บท 31: Reprisal
Clackclaw Point was an untamed land guarded by tall soldier pines and silent hosts of formidable oaks. Compared to the more civilised south, this forested peninsula was largely untamed by the axes of man, barely cultivated and home to cavernous hills, putrid bogs and forests teeming with game. Should you keep your eyes peeled, it wasn't uncommon to glimpse the skeletons of moss-covered strongholds erected millennia ago by wannabe conquerors trying to assert control.
It made me wonder why the Andals even tried to conquer the peninsula in the first place. It wasn't rich nor all that populated considering the size. But for whatever reason it was regarded as a jewel for many. The Darklyn kings of Duskendale tried to impose themselves on the houses of the Point, as did the Celtigars of Claw Isle. But both these ambitious houses met the same fate and were repelled. It reminded me of Dorne.
Unlike Darklyn or Celtigar, I didn't come bearing the sword or a written decree of lordship. I came under the banner of friendship. I was going to be Daeron the Good and hopefully not the Young Dragon.
After sending messages back and forth, it was agreed we meet in a clearing dotted with the mossy stumps of fallen trees and a tiny stream serving as a natural boundary separating our delegates. Rain was a common occurrence here, so the ground was soft and sagged beneath our feet, then there was the mist that turned the whole world grey. All in all, the perfect place for an ambush.
"It's a sign of strength to be the last to arrive," Ser Dickon Sand told me, shifting uncomfortably in the saddle. He was a plain-faced man with dark-olive skin dotted with freckles and narrow eyes that constantly blinked. He held aloft the white flag of parley, making it a heinous crime against the gods to strike any one of us down. Such was our shield, a piece of cloth and some customs.
Our party numbered only a handful of knights. Ser Barristan had polished his mail to a high sheen and was flying the standard of House Targaryen while Duck carried my Blackfyre banner. "We're the first to arrive so we wait." Seated on Shadowmare the Third, I wore splendid black plate engraved with scales and a cloak of black silk pinned at the shoulder by a dragon broach of black iron. At my hip was Blackfyre and the only other colour I wore were Lyra's moonstones pressed into my gauntlet. I was truly earning my nickname the Black Knight.
"I do not like this place," Ser Barristan spoke up, scanning the treeline. "The bushes and mist make it easy to hide, and we are in the open."
I couldn't disagree. Despite schooling my features to be perfectly calm, I felt on edge. I shouldn't be though. If the natives tried any funny business, I had men in the bushes with bows at the ready. But will they react in time? "This is where we agreed to treat, Ser Barristan. I'd promised Her Grace and so we shall, with the stream separating both our parties." I hadn't wished to be the one to treat. My legion wasn't a large army and not impressive enough to sway the lords into siding with us. Nor did I consider myself a diplomat. Strickland would have been a better choice, or Daenerys herself. But I had been given the duty, so I needed to suck it up.
"Over there," Duck pointed. "Here they are."
Emerging from the mist approached a group of riders outnumbering us three to one. Mounted atop shaggy horses, the lords were poorly equipped and plain clothed, which made me feel overdressed despite wearing armour instead of rich velvet and silks. Yet they rode forth with solemn pride. From their heraldry I recognised five dynasties: Cave, Brune, Hardy, Crab and Bog. Simple names for simple houses. Most were old men with grey hair and faces lined with deep winkles, their expressions hard and eyes harder still.
We exchanged introductions without any theatrics. I didn't think they were the kind to approve. The oldest of their number was Lord Allyn Cave who introduced himself and the others as peers and equals. His belt was studded with copper disks and his garb was plain: a studded leather jerkin over patched woollen tunic, worn boots and breeches made of roughspun. His allies were little different in their attire and many experienced sellswords in the Golden Company looked better dressed than these lords. The youngest were Ser Osmund and Baar who, due to the frailty of their father, the Lord Eustance Brune, came on his behalf.
"Prince Aegon Blackfyre," Lord Hardy said in a voice deep and brittle. He inclined his head, his sunken-in eyes never left my juxtaposing banners. "When my maester brought news of Queen Daenerys' marriage, I hadn't expected it to be the black dragon she took to husband. The dragons have stopped dancing and decided instead to make a bed together. How queer considering your rich histories."
"An alliance between our houses," I answered flatly, unwilling to give him any ammunition to use against me. "Why continue the bloodshed when we can both join our strength and go after the Iron Throne together?"
"A one-sided alliance, it seems to me," Cave said with a crude half-smile. "Your ancestors fought to become kings. Died and bled for it. Their sacrifices all for nought as you are no king, instead holding a princely title. It is always worrisome when a woman rules her husband so openly."
Lord Perkin Bog chuckled. He was a small man with a bald head except for the sides that brushed his shoulders in greying-brown tangles. "Strange times make for strange bedfellows. Such a union makes more sense than both of you going after the throne alone. But if I remember correctly, House Blackfyre become extinct when Ser Barristan slayed Maelys the Monstrous on the Stepstones. He was the last black dragon for half a century until you came out of nowhere."
I glanced at Ser Barristan who gave a light nod and said, "Tis true, my lord. I slew Maelys Blackfyre during the War of the Ninepenny Kings after piecing through his bodyguards on Bloodstone. He was a most fearsome fighter."
Bog tsked. "And Maelys is not your grandfather, boy?"
"Daemon Blackfyre was my grandfather – the cousin Maelys killed to gain control of the Golden Company. I share no blood with that kinslayer." One thing I hated was people believing evil was somehow inherent in the blood. Like how the Targaryens were supposedly tainted. The concept was stupid. To say I'm evil just because my ancestors performed some heinous acts is like saying two mice with their tails cut off will only give birth to tailless pups. Not that I expected them to know the nuances of nature and nurture. Westeros was a primitive culture, after all.
"I suspect few in the Golden Company have any love for Maelys the Monstrous."
You would be surprised. Maelys was respected but little loved in the same way Stannis was. "He gave them little cause," I shrugged my shoulders. "You can ask them yourself."
"I would rather not," Lord Cave said, his face unmoving. "I fought on the Stepstones myself and slew several sellswords before nearly dying to a Tyroshi marine during the Battle for the Gallows. I shan't think they would like to see me after that. But even with his monstrous reputation, I do actually hold some respect for the pretender. He was a fearsome general. After all these years, one should expect we would be cautious to meet with you after believing House Blackfyre had been killed in its entirety. How did you survive?"
"My mother was sneaked away when she was a babe by some of Daemon's closest friends. They sought sanctuary in Tyrosh but were forced to flee to Lys." That wasn't what happened. Maelys decided to spare baby Serra from the axe but sold her to a passing trader who gave her to a Lyseni pleasure house where she served until Illyrio appeared. I wasn't going to tell them that though.
Lord Lucifer Crab huffed. "You're truly the last one?"
"Unless there is another black dragon hiding somewhere in the world that I'm not aware of, I am."
Lucifer nodded while his son and heir, Ser Aleric Crab, put his voice forward, "We came here to treat so treat we shall. I see Queen Daenerys Targaryen hasn't come to meet us herself but instead sends you to speak on her behalf. I cannot say I'm impressed, and in fact worry for her naivety. We are dragon's men here, ser. Ones who serve the red dragon and not the black. We fought the Blackfyres and have always been leal servants to House Targaryen since Queen Visenya herself met with us and we swore our allegiance. We sent men to Prince Rhaegar and had our kin die on the Trident."
"I congratulate you for your loyalty," I smiled my most charming smile, but it was clear it wouldn't melt their hearts like it did with countless women. "It is worthy of respect and, as I'm speaking with Her Grace's own voice, thank you on her behalf."
Lord Cave scoffed. "Spare me the empty courtesies, boy. I had brothers, an uncle and two sons die in Robert's Rebellion. My ancestors died to the Black Dragon on the Red Grass Field. I have no desire for your gratitude."
"Aye," agreed Ser Baar Brune, the youngest of the Crackclaw men but still older than me by at least a decade. "I was never one for honeyed words and empty pleasantries. What we know is that you need men. You wouldn't be here to treat with us otherwise. We of Crackclaw Point are rarely a king's first choice."
And you, my friend, have just opened an avenue of negotiations. These lords were poor and little respected, though many crownlords took pride in the fact they swore directly to the crown. I could offer generous terms like tax exceptions or further privileges for when we finally win. But to do so would only make me look desperate and weaken our standing. I would do better negotiating from a position of strength. That is when I decided to follow the God Emperor Trump's example. Such a strategy had me beginning with absurdly high demands while theirs were favourable to only themselves. Through compromise and much debate, we would meet in the middle. If they decided to concede, all the better.
"Twenty-two thousand men," mentioned the older brother, "made up of foreigners and exiles from forgotten wars. Would that be enough against the might of the Lannisters and Baratheons and Starks?"
"I will concede they outnumber us, but we are better soldiers. We know how to win a war."
"Oh really?" Perkin Bog tilted his head. "Where did you learn this? Was it after all those times House Blackfyre failed to take the Iron Throne?"
I met his cold stare with my own. "Do not insult me nor my men, my lord. I came here to talk before you face to face. Do not make me regret it."
His anger flared. "You speak to me like that? You are a beardless boy. Why should I be threatened by you?"
"Maybe because I personally slew Khal Drogo's chief Ko at the Battle of the Burning River. I led men into battle who outnumbered me many times over. Without bloodshed I forced the bickering states of the Disputed Lands into a political union and tied them together in ways not even the original Triarchy managed to achieve. It was only thanks to me Daenerys Targaryen became the Mother of Dragons and now has a chance to regain her throne. You would be wise to not underestimate me. I can make your lives truly difficult if I wish it." I turned to his associates. "I know you've sworn fealty to House Targaryen, be as it may."
"We swore to follow King Robert Baratheon as well," shot back Ser Osmund. The knight was an ugly spotted man with missing teeth and a broken nose. He also looked strong, and not the kind to meekly bend like Lord Mooton. "Under pain of death or the Wall, aye, but we swore to follow him. We were sent ravens by his son who is now king. Tell us, Blackfyre, why should we follow you and not him?"
I let the silence linger for a moment, broken only by some distant chirping of birds. "No doubt at this point you heard the rumours of Queen Cersei's adultery. While I have no proof of this, we will confirm the legitimacy of Lord Stannis' claims of whether Cersei Lannister slept with her own brother, or whether it was slander created by an ambitious uncle who craves the throne. If Joffrey is a bastard, you would be all played for as fools and, truly, would you want this boy king on the throne if he's illborn and cruel, and only there because of the deaths of Princess Rhaenys and Prince Aegon?"
"As illborn as a Blackfyre?" Aleric Crab asked scornfully.
"A Blackfyre won't be sitting the Iron Throne," I informed them. "Should you decide to bend the knee and swear your fealty, you'll be serving a queen. A Targaryen queen. During the Dance, Crackclaw Point sided with Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen and joined the Seven Kingdoms thanks to Queen Visenya. I merely ask you consider serving the rightful queen once more."
Ser Osmund huffed. "Aye, we served both them queens and swore everlasting loyalty. They had dragons."
"As does Daenerys, ser. Four dragons. One more than the conquerors, though not so big nor as hungry. Though they are getting greater by the day and will soon be large enough to take riders. Then they can strike anywhere throughout the Seven Kingdoms and turn both strongholds and traitors to ash." The unspoken threat lingered in my voice.
They didn't hide their thoughts as well as they could have, and the Lords of Crackclaw Point slowly began negotiating for certain privileges in return for their swords and allegiance. I wasn't lenient and more than once one or two were on the verge of walking off before their fellow lords halted them. It took an hour of back and forth from where I began with offering them nothing and them demanding practically everything until we reached some sort of medium that left neither of us any happy.
In the end, Lord Lucifer dismounted his horse, unsheathed his sword and knelt. "As Lord of Crabhall and on behalf of House Crab, I swear my allegiance and undying loyalty to Queen Daenerys Targaryen, the First of her Name. Until my dying breath as a man of Crackclaw Point, I will see her sit the Iron Throne or die trying."
The other lords followed his example and soon enough, we had all the Crackclaw houses under the dragon banner and with them came two thousand men.
...
Dismounting Shadowmare, I felt relief when we returned to camp. While it wasn't much of an encampment, the rudimentary fortifications felt much safer than the untamed woods of Crackclaw Point with its hardy and rigid inhabitants. Dalabhar had kept himself busy digging further trenches and that'd done wonders for the men's morale. Many of the Essosi were a superstitious breed and they feared the natives who were seen as unwashed barbarians with magical powers.
I almost wondered how such beliefs came to be when I heard some chants in a foreign tongue and then knew the answer. With little to do, and in no rush to go straight to Haldon and the others, I followed the sounds where a decent chunk of the army stood outside the walls. There had to be a few hundred of them, holding torches and standing around a raging pyre burning white hot. Before the fire was a red priest chanting in the High Valyrian of the Free Cities, though I recognised his dialect as one of Pentos. Around him, his followers were singing a R'hllorian chorus sang in the Red Temples throughout Essos in high voices and low, in flat and melodic, young and old.
As expected, the priest was none other than Torreo the Red, a tall and lean man who stuck his hair up with oils like that of a Celtic warrior, and dyed the red locks orange and yellow so it looked like his head was afire. While he would go into battle armoured in a crimson breastplate emblazoned with the sacred flaming heart of R'hllor, he was instead in standard priestly garbs, though the sleeves had been torn off to reveal muscular arms painted with tattoos of flaming serpents.
Before his flock, Torreo was preaching to his disciples the grace of the Lord of Light, his deep voice easily cutting through theirs like a scythe through wheat. The red priest would occasionally look into the large bonfire to warn them what would happen should their hearts fall to sin, and our future prospects in Westeros which were more than favourable for apparently me and Daenerys (mostly Daenerys) were in fact the true champions of the Lord of Light and not Stannis who Torreo declared was the false champion created by the Great Other to sway the faithful away from R'hllor. Although my legion had many men of different faiths in its ranks, a great many were Essosi where the Red Faith dominated, and even some Westerosi had been swayed and became more fervent than their new brothers across the Narrow Sea. The Golden Company had long taken a secular approach to religion as to not cause internal conflict. I was atheist but this world wasn't, so I joined Septa Lemore and the other followers of the Seven because I needed to show myself as a pious young prince.
"What is he saying?" Rolly asked me.
"The Night is dark and full of terrors," I answered after a moment. "R'hllor's great fire will guide the faithful to victory against the Great Other and those who've stepped off the path of righteousness. Those who die in R'hllor's service will be guided into paradise until Azor Ahai rebuild's the world anew when the great enemy's defeated." The fires swelled higher as more men took up the chant, and no one was louder than Torreo the Red. "He says the final battle of this world will be against demons made of ice. Servants of the dark lord who are growing in power as days grow colder and shorter. Soon every man with goodness in his heart will take up the sword."
My relationship to the Red Faith was polite but professional. Occasionally a priest would try to convert me to their faith, but I always smiled and politely declined. I didn't hate them. Many were not like Melisandre, and Torreo was very tolerant of other's beliefs. Said Red Priest saw me lingering in the back and waved me forward. The chanting ceased and all turned around. I had no choice but to accept.
"Prince Aegon, would you care to join us in our prayers?" Smiling civilly, I approached where the priest took my hand, clasped my shoulder with his other, and smiled a broad smile. "It's good you've come to join us, legate. Are you interested in hearing the truth of R'hllor?"
"I keep the gods of my ancestors. The seven gods of Westeros," I lied, smiling sympathetically.
"Of Andalos," the Red Priest said, though I wondered if it was a correction. "The Seven who are One. Seven aspects of one god. Everyone, including those of the Faith of the Seven, are welcome to share R'hllor's warmth. Some of my brothers and sisters in the Red Temple say those who don't follow the path of the one true god are evil, that those who refuse to follow his will deserve to be punished in the blazing fire. But I disagree. There are good people aplenty outside the faith. Take your lovely Septa Lemore for instance. R'hllor is a just god and he judges everyone by the actions they perform regardless whether they wear a red cloak or not. R'hllor is merciful and those who fight for goodness are all serving his will. After all, people are beings of fire and warmth. If they were not, their blood would be cold and cruel. When their time in this world comes, R'hllor's light will burn brightest and guide all the good to salvation."
That was different from what Melisandre said. She spoke of rotten onions and how the world was black and white, evil and good. While she wasn't a complete fundamentalist, she was certainly more radical than many I had encountered in Essos. I wondered how radical the Faith of the Seven would be once news from the Riverlands and King's Landing converged and the rise of the sparrows began. Should I be feeling risky and opportunist, I might even play the populist sparrows against the wealthy theological establishment elite and empower whatever side that promised to work with the crown (though I had far more sympathy towards the populists).
Torreo continued, eyes lighting up, "We pray for you and your wife, Your Grace. The Mother and Father of Dragons. R'hllor's chosen who'll bring the line of Azor Ahai Reborn into the world and create it anew for the faithful to live in a world where summer never ends."
I felt my face tighten despite myself. I never liked prophesies. Not just because Lyra said it's like to bite my cock off should I play with them, but the fact I was against them ideologically before even appearing in this world. Destiny was the antithesis of freewill and I was very into free will. "Is that so?" I asked, hoping I didn't sound too cynical.
The red priest nodded along, otherwise oblivious. "Who other than Azor Ahai Reborn can bring forth dragons from cold dead stone? You will both bring victory for the living over the Great Other, and defeat the False Azor Ahai as the Slayer of Lies in the field of battle when the sun is blotted out and darkness reigns across the land where demons haunt the shadows." He smiled sadly, trying to be comforting, no doubt. "Mayhaps you'll care to join us by the pyres. Then the Lord of Light will reveal the truth to your eyes as well." But when I declined, he lowered his head, unconcerned. "May the Lord cast his light upon you, for the night is dark and full of terrors."
"Likewise. May your god watch over you, priest."
The words of me and Daenerys being their chosen ones weighed heavy in my mind as I made my way to the command tent and greeted Haldon standing by the entrance. He smiled coolly at me; clearly glad I hadn't had my throat slit.
"I can only assume your meeting with the lords of Crackclaw Point succeeded, otherwise you wouldn't be as happy as you are now."
"Perhaps we should talk inside where there are fewer ears." Haldon nodded, holding open the flap for me. Already in the command tent was Adjutant Dalabhar, Ser Barristan Selmy and Septa Lemore who prepared me a glass of water. "Thank you. I'm assuming ser hasn't told you yet. The Lords of the Point have bent the knee and promised to merge their strength with our own in the coming days. We just need to wait." But I had no intention of waiting. Not when we had untapped castles to the south holding priceless treasures for the taking.
"How many men?" Septa Lemore asked, toying with the crystal around her neck.
"Two thousand," Ser Barristan explained. "Though it's more martial than the rest of the Crownlands, the Claw isn't a wealthy land. Even compared to the rest of the Seven Kingdoms, Crackclaw Point doesn't provide as strong a stock as other places like the Marches."
"I'd disagree," Haldon replied with a lopsided smirk, sensing the knight's biases. "Not in the traditional sense. No one ever managed to conquer the Point in their history – not for long at least. They would regularly fight each other with champions from local noble houses and prove to be decent individual fighters. But unlike the legions, they are no soldiers. Their skills come from another way of fighting—"
"Cloak and dagger, guerrilla warfare," I interrupted. But they'll be expected to hold the line regardless.
Haldon smiled mildly before it flickered into a worried expression. "I have some news."
I had an idea where this was going. "Have the Lannisters sent a force against us?" On the map, my onyx dragon was positioned east of Maidenpool while the rest of our forces remained in the city or positioned around it. My fully mounted legion's smaller size made us highly mobile and able to respond to crisis' much more effectively. But such a thing also meant we were the ones sent to extinguish all the fires.
Haldon pointed to the wooden lamb north of Duskendale. "According to your pet witch, an army has been called upon to displace us. Claims to have seen it in her glass candle."
I wasn't expecting that. Not only did the Crownlands have ancient ties to House Targaryen, it was an economic and naval power rather than a military one. If they were antagonistic, I'd doubts it was enough to threaten all the Company in its lonesome. But I didn't command all five legions. We'd only half a standard one. An alliance of only a few houses could easily overwhelm us.
"Are you sure they are enemies?" Ser Barristan asked cautiously. If there was one who knew the geopolitical situation in the Crownlands, it was him – God help us.
"They are enemies, like as not," Haldon explained. "Robert Baratheon invested much time and effort into solidifying control of the Crownlands upon becoming king. The force is also reinforced by Lannister loyalists. Dalabhar, could you explain?"
Dalabhar cracked his knuckles. "We have sent scouts to reinforce Lyra's assertions, but her scrying claims the most prominent houses are that of Rosby, Rykker and Strokeworth. All houses close to King's Landing and subservient to House Lannister. With them are innumerable knightly houses and their retinues."
Despite myself, I felt satisfaction at Lyra using her candles for long-range military intelligence. Just another point in our favour.
"Not martial houses," Barristan acknowledged. "Lord Rosby is sickly, Strokeworth is run by women, so Lord Renfred Rykker would be leading the attack. Out of all the Crownlanders, he is most likely to take the field, and Duskendale can levy the most manpower."
"Few houses sent men to King's Landing," Haldon explained. "Many are reluctant to join either side and only Rosby and Stokeworth have sent a sizeable force under threats from Cersei Lannister. But that means the fiefdoms are better defended. The army marching north is estimated to number four thousand strong. Not only bannermen, this force seems to be augmented by Lannister household troops and mercenary bands paid by Crownland coffers – a few of them Essosi in origin."
"They'll intend to destroy us before the Crackclaw men can merge with our host," Barristan decided. "Destroy our armies in piecemeal."
Simple but effective. "The Clawmen are in no rush so it'll take two weeks for their host to arrive. I wouldn't put it past them to take longer. How soon will it take our opposition?"
"Considerably less time," Haldon acknowledged. "They're marching predictably up the kingsroad. Unfortunately they limit our freedom of movement. Having a host like them to our south will force us to either withdraw, engage, or wait. We cannot move east without them threatening our flanks and we can't withdraw west without it being a sign of weakness and the Crownlanders destroy our allies as Barristan said."
"Pincer attack?" I asked. "With one of the other legions?"
Haldon shook his head. "The legions are too spread out to the west to be able to fight so we can't count of them. It'll take too long for them to assemble for battle."
"Most of them will be levies," Dalabhar remarked. "They are still slower than our force and only the household troops match our legionaries on even grounds."
"How many Lannisters?" I asked.
Haldon looked deep in thought. "Not many. Queen Cersei and the Imp cannot afford to send out too many men, though they might be from Lord Tywin's host rather than King's Landing. Lannister can't be ignorant of us. Either way, they are the most dangerous killers there."
"What makes them more dangerous?" Duck asked.
"Money," Haldon stated, further elaborating with, "the Lannisters can afford professional standing infantry. With Lannister coffers, expect them to be equipped with weapons and armour like ours or even better."
"So, in short, tough customers." I looked down, chewing my bottom lip. "If they're marching up north, they'll be confined to traversing the kingsroad, right?" Haldon nodded and I thought about how bad the Lannister strategic position was. They were in a desperate situation before we got here, but now they were surrounded. That host might be the only thing standing between us and King's Landing. As such, it needed to be removed to clear the way to the capital. My fingers drummed against the table. "Dalabhar, get the men ready. We're going on the offensive. After we destroy this army in the field, we're going to take their castles. Settlements situated on the coasts will be prioritised. See it done."
Haldon, however, disagreed. He looked tenser than I had ever seen him. Like he was both constipated and having crapped his pants at the same time. "I disagree with this course of action, my prince. We're not in a position to ride against a host twice our number and push our southern flank afterwards."
"We fought Dothraki who were double our number," I disagreed calmly. He sees me as a child who needs Blackheart and Griff to hold my hand. "Nearly every enemy we fight will outnumber us. They can't beat us when it comes to quality, so the lions and stags and wolves will go for quantity and ride at us with fangs barred. We need to deal with them with haste. We'll win if we take the initiative."
"Said host outnumbers us," Barristan told me weakly. "Four-thousand men. Maybe even more."
"Levies, household troops and sellswords," Dalabhar observed, looking as calm as ever. Internally he was no doubt revelling with some action on the horizon. "A motley collection. A disorganised host led by a foolish lordling. We should ride out to meet them. I stand with the legate. We have a dragon."
"Aye. It'll singe them," Haldon said with an eye roll. "The dragons are not yet big enough, you fool."
Duck laughed. "If the Young Wolf can destroy the Kingslayer's host, what's to say our Dragon of the East can't beat a lesser lordling? The more there are, the more the glory. They'll sing songs about us."
Will they sing of our courage or our folly? "We cannot look past the fact much of our host is unbloodied," I said to instil some caution in them once again. The Dragonguard were veterans who would sooner fight to the death, but I couldn't say the same for the rest of the Fifth. "I wouldn't put faith in a pitch battle. If we're to stand against them, we need guile."
"Guile?" Lemore asked.
"Guile," I repeated, then told them the plan.
...
Biting the inside of my cheek, we watched from behind the foliage at the column marching up the kingsroad. Flanking either side of the track were shallow slopes crowned with trees and heavy brushes that worked well to conceal my two-thousand strong host as they waited for the signal.
Despite marching at a harder pace than any of us expected, the Crownlanders couldn't compete with our speed even with Lord Rykker working his infantry to exhaustion. Not that it was unexpected considering they planned to separate our hosts and defeat them with superior numbers. Such a strategy required them to make haste with the capital of the Seven Kingdoms under threat of siege, however. The rapid march had to be stressing on the levies who were farmers and craftsmen, not professional soldiers trained for long marches whilst carrying heavy equipment. Now they were exhausted, and their column had thinned out considerably as they moved through the forest with its many twists and turns.
It left them exactly where I wanted them.
Due to our lesser numbers and my desire to not waste our limited manpower, I had spoken against Barristan's suggestion for a pitched battle and decided to instead lay an ambush. It was Lord Renfred Rykker who led this host and he was accompanied by talented individuals such as Ser Balman Byrch whose claim to fame was being a tourney knight in his youth and dying in canonverse to Bronn during a joust. It seemed he was no less a fool here as the whole host had blundered directly into our trap without sending scouts.
I peeked through the leaves and scrutinised the rabble. Despite Haldon doing his best to hammer Westerosi heraldry into my skull, many of the houses before me were completely alien. But at least I knew the five most prominent houses present: Rosby, Stokeworth, Rykker, Chelsted and Staunton.
Leading the way were nobility mounted atop horses draped in splendid colours and rich pennants. Trailing behind them were Lannister household troops in mail shirts over boiled leather, open helms created with lions, and crimson cloaks streaming from their shoulders. Next was the army's backbone from the Crownlands; smallfolk in a motley collection in armour ranging from gambeson, mail and boiled leather, thin tunics studded with iron disks to scales and breastplate. In their hands were anything from rusted swords, spears that were little more than sticks with fire-hardened points, woodsman's axes and makeshift pikes, maces and cudgels, hunting crossbows and bows. At the back, defending the rear, were Essosi sellswords decked out in bronze scales and hardened leather, with javelins resting behind circular shields and faces pierced with precious stones.
With Lord Stannis bearing down upon them in the south and Cersei's paranoia when it came to King's Landing being attacked, I was surprised the lords could call upon such a force especially with the detachment of Lannister men. I thought they would all be called upon to defend the walls of King's Landing where every man was needed. But as was the manner of feudalism, the lords more than likely acted on their own, and I wasn't impressed by what they scrounged up. The men before me looked to be the young and old, the inexperienced conscripts that come from scraping the bottom of the barrel. The men who will die to the hands of seasoned killers.
Suddenly the column ground to a halt.
Thanks to the twisting path and rugged terrain, the kingsroad had to follow the natural bends that made it a perfect place to ambush an unsuspecting army. A simple obstruction like a fallen tree could ground thousands of men to a halt and left the rear unaware of what happened further up the line. After a tense moment there was the distance singing of a bird. But it wasn't a bird. I made sure any messages were issued with animal calls to not raise suspicion.
It didn't seem I was as subtle as I thought I was. Hearing the call, a serjeant stopped his mount and looked around awkwardly along the treeline, hands tightening around the pole of his spear.
Shit, shit, shit . . . As if hearing my thoughts, the man looked in my general direction. Sensing something was up, a growing number of Crownlanders were put on edge, looking around cautiously though most remained oblivious and officers shouted orders to get the column moving again.
I turned to Duck and gave the silent order. We couldn't afford to hesitate. The men at the front of the column would try to move the tree out the way and Barristan will bear down on them while Dalabhar strike's the rear with orders to leave a narrow avenue for retreat so our light cavalry could cut them down as they ran. There would be no quarter given this day. Duckfield let out the call of a common swallow, telling the men to get ready. As if there were many swallows in the trees, the song resonated throughout the line.
I silently unsheathed Blackfyre, feeling my hands pulse around the supple leather hugging the handle. No shield. Just sword. I trusted my plate to protect me.
Then the horns sounded, blasting from the trees above the sounds of distant steel and muffled cries.
Cavalrymen tried to rein in their mounts and two bolted off, with one dragging its rider whose foot got stuck in the stirrup. Atop the slopes, archers rained down arrows and crossbow bolts, while legionaries threw javelins and axes into the disorganised Westeros who were now staggering in confusion. Once the barrage softened them up, me and the rest of the lads thundered into the disorganised Westerosi and tore through the unprepared host like a knife.
My first kill never had the chance to look at me. Carried by momentum, I cut down the ginger youth with Blackfyre slicing through his supple leather as easily as melted butter and almost lacerating him in half. He let out a silent scream and in the corner of my narrow vision was another youth charging at me shouting, "King Joffrey!"
I didn't evade in time and his chipped sword glanced off my steel pauldron. No doubt he was aiming for my neck but there was a reason knights were hard to kill, and people seldom stood still when they were attacked. Tearing Blackfyre out the first boy's body, I parried another swing and thrust the tip into his gut. He screamed but was cut down by one of my bodyguards from behind, slashing at the kid's neck where blood sprayed out like a fountain, seeping through the slit of my helmet and into my eyes.
I blinked it away, but the world had turned red. Around me everyone was fighting and dying. Still atop the ridge but no longer hiding behind foliage, archers were firing upon the Westerosi with practised professionalism, killing the enemy with clockwork regularity as other legionaries stood guard to ensure they wouldn't be swarmed. Green as my men were, they were better trained than the levied smallfolk.
Unlike the battles I had fought before, this one wasn't made of thick lines of men pushing each other from behind shields as battles should be. This one was absolutely chaotic, full of shouts and cursing, riderless horses thundering past and bleeding from half a dozen shallow wounds. Where knights were thrown to the ground and swarmed by legionaries who didn't know the meaning of honour. That was how they'd been trained to fight Westerosi nobility. A single legionnaire was no match for a knight one-to-one, so instead of duelling as chivalry demanded, they instead swarmed them like ants over a scorpion, cutting and smashing and finding exposed parts in the metal exoskeleton.
Pushing past my protectors, I joined the men, going from target to target. Many littered the ground dying so I left them. Arrows hissed overhead and shattered off the breastplate of a man-at-arms bearing the sigil of House Rykker who lunged at me. He was an old man with a bloody eye and long grey hair like that of a barbarian. His axe was held high and he chopped down with all his strength – but it seemed his damaged eye ruined his depth perception because he miscalculated the distance and I easily evaded the blow before closing the distance and swung Blackfyre in a deadly arc where the sword sang and shortened the man by a head.
I'd barely the time to recover before a knight armoured in blue steel and golden stars leaped forward screaming words to the Seven above as he built up momentum with a morning star. I ducked low where one of the spikes scraped the tip of my helm. The knight, broad and large, reversed the chained weapon and this time aimed lower. Instead of getting out of range, I drove into the man, snaked a leg around his and toppled him over. His morning star was useless on the ground. Knowing that, he tried to pull out a knife but Blackfyre punctured through his mail coif and into artery and throat, turning the blue and gold of his surcoat brown and red.
Duck forced me back to my feet and I returned him a nod. Thanks to being outnumbered we had no shortage of enemies and never time for a breather. Forming around me again, the Dragonguard and I struck once more. I didn't feel any hatred for the Westerosi I fought. No hatred to the fiery-haired man whose teeth I shattered with a punch or the pimply-faced squire whose skull I shattered with Blackfyre's crossguard. They were nothing to me. I felt nothing. They were like the flies buzzing around your ears and you never felt guilty for swatting a fly. I moved with the practised movements born from hundreds of hours in training and flowed in the rhythm like Lemore's dancing lessons, always keeping distance until I found an opening.
Dodge. Parry. Strike.
Instinctual. Simple. Enjoyable.
A knight bearing the three red antler heads of House Harte lunged forward, shouting curses aimed directly at me, "Die Blackfyre!" he bellowed, no doubt believing killing me would stop this invasion. He towered above everyone and was fast. Surprisingly so for one his size. Cutting down a legionnaire who stepped between me and him, Harte was on me in a heartbeat.
It was only luck I managed to evade the longsword inches away from my face. Seeing their chance, a group of Westerosi charged forward, ensuring my guardsmen couldn't protect me as they moved to face this new threat. Though I'd no doubt my armour was up for the job, I couldn't risk being downed. To fall off my feet was a death sentence. Duck was busy swinging his hammer, fighting off three smallfolk while the rest of my Dragonguard were all preoccupied ensuring I had no one sneaking behind me.
I was on my own.
Staggering back and panting, adrenaline was the only thing keeping me upright after everything. There was pain in my shoulder where an iron cudgel had struck me, and I was sure I had broken a rib. Harte stepped forward, spitting curses and continued the offensive with a vicious slash. Blackfyre blocked and I was about to redirect the swing, failing to notice his other fist where it connected against my helmet, throwing my head back and echoing in my ears even with all the padding beneath.
Harte thrust, but I stepped back enough for the blade to stab hardened plate instead of softer mail. Before he could pull back, I grabbed Harte's sword with my free hand by the crossguard and tried to wrestle it off him, ramming my shoulder into his to knock the larger man off balance. The knight growled, and smashed his helm against mine, almost buckling my legs from the impact and making the world ring. But I kept a hold of his sword as he used his mailed fist to smash me repeatedly across the head. In no way was our struggle balanced. He was a full-grown man, me a teenager still to grow to his full strength.
This was a battle I could only delay.
Thinking quickly, I let go of Blackfyre and tore out one of my dirks. Harte's eyes widened behind his visor, and tried to back away, letting go of his sword in his panic but I was on him, driving into him, using my momentum to topple him over where I was on top. He struggled and tried to throw me off, begging for mercy as I pommelled him, forgetting the knife in my hands momentarily in my anger. I thrust downwards but Harte jerked his head, making me miss the slit where the dagger harmlessly scraped the steel. This happened three more times until a swift kick from one of my protectors silenced him just long enough to sheath my dirk into his eye. He screamed, he cried, and tried to throw me off with increasing desperation. But I held on, stabbing and stabbing as his strength seeped away and he finally succumb.
Feeling a hand on my shoulder, I rolled off the corpse only to stare up at Duck offering me a hand. Hesitating a moment, I accepted, and around me was a carpet of corpses. From the sounds of it there was still fighting going on, but the sellswords didn't care for they were already looting what they could from the dead and dying, caring neither for friend nor foe.
Tearing off my helm, my face was hit with a refreshing cool air. It felt like I was about to collapse from heatstroke. All I wanted to do was lay down and close my eyes, but I couldn't afford such a thing and instead rallied my men to aid wherever there was still fighting.
Picking up Blackfyre, I made my way to the front where the battle was already done. Selmy had captured himself several lords who were all huddled together alongside a dozen injured knights. Despite winning, we had suffered high casualties ourselves. Ser Robert Harling was dead, laying in a pool of congealed blood while Ser Dickon Sand was slumped beneath a tree, opened up from crown to throat. Septa Lemore and a bunch of healers were already out with carts and collecting the wounded or treating those carpeting the ground. It seemed Barristan the Bold decided both sides deserved treatment, and he was conversing with Lord Renford Rykker who was bleeding from a wound to the forehead. As always, it was the lords who were prioritised. Our own men left unattended to treat the enemy. I didn't like that. I didn't like that one bit.
The captured lords saw me coming and their eyes widened. Barristan turned around and allowed himself a mild smile at our victory, saying, "Lord Rykker and the other lords have surrendered, and request you show them mercy."
"They're not in a position to request anything from me," I told the knight. "They decided to ride against us and were beaten in battle." Their fates are whatever I decide.
"A dishonourable battle," one of the men growled. From his bloodied surcoat he had to be Ser Balman Byrch. His leg was horribly mangled and twisted in an unnatural angle. Tear stains marked his fat cheeks and he looked like he was about to faint. "We were caught unawares, and my stallion was downed by one of your Essosi." He pointed to the corpse of a splendid destrier covered in a green silken caparison that had been killed by bolts piecing the protective mail.
"I believe this was a battle, ser, not a joust," I informed him with more politeness than he deserved. "Ser Barristan, tie these lords up. They are going to Maidenpool with our injured. In the back of a cart if necessary. Duck, you go and inform Dalabhar . . ." Looking down at the injured legionaries and opposition, my heart hardened. "Other than those belonging to prominent houses of political significance, leave no prisoners. Kill them all." If it were up to me, the lords would be included as well. But politics trumped all. "When you're done, check the carriages. Take whatever supplies we can carry then send the rest with the injured. If any remain, burn it. We're riding south."
I turned and walked away, feeling Barristan's eyes bore into the back of my skull. Let him judge me. I will do what needs to be done, and I'll not be found flinching.
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