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89: The Son of Ice and Fire, The Fall of the Trout
🕑 Added 2024-11-18 09:07:14 +0000 UTCEdmure halted his horse and ordered his men to stop. They would rest here for the night. The sun had dipped beneath the horizon, and the first stars were beginning to appear in the darkening sky. He felt exhaustion deep in his bones.They had been pursuing the Blackwood army for a day now, and his frustration had grown with every mile. The Blackwoods had slipped away, evading the crushing defeat he’d hoped to deal them.
Upon returning to Riverrun, his first action had been to plan the invasion of the two traitorous houses—Blackwood and Mallister. His intention was simple: secure the northern lands swiftly, put down the rebellion of the Blackwoods and the Mallisters, and then join his forces with his loyal vassals to march east and hold back the Vale. The Vale’s armies posed a serious threat, and Edmure knew that delaying or even defeating them would deal a significant blow to the usurper.
Instead, here he was, deep in Blackwood lands, and the campaign had devolved into something far worse than he could have imagined. He had led his armies—alongside the Brackens, Vances, Pipers, and the Freys—into Blackwood territory. They had taken Raventree Hall with little difficulty, finding it left undefended. The Blackwoods had withdrawn, taking their forces westward, clearly seeking to join with the Mallisters and make a stand together.
The trouble, however, had begun after they took Raventree Hall. Edmure had failed to keep control over Lord Bracken, who had almost gleefully desecrated the ancient weirwood tree that the Blackwoods held sacred, setting it alight and laughing as it burned. Edmure had tried to stop him, but Bracken’s hatred for his longtime rival ran too deep. It had been a failure on Edmure's part—a failure of leadership.
Then there were the Freys—especially Black Walder. The Freys were running unchecked, looting, murdering, and raping their way across Blackwood lands. It was not a campaign of honor; it was a campaign of terror, and it gnawed at Edmure’s conscience. These were his lands too, his people. He was supposed to protect them. Instead, his men were ravaging the very people he had sworn to defend.
"This isn't how it was supposed to be," Edmure muttered under his breath, running a hand through his hair. They should have caught the Blackwoods by now. He should have already led his armies east, meeting the Vale's forces head-on and denying the usurper the support of Jon Arryn. Instead, he found himself bogged down, his men more interested in pillaging than pursuing. It was a mess, and he knew it.
The one small comfort he had was that, according to scouts, the Vale's armies had yet to appear. They still had time—time to regroup, to refocus. But that time was slipping away.
"Lord Edmure?" Ser Marq Piper spoke, riding up beside him, his eyes weary but concerned. "Shall we set up camp here then?"
He nodded, pulling himself from his dark thoughts. "Yes, Marq. Set up camp. We need rest."
The men soon began setting up camp tired from the day.
Edmure made his way to the other lords, hoping to bring order to the campaign. He did not know how his father dealt with all this; it was too much for him. As he entered his tent, which had been swiftly set up, he could hear the arguing.
Bracken and Frey were at it again. The two lords stood face to face. Stevron Frey’s face was flushed with irritation, his hands gesturing wildly as he argued.
"You can't just take Blackwood lands for yourself, Bracken!" Stevron snapped, his eyes narrowed with frustration. "If you seize those lands, then the Freys deserve a share as well. We’ve shed as much blood as your men have."
Lord Bracken scoffed, his face twisting into a sneer. "You don't deserve anything but the scraps off my table, Stevron."
Stevron's face darkened at the insult, his hands curling into fists. "Mind your tongue, Bracken, or I'll—"
"Enough!" Edmure's voice cut through their bickering like a blade.
"Enough of this nonsense," he repeated, his gaze moving between Bracken and Frey. "We have more important matters to deal with than squabbling over lands we haven't even taken yet." Reluctantly, both men fell silent.
Edmure turned to Stevron Frey, his eyes narrowing. "Lord Stevron, can you assure me that you have Black Walder under control? I've heard troubling reports."
Stevron shifted slightly, then nodded, though there was a hint of unease in his eyes. "Yes, my lord." His tone, however, lacked conviction, and Edmure could tell it was only partly true.
Lord Bracken let out a disdainful huff, crossing his arms over his chest. "So what if Black Walder did what he did? This is war, boy. We're in enemy lands. What do you expect? Flowers and songs?" His tone was mocking, dismissive of Edmure's concerns.
Edmure's jaw clenched, his eyes narrowing at Bracken. "These are my people, Lord Bracken. We are here for the Blackwoods, not to rape and murder my people." His voice carried an edge of steel, and for a moment, Bracken’s eyes widened before he looked away, muttering under his breath.
Marq Piper, who had been standing nearby, took a step forward, his expression serious. "My lord, with respect, we must think ahead. The armies of the Vale will be marching down on us soon. If we don't end this campaign quickly, we’ll be caught in between."
Edmure took a deep breath, his eyes turning eastward. He knew Marq was right. The longer they lingered here, the more vulnerable they became. He nodded, his gaze returning to the gathered lords.
"Then we end this quickly," Edmure said, his tone resolute. "I am confident that Lord Roote and the others will hold the east until we can get there."
Vance gave a brief nod of acknowledgment but then asked, "And what of the North, my lord? If the Starks march south—"
Edmure's lips curled into a faint smile. "By the time my goodbrother gathers his armies, the war will be over." His words were followed by a ripple of laughter among the gathered lords, breaking the tension in the room.
Edmure thought for a while they could march through the night then they were sure to catch up to them he made his decision.
"Enough rest," Edmure ordered. "We march through the night. We catch the Blackwoods before they reach Mallister lands. Lord Vance can stay behind and lay siege to Seagard, so we can move east."
"But the men need rest, my lord," Marq said.
"We are short on time, Marq. We need to catch the Blackwoods quickly. They only have 5,000 men with them; the battle will be over before it begins."
Reluctantly, Marq Piper nodded, and the lords were all in agreement.
The orders spread through the camp swiftly, and soon the stillness of night was broken by the sounds of men hurriedly packing up. Armor clanged as soldiers strapped on their gear, the low murmur of orders mixing with the anxious neighing of horses as the army began to form up once again. Torches were lit, their flickering light casting long shadows that danced across the darkened landscape.
Edmure watched from atop his horse as the army gathered. The banners of Tully, Bracken, Frey, Piper, and Vance waved in the dim torchlight, their colors muted but still proud. The men moved wearily but were driven by the promise of ending the conflict swiftly.
The column began to move, a serpentine line of men and horses winding their way through the shadowed forest paths. The night was quiet but for the sounds of their march—the heavy footfalls of men, the rhythmic clop of horses' hooves, and the occasional muttered command or whispered conversation.
As dawn broke, the mist clung to the earth like a thin veil, lending an eerie calmness to the morning. Edmure sat atop his horse, watching as the valley stretched out before him, narrowing as it sloped toward the distant sea. The terrain was uneven, with patches of soft marshland near a small river that snaked through the plain, while a low hill to the west rose sharply—the very spot where the Blackwoods had entrenched themselves.
The scouts had brought concerning news: the Blackwoods had been joined by 4,000 men led by Lord Mallister’s heir. Through the haze, Edmure could make out their banners—the black raven on red beside the silver eagle on blue—flapping defiantly. It was a strong position, but his confidence did not waver.
“We have them,” he said quietly, surveying the valley with a calculating eye. “They’ve chosen to make their stand here. Fools.”
Turning to his assembled commanders, Edmure raised his voice to ensure he was heard. “This is good,” he declared, gesturing toward the enemy lines. “Look at them. They think they can make a stand here.”
The lords murmured in agreement, their confidence bolstered by the sight of the enemy seemingly hemmed in.
Bracken grinned, his eagerness barely contained. “Finally, they face us instead of running like the cowards they are,” he said, resting a hand on the hilt of his sword. “We’ll break them today and put an end to this.”
Marq Piper, seated on a chestnut steed, was less enthused. “A desperate force fights with surprising vigor, my lord. They’ve chosen their ground well. Archers on the hill, infantry guarding the choke points...” He gestured toward the marshy terrain near the river. “And that marshland to the east? It’s going to be a quagmire for our cavalry.”
He hesitated before adding, "Also, we've lost contact with our outriders to the east. They were supposed to report back at dawn."
Bracken scoffed. “More excuses, Piper? We outnumber them two to one—fifteen thousand to their eight thousand. They can’t hold us back.”
Edmure raised a hand to quiet the bickering. “Enough. Piper's concerns are valid, but we have the advantage. Their position is strong, yes, but they're outnumbered and outmatched.” He gestured toward the approaching sun. “We will break their line before they can mount a proper counteroffensive.”
He pointed to the hill where the Blackwoods were positioned. “We will focus our main attack on the Blackwood center. The Bracken infantry will lead the charge, with Piper's men reinforcing their flanks. Our archers will provide cover as we advance.”
“They are led by greenboys. Their fathers are stuck in the capital. We have all the advantage.”
Bracken smirked. “We’ll send those ravens scattering back to their nests.”
Edmure ignored the remark and turned to the Freys. “Lord Frey, your knights will hold the right flank and prevent the Mallister cavalry from outflanking us. Their riders are disciplined, but they are outnumbered. Break their lines and drive them into the marshes if you can.”
Lord Stevron Frey, astride his grey mare, nodded curtly. “As you command, my lord.”
Edmure's gaze shifted back to the Blackwood forces. “Once the Blackwood center begins to falter, I'll lead the reserve infantry to exploit the gap. Lord Vance, your men will stay back to guard the baggage train and ensure we don't get flanked.”
“What of the left flank, my lord?” asked Lord Vance, glancing toward the forest beyond the hill. “Our scouts haven't returned from their patrols in that area.”
Edmure frowned, his eyes narrowing. The dense woodland to the north was indeed a potential hiding spot for enemy forces. “It's likely they were delayed,” he replied dismissively. “We'll deploy a token force there to guard against any surprises. But I doubt they have the strength to outmaneuver us.”
Lord Vance persisted, concern etched on his face “But my Lord..”
“We cannot afford to spread ourselves too thin over phantom threats”Edmure said sharply there is no other force that can come to aid them”
The lords exchanged uncertain glances but nodded in assent.
Marq Piper leaned forward in his saddle. “And if the battle turns?”
Edmure's jaw tightened. “It won't. We have the numbers, and we have the momentum. Today, we end this little rebellion.” His voice carried a confidence that bordered on arrogance.
Bracken's laughter rang out. “Hear that, Piper? We'll crush them before midday and still have time to hunt their stragglers.”
Despite his bravado, Edmure couldn't shake a faint unease as his eyes flicked toward the forest and the distant shimmer of the sea. ‘Why choose this ground?’ he wondered again. ‘Are reinforcements coming?’
He pushed the thought aside. The battle had to be fought, and it had to be won quickly. The Vale was on the march, and they couldn't afford delays.
“Prepare the men,” Edmure ordered firmly. “We march.” The lords turned their horses, riding off to deliver their commands, while Edmure remained astride his mount, staring down at the banners fluttering below.
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Fifteen thousand men formed their lines on the uneven plain. The trout of House Tully fluttered beside the sigils of Bracken, Frey, Piper, and Vance. The sun had fully risen, burning away the morning mist, and the valley was bathed in harsh, golden light.
Edmure watched as his army advanced, their armor gleaming and weapons glinting in the sunlight. The men moved steadily, each line maintaining cohesion, their confidence bolstered by overwhelming numbers. His eyes roamed across the field, observing every detail, every shift in the enemy formation. He could see the Blackwood and Mallister forces holding their ground at the base of the hill, their lines unwavering.
The enemy archers positioned on the hillcrest began their deadly work, loosing volleys of arrows. The shafts hissed through the air like deadly rain, striking the advancing Tully forces with precision. Shields were raised to meet them, men ducking low as arrows thudded against their defenses. Still, gaps began to form as men fell, screaming, pierced by the relentless barrage.
The Bracken knights, leading the charge into the Blackwood center, spurred their warhorses forward, banners streaming behind them. The earth trembled beneath the thundering hooves, the sound echoing across the valley. War cries rang out, men roaring, eager to smash through their old rivals.
But the Blackwoods stood ready, their pikemen braced against the charge. The impact was deafening, the screams of men and horses blending into a cacophony of death. Blackwood pikemen thrust upward, plunging their weapons into the charging horses, bringing mounts and riders crashing to the ground. The Bracken charge faltered, knights thrown from their saddles, the front ranks collapsing in disarray. The battlefield quickly became a bloody melee, a chaotic clash of men hacking and stabbing in desperate struggle.
To the right, the Mallister cavalry moved with precision, harrying the Frey knights. The Mallisters used the uneven terrain to their advantage, darting in and out, striking hard and retreating before the Freys could properly regroup. The marshland near the river slowed the Frey advance, the soft, muddy ground sapping their momentum. Many knights veered too close, their horses floundering, and the Mallisters took full advantage. They swooped in like falcons, cutting down the disorganized Freys with ruthless efficiency.
Edmure watched the battle unfold from atop a low rise, his brow furrowing as he saw the Bracken knights struggling to break through the Blackwood center. The knights were bogged down, their momentum spent, and it was clear they would not be able to shatter the line on their own.
"Press the attack," Edmure ordered, turning to Marq Piper and Lord Vance. He signaled for them to commit their infantry, the reserves surging forward to reinforce the faltering Bracken lines.
Meanwhile, the Frey knights on the right flank pushed harder, eager to prove their worth and win glory on the battlefield. But their lack of discipline showed. Many broke formation, pursuing individual Mallister riders too far, veering into the marshes where their horses struggled to keep their footing. The soft, treacherous ground claimed more than one horse, and as the knights became bogged down, the Mallister cavalry circled back, striking with ruthless efficiency. Lances found gaps in armor; blades cut down knights who had fallen from their saddles, and the Frey advance began to falter.
Edmure clenched his jaw as he observed the right flank. He could see the Freys losing cohesion, the marshland sapping their strength, and the Mallisters exploiting every misstep. He needed to stabilize that flank before it collapsed entirely.
He spotted Lord Bracken leading his men at the forefront, pushing his forces deep into the Blackwood lines. Driven by hatred for his ancestral foes, Bracken charged recklessly, ignoring the gaps forming in his rear as his men overextended themselves. It was a fatal mistake—one that Edmure could see but was powerless to correct in the chaos. The battlefield was a swirling maelstrom, each man fighting his own desperate fight, and Bracken was about to pay the price.
Brynden Blackwood, the young heir of Lord Tytos Blackwood, saw the opportunity and struck. He led a group in a flanking maneuver, charging into the gap Bracken had left. The young lord found himself face to face with Lord Bracken in the midst of the fray.
The clash between the two lords was swift and brutal. Their swords rang out with a sound that cut through the din of battle. Bracken swung his blade with all the power of a seasoned warrior, his blows fueled by rage, but Brynden was faster. He parried each of Bracken’s strikes. For a moment, it seemed the older lord might overpower him, but Brynden slipped to the side, dodging a heavy swing, and countered with a swift thrust.
Edmure watched in shock as Brynden Blackwood drove his blade deep into Lord Bracken's neck, the tip emerging from his back. Bracken's eyes widened, his mouth opening in a silent gasp before he fell, slumping forward onto Brynden's sword. The young lord pulled his blade free, and Bracken's lifeless body crumpled to the ground.
Brynden stood over Bracken’s corpse, raising his bloodied sword to the sky, rallying his men with a triumphant roar. "Raven's Revenge!" he cried, his voice echoing across the battlefield. The Blackwood soldiers, seeing their lord victorious, seemed to find new strength, pushing back against the Tully forces sent to support the Brackens.
Edmure's heart sank at the sight, but he forced down his panic. Despite the death of Lord Bracken, they still had the numbers, and the enemy was faltering. The Blackwoods and Mallisters were tiring, and their lines were close to breaking. He had to press the advantage—now was the time to end this rebellion.
"Push forward!" Edmure ordered, signaling for his reserves to commit fully to the fight. His voice rose above the sounds of battle, desperate to carry over the din. "Break them!"
But before his men could respond, a new sound broke through the chaos—the long, deep bellow of war horns echoing from the east.
Edmure turned, his eyes widening and heart sinking as he looked across the battlefield. He saw them—the Ironborn. Their banners were unmistakable: the grim sigil of House Harlaw, the silver scythe on grey. For a brief moment, confusion clouded his thoughts. Were they allies, coming to reinforce him? Had King Aegon made an alliance with the Iron Islands?
But that hope was quickly shattered. The Ironborn charged with terrifying speed, axes and swords raised high, crashing into the rear lines of his forces. The Freys were the first to fall, swallowed in a tide of iron and steel.
His rear lines—composed mainly of archers and reserves—scrambled to form a defense, but it was useless. The Ironborn moved with brutal efficiency, carving through the disorganized troops. Axes fell with sickening thuds, arrows were loosed in panic, and the once orderly line dissolved into utter chaos.
Edmure's chest tightened with panic. He needed to stabilize his forces, to regain control—but before he could issue orders, another sound split the air. A second war horn, this one from the north.
He turned again, eyes wide with disbelief, as another force emerged from the dense forest flanking the battlefield. The banners of House Stark and House Ryswell fluttered in the breeze.
Marq had been right, Edmure realized in terror. The Blackwoods and Mallisters had reinforcements coming—this had been a trap all along, and he had fallen for it.
In his horror, he understood how they had arrived—the new Stark fleet had brought them by sea. Eddard Stark had come.
The Stark and Ryswell infantry smashed into the exposed Tully lines on the left flank, the sound of their advance like a wave crashing onto a rocky shore. The impact was devastating. The Tully infantry, already strained from their assault on the Blackwood line, crumbled under the sudden onslaught. Northern swords and axes cut through the ranks; men fell where they stood, the lines breaking apart in the face of the unexpected attack.
Marq Piper and Lord Vance, seeing the disaster unfolding, tried desperately to rally their men. They shouted commands, attempting to form new lines, to regroup, but it was no use. The Northerners pressed forward, cutting down anyone in their path. The Piper and Vance forces fought bravely but were no match for the sudden and overwhelming assault.
Edmure felt a chill run down his spine as he realized the full extent of the trap. His forces were surrounded; his rear was in chaos, and his left flank was collapsing. They were being cut apart from all sides.
"No..." Edmure whispered, his voice barely audible over the cacophony of battle. "No, this cannot be happening."
But it was. His army—his proud force of fifteen thousand men—was being torn apart, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. He saw the Blackwoods and Mallisters rallying, Brynden’s cry of "Raven's Revenge!" echoing still as their lines held firm. The Ironborn wreaked havoc on his rear, their axes cleaving through any who opposed them. And the Northerners were relentless, cutting down his men with cold, efficient brutality.
His army was boxed in, and the reality of defeat began to dawn on the soldiers still fighting. Panic spread through the ranks like wildfire, the realization of their predicament hitting them hard. There was no escape, no hope of regrouping. The Bracken and Frey forces, already battered and bloodied, began to rout—men throwing down their weapons and fleeing in any direction, only to be cut down by the relentless advance of the Ironborn or the Northern forces.
In the center of the battlefield, the Blackwood infantry, galvanized by the death of Lord Bracken and Brynden Blackwood's rallying cry, pressed forward with renewed vigor. Their shields pushed against the Tully lines, driving them back step by step. Brynden himself, bloodied but unyielding, was at the forefront, his sword a blur as he cut down the remaining Tully men who dared to stand against him.
On the right, the Mallister cavalry, having fought off the disorganized Frey knights, wheeled around and launched their final counterattack. They swept through the Frey forces like a scythe through wheat, the last of the Frey banners falling as men were cut down or trampled underfoot.
Lord Mallister’s heir led a daring charge into the heart of the Tully reserves but paid the price—struck down by a group of Vance knights in a final, desperate bid for control. His death was a small and fleeting consolation for Edmure’s forces amidst the growing chaos and panic overtaking the battlefield.
Edmure, seeing his army crumbling around him, knew the battle was lost. His once proud force was reduced to chaos—a sea of confusion, screams, and death. There was no longer any hope of victory, no path to regroup or retreat.
"To me!" Edmure shouted, his voice hoarse from exhaustion, his throat raw from calling commands across the battlefield. "We make our stand here!"
The knights rallied to him, forming a tight circle, their faces grim but determined. They knew they would not leave this field alive, but they would not go down without a fight.
Ahead of them, Edmure saw the enemy approach—Stark banners flying proudly, the direwolf of House Stark snapping in the wind as their forces cut a path through his disorganized lines. Edmure could see him then—Robb Stark, son of Eddard Stark, astride a grey horse. The young lord had made a name for himself during the Ironborn rebellion.
Robb Stark was moving toward him.
"Stark!" Edmure bellowed, his face twisted with fury. He raised his sword, pointing it at Robb. "Face me, Stark! Face me if you have the courage!"
Robb accepted the challenge, riding forward as the Northerners formed a circle around them. Dismounting, Robb faced Edmure, his expression resolute.
"Surrender, Lord Tully," Robb said calmly. "The battle is lost."
"I still live, boy," Edmure spat back.
He advanced, sword raised. He swung at Robb—a powerful strike fueled by anger and desperation. But Robb was ready, his blade moving swiftly to parry Edmure's attack. The clash of steel rang out, the force of the blow reverberating through Edmure's arm.
Edmure quickly realized that Robb Stark wielded a Valyrian steel sword, for one strike against his armor pierced the castle-forged steel.
Robb moved fluidly, his movements precise and controlled. He stepped aside, his dark blade flashing in the sunlight as he countered with a swift strike. Edmure barely managed to bring his sword up in time, the blow glancing off his blade. He tried to press forward, striking again and again, but each time, Robb parried with ease.
The duel raged for only moments, but to Edmure, it felt like an eternity. He was tiring, his strikes becoming erratic, his movements slower. Robb, by contrast, seemed fresh, his blade moving with a grace Edmure could not match. Then, with a swift, almost effortless strike, Robb brought his blade down, slicing through Edmure's defense and cutting deeply into his arm.
Edmure screamed—a raw, guttural sound that echoed across the battlefield—as the Valyrian steel bit through flesh and bone, severing his arm just below the shoulder. Blood spurted from the wound, his sword falling from his hand as he stumbled back, eyes wide with pain and terror. He collapsed to the ground, the world spinning around him, vision blurring as agony threatened to overwhelm him.
Robb stepped forward, sword still raised, his voice calm yet commanding. "Yield, Lord Tully," he said. "Surrender, and your men will be spared."
Edmure looked up at him, face contorted in agony, heart pounding with fear. He had lost—everything was lost. There was no hope, no victory—only defeat.
"I surrender!" Edmure cried out, his voice filled with pain, eyes squeezed shut against the torment ravaging his body. "I surrender! Gods, please, I surrender!"
Robb nodded, his expression grim, and lowered his sword. He gestured to his men, and two Stark bannermen moved forward, gently lifting Edmure despite his grievous injury. Edmure was barely conscious, the world around him fading in and out, the pain consuming his senses.
He had lost. The Riverlands were lost to King Aegon.
.
.
Chapter 90 will posted in a few hours.
Chapter 91 later today.
Comments
Odysseus
exactly, aegon i changed nothing just took away they’re title of kings, the fact that everyone of the major lords could call a greater number of men than the king is shockingly stupid. the river lands and storm lands were ripe for the taking as was parts of the reach. Wonder how it’ll go this time lol
Arcturus
Execute all Tully as filf traitors , because they deserve that and add Riverlands with Stormlands and North part of Reach to Crown domain, as it should be done with first Aegon the Idiot. That hilarious that King has less direct forces than his own vassals 🤡
