Robar III

The past week turned into a slog as he and Gerold painstakingly convinced the knights loyal to his father to fight for them. Back and forth arguments and occasional insults were hurled though not at him nor Gerold but to Littlefinger. They refused to fight for a side that consorted with him and the reasons they gave made Robar pause. Littlefinger was a capable man. Raising 12,000 men at short notice and feeding them was phenomenal. The speed at which they travelled across his roads and the utilisation of the river Gull to ferry logistical supplies, especially upstream was genius. His connection with the Braavosi gave him sailors that could use the wind to move against the stream. The speed at which they mustered, and marched and their ease of logistics was what allowed Littlefinger to soundly defeat his father. Consistently, Littlefinger outplayed his father either by playing meek and weak or spouting nonsense like him seeking to be ‘politically neutral’.

His successful attempts at curbing the power of the nobility and encouraging blasphemy and heresy understandably didn’t make him popular with the knights.

To make his and Gerold’s job more difficult, Littlefinger gave them his list. A list detailing his minimum line. ‘The centralisation of taxes, dispensing and enforcing justice, stewards appointed by the Civil Service to oversee villages,’ were part of the list. Robar wanted to rip the list apart thinking Littlefinger grasped too much above his weight. He needed to be humbled. Surprisingly, it was Gerold that convinced him to follow the rat’s demands. Gerold quaked and fumbled his speech when pleading for him to follow the list down to the letter. This confused him – yes, Littlefinger can be intimidating. His red mob can ‘bury’ them all, yet he was so unassuming. A gangly-looking man with no muscles. He doesn’t know why Gerold is afraid of the man, but it was enough to convince Robar. It was best not to anger a man that would give him Lysa Arryn’s hand.

The list was uncompromisable causing the negotiations of the knights to stall. On certain days he would be suspicious. Perhaps this was a ruse to stop him from recruiting these knights. Perhaps he was confident that he could win against Bruce Hardyng’s coalition with his overly equipped levy army. The prestige and reputation from doing so would be enormous for Littlefinger and may allow him to increase his grasp on power. It was possible – his pet alchemists and their green sorcery allowed his redcoats to punch above their weight perhaps defeating a knightly host if the ‘grenades’ were primed at the right time.

This would not do. Robar will have to try hard to find a breakthrough. To find an accord with the knights that will convince them to pledge to Robar and him only. He was going to be the Lord of the Vale and he would need the support and the power to prove it. He wasn’t going to rely on someone that may undermine his influence. And so he appealed to the knight’s honour and chivalry with a bit of scaremongering. Rallying them on their shared fear and disgust of Petyr Baelish proved to be easy. He was a useful scapegoat. “If you don’t fight then who will stop him? His redcoats defeated me and my father. His redcoats defeated us! If he wins then who’ll stop him? Us?” Robar looked at every man. “You? You who refuses to fight alongside me?”

“But you’re on his side now!” A knight with a surcoat displaying three golden wings yelled. Likely a relative of Arwen Shett.

“How can I not be? He promised me Lysa Arryn’s hand and the Moon Throne. Who else do you think may take up the offer if I refused?” Robar paused and nodded in approval as everyone looked nonplussed and unsure. “None other than Petyr Baelish. He’ll seek the Moon Throne by conquest. If Robert can do it against the Targaryens for the Iron Throne, then why can’t he?”

The knights yelled their disapproval as some stood and cursed at Littlefinger. He raised his arms to silence them. “That’s why I agreed. To contain his power, I took his offer to become the Lord of the Vale.”

“But you’re his puppet! How can we trust you? The fact that you want him to curtail our rights and privilege doesn’t give you any credence!” The Shett knight again contradicted him.

“It’s only temporary! Once we defeat Bruce Hardyng, we’ll take his redcoats and the combined knights of the Vale and respond to King Robert’s call for war. From there, I can petition the King to take accept him as a counsellor for the Small Council. Who knows? Lyman Chelsted is on the brink of death mayhaps Petyr Baelish can replace him as the Master of Coin.”

“That serves him right! A dishonourable copper counter deserves nothing less!” The knights roared their approval. Robar couldn’t help tense at that. That insult was hurled at him and his family by none other than his own cousins. The Arryns of the Eyrie looked down on them and he thought with grim satisfaction that their line has died. Their seed seems to be weak, weaker than the Gulltown Arryns – this pleased Robar beyond imagination. Perhaps the Gods have punished his cousins for their arrogance.

He was shaken from his thoughts when several hundred knights kneeled then offered their swords to him. Robar looked at the scene with growing excitement. Here was a real army. An army of chivalry, of honour and of faith that can rival Petyr’s red menace. Robar will have to bid his time as his marriage to Lysa Arryn and securing the Lord Paramountcy hinges on the support of Petyr Baelish. With him spirited away to King’s Landing and serving in the Small Council his chances of meddling with Vale’s domestic affairs will diminish greatly.

The future looked bright for him and his family. From a disastrous war to claiming Eyrie as his birthright, he has come far. But he would be a fool to take it for granted because he would have to fight for it. Battles are often sordid affairs and the tales told to green boys lie about the guts, the smell and the blood. Just one injury can strike him down therefore he was going to be careful. He was going to rely on Baelish’s plan to meet Hardyng’s forces on the outskirts of Ironoaks.

~ ~ ~ ~

He nursed his cramped leg as he surveyed his army. An eclectic mixture of silver and red as they moved as one with a unified purpose, to slay his enemies. Robar noticed a man with a red-golden sash approaching him, “Lord Petyr Baelish. Your redcoats seem to be substantially reduced since the last time I’ve seen it.”

Littlefinger bit his lip but quickly smiled. “We managed to lure the traitor and murderer, Deran Parne, and his knights into an ambush. We’ve taken a thousand of his knights out of the forthcoming battle. Half of the mounted retinue that Hardyng has. The survivors hid behind Ironoaks walls with a tail behind their legs. They wouldn’t be able to sortie out as the trenches and wooden stakes will make short work of them.”

“Excellently done, Lord Baelish. You may have been a past adversary but I’m glad you’re on our side.” Robar said with sincerity. He meant it and that’s why he was a bit peeved that Littlefinger did nothing but nod his head. Such a minor reaction to his praise annoyed him.

“I’m glad I have your confidence, my lord. We may be outnumbered but my- our army’s experience and their equipment shall see through the day. And of course, your chivalrous knights too.”

“It’s good that both of us are confident of victory. Now, where’s Gerold? Last I heard he was supposed to be with me. I was going to give him command of 300 knights.”

For some reason, Littlefinger bristled at that and slightly huffed. “He’s with me. He’ll oversee the battle up on that hill.”

“He won’t get his spurs then?”

“Gerry already has against your knights back in Timberton. No. He’ll learn how to do a real battle. One that doesn’t involve leading people in a charge. But staying back and overseeing the rest of the battle.”

“Isn’t that cowardly?” Robar didn’t mean any offence, but a leader should lead at the front. Not only to raise the troop’s morale but to earn your spurs. This was evident when King Robert led his troops from the front when they forded the River Trident. He was glad that Littlefinger didn’t get defensive like many lords.

“No. It’s called being smart. He nearly got himself killed in Timberton and it was only thanks to Master Porter organising a retreat that saved him. You know you would’ve given us a bloody nose if you decided to rescue your encircled father.”

“We would’ve lost regardless. Yes, we managed to fight off Gerold’s knights and driven them off the battlefield. But the early attack in our camp and killing off our horses meant we couldn’t sufficiently charge through your redcoats.”

“Astutely summarised, my lord.” Littlefinger waved at the opposing army. “I always like to remind Gerry to always learn from mistakes. The mistakes that we’ve made along our way will eventually find us success.”

“Really? How about you? Have you made any mistakes? Did that help get to where you are now?” Lord Arryn inquired. Having the chance to gain insights from a man that outplayed his father was valuable. Robar wanted to peak at how his mind worked and hopefully use that against him in the future. After all, wasn’t he the one that said ‘Knowledge is Power’?

“I’ve made many mistakes, I must admit my lord. I could’ve prevented your father’s rebellion. The signs were clear. The imports and stockpiling of food. The apparent ‘famine’ in Silverbridge and Timberton, required me to send them food. They were preparing to oust Gerry from the very beginning.”

Robar jolted in shock. Out of the topics he expected, this wasn’t one of them. He knew that his family would butt heads with House Grafton eventually, whether it was Lord Marq or Gerold. But in a way that would lead to them usurping Gerold’s lordship over Gulltown was unbelievable. “You lie.”

Littlefinger shrugged. “You know your father way more than me. You tell me.”

“I-I…” Robar stared at the ground refusing to meet his eyes. “You make-,” He didn’t want to finish it and spurred his horse. “The enemy is coming close. Signal the redcoats to engage.”

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“My lord, not yet. Their signalling for a parlay.” Petyr pointed at the host of plate armoured men coming towards them whilst flying a white flag. He pointed his spyglass and noticed the one leading them had a surcoat coloured red and white. The colours of House Hardyng and when he saw that he spurred his horse towards them. His guards and Littlefinger followed suit.

“Lord Bruce, it’s a disappointment that we meet in dire… Circumstances. I remember you charging with me during the Battle of the Trident.”

“Aye boy. ‘Twas a glorious charge. Broke those dragon sympathisers apart, that’s for sure!” He guffawed and then realised who he was talking to. His face turned sour. “Boy, I thought you had honour in you. Much better than your good-for-nothing father. Imagine my disappointment when I was sent a missive demanding to relinquish my son’s claim and bow to you! How could you!” He pointed his twisted fingers at Robar. His temper just got worse when Robar tilted his head in confusion. “Don’t use ignorance as an excuse boy! That missive came from Gulltown! Under your name, no less! Pretty bold. After losing a war and having your father sent to the Wall, you had the balls to press your claim.”

What? Missive? I was busy marching from Timberton to Gulltown. “What missive?” Before Bruce could explode, Robar jabbed in. “The rest of the Vale knows that you’ve mustered first. The first one to contemplate spilling fellow Valemen blood.”

“Don’t play coy with me boy! That missive was insulting! I should’ve duelled you for it, but here we are now.”

Now Robar was starting to get annoyed. “Do you have proof of that missive? Because I wasn’t in Gulltown to write it.”

The Lord of Strongsong’s face turned bright red. He sputtered and then managed to compose himself, but a smirking Littlefinger stepped in. “Not only did you intentionally break the King’s Peace, you also lied about receiving a letter. You seem to be grasping straws and sand, my lord.”

“You! You’re Littlefinger! Deran warned me about you!”

“Oh dear! Not only do you break the King’s Peace but also consorted with criminals! Did you know he was guilty of murder?” He shook his head and then gestured for Bruce. “Lord Arryn is a generous man. He’ll forgive you if you dip your banners now. Then recognise him as our overlord. This doesn’t have to end in bloodshed.”

“Never!” He turned back to his army leaving Robar and Petyr together.

“Lord Baelish… You didn’t write him a missive under my name, did you?”

Littlefinger placed his palms over his heart. “I promised to Gods, old and new, that I haven’t. I wouldn’t dare write under your name.”

Robar nodded but he still had his suspicion. “But I have to wonder why he accused me of that without any evidence too.”

“Like I said, my lord, he’s grasping sand. An overly ambitious man that is willing to spill his countrymen’s blood without any pause. He’s going to need any excuses to justify it. Now, we’re paying the price for his ambition. It’s fortunate that he chose to march here rather than at the Eyrie, where your family resides.”

“Another reason why we need to win this battle. Now, Lord Baelish, assemble your redcoats.”

“At once, my lord.”

Bruce I

The negotiations failed and he had no one to blame but himself. He assumed the missive was sent to everyone across the Vale and so he called for his banners and his allies to assert his son’s claim. He was honour bound to do so. Aemma, his shining beacon in his life, is the daughter of Alyss Arryn making their son, baby Harry, to be the closest claimant to the Eyrie. Aemma gave her heart and soul giving birth to Harry and that’s why he couldn’t help but rip the missive apart. The thought of Harry, his only reminder of Aemma, renouncing his birthright made him burst into rage. Now, the rest of the realm thought that he broke the King’s Peace instead of peacefully asserting Harry’s claim through a council.

But there were risks of doing that. Harry is a babe, way off his majority, and therefore most lords would probably back Robar Arryn. Especially, in times of great turmoil where the Dornish and the Reach prepare for war, the lords of the Vale would pick someone more experienced to lead them through urgent crises

He shook and pinched himself. There was no point pondering other alternatives. He was going to assert Aemma’s child claim to the Eyrie through force and bloodshed and that was perfectly fine. “Order the levies to march. Have the archers at the front. We’ll lower their morale by raining arrows unto them.”

“At once, my lord.” His sergeants said dutifully.

His archers loosed volley after volley with only a pittance in return. He watched with growing trepidation when the mass of red kept marching with no visible decrease in their numbers. They kept on marching forcing his archers to fall back through the levies and he watched with curiosity at what the frontlines of the red mob were doing. They waited till they were within ten-foot of his ranks then pulled out clay jars and lit the damn things with magic. No fire. With bated breath he watched his ranks melt under a green blast. As their bodies rag-dolled away, splattering the backlines with blood, bone, brain matter and bowels. Huge gaps formed through his lines which were viciously exploited by the opposing army.

His men weren’t faring well. His army was being pushed back from mountain edge to mountain edge. The length of the battle occupied the entire width of the valley making it difficult to manoeuvre his heavy cavalry.

It was only through Ser Deran’s trap that his levies managed to hold on. They still outnumbered Robar’s army even then his core started to buckle causing his lines to form a crescent shape.

“Ready the cavalry!” He shouted and rallied his knights and lords. “Ser Symond, you lead the charge. Once our levies in the middle start to rout, signal the charge.”

The brown-haired man bowed. “Thank you for the honour, my liege.”

He prayed to the Seven that his core lines didn’t rout. He prayed that they would hold and their weight in numbers would carry them to victory through sheer attrition. So that his wife’s legacy may claim his birthright. He doesn’t care how much blood he’s willing to spill but he’ll do anything for his son. Alas, the Gods seem to have forsaken him as his men started to collapse. He regretted looking at his men being slaughtered, struck at the back no less. No matter, they were going to avenge them soon.

“Lord Bruce? I’ll be ordering the charge soon.” Ser Symond Templeton informed him prompting Bruce to respond, “Order it now, Ser!”

Bruce closed his visor and immediately the world was reduced to one narrow slit. His squire, a boy who wore a tunic showing the symbol of the Redforts, gave him his lance. Urging his horse to a gallop he was overwhelmed by the ground shaking, as a thousand horses charged with him. They had one purpose, to push the enemy back from their core. He felt his blood pumping as he briefly relieved the battle of the Trident.

The wind bitterly flicked at his eyes causing him to be surprised when he started to see a red hue in the distance and by instinct lowered his lance. He heard the sickening crunch as the lance pierced a man through his shoulder causing it to go completely through to another man’s stomach. The lance splintered into many pieces as the two men howled to their death. Bruce sheathed his sword and started to hack at the red mob whilst ignoring the putrid smell of shit and blood.

They’ve penetrated six ranks deep when their charge started to falter. He blocked the incoming strikes and parried back. Knights around him were pulled to the ground, others had their mounts pierced through the gaps in their armour. The poor horses didn’t stand a chance as they sickeningly neighed and reared back offloading their rider. Despite the setbacks, they were winning as they steadily pushed through their infantry. Some of the smallfolk, who routed, came back with vengeance and started to fight as their hopes of winning the battle soared.

But all good things don’t last forever, as he surveyed the other side. He relaxed within an enclave surrounded by his personal guards and opened his visor to get a clearer image. What he saw shook him. Nearly a thousand knights flying the Arryn falcon menacingly galloped towards them. This surprised him as his spies assured him that Robar’s knights wouldn’t fight with that rat. He was convinced Littlefinger was so loathed by the knights and nobility that they wouldn’t bear their arms on the same side as him.

At least they’ll slaughter their own ranks before they got to us. Oh, how Bruce wanted to banish that though as he seemingly cursed himself. The three or so ranks of redcoats moved to the side causing his knights to bear the oncoming charge.

“On me! Men on me!” He desperately waved his sword to get his knights’ attention as Bruce grimly noticed Ser Symond’s absence. Hundreds heard his call and formed a line by his side. Bruce needed to slow their momentum so that his knights who didn’t hear him could reorganise themselves. “Whoever still has their lance passed it to the front, now!” He waited for the brief shuffle to end then ordered the charge.

Hundreds clashed with a thousand knights, and it was truly fortunate that the battle width was narrow, or else the enemy’s superior numbers would envelop them whole and defeat them piecemeal.

He slew enemies left, right and centre then something caught his eye. A heavily armoured man with a falcon-shaped helm. He zoned in, as best as his slitted vision could allow him to and galloped towards him. Bruce refused to roar, he was going to silently kill the greatest threat to Aemma’s legacy. He thrust his bastard sword towards Robar’s neck carefully aiming for a gap in his gorget but was disappointed when it was parried away. Not wanting to give his adversary a breather, he struck again and again. He aimed for his joints like the elbows, knees and ankle where gaps in the armour were common. The boy may be experienced but that was what he was in the end. A boy. Bruce was twice as old and possessed more skills honed in by experience gained through the years. The boy stood no chance.

The Arryn had enough and parried Bruce’s slash before leaping at him and pulling him off his horse. Both landed on the churned-up ground and he was unfortunate enough to land head down. Not enough to paralyse him but enough to give him a mind-shattering headache. He stood up, dazed and confused with an irritating noise in his ear, and looked around. Suddenly, a horse without a mount appeared from behind shoving him to the side, back into the mud. He stood up again and made sure to avoid incoming horses again. He looked for more mountless rides but was unlucky as he spied the Arryn.

Both were disarmed with nothing but their fists but still charged each other. He threw a few quick jabs whilst avoiding his and was satisfied when the boy faltered back. Bruce saw his opportunity and took it but suddenly the boy threw a heavy hook catching him off guard as it hit his helm. The ringing was non-stop and by the time he got his wits together, the boy sat atop him and brought a dagger down at his throat.

“Yield, Lord Hardyng.”

Bruce sighed in defeat. He was so close to victory but fell for an obvious feint. Perhaps his mind was already addled from the fall but he’ll never know. The self-loathing and excuses threatened to leak out in a mumble but he managed to say, “I yield. But this doesn’t mean this army will retreat. They fight for my son, Harrold Hardyng, and they shall fight for his claim.” There was a pang of hope yearning for rescue. But there was none as his knights were encircled between the red mob and the Arryn’s knights.

The Arryn boy had the cheek to click his tongue. “It doesn’t matter, anyways. One of your banner lords, Benedar Belmore, turned his cloak overrunning your right flank. It’s over. If it makes you feel better, we’ll not slaughter your troops as they rout. They’ll be assimilated into this army to fight for King Robert.”

Hardyng hung his head in defeat and wiped the trail of blood flowing down from his nose. Then his gaze sharpened like steel on a whetstone, “Be careful of that man, Benedar. If he’s treacherous to me, he’ll likely be treacherous to you.”

“I’ll await his reason. For now, think long and hard about the future of house Hardyng. Because as it stands, house Belmore will be given sole lordship over Strongsong.”

Bruce’s world deafened, as the screams of anguish around them was snuffed out by his bursting heart. “If I may, my lord. I know I’m defeated but will you allow me a small mercy?” The boy nodded. “I’m grateful.” He nodded at Robar. ”The same way Lord Gerold didn’t pass the sins of the father to the son, can you forgive my son, at the very least.”

“I’m not a savage. Your son will be safe. He’ll not join you in the Wall nor would he grow up in the faith.” Robar sincerely promised and Bruce couldn’t help but feel grateful for that.

“You have my thanks.”

“Good. With my victory here and Littlefinger’s sorcery, Ironoaks should fall relatively soon. Then off to Eyrie we go.”