The Birth of Dragons

Robb Stark

They had hurried forth from Winterfell once the banners had all arrived, some twelve thousand in total with two thousand more from White Harbour joining them. They had marched quickly, arriving at the Twins, where a deal had been negotiated, Robb would marry one of the girls from the Frey brood, whilst taking a squire, in the form of Olyvar Frey, and younger boys would be sent as wards to Winterfell. Frey had offered a boy for one of his sister's hands, and Robb had nearly allowed Greywind to take the man's head off, after that Frey had relented, and they had marched, aided by some two thousand Frey foot and one hundred Frey horse. Things had gone to shit in the south for his family, and Robb needed to sort them out before it got any worse.

They had rushed southwards with growing pace, learning of Riverrun's siege, Darry's defeat, and Harrenhal's fall, and now, now they were facing a Lannister army, Daven Lannister a knight of some renown had burned his way through the Riverlands to meet them. Robb's heart pounded in his chest as he listened to the sounds of fighting drawing them nearer and nearer, the Greatjon had taken command of the first assault, a daring attack that was meant to draw Lannister closer. Bolton held the rear, whilst Mormont was advancing through the bushes. Hopefully all would go well, but Robb was quite nervous, he did not know what to expect. Theon and Jon were at his side, so that was a relief. Slowly but surely, the horn sounds, and he draws his sword, leading his men toward the charge.

The horses thunder toward the enemy, Robb's helm is drawn low, covering his face, they move forward, and his heart quickens in pace. It beats in time with the thudding of his horse's hooves, drawing forth many memories that might rather be left unsaid. As they come closer to the enemy, Robb draws his sword preparing to level any and all enemies who do so dare to come before him. The inevitable crash comes, and with it, his sword strikes out not against lances as he had expected, but against peasant weapons. This throws him slightly, and so he finds himself breathing heavier than he had thought possible. He swings his sword, and sees one, then another, then another man falls down, screaming in ill-equipped armour and leathers. Greywind emits savage growls as he advances forward, more of the peasantry moving forward, fighting for the right to be slain by his blade.

A man manages to get through his defence and strikes hard into his shoulder, luckily the armour guard there lessens the sting of the blow, though it stings a lot. He winces, but then cuts the man down, and advances forward. Another man comes forward, this one a great giant, swinging what looks like to be a scythe, Robb sees one of his guard cut down, pulled by the great hulking thing, another is knocked off his horse, and Robb sweats. Feeling fear course down his spine, thankfully the man is shot down by a host of arrows, Theon doing his work atop a horse. They move forward, and more peasants come, there is no sign of their commander, nor the wider Lannister army, and that worries him. For a moment he wonders if he has gotten the positioning wrong, or if Lannister had led them away from where they were supposed to fight. A host of concerns flitter through his mind at that thought, beating themselves against his head, causing him to get hit by a string of blows he might have otherwise have avoided.

A pain shoots through his arms as he cuts down one man, and then another, his gauntlets way a tonne, and he is not quite sure that he can quite manage to make things easy, or as easy for himself as he would have liked. The pain continues to course through him, drawing away at his strength, sapping him like some sort of vulture. Or a leech. Bolton, Bolton should be advancing slowly and surely, Robb is not sure about the man, nor his sons, but that is not the point right now. They continue fighting, his sword dredged in blood, another farmer's boy cut down before his time. They move forward, Robb feels his arms aching, a blaze here and there, but nothing more. The ground is littered with bodies, some of them his men, others nameless, faceless and unimportant. Jon is still at his side, somehow, they have come through this together, if they emerge successful, perhaps then they can move onto Riverrun and achieve some level of success.

He sees a big man, someone he thinks might be Harrion Karstark cut down one man, and then another, and then another, and another before, five men advance on him and drag him down with their numbers and their insistency. Horses go screaming, Robb wants to help, but the fighting is closing in around him. He hears a mournful roar, and he knows Rickard and the other Karstarks have seen what has happened. A funereal he will have to attend then. A shallow thought, he keeps fighting, swinging his sword, his brain short circuiting as they move through it all. He does not want to be here, he wants to be anywhere but here, in this stinking field of rot and death, but he must keep going. He gets hit again and again, and he hits back, determined not to fall, though he can tell that is what his body wants to do, that this is something he desperately wants to do.

He hears a roar, sees a lion of a man charging toward him on his horse, watches as soldiers and his own guard are cut down, he watches and waits with baited breath for death to come. He does not think he has the strength to withstand this assault, the assault that is surely coming. He welcomes it even, shameful though it is, he welcomes the relief, the roar, the whistle all of it. The chance to rest. Before he can get his rest though, an arrow comes whistling past, and then another, both hit the lion in the face, in the helm, and then into the body, and then the horse. The man falls, and his guard pounce, stabbing and hacking until the man does not move, and Robb sighs with relief and shame.