that even ennobled, the man is still a peasant at heart. No man of true noble blood would burn down their own keep. And that too one granted to them by their liege. He spits in the face of my dear departed brother's generosity."
Murmurs of agreement filled the room as the gathering of lickspittles agreed with Borys's words.
"We outnumber my Ser Garon and his allies three to one," added Jasper Trant, "and that sorry excuse of a wall will not be able to hold back the assault of nine thousand true men of the Stormlands my Lord."
"My lord, that may be true. But we must consider that we are now ill-prepared for an assault on Eastwood. The siege of the keep cost us greatly. Not only did we lose near a thousand and five hundred men, but also much of our siege machinery," added Edric Fell as he continued to advise caution.
"I must agree with the Lord Fell. The men lost were also the ones most well trained in the use of the remaining siege equipment. A more cautious approach to assaulting Eastwood may benefit us more," concurred Evan as he nodded at Edric Fell indicating his support for caution.
"Fuck caution!" spat Buckler as he turned to Borys, "we can take the town my lord. Before nightfall if the Warrior looks kindly upon us. Give me leave my lord and I'll bring your brother and that cunt Eastwood before you in chains."
"And what if Brynden Tarth arrives later today. Or what if we fail to take the town tonight and Tarth arrives with his forces tomorrow? Then what will you do Lord Buckler? You and yours have already been humiliated by Aelon Eastwood before. What's to say it won't happen again?" said Evan as he raised his voice slightly, his frustration slowly building.
Buckler's face purpled at the insult and the man looked on the verge of bursting a vein when Jasper Trant intervened, "and what other option do we have Evan. If we do not attack today then our chances of success shall be greatly diminished. We must attack with everything we have. When nine thousand men of Stormlander blood charge at the walls, Errol and Eastwood's men will piss their britches in fear."
"Tis folly my Lord," said Evan as he turned to Borys, "let us offer terms directly to Errol and Eastwood. Whichever one of them gives up Ser Garon first shall be pardoned for their treason. Sow discord among them internally and they will collapse without us even having to attack."
"Terms? Pardons?! I'll have no terms nor pardons boy! They sully the names of their ancestors, bring shame to the nobility of the Stormlands through their mercantile ways and betray their rightful liege to support a usurper! And you would offer such curs terms?!" roared Buckler as he stood to face him.
"Call me boy once more Lord Buckler and I'll run my sword through you and we can see how long it takes for an old man's guts to spill out of his belly!" seethed Evan, now well and truly enraged.
"Enough!" said Borys, "take a seat Connington. You too Bryce. Conflict brings us nowhere. More so when I have made my decision. Lords Connington and Fell make good points, but I agree with Bryce and Jasper. The time for terms is over. Treason shall be met with death. And by nightfall, I shall see to it that the traitor's heads are mounted on spikes. Prepare the men. We shall attack within the hour."
North Gate, Eastwood
Borys POV
The Same Night
The Eastwood men had formed up on the walls, a good two thousand armed with bows, more still armed with barrels, the purpose of which was obvious. The sheer amount of soldiers this battle was going to cost almost broke his resolve, but there was no other way. Soon the King would arrive and with it all chance of Borys ruling the Stormlands would be lost, with so much already invested it was either victory or death.
The initial wave went down in fire and death. Broken men fleeing and screaming trying to put out the flames from the damn jars the cowards were throwing from the walls of the castle..The shock of the burning keep had ruined the morale of his men and forced him to rest his men before the assault on the town, but now it was time. The Baratheon made his way around the camp, shouting to all and sundry that it was time to form up. The officers first looked shocked and then began shouting their own orders, getting all the men equipped and ready to get in formation.
The day was windy, the weather seeming to mirror the atmosphere of the previously concluded assault on the castle. Deep breaths and shouts of rage had become his life as he was bested consistently by his coward of a brother and bastard petty lord.
After the first attack, Borys felt only meagre anguish. His beaten men had been rallied as he knew they would. With the castle a flaming mess and so many of their men burnt and broken they had begun to flee. Failure to breach the walls of the town had forced the survivors to regroup, but regroup they had. Fear was the greatest motivator. And Borys had spent many years ensuring that his men feared him more than anything else.
There were many strategies for leading men into battle. Some commanders favoured staying at the back to oversee, others agreed that men will not fight for you unless you fight with them.
Him being a Baratheon, he waited for his men to touch the enemy before entering the thick of it. His men began their assault on the walls of the town. As Borys noticed the morale of his men dropping he stepped forwards, enclosed as he was by his guards with their shields held high, and brought the second wave to the walls.
The centrepiece of this attack was the shielded battering ram being brought forward to the gates. The men on the walls threw liquid fire down on them but this particular piece of equipment had been prepared after the previous attack and the flames ran down the slanted shielding to drip harmlessly on the grass.
The men atop the walls were both brave and weak, some men set themselves forwards as if to dive from the walls to rip out his throat personally, more still cringed and moved away. Impending doom had a way of doing that to even the sturdiest of men.
The battering ram smashed against the gates with a brutal clang, the metal-reinforced gates were hardly weak, only serving to further infuriate him. There were only so many hits they could take though and as another hour passed they were busted through and his men waiting in the killing field eagerly moved within the castle. Preferring to die fighting an enemy than to be ended whilst standing prone in prepared grounds.
As they poured through the opening the Lord of the Stormlands joined them, bolstering their will even as he weathered the falling fire beneath the walls. Eagerly joining battle with a roar he parried a killing blow to one of his men and sliced the attacker's throat, the enemy's scared eyes meeting his beneath their helm.
With another well-aimed strike, he buried his sword deep within a man's armpit, splashing blood across his compatriots. A jar of burning alcohol impacted the helm of a man in his guard, sowing discord in the area and creating a frenzy in the enemy lines. Snarling, he turned to the man on the walls, sorely tempted to climb the steps to the wall and end the burning threat when the man's head was suddenly pinned back against a beam, an arrow present in his eye socket.
Nice fucking shot. That man deserves a knighthood. Borys thought as he spun away and stabbed yet another man, watching with a grin as blood dripped down his armour, as the enemy line was pushed back he heard a loud voice further back boom across the street, "Back!"
The enemy line immediately collapsed and quickly fell back behind a line further back in the street, some were cut down before making it, but far more found the shelter they were seeking and as Borys' own line stood there they were pelted from the rooftops with more infernal fire bombs.
Snarling ferociously, the Baratheon Lord moved forward and shouted, "Reform and push the line!" His men scrambled to fulfil the order before once more clashing with the enemy. Arrows rained down on the newly reformed formation but progress was made and the enemy were once more pushed back under the onslaught of superior numbers.
As the line in front of him began to break he once more heard the voice over the screams of the dying and the enemy line fell back once more, revealing another formation in the distance. He let out a howl of frustration as victory was denied and set his tired force forward once more to clash with his well rested enemies.
More fire fell down on them from above and he pointed at an officer, "You! Get some men and get rid of those blasted fire throwers." The officer nodded and took a detachment of men to kick in the doors of the houses to get up to the roofs. It would be the last time he saw the man.
Pushing forward against the next line of defenders he was frustrated once more as they scattered as the tide began to turn and he took a moment to rest and survey his surroundings.
His eyes scanned his men, of the three thousand men he had led through the breach it seemed only two thirds remained. The Baratheon Knights face grew red at the realisation. Oh, they had inflicted great casualties on the defenders, but whereas his own men were growing demoralised and weak the defenders only seemed more ferocious as they were pushed back further into the town. His enemies were far from the regular peasant levies found across the continent, that was for sure.
He had become entrapped in his mindless surge forward and he cursed his own stupidity, the lines falling back had drawn him further than the rest of the lines which still clashed on the streets either side of his. He searched around for alleyways to fall through, hoping he might be able to crash onto the backs of the lines holding his allies but the streets had a death of passages, the closest one being behind the line ahead of him he had yet to force his men through.
Just then, a fresh wave of fire fell on the men around him crumbling morale even further and even causing some of his men to route and turn back. He shouted at them as they did so, which seemed only to cause further desertion. Growling, he turned toward the line in front of him and set himself forward, it was folly he knew, but standing still was more so.
Half an hour later and his men had crumbled completely and turned back towards the woodland where they hoped to hide.
East Gate, Eastwood
Edwell's Command
The town was covered in blood. The fields surrounding Eastwood, destroyed with ditches and other earthworks to disrupt enemy siege engines, were filled with blood and bodies. It was near impossible to compare the sight he saw now to the Eastwood of his memory.
More men had arrived, meaning extra bodies to be thrown at the walls and whilst the defenders were still standing strong there was only so long constant assaults could be thrown back. There needed to be a decisive victory here or loss was certain.
The next assault was upon them. Firebombs were once more thrown down on the aggressors and ladders were set against the walls. Edwell set his gaze at the men surrounding him, they were haggard. Each assault was followed by only a short rest before they were once again back out to fight. War is hell had never seemed a more appropriate phrase.
A clattering boom echoed across from the other side of the town, its meaning clear to all present, the enemy were forcing their way through the North gate. There was little to be done about it, the defence of that gate was under the command of Lord Garon himself and there were over five hundred men with him.
The thought of that gate being breached though caused panic to set into the men, deciding this needed to be stopped immediately, he called out, "Hold! For each of us dead, there are ten more of them!" The words strengthened the resolve of some men, but others still looked frightened, those faces were far too young.
Picking up a jar of Aelon's clever concoction, he set alight the wick. The Knight took aim at a group of men attempting to set up a ladder at the base of the walls, launching it upon them with force and fury. The fire would catch immediately on impact and shower those unlucky enough to be present in the scorching flame. The ladder was dropped and the men surrounding him found their motivation, setting aside their fear to continue the defence of the East gate. The north gate would hold and so would they, they had to.
Time was hard to judge during battle, what felt like an hour was perhaps only a few minutes. However, it certainly felt like an hour had passed when the sight of a great battering ram, the same shielded type as used in the previous assault, crested over the hill.
There were grimaces all-around at the realisation that the gate wouldn't hold under this new onslaught. The next fight would be on the ground. There were no more tricks up his sleeve to throw at this new threat.
Picking up another jar, he took aim at the exposed legs of the men pushing the ram, his men copying him and raining fire upon their path. All this was done and more yet the Men of Trant continued their march, some men falling to the ground and rolling around in an attempt to quench the flames.
The ram reached the gate and the first bang echoed across the walls, the gate shook and the heavy bar bent more than he was comfortable with.
Looking around to see other men watching with looks of horror, he knew this would be the breaking point if nothing was done, "Men! Form ranks before the gate, if they get through we must be ready to hold the line," half of the men he had shouted at raced to fulfil the command, the others trailing in their wake as mob mentality took hold.
The gates once again buckled slightly against the next strike and more men poured forward to create a strong block before them.
Ser Edwell steadied himself with a deep breath and joined his men. There was a moment of silence as the gates gave way to the ram. The only sound made on the otherwise raucous battlefield was wood splintering and metal buckling under intense strain. Then sound returned and he found himself in the thick of it as men poured through the now busted gate.
Lord Aelon had left orders for what he called 'defence in depth', wherein the defenders would form lines in the streets to even the odds, inflicting as many casualties as possible and then falling back behind another formed line and repeating the motion, sapping the enemies strength and forcing them to undergo fire from the surrounding buildings.
As the enemy poured forth through the open gates, he could see the merit of the plan, they could not hope to match the enemy's numbers but by breaking their morale they could force a retreat. Even if the town was ruined by the end the enemy would be too battered to continue the fight.
Soon it was time to retreat, he broke and ran quickly back, chased by the enemy and as he looked over his shoulder he was satisfied with the sight of breaking jars spreading fire and chaos throughout the enemy ranks.
The next ranks opened to allow his contingent through and they took up the fight, giving the first formation much needed rest. The enemy, however, had no such luxury.
Panting for breath, The Knight of Haystack Hall uncorked his waterskin and took a long pull before taking up his arms once more and organising the next formation of men ready for the men to break and fall back once more.
This calculated fall back continued for several more housing blocks until their numbers had thinned unpleasantly by a poorly timed retreat. There were not enough men left to continue the retreat and it felt certain that their defence would fail shortly.
Aelon watched from above at the head of his reserves as Edwell's gate was brought to the brink and knew it was time to commit to that flank. Placing down the myrish far eye he had used to watch over the battle so far, he armed himself, holding his warhammer by his side as his men took the hint and began readying themselves for battle.
His tactic of delaying the enemy whilst they suffered from his weaponised spirits had worked marvellously so far, the North Gate had been worrisome at first but under the command of Ser James the enemy forces there had begun to break and flee the field.
Descending from the rooftop he had made his command post, he joined formation with the men and began marching to relieve his friend, minutes later they reached the battle.
Hammer raised, The Silver Lord drove the claw through a man's eye socket, the other eye remaining open comically wide. Shaking the man's head from the point, he continued pushing against the veritable tide of men.
A mask of calm found its way onto his face as the body of a loyal man of Eastwood impacted near his feet, stepping onto and over his bloodied corpse he continued pushing forward in time with his men, his actions methodically and efficient as he had trained to do. There was no need for wasted movement on a battlefield, after all, that was better left for tourneys.
They made significant progress in pushing back the mostly Buckler force to the gates. Unfortunately, it was at this moment that Lord Edric Fell decided to similarly commit the reserve, why he had not done so when Borys was getting his arse handed to him he didn't know.
The Fell men fell upon the East Gate, bolstering the Buckler men who had been languishing under the metal of Aelon's fresh and well armoured men and it was men of Eastwood's turn to be forced back. Gritting his teeth he pierced the chestplate of a Fell Knight before ringing the helm of another, his men followed him forward and a new push began, the citizens of Eastwood had far more to lose to this battle than the enemy and they were eager to show it.
However, it was not to be, the men's resolve eventually began faltering and the men fought slower. This was, after all, the third exhausting attack and the enemy seemed endless.
Aelon sent a prayer to whatever entity had sent him here in the first place not to drop him into an even worse world this time. He prayed that the entity would ensure the safety of his family in this world, that they were not abandoned to a terrible fate, that Ned and Aethan would survive Borys' cruelties.
Shouting out to the men once more, "Hold the line!" He knew immediately that the morale was too low for the men to continue fighting.
With reckless fury he stabbed at a Buckler soldier in front of him, killing the man in rage as the realisation that fifteen years of life in this world were going to be wasted because of the tantrum of a Baratheon too thick to know any better.
It appeared that this was how the story of Aelon Eastwood came to a close.
As all hope was lost and the men began to break, the distant sound of horns blowing could be heard. A voice called from atop the wall, "Tarth! House Tarth is here!"
Talk about being saved by the fucking bell.
Mirth bubbled up in the form of laughter as I watched the Tarth men fall into the backs of the besieging force. The screaming of dying Buckler's and Fell's music to my ears.
In the end, Borys Baratheon died on the pike of a peasant defending his home.
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