A Death To Knighthood (Part VI)

Robb

Robb cursed again as his boots sank into mud - the rolling green grasslands had been churned up the pounding of thousands of pairs of feet and mixed with the blood draining away from hundreds upon hundreds of the dead, the dying, and the wounded. And still the battle raged on, still there were plenty more Reachers and Stormlanders that needed to be fought and killed. He was tired, his voice hoarse, and he could just feel it in his bones that the men around him felt the same.

He began to wonder if it had been a mistake to change the plan at the last minute and go on the offensive, rather than wait behind their defenses for Renly to come to them. But then he reminded himself that had they just sat and waited, then Renly might have encircled them. Might. Robb had not expected the youngest Baratheon brother to go for such a wide deployment, given that he was still directing his army with flags and trumpets and simple word of mouth (and he had reliable intelligence from the Sky-People that Renly had no radios of his own). So to attempt such a maneuver was an enormous tactical gamble that Robb had not expected the Reachers to take, but now that they had after all, he had to adapt accordingly.

Dacey, where are you?, he thought to himself, we've got to close that bloody gap! He looked to his right, looking north. The stretch between the First Division northernmost units, and the southernmost of the Crownlands banners was large enough that, even from this flat and inopportune vantage point, he could still see clearly the bulk of Renly's center, locked into vicious melee with his. The artillery, meanwhile, continued hammering away, cannonballs bouncing along the ground before smashing right into the ranks of Reach and Stormmen alike, enfilading them.

"Mormont," commanded Robb, looking to his radioman, who swiftly complied. "Dacey," he began, not even bothering with titles anymore, "we're marching too far ahead, why isn't the Third Division keeping pace?"

"Sorry, Robb," came Dacey's answer, "the artillery's shooting across our path. I told Theon to hold, but he's acting like he's his own separate army now. I told him to halt, but he's not listening."

"I will speak to him." Robb checked the radio to make sure the numbers displayed on that Sky-People box matched up with those Theon would be using (the "same frequency" as the Sky-People called it). He then continued: "Brother. Hold your fire, we're trying to reform the line and fill in the gap."

"Brother!" came Theon's response, "we have a clear field of view right into the mass of 'em! It's glorious!"

"Cease firing, damn it!" pressed Robb, "you're going to hit us!"

"Another barrage, Brother," insisted Theon, "look, we're knocking 'em down like a game of bowls!"

"Theon, I swear, on the Old Gods and on your slimy drowned God too," shouted Robb, "if you don't cease firing this very moment, I will cut off your dick and feed it to Grey Wind!" The tone with which these words came out surprised even him; Gods, it must have been that little bit of Bolton blood in him speaking. "I'm telling you now, hold your fire until Dacey's through!"

The silence that followed seemed to suggest that even Theon was taken aback by this sudden outburst. But even if he wasn't, the fact that the guns began to fall silent one by one shortly thereafter showed that at least it had been effective.

Robb was furious, wondering if putting Theon in charge of the cannons had been the wisest move. When they first formed the First Army, all those long months ago, Theon had stayed by his side as one of his command staff, and because Robb chose to command the artillery personally, thus Theon too served with the artillery. But after the Red Fork, after achieving, all by his lonesome, a number of kills with the Gatling that would have put both of his uncles to shame, Theon had quickly grown a close attachment for these weapons, and so had elected to remain with them.

Now, they still had ten Gatlings left in operable condition; those and what little munitions they had left for them had all been assigned alongside the stationary cannons, in order to dissuade any of Renly's cavalry from harassing the vital artillery company. But this whole bloody campaign, from the long march down from Winterfell to get here, to how heavily they had been used on the Red Fork - all of it had taken a hefty toll on the guns, and unfortunately there just had not been time to train their engineers on how to repair and upkeep these guns the way they could with the far simpler Napoleon guns.

That, and then there was also this whole issue of purchasing more munitions. Almost all of their stocks had been used up on the Red Fork, and obtaining more turned out to be difficult for... strange reasons he could not quite understand. To put it mildly, Robb was furious. First they had dragged him back north so that he could speak on The Company's behalf against the Sky-People's government. And then, Lord Daniel had explained that, thanks to some decision made by the UN Security Council, The Company would be forced to cut back on their supplies of Gatling munitions and certain other weapons. Daniel had mumbled something about "not wanting to push their luck with UN watchdogs anymore". Wait, then what was the point of that entire hearing? Had Lady Carson not done her job properly? Robb was so confused by everything - oh, the Sky-People and all their complicated rules and all these little games they were playing.

But then again, trial and error out in the field had shown that the Gatlings were not the be-all and end-all that Robb had initially thought. They were absolutely fantastic at one thing, which was for stationary defense against large formations of densely-packed enemies, that much was true. The cannons, on the other hand, could serve many different roles on the battlefield, from long-range bombardment on the field or during a siege, to short-range anti-infantry thanks to judicious application of canister shot - their range of applicability was really only limited by two things: what types of munitions were available, and their mobility (or, rather, lack thereof). And, more importantly, they cost a fraction of what the Gatlings did, and they were far easier for the First Army engineers to upkeep.

He turned to look back at where the guns had been placed, and could see that now that they had ceased fire, slowly but steadily, the Third Division were advancing, their banners and flags fluttering in the air. They had the First Army engineers up since before dawn, working - preparing barbed wire, sinking stakes into the ground, as well as digging and preparing small earthen mounds to place the cannons upon, so that the barrels would be pointed up into the air at the best possible angle necessary to maximize their range.

The good news was that their preemptive strike seems to have taken their opponents completely offguard and thrown them into disarray. On the far northern end of the field, King Stannis had struck boldly forth and descended upon the Tyrell horse whilst they were still dwaddling around, no doubt still waiting on orders from Renly on what they should do next.

But to the south, it was a different story.

As had been agreed, the Valelords would be in overall command down there. He had met Lord Yohn Royce once before, in Winterfell, when he had visited on his way to see his youngest Ser Waymar off to the Wall, though that was years ago, and nothing compared to the last few weeks he had had to get to know him since departing King's Landing. He appreciated Ol' Bronze Yohn's skill and tactical acumen, even in his greying years, and could see and understand why his Lord Father always spoke so highly of him. But he was very much still a man of his time, wary of all these new "Sky-People weapons" that Robb introduced him to, and reluctant to use the radio even after Robb had given him one and shown him how to use it - now that he thought about it, he had hardly heard Yohn's voice at all today.

At the very least though, it seemed the Valelords were doing what they were meant to do, which was to keep Renly's cavalry on the southern flank tied up. Though they were outnumbered, the men of the Vale were some of the finest in the Realm, and they had with them those Riverlands banners who had fought and survived Lord Tywin, under the command of Lord Mallister. But it was still by no means a straightforward fight, and whoever was in charge of the Stormlands banners there was determined not to let them off easily.

That was when Grey Wind's ears pricked up. He growled.

"What is it, boy?" asked Robb.

The radioman approached him. "Lord Glover wishes to speak to you, Sir!"

With Robb taking some time off from the frontline to oversee the deployment of their reserves, Robbett Glover had taken over direct command of the First Division. Perhaps he meant to inform him of a lull in the fighting, and if so, that would be good, for it would allow them time to swap out exhausted frontliners for fresh troops from the reserve...

"General Stark!" spoke Glover, "be warned! We are seeing large numbers of horsemen assembling just to the northwest of my position."

Robb froze. He looked around him. The men of the Third Division were still marching forward, in their neat but separate squares. No time to turn the entire division on a dime and form a complete line.

There was only one thing to do.

"Squares!" shouted Robb, "form squares! Third Division, squares! Repulse cavalry!" He turned to the radio. "Dacey! Be warned, Glover's reported cavalry moving in on the gap. Have the right wing of the division form squares. Now!"

"You 'eard the general, form squares!" shouted the captain nearest to him, "Squares! Prepare to repulse cavalry!"

The order was carried further down the line with cries of "squares!" and blasts of trumpets, and the effect was immediate, like shouting "fire!" in a crowded inn. Robb signaled for his staff, his radioman and his standard-bearers, to follow him, and ran for the nearest square.

Roose

Since he had lost his mount in the first charge, one of the other Dreadfort men dismounted and offered his to the Dreadlord as a replacement. Roose climbed on, and took a good, long look at all that was unfolding around him.

The battle was still raging, but now some distance away as the enemy was pushed further back, and he was pleased to see that at the very least, regardless of what had happened to him, the men of the Dreadfort had conducted themselves well and with zeal, continuing to fight on even after their liege lord had fallen, their lofty pink banners now stained in deep crimson and blackish red. The King's flanking maneuver had no doubt taken a toll on their enemy, and as long as they kept pressing them back and hammering them repeatedly, the Reachmen and Stormlanders would have no time to reform themselves and counter-charge.

With his radio destroyed, Roose had no way of knowing what else was transpiring at other ends of the field, though he could see, when he looked south, what appeared to be a solid unbroken line of the First Army foot, under Lord Ned himself, advancing forward, making a fine mince out of the Reachmen.

"My Liege," offered Lieutenant Locke, offering him a steel canteen sloshing with water. All this fighting was tiring and straining, but regardless, Roose declined the offer; the sight and satisfaction of all this bloodshed would sate his thirst for now.

A blast of trumpets sounded, heralding the arrival of a large column of horse. Roose looked up to see the King himself approaching, flanked by his standard-bearers and command staff, and bowed slightly.

"Lord Bolton," declared Stannis, riding right up to him, "I thought you had fallen."

"My radio was crushed, Your Grace," he explained, simply.

If the King had any misgivings or other to say, he never expressed them. Instead, he went directly to the next point. "It appears Lord Renly is sending his reserve to reinforce the south flank."

"Aye, Your Grace," replied Roose. He could see where this was going.

"We're going to move now," declared the King, "make straight for Renly whilst his reserves are tied up on our south. Strike him when he is least expecting it. It shall not be easy; if I know him well enough, he will have surrounded himself with his finest knights. But we will charge regardless, and we will catch him offguard. Are you with me?"

Roose stared at him for a moment, confused. Charge, right now, directly at their king? Right around the back of their entire army, across a mile or more? What he now asked for was something you would expect more from his late elder brother! But he could also see what answer the King was expecting. And beside that, House Bolton had a long and hard-earned reputation that needed to be upheld. He replied: "The men of the Dreadfort stand ready to end this pretender king's claim once and for all."

The King, his face flat and expressionless as ever, nodded - that was about as amicable a gesture as one could expect from a man who never smiled. He then turned to face the rest of his cohorts: "Men of the North, of the West, of the East. Of the Riverlands and the Crown, and others who keep your vows..." The men looked on intently, as the King paused for breath, in eager anticipation of what came next. But the King spoke simply, starkly, and to the point: "Men, come with me... and TAKE THEIR KING!"

"STANNIS!" chanted the knights of the Crownlands, raising their arms and banners high, "STANNIS, KING!"

Brienne

Up ahead, straight to the east, Brienne beheld the solid line of the backs of Hightower's men, stubbornly trudging forward through the mire, even as the relentless pounding away from those dreaded cannons decimated their number. But to the southeast, aye, there was indeed a breakage in the line - not a complete gap, no, but it was an area where she could see that the enemy lines were far thinner and spaced apart. Only a few stragglers she could see, a few disparate groups of men rushing about to fill in the gap. A thousand horses throwing their weight against it would surely break it... as it were right now, at that moment, for every minute they waited was another minute the enemy had time to pull their infantry into place. The time was now or never.

She turned around. The horses whinnied and pawed the ground, restless, knowing as animals somehow always do that something was up. Atop their backs, men in all manner of armor, bearing all manner of weapons, looked to her. Though she could not see many of their faces beneath those cold steel helms they wore, she knew all eyes were now trained upon her. And she did not know what to say.

All her life had been leading up to this day. The day she would at last earn her rightful place as any man's equal, lead her King's armies to glory, and forever enter the songs and poems that would be told for many years to come. She could hardly breathe. She felt a child again, a little girl lonely and unloved in Evenfall Hall, living on dreams and hearings of tales of olde. All her life was she ridiculed by others. She tried to be a woman, a true woman - tried to wear dresses and gowns, and dance and sing at feasts, only to be scorned for her appearance and deep voice. It was clear that her path was not that of a lady, but of the warrior, and no matter how much contempt and resentment found her at every step along the way, she never stopped dreaming of greater things to come.

And now she was here. It was a wonderful feeling, like how she had felt the day she had triumphed at the tourney at Bitterbridge and joined the Rainbow Knights. Or how she felt whenever her King was courteous and appreciative of her in front of the others. At these times she felt she that for once was not looked upon as some object of derision, but as their equal - a true knight.

She did not know what to say, or, if she did, if they would even hear it. If she spoke for too long or said the wrong thing, it would ruin this moment for her, and for others too, and especially for her King whom she knew now depended on her. So, instead she decided to keep it simple and direct. It was the thought that counted, after all. Clutching King Renly's stag and rose banner tightly in her hand, she thrust it straight up into the air, let the sun gleam off of gilded threads, and shouted, loud as she could: "FOR RENLY!"

"FOR RENLY!" came the unanimous cries and chants of the men.

"FOR RENLY!" she shouted again, then kicked her spurs into her mount's sides, driving him forward into a gallop.

Robb

Grey Wind dashed right up to the edge of the nearest square, and Robb instinctively followed him; the men there recognized them and stepped aside, opening up a passage for them. Once they were safely within, they closed up again. But by the Gods, was it tight right inside the center of it - some 250 or so men were packed into just this one square alone, some four ranks deep on each side, presenting an unbroken fence of spearpoints (but no bayonets - turns out this was one of the pike-only companies).

Robb looked around him wildly; he could hardly see over the shoulders and heads and steely grey helmets of the men surrounding him, so he could not see the enemy until they would be almost upon them. He could, however, hear the galloping, the furious pounding of hooves upon the ground, and could see the dust they were throwing up as they charged.

"Ready!" shouted one of the captains at the men, "present!"

Robb heard the cracks of volleys from two of the other squares nearby, a mix of rifle and pike. Many horsemen would be felled, but the rest charged on, and then they were upon them.

They did not charge the squares directly, but instead swarmed and swirled around them, like a raging river of steel and savagery raging around rocks of grim determination and fortitude. Skittish creatures they were, Robb reminded himself - you could lead a horse to water, but instinct always had the final say on whether it would drink or not, and if given the choice between charging into a solid wall of sharp pointy things, and into an empty space devoid of such things, the creature generally chose the latter. Certainly, the noise, the smoke, even the smell of gunpowder being ignited was having a visibly unsettling effect on some of the horses he could see from here.

For several long minutes, this state of affairs continued, the knights running around the squares in circles. Some would ride right up to the men and stab and slash furiously with lances and swords, but the square held firm, the defenders stabbing and thrusting back with their pikes, to stave off the attackers. Robb wondered how the other squares were holding; he could not see them over the swarms of riders that surrounded them, and only his and Dacey's had a radio.

He could, however, hear in the distance a familiar clattering winding up again. Some of the knights must have tried to continue racing onwards to Theon's artillery position; there, they were sure to run afoul of the Gatlings and of the wire.

A great cry, louder than the others, grabbed his attention. His head shot to the left to glimpe a large horse having gotten itself gored on one of the pikes; its rider dismounted and almost immediately threw himself right into the throng. The pikemen nearest him furiously stabbed and jabbed back at him, but in vain. He either dodged each thrust, or else the spearpoints would glance off the rounded edges of his thick, shining blue armor. The two pikemen standing nearest to him dropped their pikes and instead reached for their swords for melee, but they were too late; the blue knight was upon them, cutting them down where they stood.

When he was mounted, that was one thing, but now that he was on the ground, standing without any aid or advantage, Robb could truly appreciate the size of the opponent now facing him. He was the largest knight Robb had ever seen, easily as tall as any of the Umbers, and for a moment, he was reminded of that Mountain of House Clegane. Except unlike Ser Gregor, whom Robb had only seen in person after the battle and after he had been slain (supposedly, by the Lions' own sellswords over a payment dispute, though Robb sometimes wondered if that was only part of the story), the knight now facing him was very much alive and real and ready to kill him.

Robb looked on with growing trepidation as the blue knight slashed and stabbed his way through the ranks of pikemen, besting every man who dared stand in his way. By now, he was far too close for the pikes, forcing the men standing nearest to him to have to go to sword, but even these proved in vain, for he was like the Mountain and the Kingslayer all in one, a killing machine rending men apart. Robb blinked in disbelief. The blue knight, all by his lonesome, was tearing the square completely apart.

Without thinking, Robb drew his sword, clasping the leather-bound hilt tightly with both hands. By his side, Grey Wind snarled and bared his teeth at the knight, ready to pounce, as if he were saying: we can do this, you and I! Come on Robb, let us take down this behemoth, the two of us! Together! We bested the Kingslayer; this blue monster shall be no different! Come on! Let's do this!

The blue knight's helm was fixed on him, and Robb knew, somehow, that he had recognized him. And he recognized him back - of course, he was one of Renly's Kingsguard. Only the finest knights in all his Realm would Renly pick for his Guard. His heart pounded. His hearing went dull, and for a moment, all he could hear was heavy breathing - though he was not certain if it was his, or Grey Wind's, or the knight's.

And then, he felt his fingers loosen their grip. His right hand let go... and instead reached for his belt. More specifically, for the heavy leather pouch that hung from it, where he had been keeping something for all of these last few months.

He grasped it tightly, feeling its weight in his hand, still as clean and polished as the day Lord Kovacs had first presented it to him all those long months ago as a gift, a token of friendship between Winterfell and Autumn's Frontier. Its handle was crafted out of shining steel and polished wood, the Stark Direwolf elegantly carved into it by the Sky-People's machines.

On the world from whence it came, this weapon was known as the "Colt Nineteen Eleven", and other weapons of its kind reportedly had a long and distinguished career in the army of one of the mightiest of all the Sky-People's many empires. The weapon weighed heavily in his hands; his thumb found the safety. And then, in one motion, he yanked it out of its holster, pointed it, and squeezed the trigger.

Time seemed to grind to a halt; as if he could see the hammer being pulled back, then snapping forward. The slide slid backwards, ejecting the spent cartridge, and the whole device kicked back with such recoil that his arm snapped back and he almost dropped it. A flash, and a puff of smoke, and then the big knight just stopped. Just stopped, standing there, with a small part of his blue breastplate dented inward, and a small, circular hole punched clean through the center of it.

Grey Wind yelped, as if completely surprised by what his master had done.

But Robb did not stop. Gripping the weapon with both hands now, he aimed, and pulled the trigger again. And then again.

The knight groaned and fell to his knees, three holes in his chest, rivulets of blackish red blood in sharp contrast against gleaming polished blue.

Robb was dazed, oblivious to all that was going on around him, but he kept that gun pointed at his foe, gripped with both hands now, and cautiously stepped towards him. The knight was lying crumpled where he had fallen upon the mud, wheezing and gasping for breath. "R-r-r-r-renly..." he groaned with his dying breath, though Robb noticed something odd - his voice was deep, yes, and yet still... undeniably... feminine?

He grabbed the blue helm by the bright plume of colored horsehair that protruded from it, and pulled it off, and beneath it, he saw a face. A face ugly and coarse, its nose bearing the marks of multiple breakings over the years, its lips fat and swollen, but with eyes of the deepest blue, beautiful and innocent even in death, just blankly staring back right at him, accusingly. A woman's face.

Beside him, Grey Wind howled.