[The Westerlands, Oxcross, 5th moon, 299AC]
Alaric gave the order with his sword still sheathed.
"No horns until we are seen."
The men nearest him passed it back in low voices. No shouting or lifted banners, just coordinated quiet. Seven thousand men moved down from the ridges in the dark, and for a short while, the only sounds were hooves, leather, breathing, and the distant panic of horses already breaking apart Stafford's camp.
Tempest ran ahead of him, silver-grey and silent until he chose not to be. Cinder kept closer, red-brown fur low to the ground, amber eyes fixed on the camp below.
Somewhere farther left, Grey Wind had vanished into the horse lines with Robb and his riders. Ghost was a pale shape near Jon's flank.
Shadow had gone ahead with Dorren, and Winter kept near Rickard's company as they moved toward the lower road.
The wolves had begun the battle before the men did.
That suited Alaric fine.
Stafford's camp was quickly coming undone, descending into pure chaos.
He could see it even from the slope. Tents collapsed beneath panicked horses. Men ran with no armor, no shields, no idea where the enemy was. Fires spilled across tents, wooden constructs, and more. A mule screamed as it dragged a broken tether through a row of sleeping men. Somewhere in the camp, a man kept ringing a bell long after it had become useless.
Alaric drew Ice.
The greatsword came free with a low scrape.
Ser Desmond Manderly rode on his right, heavy in the saddle and grim beneath his helm. Ser Ellard Karstark rode on his left. Behind them came the best of the western host, not all of it. Alaric had left around 4,500 men behind to keep raiding, driving cattle east, stripping holds, and dragging the Westerlands apart piece by piece. Although outnumbered, Alaric's host was more than enough to crush the disorganized and inexperienced men of Stafford's paltry host.
"Now, commence the attack," he said.
The horns sounded.
The ridges answered.
The northern charge broke loose.
They struck the outer camp like a hammer on a nail.
The first Westerners they reached barely understood they were in battle. A guard stood with a spear half-lowered, staring at the direwolves who were now near the horse lines. Alaric cut him down without slowing. Another man stumbled from a tent with his belt loose and a dagger in hand. A Mormont rider rode him under.
In the first few minutes of the battle, the Westermen were consumed entirely by confusion.
That made this the most valuable minutes of the battle.
"Left companies to the wagons!" Alaric shouted. "Right to the horse lines! Desmond, take the center lane and hold it. No stopping, no looting, no chasing fools into tents. We break the camp first."
Desmond lifted his halberd high in the sky. "You heard the king! Shields forward! Center lane!"
The Winter Guard did not charge like wild men. Even when mounted, they moved with discipline. Their horses were heavier, their armor better, and their shields larger. They smashed into half-formed western knots, broke them, and kept moving. Behind them, dismounted Winter Guard advanced with shields locked, spears and axes clearing the lanes between tents.
One northern rider veered toward a cluster of camp followers crouched behind a wagon.
Alaric saw him lift his sword.
"Leave them!" he roared.
The man jerked his horse back, startled.
Alaric rode close enough for the rider to hear him through the noise. "They are not soldiers. If I catch you attempting to slaughter non-combatants when there's armed men to be slain again, I'll hang you from Stafford's own banner pole and let Lucion write the charge in very fine western script."
The rider swallowed hard. "Aye, Your Grace."
"Good. Now go kill someone holding a weapon."
He rode on.
Alaric had spent much of this campaign keeping blood thirsty fools from slaughtering innocents on mass, it wouldn't suit his plans for such carnage to unfold in the West, after all.
Cinder soon appeared from between two tents with blood on her muzzle. She did not look at him for permission, she knew her work. Tempest had driven a string of horses directly across a group of men trying to form around a Brax banner. The horses did more damage than swords would have. Men were trampled before they could even lift their shields.
Alaric almost smiled.
Not because it was funny.
Because it worked, and, well, it was a tad bit funny in a morbid sort of way.
Ahead, Robb's horn sounded twice.
Good.
That meant the left horse lines were broken.
A moment later, another horn answered from Jon's side.
Messenger routes were now cut off.
Alaric looked to Ellard. "Jon has the eastern road. Send riders to support him if Stafford tries to flee that way."
Ellard nodded. "And you, my king?"
"I'm going to make myself unpleasant in the middle."
"That is usually where you thrive, Your Grace," Ellard remarked with a wolfish grin
"Careful. If you keep flattering me, I'll think you want something." Alaric laughed, followed by some men around him, lightening the mood a little. Battles were best fought with good morale after all
"I want the westermen to stop screaming so I can hear myself think," Ellard grumbled, yet still grinning
"That seems unlikely."
Ellard laughed once, then rode off with a few dozen men.
Alaric drove deeper into camp.
Here, the fighting grew uglier. Some westermen had managed to arm themselves. Not many, but enough. A group of Jast men formed behind overturned wagons, spears braced, shields crooked but present. They were not ready, but at least they weren't helpless either.
A northern rider hit the spears and went down hard.
Alaric pulled his horse left, dropped from the saddle before the press could trap him, and advanced on foot.
"Winter Guard, on me!" he called.
The heavy infantry fell in beside him.
The Jast spears came forward.
Ice cut through the first shaft. The man holding it stared for half a heartbeat before Alaric opened him from shoulder to ribs. A second spearman thrust low. Alaric turned, caught the spear against his armored thigh, and slammed his shoulder into the man's shield hard enough to send him backward into the wagon.
The Winter Guard hit with him.
The line soon broke.
Men died in mud and spilled oats while a horse screamed nearby with its guts torn open.
That was battle, chaos, noise, and the heart-wrenching screams of dying steeds.
A Jast knight came at Alaric with a longsword and no helm. He was brave, but that's all, he only lasted three blows, Alaric killed him with the fourth and moved on.
A shout rose behind him.
"Your Grace!"
He turned.
Lucion rode through smoke, sword dripping blood, golden hair dark with soot under his helm. He had two northern men with him and a cut across his cheek.
"You have a gift for appearing exactly where the camp is most on fire," Alaric said.
"I was about to say the same to you."
"Well, considering I'm often the one who causes such damage, that just means you're usually late." He laughed, Lucion replying in kind for a moment, becoming serious once more
Lucion looked past him at the ruined wagons and dead Jast men. "Stafford's center is ahead, if the idiots kept the pavilion where it was. Brax men are trying to form in the south. Jast men are scattered, but some of them have discipline. Crakehall banners, however, are moving, they look to be trying to attain some semblance of formation, which worries me more than the rest."
Alaric wiped blood from Ice with a dead man's cloak. "Roland Crakehall, I presume."
"Aye. If anyone in this camp has sense, it's Lord Roland. Stafford commands because of his name. Roland commands because men believe he can lead them to victory and glory."
"Then we destroy the camp and snuff out the disarrayed remnants before Roland can turn it back into an army."
Lucion gave him a hard look. "And if he already has?"
"Then we have a real battle after all."
"That sounded almost cheerful."
"I enjoy honest work," he shrugged, killing one's enemies was cathartic after all
"You have a strange idea of honest work, your grace."
Alaric mounted again. "I grew up in the North. We have strange ideas about most things."
They rode together toward the center.
The camp burned in pieces now. Alaric had not ordered a full burning. Fire was useful until it became unpredictable. The Northmen burned wagons, supply carts, spare arms staches, fodder stacks, and tents blocking movement.
They left food stores where they could be seized, killed armed men, and drove loose horses east and north. They cut tethers, broke wagon wheels, overturned cauldrons, and turned Stafford's host into just pure noise.
The direwolves, like the northern forces, were everywhere.
Grey Wind burst from smoke with Robb behind him, the direwolf snarling as two western horses crashed through a line of men trying to form near the remounts. Robb's sword was red, and there was blood on his horse's chest.
"Left side is gone!" Robb shouted. "Their horses are scattered into the fields. Some men are trying to rally, but most are running in circles and calling for captains who aren't there."
"Good, are you hurt?"
"No."
"Liar."
Robb glanced down at a tear in his sleeve and shrugged. "Barely."
Alaric pointed south. "Take two hundred riders and keep as many men as you can from joining the center. Do not break yourself on them. Harass, cut, pull back, hit again. If you see a clean opening, take it, but do not overextend."
Robb grinned. "You give such inspiring orders."
"I save the inspiring ones for men I expect to die."
"That is comforting, cousin."
Robb rode off laughing, Grey Wind racing beside him.
For a moment, Alaric watched him go.
The boy had grown, now becoming a dangerous man.
Good.
The world required dangerous Starks.
Jon came next, emerging from the east road with Ghost at his side and a half-dozen captured messengers behind him. One of the prisoners looked barely older than Bran.
"The road out of here is secured," Jon said. "We caught three riders trying to reach the rear and one trying for Lannisport. Ghost found another hiding under a cart."
Ghost sat, silent and pale.
Alaric looked at the prisoners. "Good, send them to the rear to be guarded, i expect we'll be hosting quite a few captives by the end of this engagement.
Jon nodded before lowering his voice. "Dorren found a reserve near the lower stream. Shadow led him straight to them before they formed. He broke them fast, but he looked strange afterward."
Alaric's eyes moved toward the smoke where Dorren had gone.
"Strange how?"
"Like he was hearing and seeing something no one else could."
Alaric said nothing for a moment.
Then Cinder's head snapped toward the same direction.
Alaric felt the old unease move through him. The world had begun stirring in ways most men could not see. He knew exactly what was happening, magic was returning to the world, now, whether that was a good thing was still left to be decided.
"Stay near him when you can," Alaric said.
Jon studied him. "You know something about this, don't you?"
"I know many things. And I will tell all of you about some of them in due time, for now, focus on killing Lannisters."
"That's not a very satisfying answer." Jon huffed
"It was not meant to be."
Now wasn't the time to tell them of the magic that runs through their veins, that conversation was better suited once this battle is over. It is long overdue after all.
Jon looked as if he wanted to press further.
Then a western horn sounded from ahead.
Not panicked like the rest of them had been, no, this one seemed controlled, as if calling for a formation to solidify
Alaric turned.
Another horn answered.
Then shouting. Not the formless terror of men waking to death, but commands. Shield wall commands and rallying cries.
Someone was imposing order.
It would seem that Roland Crakehall had found his footing in this battle before Stafford had even found his boots.
The fighting soon changed after that.
Alaric felt it immediately. Before, the Westermen had been disorganized and chaotic. Frightened and lost. Armed men, yes, but scattered. Now the pieces began moving toward one another. A knot of spearmen formed near a low stone wall. Crossbowmen gathered behind wagons. Men with shields dragged carts into a rough barricade. Crakehall banners rose above the smoke.
The battle had entered its second phase.
A western knight charged at Alaric from the right, screaming something about lions. Cinder hit the horse first. The animal went sideways. The knight fell badly, one foot caught in the stirrup. Cinder finished him before he stopped shouting.
Lucion looked at the wolf. "I am beginning to think your animals dislike western heraldry."
"Cinder dislikes everyone equally, well, except me, of course. It's one of her finer qualities."
The wolf raised her head, muzzle red.
"See? She agrees."
Lucion shook his head. "One day, one of those beasts is going to understand a jest they didn't quite like, and I hope I am nowhere near it."
"They already do. They just don't find you appetizing."
"That wounds me more deeply than the enemy."
The jest died as a volley of crossbow bolts cut through the smoke.
A northern rider fell from his saddle. Another bolt struck Alaric's pauldron and glanced off. A third hit a Winter Guard man in the throat, dropping him hard.
Alaric lifted Ice. "Shields up! It seems these western bastards still have some fight in them after all!"
The Winter Guard locked around him.
A second volley came weaker than the first. Then Desmond's men hit the crossbowmen from the side. The westermen broke, but not before killing seven more northerners.
It would seem Roland was not merely rallying men.
He was using them well.
Alaric did not hate that.
He respected it.
There were far too few competent enemies in this world. Too many fools made a man careless.
"Your Grace!" Ser Ellard rode up, helm dented, blood on one side of his face. "Stafford's pavilion is ahead, but the way is closing. Crakehall men are gathering there. Some Brax and Jast too. I saw Lord Roland's personal banner."
"How many?"
"Hard to say. Three thousand or so, mostly lords' retinues and men-at-arms, the levies are scattered and dying everywhere, along with more joining every moment."
Lucion grimaced. "That is worse than I hoped."
Alaric looked through the smoke.
The first grey of dawn was beginning to edge the sky.
Bad for the ambush.
Good for command.
He could see the shape now. Stafford's army was still ruined. The horse lines were gone. The wagons burned or blocked. The outer camp was shattered. Thousands had fled, died, or surrendered. But near the center, around a low rise and a line of broken wagons, Roland Crakehall was building the makings of a last stand.
Not enough to win, but it was sure enough to hurt.
"Pull the scattered companies back from the tents," Alaric said. "No more chasing. Reform north and east. Desmond holds the center. Ellard takes the left. Jorah on the right if he can hear a horn through that beard. Robb will keep Brax pinned. Jon stays on the roads. Dorren watches the stream and stops any mounted escape."
Ellard nodded. "And you?"
Alaric looked toward the forming western line.
"I am going to see whether Lord Roland wants to be reasonable, mayhaps we can spare some bloodshed yet."
Lucion stared at him. "You cannot be serious."
"I am often serious."
"That is unfortunately true, but this is one of those times where being serious makes you sound mad. You want to ride up to Roland Crakehall while his men are forming a last stand and ask him politely to stop?"
"I was not going to be overly polite."
"That eases my concern tremendously," Lucion said, rolling his eyes, and stabbing down at a fumbling levy who tried poking him with a pitchfork
Alaric smiled despite himself. The smoke stung his eyes. Blood dried under his gorget. Somewhere behind them, a man screamed for a mother who would never hear him. Still, he smiled.
"I will not ride alone. And if Roland has any sense, he knows the battle is lost."
"If he has any honor, he will not care."
"That is why honor kills so many men."
Lucion's face tightened.
Alaric softened his voice slightly. "I do not mock it. I have seen enough good men die with honor in their mouths and fear in their eyes. I only mean that I would rather not spend another thousand lives proving what both of us can already see."
Lucion held his gaze for a moment, then nodded.
"Then speak quickly. Crakehalls are stubborn."
"Most boars are."
"That jest was just poor."
"What can I say, I am quite tired."
"That is no excuse for lazy wit, Your Grace."
"It is when I am king."
They rode forward under a white scrap tied to a spear, though Alaric did not sheathe Ice.
The fighting did not stop.
It slowed.
Men on both sides watched as Alaric approached the edge of bowshot with Tempest at his left and Cinder at his right. Roland Crakehall stood ahead behind a line of shields, helm on now, sword in hand. Stafford's lion banners fluttered behind him, though Stafford himself was nowhere to be seen.
Roland was older than Alaric expected. Broad, hard-faced, heavy in the shoulders, with a greying beard and eyes that had seen enough battles to know this one was already ruined.
Alaric respected him.
Roland soon stepped forward a few paces.
"King Alaric Stark."
"Lord Crakehall."
"You have made a bloody mess of our camp."
"You arranged it poorly."
A few northern men laughed behind Alaric.
Roland's mouth twitched despite himself. "I told them much the same."
"Then you should have been in command."
"I am now."
"Aye. I noticed."
The two men studied one another across the mud.
Alaric spoke first, louder now so the nearest westermen could hear. "Your host is broken. Your horses are gone. Your wagons burn as we speak, and your scouts are dead or running. Thousands of your men have fled into the hills with no food, no order, and no idea where my riders are. You have mayhaps three thousand men here, maybe fewer by the time we finish talking. I can break you, Lord Roland. You know that as well as I do."
Roland did not answer at once.
Behind him, men shifted.
Alaric continued.
"I am offering terms because I have killed enough frightened boys tonight. Lay down arms. Yield the coward, Ser Stafford Lannister, to my custody, and your men will be fed, bound, guarded, and kept alive. Resist, and this land becomes a butcher's yard."
Roland's eyes hardened.
"You speak plainly for a king."
"I have found riddles do not improve battles."
"No. They do not."
"Then answer plainly."
Roland looked back once toward the men behind him. Crakehall, Brax, Jast, Vikary, Lannister. Some steady. Some terrified. Some were too tired to know which they were.
When he looked back, there was grief in his face, though Alaric did not know for whom.
"I believe you would keep terms," Roland said. "That is the trouble. If I thought you a butcher, I could refuse you more easily."
"Then don't."
"You know I cannot surrender another man's army while Stafford still lives and commands."
"Does he command in truth?"
Roland's jaw tightened.
That answered enough.
Alaric sighed.
He had expected this, yet a part of him had hoped otherwise.
Hoping otherwise rarely helped.
"Then send him out."
Roland almost laughed. "You think he will come?"
"No. I think you will ask, and he will refuse, and then you will have the answer you already know."
Roland stared at him.
For a moment, the battlefield seemed strangely quiet around them.
Then Stafford's voice carried from behind the line, high and angry.
"No surrender! No surrender to wolves! Hold, you cowards! Lord Tywin will return and flay every man who yields, along with you, traitorous Lucion!"
Alaric looked past Roland.
Lucion, beside him, went very still.
Roland closed his eyes briefly.
When he opened them, he looked ten years older.
"There is your answer, Your Grace," Roland said.
Alaric nodded once.
"I am sorry you have such a poor commander, truly."
"I believe you."
Alaric turned his horse.
Before riding back, he glanced over his shoulder.
"Lord Roland."
The older man looked at him.
"If you live through this, I would like to speak with you again."
Roland gave a grim smile. "If I live through this, Your Grace, I expect I will be in chains."
"Most interesting conversations happen when one man cannot leave."
This time, Roland did laugh, short and hard.
Then Alaric rode back to his lines.
The northern army had reformed by then. Not perfectly. No army reformed perfectly after tearing through a camp in the dark. But well enough. The Winter Guard stood in the center, shields locked. Mormont men and Umber men, led by Smalljon and Derrick, gathered on the right. Karstark and Dustin troops on the left, led by their respective lords. Cavalry waited behind the flanks, ready to sweep around the western line. The direwolves stood ready, watching the enemy.
Robb rode up, breathing hard. "The men who formed under the Brax banner are pinned. They won't join Roland unless they grow wings."
"Good."
Jon came next. "Eastern road is completely ours. We caught two more messengers. One spat saying something about Lord Tywin avenging them, it would seem word of the Battle at the Fords hasn't reached here yet."
Lucion made a harsh sound. "Poor bastards, holding out false hope for a savior who will never come."
Dorren arrived last, Shadow close beside him, his face pale beneath grime. Alaric noticed but said nothing. Not now, that conversation was for later.
Jorah Mormont rode in from the right, Longclaw across his saddle. "They're forming well for men who woke to wolves eating their horses."
"Roland Crakehall is forming them," Alaric said.
Jorah looked toward the western line. "Then he's worth killing properly."
"Or taking."
"If he lets you."
"He won't."
"No," Jorah agreed. "Men like that rarely do."
Alaric looked at his companions.
Robb, eager and bloodied.
Jon, watchful.
Dorren, unsettled and trying to hide it.
Lucion, staring at western banners with a face that gave away more than he wished.
Smalljon and Derrick were grinning like they had been invited to a feast.
Desmond and Ellard ever awaiting orders.
Tempest and Cinder standing at his side.
He felt suddenly tired.
Tired of turning men into lessons for other men.
But the field did not care.
He lifted Ice.
"When we advance, we advance steadily. Do not let them draw you into broken ground. Spearmen, keep their knights honest. The cavalry shall wait until I signal. No man rides ahead of the line unless he wants me to personally explain patience to him afterward."
Smalljon raised a gauntleted hand.
Alaric pointed Ice at him. "No."
"But I didn't say anything."
"You were about to, and that's an issue." Jon remarked, the men chuckling around them, easing tensions somewhat
"I might have had something wise to add," Smalljon replied like a chastised child
"You didn't, I know it as well as the gods do." Alaric added
Derrick nodded solemnly. "Aye, He didn't."
The men laughed.
Even Alaric did, quietly.
Then the laughter faded.
Across the field, Roland Crakehall raised his sword. The remaining westermen braced behind shields, broken wagons, and whatever courage they had left. Stafford's banners still flew, but the men were looking at Roland.
Alaric saw that clearly.
So did Lucion.
"The wrong man was leading them, and now they face the consequences," Lucion said.
"Aye," Alaric replied. "That is often how kingdoms die."
The first light of dawn spilled over Oxcross.
Alaric lowered Ice toward the western line.
"Forward march, let us end this final patch of resistance," he said.