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***
283 A.D.
An unnamed ford near Darry Castle, Riverlands.
War...
This word is in every known language. Every person living in this world knows it. And for everyone, it carries different meanings.
For the simple peasant, war was the end. The end of his whole life, for he would either die of starvation, because of increased taxes, or be slaughtered by passing soldiers and marauders, the difference between whom there is often no difference, or be taken into the death... militia or captivity by order of one of the lords. For a mercenary, war is a golden time, when not only will you not be punished for killing and pillaging, you won't be hung from the nearest bitch. You get paid for it. For any knight or lord, war is a chance that doesn't come along very often. A chance for glory, new titles, lands, privileges, riches and women their distant ancestors could only dream of.
For Prince Leaven Martell, younger brother of the former Princess Martell and now one of Aerys II Targaryen's Kingsguard, this war was not the first. Having been through the Rat, Pig, and Bull Rebellion, the War of the Nine-Horned Kings, the sweep of the Royal Forest, and dozens of other conflicts in recent years across the lands of the Seven Kingdoms, he was a veteran long accustomed to the sight of blood and the feeling of near death. But this time was special to him.
Now he was marching into a battle in which he could die, not for his family, not for his oath, not even for his king. He was marching forward for honor.
The honor of a Kingsguard. What he has been for years. And now, clad in his finest armor and gripping his favorite spear that had accompanied him on the battlefield for years, Lieven stepped out of his tent located in the center of the right wing camp.
Thousands of spears, arranged in unbroken rows, stood before his eyes. Today, all these valiant men of desert Dorne would help the true dragon soar into the heavens. Today they would spill the blood of myriads of traitors, showing what happens when you forget your oath and betray your king. Today they would cover themselves in a glory that would rumble for centuries to come, leaving beautiful lines in countless world poems.
Looking once more at his companions who would join him in the depths of the soon-to-be unfolding battle, he prepared to make a speech, raising morale to even greater heights.
«Listen to me, sons of Dorne, on this day... - - The already begun address was interrupted by a cloth that sharply gagged his mouth and nose, the smell of which hit his consciousness with the force of a dozen pound hammers, sending the prince instantly into a dream world.
«Not today, Prince Lieven. Not today. - The words, belonging to his "deputy," an upstart who'd only earned the title of lord through money, were the last thing the royal guard heard before falling into the realm of Morpheus.
***
P.O.V. Felix Temper.
283 A.D.E.
An unnamed ford near Darry Castle, Riverlands.
As I looked at the prince slumped on the ground like a broken puppet, I was once again amazed at the progress the poisoners and alchemists had made in this world. It was unlikely that there was a compound on Earth that could knock out a trained adult warrior in a matter of seconds, without any consequences for him. He'd sleep it off and be as good as new.
"Trandil's tears are a good thing." - I thought tiredly, looking at the handkerchief, which was soaked in a brown liquid like old blood. - "No smell, no taste, and no commonly available antidote. The only bad thing is that those fucking Foxhounds took a purse of gold from me for that vial.
I looked around the camp, where, under the indifferent gaze of the mercenaries, my men and the Martell guards were tying up people loyal to the prince and knocking them out with the most ancient anesthetic - a blow to the head with a stick - and barely managed to hold back a yawn. Still, I'd spent this night either negotiating or in the wet forests returning from the former, and sleep would be a fine alternative right now. But what isn't, isn't. There's a slaughter to be had.
«Torrhen. Give the signal. Tell the Gobblers, Blades of Razha, Black Goats, and Heirs of Sardar to attack. - I commanded the Northman who was holding the horn that would be used to signal the mercenaries. - Tell the rest of you to change formation to attack eastward, and quickly - Tarly will kill those idiots in no time. And send our cavalry south along the marked trails. Let them stab our beloved prince in the back.
«Understood, my lord. - Replied the former resident of Bear Island and, taking a simple-looking horn from his hip, trumpeted a long-earned signal. The mercenary captains, who had heard my instructions dozens of times and had learned all the commands by rote this year, did not fail.
Almost immediately the shouts of the captains and sergeants began to resound over the assembled troops, who sent their men to the prepared positions with teeth slaps and swearing. There were exceptions - a part of the troops, placed closest to the positions of royalists, sharply erupted into furious and wild shouts and, unorganized crowd rushed to standing only two hundred meters away rows of Spartans, over which the standard with the red hunter was developing. They were the same Gobblers, Blades of Razha, Black Goats, and Heirs of Sardar I'd told Torhen about. Even compared to the other mercenaries, they were the most unorganized and undisciplined rabble, mostly made up of murderers and rapists who couldn't stand properly in a prepared formation. So their role was simple, to serve as grease for the swords, killing as many of the unexpecting treacherous citizens of the green kingdom as possible.
"I hope they can trade their lives at least one to one." - I thought tiredly, looking at the two-thousand-strong mob of bloody scumbags running at the uncomprehending royal soldiers. - "I should finish Leaven's business. A good speech means a lot to the troops, but it's not patriotism the mercenaries need. They need something else."
«Soldiers of fortune hear my words! - At full throat, I shouted in Valyrian, attracting the attention of most of the passing hires. - To anyone who brings the head of a Tarly soldier into the camp I will pay ten coins in silver! Those who bring me the heads of his knights will get a whole golden dragon! - The roar of joy must have been heard even in Darri. It's not every day a free warrior gets an extra coin. - Whoever brings me Red Hunter Randil Tarly will get so much gold that he can live in the brothels of Volantis for a year! - The roar grew even stronger, signaling that the morale of my troops had risen to the heavens. Money is an abstract thing after all. You can't know how much or how little until you spend it. And here the reward is clear and very tempting - after all, the local people love female affection hardly more than life. - But I want him alive. Don't you dare lay a finger on him! If he's brought to me wounded, I'll break that smartass's head with an axe! Personally!
There were silent but numerous laughs - the same threats many of the warriors of one day heard very often, from the same captains, who often did not joke and carried out their threats.
Even if they get lucky, which I doubt, because Randyll Tarly is a veteran with a lot of military experience, and the average mercenaries are unlikely to capture him, I'll get the Lord of Horn Hill in one piece. Beaten at most.
"It's time to start," I thought, jumping on my horse and clutching my trembling palm tightly, trying to keep the jitters at bay. Still, no matter how morally prepared I was, I could not get rid of the fear of death, defeat and the collapse of everything that was dear to me. It would pass at the right time, the main thing was not to let myself be killed.
***
A battle is like a blazing and raging fire. It is fickle, fickle and capricious in its course, flaring up, then subsiding, then erupting again as an exploding volcano, using as fuel the lives of soldiers, knights, lords, princes and even kings. For it had no class distinctions.
That was the opinion of Randyll Tarly, one of the seven most powerful lords of the Expanse, a good commander and an experienced soldier who had been through numerous peasant uprisings, battles with bandit gangs, the agony of the War of the Nine-Grove Kings, and even a few skirmishes with visiting ironborn, though Tarly's ancestral lands were landlocked.
So the fact that he had been attacked from the right flank by the "allies", who had engaged and dispersed the unprepared infantry, he accepted very calmly, taking only a few moments to calm his rage and shock.
«Signal a retreat to the old positions! Call Sergar and Orphen back! Have their troops march up the coast and strike the traitors in the side! Deploy Dicker's lancers and send him to stop the breakthrough in the center! Have the archers turn around and pelt the bastards' rear ranks with arrows! Call for lgnard, Lierre and Francoeur! Have their lances march southwest and stop the breakout along the King's Road! And send a messenger to Prince Rhaegar! We have been betrayed! - As much as the other houses of the Vastness boasted and boasted of their knights, they all recognized that Tarly's lancers, archers, and horsemen were the finest warriors in their realm, ready to follow their lord through fire, water, and brass.
So it's not surprising that the attack of two thousand unorganized mercenaries, not only did not turn them to flight, but in an hour, an organized formation of lancers and lancemen, covered by archers and knights beating on the flanks, turned the enemy into flight, causing a massacre, leaving only a few hundred alive.
«Lieven! Fucking bastard! - But the victory was bitter - almost fifteen hundred good warriors who failed to react to the sudden and sneaky attack were killed along with the Essos natives. And looking at the formation before him, Randyll realized that this was exactly what the enemy wanted.
In front of the Red Hunter's angry and heated three and a half thousand man army stood a defensive formation built according to all the rules of the art of war, with pikemen forward, archers properly positioned, and pikemen covering the rear. And the shittiest thing was that behind this six-thousand-strong army the first cavalry lances (n.a. a conventional modern designation of a medieval tactical unit - a small group consisting of a knight, his squires, swordsmen, archers and servants) with Arryn, Stark and Tully flags were slowly creeping by. That meant that within two hours, a mass of cavalry would come to the south bank, sweeping them all away at once, and at the same time hitting them in the rear, killing the entire royal army.
"We need to get the Dornish out of here now!" - A slightly panicked thought flashed through Tarly's mind as he took a few steps to reach the horse, jumped on it, and took it under the reins. He realized, from the shouts in Valyrian and the strange flag flying above their previous opponents, that the entire Dorne army was made up of mercenaries, and the only chance of victory lay in one strong and powerful blow that could put the cowardly mercenary scum to flight before it was too late. - Sound the horn! All of you, attack! Smash these traitors before it's too late! First in the battle!
«First in the battle!!!
The Red Hunter's rushing troops could be compared to a snow avalanche of spears and swords rushing towards the ranks of the pseudo-Dornish army. But unlike the bandit gang that had been sent earlier, they kept their formation, showing what a well-trained and armed militia was.
200 meters...
«Phew-yuh-huh... - Phew-yuh-huh...
«Fuh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh.
«Fu-u-u-h... - Fu-u-u-h... - Fu-u-u-h...
«Knock... Knock... Knock... Knock...
«Ah-ah-ah-ah-ah!
«My eye!
«Damn it! My leg!
Almost immediately the first arrows flew, mostly bouncing powerlessly off shields and armor, but still finding their victims. And the closer the armies drew, the more of them there were.
150...
A volley of crossbows from the "Peace Shooters" squad in the front ranks once again showed the danger of these weapons at close range, turning the first ranks of the Spartans into a kind of holey cheese.
50...
The first darts flew from both sides, reaping their harvest in this battle. The Dornish were unlucky this time - the shields issued to the mercenaries were simple wooden shields wrapped in a thin layer of leather, so that the throw of a heavy projectile would penetrate them much more easily, killing and maiming the man behind them.
3...
Bang...
«Aaah!!!
«Ble-ark-x...
«Seven protect me!
«May R'Glor fuck you in the afterlife!
«First in the battle!
«Sons of Roina!
It took only seconds for the Red Hunter's men to sheathe their spades, losing at least one man on each of them, and move to close combat with their enemies, creating the usual meat grinder of any battlefield.
Screams.
Fury.
Excitement.
And Death...
Everything mixed in a whirlwind of mad and bloody battle, where every second could be the last. Soldiers and mercenaries fought, forgetting about all the gods and demons, about their family and friends, enemies and haters. Only a few questions were important to them now - would they survive today or not? Would they stick their blade down the enemy's throat before he did? And whether Lady Fortune would bless them now so that the arrows and crossbow bolts flying from the sky would pass them by, giving them an extra second to live....
Tarly's attack was only half successful. Only the first five rows of the ten standing had been penetrated, and beyond that his army was stuck in a bloody catfight, unable to advance any further. Something had to be done and there was only one way out.
"Let's cut off the snake's head." - Randyll thought coldly and, summoning the head of his guard, shouted to him. - We need to break through their formation and attack the headquarters! Without constant reinforcements, these mercenaries will quickly flee, and we can take the bank and kill the cavalry crossing the ford! Take command, and when I start making my way to their headquarters, push as hard as you can! Do you understand?!
«Yes, my lord!" replied a plain-looking man of medium height, wearing full plate armor. He was the same age as Lord Horn Hill and had fought dozens of battles with him, becoming his right hand and loyal friend. - May the Seven bless you!
«You too, Luthor! - Tarly, who had already pulled away, lowered his helmet and did something he didn't like too much: he shouted. - Boys, come on, follow me! Smash those jackals under the hooves of our horses! Don't let me down! First in the battle!
«First in the battle!!! - A hundred and fifty tinny throats roared, ready to follow their lord into the depths of hell.
What is a mounted knight's wedge when it goes on the attack? It is a frightening and frightening sight as horses and men chained to the top of their heads rush forward, trampling and making mincemeat of all who get in their way.
What is an attacking cohesive mounted knightly wedge? An even more frightening picture. Horses walking almost foot to foot, the ground shaking under them, riders who have known each other for years and understand everything without words. A veritable living killing machine ruling the battlefields of Westeros.
Then what is Tarly's rampaging guard, with their lord at the tip of the wedge, wielding his giant two-handed sword made of Valyrian steel?
A monster.
A true monster on the battlefield, cutting through the ranks of the mercenaries like a sharp knife through soft butter.
«Ki-aaaaaaaaaah!!!
«Stop him!
«Surround them!
«My arm! My hand!
Nothing could stop them, and Randil realized it, swinging another swing at the steel-clad mercenary in half, almost without feeling resistance. Such was the power of Valyrian steel - not only did it never dull and was incredibly hard, but it could cut through any material, be it metal, wood or stone, as easily as paper. Because of this, swords made of this steel turned their wielders into true gods of war on the battlefield, able to rampage about as they pleased.
«My lord, we have a wedge coming at us! - A voice from behind Randil said, signaling that he had gotten too caught up in the battle. A powerful cavalry wedge of heavy armor-clad knights was indeed riding towards them.
"Counterattack by super heavy cavalry means. Not bad." - He thought, gripping his two-handed weapon more comfortably. - We're breaking through!
«Yes, my lord!
The two cavalry avalanches, not discerning whether they were enemies or allies in front of them, drew closer very quickly, putting their lances forward.
"So this is their leader?". - Looking at the galloping, on point knight, dressed in strong and good armor, with the emblems of the sun on his chest, bringing his two-handed axe to strike, a thought flashed through the Red Hunter's mind. The Heartbreaker was already wound up for the strike, and the muscles in his arms relaxed slightly to tense up sharply and throw a streak of sharp steel at his enemy. - "Fool."
The two wedges collided.
Shuh....
Wih...
Clang...
«Get 'em!
«Tear those bastards apart!
«First to fight!
«Hardened by the fire of the sun!
«Unyielding, unyielding, unyielding!
The elite guards of the two houses fought to the death. Debris from spears, swords, and armor were flying everywhere. Every second, new portions of blood fell to the ground with the sound of clashing blades clinking and clashing.
And in the center of all this bacchanalia, as if in the ocean of a storm, two leaders circled opposite each other, crossing the blades of their weapons.
«Who are you?! - Tarly shouted loudly, still in a mild state of shock and unable to feel his wrists - the blow of the axe that had knocked his hands away was too strong.
«Lord Felix Temper, Lord of Osgiliath. - A steady, firm voice introduced itself from behind the visor. Randyll noticed that it was not a knight of the Martells as he had originally thought, for there was no spear on the coat of arms and the purple fire burning against the sun. The coat of arms of the youngest house of Dorne.
«I don't recall the Tempers having their own weapons of Valyrian steel. - Randil said through gritted teeth, the pressure on him never ceasing for a moment.
«I forgot to tell you. - Smirked under his helmet, with its stylized bloody crest, his enemy. - Are we going to fight, or is the only thing the famous Red Hunter is capable of is idle talk?
«You're pushing it, boy! - Tarly was the first to break the clinch, and after swinging the Heartbreaker over his back, he attacked, aiming to cut the entire enemy in half.
The clink...
«We'll see about that. - Temper answered him, blocking the sword, taking it on the axe.
***
Life is always full of coincidences and coincidences happening every second. Some believe it is called fate beyond mortals' control, some believe it is the outcome of all their actions before.
Either way, Fate and her friend Life had a good laugh at mere mortals today. For at the same time as the battle between the Dornish and Prostorian lords, a duel of equal importance broke out in the shallows of a nameless ford.
A tall warrior, dressed in full plate armor, with antlers on his helmet and a giant hammer that he held in one hand, met his most hated enemy.
His opponent was as magnificent as ever. Clad in black battle armor, with rubies inlaid in his cuirass, with a matte-black, elegant blade, a red cloak fluttering behind him, and on a naked warhorse, he would have looked more organic in a parade on the streets of King's Landing than here, among the fighting and dying warriors, giving their lives for the revenge of one and the ambition of another.
«Targaryen..." Robert Baratheon, whose eyes had long since turned red with all-consuming rage and burst blood vessels, muttered with pure and unadulterated hatred. - I will kill you! I will smash your head with my hammer! I'll turn it into bloody mincemeat! But before you answer me, you bastard, what have you done to Lianna?!
There was only silence. Through the slits of his dragon-winged helmet, Lord Storm's gaze was blank and disinterested. The way people look at the dead. Rhaegar didn't care about Baratheon, for to him he was but a stepping stone in his ambitious plans.
Put down the rebellion.
Overthrow his father.
Get rid of his useless wife.
Unite the Seven Kingdoms.
Become the true Prince Promised, the hero of prophecy.
And live happily ever after with Lyanna and their unborn child, creating a new legend not unlike his distant ancestor, Aegon the Conqueror.
In the meantime, he had to get rid of the annoying nuisance that was still barking.
«... if you won't answer, I'll get the answers out of your cold corpse! - Baratheon yelled, whipping his horse around and galloping toward him.
"It's time to end this." - The Silver Dragon, as he had long ago called himself in his mind, thought, and sprang to the attack. It was time to end this foolish rebellion.
The fateful battle had begun.
***
Boom...
Clang.
Crack.
Swish.
Zwiak...
Zich...
And the battle on the royalists' right flank was just gaining momentum.
«Wow...
«Monsters.
«Monsters.
Swings of axe and sword, blocks and attacks. It all merged into a single symphony of singing metal, halting the battles taking place nearby. Everyone watched in admiration and awe as the two men tried to chop each other to pieces.
"Punch from above, block, side, angle, block, block, block." - Tarly's mind raced like lightning as he strained every muscle, every nerve, every fiber of his strength to fight a battle where every blow could be his last.
Randil's armor, as well as his opponent's, already had a few dangerous gaps in it from the battle, but that didn't stop them from putting all their strength into the battle, accelerating with every second.
But no matter how hard he strained, they were at most equal.
«Vshih...
"Scorcher!" - The Red Hunter cursed in his mind as a sharp, diagonal, bottom-to-top blow knocked him out of the saddle and toppled him to the ground, where he had to group up and jump back sharply to avoid being hit again.
"Oh, he's just warming up!" - He thought in shock.
Normally, if a knight fell from his horse, the battle could be considered lost, as the rider had much more maneuverability and height.
But that didn't work with the Red Hunter.
After all, he was a rare exception to the rule, having spent most of his life fighting on the ground rather than on horseback. So the Dornish, the Spacers, and the few mercenaries could see the incredible sight of the fluttering Heartbreaker repelling the attacks of a nameless two-handed axe time after time.
A beautiful picture worthy of being sung by bards, painters, and sculptors throughout the ages as an example of superb fighting skill and hard training of two men fully committed to battle.
But no matter how great Randyll Tarly's experience was, he was gradually being overpowered and some people noticed it immediately.
«My Lord, we will help!
«Brother, don't be unkind!
«Let's chop that Dornish man's head off!
These shouts immediately stopped the battle, drawing the attention of both fighters, one of whom was furious, which was clearly visible by the puckered lips through the battered bottom of his helmet.
«Idiots! Get out of here! He's no match for you! - Randyll shouted in despair, noticing his cousins among the attackers, who had only recently joined the Guard.
«Raaaa-r-r-r-r-r-r..." roared Temper, who had been hit in the head by the fumes of battle and rage, turning him into a killing machine. - Let's get out of here!
Vshih...
A circular strike with an axe that no one could block easily cut through the swords and bodies of the attackers, raising a veritable fountain of blood that drenched both lords and further fueled their battle rage.
The battle erupted with renewed vigor, forcing the surrounding soldiers to retreat back sharply for fear of stray blows. In a few minutes, the two men, covered head to toe in another man's blood, not knowing who was friend and who was foe, became the main danger on this battlefield.
Temper, bereft of his old friend Bucephalus, whom Tarly had beheaded at one opportune moment, attacked Lord Horn Hill with all the fury and force of a lord equally furious at the loss of his brothers and friends. Their muscles bulged, their blood boiled, and their eyes took in every detail of their opponent, searching for a single vulnerability. They were no longer interested in how the battle was going, no longer interested in whether the crossing behind the Dornish army had been stopped and maintained, no longer interested in what was happening on the other battlefields.
They had only one thing on their minds right now, and that was to chop to pieces that bloody silhouette in front of them!
«Hurrrrrrrrrrrrr!!!
«Graha-r-r-r-r-r!!!
There was no cold battle rage as the warrior gave himself over to the fight and continued to control what was happening around him. Only blood, anger and the desire to finish off his opponent.
On the right flank of the royalists, two very real berserkers were raging.
***
«Toodooooooooooooooo!
«Toodooooooooooooooooo!!!
«The Prince is dead!
«Rhaegar Targaryen is defeated!
«Impossible!
«Fall back, fall back!
«Kill them all!
«We surrender, we surrender!
«Attack the rear of the Spartans. Defeat them!
The news of the end of the duel between the two main faces of the rebellion avalanche spread across the battlefield, instantly raising the morale of the rebels and completely disorienting the royalists.
It was the end.
Not only was their commander-in-chief and a pillar of their morale killed, but the incoming Martell and Arryn cavalry attacked from the rear, managing to cross a safe section of the ford while the Dornish held back the rampaging Prostor army. Of course, there were moments when the lines were broken and they were on the verge of defeat, but the Northmen came to the rescue, led by Ruse Bolton, who covered the breakthrough and took overall command.
It was he who, on news of the victory, was the first to rush to the scene of the battle of the two lords, where the greatest number of soldiers were piled up and where the most serious losses were inflicted on both armies.
And what he saw there sickened even him.
Dozens and hundreds of corpses, with missing arms or legs. Real rivulets of blood running through the soaked earth. And two red figures standing amidst all the madness.
One of them he barely recognized from the axe he had seen on their first meeting years ago. It turned out to be Felix Temper, breathing heavily, kneeling and clutching his side, with a badly bleeding wound.
Opposite him, leaning on a large two-handed sword, was what appeared to be Randyll Tarly, holding a stump in the middle of his forearm. His arm had been severed.
Completing the picture were dozens of soldiers on both sides, who were afraid to even come close to them.
"What happened here?" - Lord Dreadfort thought tiredly as he looked around the battlefield.
«Have we won, Lord Bolton? - The tired and cracked voice of the Master of Osgiliath was heard.
«Yes, Lord Temper. Rhaegar Targaryen has been slain by Robert Baratheon himself. He was struck down in fair combat and now lies at the bottom of the Trident with a broken sternum. - Ruse replied, signaling orders to his men as they slowly approached the master of Horn Hill.
«Do you hear that, Lord Randyll? You have lost. Let you surrender now without resistance, and in return you will be kept your sword and cured. You'll be ransomed by the Queen of Spikes anyway. - Said Felix, to whom one of his men had already run and began to quickly rub some ointment on the wound.
«Go to the furnace, boy. - With anger spat Red Hunter, realizing that today he lost. But he had lost with dignity. It was the first time he had ever fought a battle like this, and he was glad that the only thing he had lost was his left arm, not his life or the Heartbreaker. So now the only thing left for him to do was to temper his pride, surrender obediently, and wait until he had a chance to return home, where he had recently had a son.
This battle was lost to him, but life went on and the chances that it would give a rematch were very high.
Thus ended the general battle of Robert Baratheon's entire rebellion, which would later be called the Battle of Rubybrood.
***
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