UaRoB: Chapter 42 – The March of Banners (Patreon)

The fields rolled endlessly to the west, and he day was windy but nice. Beneath that wind came the slow thunder of twenty thousand boots and hooves, the North and Riverlands in motion. Wolves, trout, bears, pines, and many more all flying in silent defiance against the gold that once ruled these hills.

I rode ahead with Robb, our horses picking a steady pace over the River Road.

The road forked two leagues ahead. South would take us to Lannisport, west to Sarsfield, and the hills beyond.

Robb squinted into the sun. “You know, for all your planning, you’ve not said much today.”

“I’ve been thinking.”

He laughed. “Gods help us.”

I smiled faintly. “Fuck off! If we time it right, we can strike both places together. They’ll bleed confusion.”

He nodded. “We split the host. Ten thousand each?”

“Ten thousand each,” I said. “You take care of Lannisport while I entertain the Rock,”

Robb pulled at his reins, slowing. “And then they can’t help each other.”

“If they rush Lannisport, the Rock dies alone.” I leaned slightly in my saddle. “They’ve few men and too much to defend. Split their strength, and both heads fall.”

He whistled low. “You always did love decapitations. But that is if we can even open the Rocks doors.”

“Aye… we will see how things go when we get there.”

A pause stretched between us.

“You’ve gone quiet these days,” Robb said.

I raised a brow. “Have I?”

He grinned. “Aye. Especially when Dacey’s around. You used to lecture me about supply lines. Now you just nod and vanish with her.”

I snorted. “When you find a woman who can knock you flat with a steel mace with fucking spikes, you’ll learn silence too.”

“Gods, I hope not. That sounds terrifying.”

“The way keep looking at Meera, tay come sooner than you expect.” I glared at him.

He chuckled, then let the reins go loose in his hands. “I miss simpler troubles.”

“So do I.” I glanced at him. “Remember Theon’s face when Arya fucked with his sword?”

“I thought Maester Luwin would faint when the pommel went flying into the well!”

We both laughed. Theon had been so mad at her…

And now Theon was in the Moat, and Arya was a… a prisoner.

“Jon… I know that I probably won’t be able to marry Meera… but don’t string along Dacey either.”

“I… you are right… I should talk with her. I care for her, every day a bit more... this was never supposed to go so deep.”

“Talk with her, Jon,” Robb said, and I just nodded.

I was feeling things for Dacey that I was not supposed to feel. If it were a peaceful time, if the others were still sleeping deep in the Lands of Always Winter, then I could have married her.

But these were not those times. It was better to put limits on our relationship, so we did not hurt each other when politics forced me to take someone else as my wife. 

A man rode up, Ser Cort, mud up to his knees, and a scroll in his hand from the Warg division. “Riders ahead,” he said. “A merchant cart from Ashemark looks clean. No banners. We’ll search them.”

“Let them pass after,” Robb said. “Make sure they see our numbers and get them running back home.”

“They won’t know that we are going for their castles too; they will think we are moving towards Lannsiport. Disinformation by accident,” I said.

“Sometimes that’s the best kind,” Robb replied. He turned to me again, voice lowering. “We leave the road tomorrow, then?”

“Yes. At sunrise. I’ll take Sarsfield, burn the outposts, and strike from the west. You ride to Ashemark, put it under siege so they cannot trouble us, and wheel back to Lannisport. Those castles will be a knife at our backs if we leave them be.”

Robb studied the sky, then me. “Try not to die, Jon.”

“Do not do anything stupid!” I said back.

We clasped forearms, two boys who’d once watched snow melt from the towers of Winterfell. Now grown into generals. Life went by so fast, didn't it?

Behind us, the banners marched.

Ahead, the West waited.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The sun was high, but veiled, its light cast in gauze, hazy and dulled as if the heavens themselves squinted toward Sarsfield.

We had split the host, Robb had left the Riverroad and moved towards Ashemark, and I had continued towards Sarsfield. The only castle near the Riverroad that would block our path towards Lannisport and the Rock. After that, it was an open valley where most of the population of the Westerlands lived. All the way to the sea and the Rock.

It rose from the hill. Modest in truth, though its silver-topped watchtowers were quite beautiful. The walls were barely thirty feet, nothing compared to Wintefell or the Moat, and even that seemed generous. No crenellations worthy of the name. The ditch that ringed it was narrow, more suited for sheep than siege, and the so-called moat was fed by a tired hill-stream that looked ready to dry.

Every castle seems modest after Winterfell.

I wondered if that would ever change. Winterfell was a beast, only second to the ruined Harrelhall in size. Would any castle be as grandiose as the seat of the Starks? Maybe Storms End, but I doubted it.

My army reached the castle. Yet still the gates were shut.

I stood in the stirrups, frowning at the gatehouse. A silver tower adorned its arch. The banner above it hung half-masted, green field, Green Arrow, limp in the wind like a broken arm.

“Set up the siege.”

“They won’t fight,” said Ser Cort behind me, “but they won’t surrender either. If we do not press.”

He might’ve been right. But I had a few ideas. I had no doubt that Robb would take Ashemark instead of just putting it under siege; he was an overachiever like that, and I would try to take Sarsfield too.

Without losing any men, hopefully. Sarsfield was not the target.

The scouts found us before noon, riding hard across the ridge with dust flying behind them. The lead rider barely waited for permission before he swung down and bowed his head.

“Your grace,” he said, panting a little. “Sarsfield is hollow. Lord Sarsfield rode out two days ago. Took five hundred westward toward the Rock.”

Now that was interesting. Was the rock calling for men from their banners to defend themselves?

“Left the rest?” I asked.

“Aye. His lady commands those who remain.” He hesitated. “The wargs swear the keep is half empty. Fewer watchfires, fewer horses, fewer men.”

I let that settle. Sarsfield had stripped its strength for a doomed call to the Rock. Tywin’s shadow still held their hearts tighter than the walls of their own castle… They had an army coming, and they stripped their own holdfast to defend another? It was madness, just imagining leaving the Moat to defend the way more defensible Winterfell when an army was coming in front of my lands felt like anathema to me.

Galvart guided his horse closer; we had been seeing the siege being set up from a small hill. “He left the strong ones with him, I wager.”

“Most likely,” I said. “Knights, cavalry, young men eager for glory. What remains will not trouble us.”

Cort sniffed. “If they are so few, we can take the place by storm before nightfall.”

“And lose a thousand men doing it.” Shot back Galvart.

“We are not storming anything,” I said. “Not when they have a better reason to open their own gates for us.”

Especially now that only the lady held the castle. A mother's love was a great thing indeed…

I turned to one of the wargs, a thin man with pale eyes. “Send a raven. The message we discussed.”

Surrender the castle, disarm the garrison. If you do not, your son dies before your gate.

He nodded, already slipping into that half-seeing trance.

No flourishes. Plain truth. That tended to break fewer bones in the end.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

We rode down the slope not long after, a small escort around us, and Melwyn Sarsfield riding in bonds between my guards. He looked as though he had not slept in a week. His face was bruised, his lip still torn from the last skirmish where he had been taken. Yet he did not beg or whimper. Shame carried him straighter than pride ever had.

He swallowed. “My mother will surrender,” he muttered, voice low. “She is not a fool.”

“Good,” I said. “Then no one needs to die here.”

“You will not take the Rock anyway, the Old Lion will stop you.”

“Your Old Lion is my bitch, I have beaten him twice, and I will beat him again,” I called back.

Maybe I should make them gag him? I did not want him to do anything stupid during the negotiation.

Galvart’s riders went ahead with a white sash of peace. By the time we reached the foot of the hill, the ramparts stirred. Archers lined the walls, bows half lifted. A warning, not a threat.

The morning sun was creeping higher when the castle finally moved.

The great gate creaked open, ancient hinges shuddering from disuse. The portcullis rose with the teeth-grinding scrape of rust on rust. From within the shadowed archway stepped a single woman and her escort.

Lady Merissa Sarsfield.

Her cloak was forest green, trimmed with simple stitchwork. No jewelry. No armor. Her hair was brown, with some white already creeping in, braided tight and practical. Her face was stern, carved by hardship.

She brought no banner. Just herself.

Behind her, a few dozen men gathered in loose formation. Old men. Squires. Servants hastily armed. The scraps left behind when their lord had carried the real strength west.

She approached until only a horse’s length stood between us. She neither bowed nor offered a greeting.

“Where is my son?” she demanded.

Cort bristled. “This is not how one—”

I held up a hand.

“You may see him,” I said.

She gave a single sharp nod. Melwyn was brought forward. His horse stopped beside her, and he dared look at her only for a heartbeat.

“Mother.”

Her eyes swept him from head to boot, noting every bruise, every rope mark. When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet.

“Is he whole?”

“He is.” I kept my tone even. “And he will remain so, if the keep surrenders without resistance, my lady.”

She studied me. Her gaze held no fear; she was a rather impressive woman. She reminded me of Alyssane Lefford. The ladies of the west were made of some stern stuff, it seemed. Her fingers did not tremble. Her jaw did not quiver. She stood like a stone before the storm.

“Melwyn,” she said.

“Mother, I will not—”

“Quiet.” She did not look at him. Her eyes stayed on me. “You want the keep.”

“I do.”

“You will have no trouble from my people,” she said. “I surrender Sarsfield into your custody. The garrison lays down its arms. I yield myself as your hostage. Only swear that you will not harm my son or my people.”

“Done, no harm shall come to you or yours, my lady,” I said.

She closed her eyes. Only for a moment. Then she turned back toward her walls.

At once, the movement began. Men unbuckled sword belts. Spears were laid in piles. Bows lowered. The silence was heavier than any battle cry.

We rode inside at a slow trot, the hooves echoing across a courtyard emptied of pride.

The Westerlands claimed wealth, but wealth cannot guard a wall. Pride cannot fill a granary. Gold cannot hold a sword when twenty times your number gather at your gate.

And they have your sole heir.

The keep was ours now, and not a drop of blood had been spilled.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Cort kicked a cracked crate with his boot. The wood splintered. Inside were only rotten leather straps. “Seven bleed them,” he muttered. “This place is worthless. You would think a Westerlands holdfast kept better stores.”

“They sent their wealth west,” I said. “They emptied their coffers and their armor racks for the Rock.”

“Fools,” Cort spat. “Not a single horse worth taking. Half their spears have termites.”

“That is why we do not rely on taking supplies from beaten lords,” I said. “Come.”

We stepped towards the war room.

Maps spread on the table before us: River Road, Lannisport, the Rock. Beneath it, a new bundle of reports had arrived with the convoy. Five and ten wagons loaded with blackened plate mail, oiled leathers, and the pale steel of northern forges. Moat Cailin’s breath, carried southward in carts.

The first convoy had finally reached us.

Ser Cort leaned in beside me, his scarred fingers sifting through the sealed scrolls. “These came through the Neck quicker than expected. Roads are holding.”

“Good,” I murmured. “Too many will still die, but at least they’ll die armored.”

Cort folded his arms. “So what do you intend for the Riverlander levies, then? Your new hosts cannot fight with sticks and sentiment.”

“Which is why they will not,” I said. “We will arm them properly. Our Northmen have enough steel to spare, and the smithworks at Moat Cailin are turning out spearheads faster than we can string them to hafts.” I handed him

“Six thousand? That is almost all the Riverlander levies we have, here or in the Riverlands.” Cort blinked. “You expect that many to hold a line?”

“If we choose carefully,” I said. “Riverlander smallfolk have good backs. They fish, they farm, they haul. They can hold a shield better than most. What they lack is training.”

“And we are already solving that problem.” Cort finished for me.

Winning is easier when you plan ahead.

I unrolled the first report on the table, recognizing Sam’s steady hand. The seal bore the white wolf of Moat Cailin.

Your Grace,
The third and fourth levies are in full drill. Five thousand and two hundred men fit for fieldwork. They will be ready in two moons. But according to Ser Forley, they will not be up to the standards of the first understrength ‘Legion’; it has been a rushed job. New plates are arriving daily from the Blackworks in Winterfell and the new forges at Driftway. Eight forges are already in full operation. Morale remains high. Instructors report rapid improvement. Your Legion will be done soon enough, though I still think you should call them something else.
- Samwell Tarly

I passed it to Cort. He scanned it in silence, then gave a grunt. “Sam doesn’t waste words.”

“He knows I hate being flattered.”

Cort gave a dry smile. “Then you’ll like this part from Riverrun.” He tapped a line near the bottom. “‘Moat’s best swordsmen beat most Frey knights in drills last fortnight. Three injuries. No fatalities. One Frey accused the men of cheating and was laughed off the field.’”

I couldn’t help but smirk. “Better steel and better backs. The Freys never had either.”

He chuckled. “At least most of them stayed in the Riverlands. I’d hate to be feeding them out here.”

“That wasn’t an accident,” I said. “Robb and I agreed early. Freys stay home. No independent command, no supplies from the Moat or the Blackworks. The few here still cause enough problems.”

“I have half a mind to just hang them every time a row starts in camp.” He gave me a sideways look. “That’s dangerous.”

“So is trusting them.”

I picked up another scroll, this one bore Robbet Glover’s rougher scrawl; he was back in the North already. I skimmed quickly. Sentries posted to Deepwood Moat. Defenses in the north are up and waiting...

“Moat Cailin’s turning into a forge as much as a fortress,” Cort said, glancing at the supply manifests. “Eighty shields to Piper, fifty suits of mail to Blackwood, and half a hundred northern crossbows to Tytos Nerb… whoever he is.”

“Minor vassal of House Blackwood,” I said absently. “They hold a small hillfort on the road to Riverrun. Moat Cailin knows the priorities.”

Cort nodded. “It helps that we hold the Neck. That choke holds the whole northern spine. No delays, no foraging raids. This whole western push rides on what Moat builds.”

The army was shaping up already. The Riverlander levies were being trained by the Northmen. They were now as well-equipped as us for their respective spots in the army.

For a few months' job and a very rushed one at that, things were going well.

If only I did not have to deal with any Freys or Boltons. That would be a dream.

Cort reached for a sealed note marked with a black wing, the Warg division. His eyes flicked over it, brow furrowing.

“Message from Meera Reed. Says the wargs report an unusual gathering near the Fair River. They believe whoever is in command of the Rock wants to harry us.”

I shook my head. “Let them try. The Crannogmen doesn’t suffer fools long. If the Wargs or poison doesn’t kill them, Meera will.”

He laughed at that. “Gods help them if she’s hunting. That girl scared half our engineers the other day.”

“She’s a little menace; I don’t ever notice her entering the room.”

Crannogmen would make the best assassins, my own ninjas.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The sun dipped low, a final sliver of gold behind the hills. I rolled up the last scroll, setting it aside with care.

The problem with doing things bureaucratically, it comes with a lot of paperwork to deal with.

A man came through the door then, just after knocking. A message from the Warg division clutch in his hands.

“Your Grace,” he said, breath ragged. “From the west. Message from Lord Stark.”

I took the sealed letter, broke the wax with my thumb, and read quickly. The words were short.

Ashemark is ours. The gates broke at dawn. No quarter given to the garrison; they did not surrender. Few losses. I'll ride to meet you at Sarsfield. Keep the road clear.
—Robb

I exhaled slowly, then handed the letter to Cort, who read it twice, mouth tightening.

“He took Ashemark in three days?”

“Two and a half,” I said.

Damn, Robb, you cunning fucker…

The plan had been for him to put the castle under siege and then come down to Lannisport. We would have already left by then. But he had taken the castle faster than many set up sieges…

Cort shook his head in disbelief. “That place has stood for centuries.”

“Not against us,” I murmured. “And not against the son of Eddard Stark in full stride, apparently. The Young Wolf indeed…”

The man who had carried the message spoke then. “He means to reach us within two days, your grace. Garred heard it himself in his raven.”

That fast? I looked westward, toward the hazy hills where the River Road bent around the spine of the West. If Robb moved hard, forced the pace, and left his supply wagons behind to catch up, it was possible. We did not need to worry about men hitting us from the back anymore, so he could leave the supplies practically undefended.

I turned back to the rider. “Any casualties at Ashemark?”

He hesitated. “Some, your grace. Light, considering. The attack came before dawn. We heard rumors that Lord Robb led the breach himself.”

Of course he did… fucking idiot.

I allowed myself a flicker of pride. This war had changed us both. For better or worse.

“Rest,” I said. “You’ve done well.”

He nodded and led his mount away. Cort looked at me as the man left.

“Well?”

“We march again when Robb reaches us,” I said. “We can’t leave the Rock waiting too long.”

With the Golden Tooth, Ashemark, and Sarsfield in our hands, the path towards the coastland of the Westerlands was ours completely.

We could hit any castle from here with our full force. Lannisport, the Rock, the Crag, Hornvale, Clagane keep…

I hoped Tywin would shit his pants when he heard this…

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Robb arrived in the timeframe we had heard about. Most of his army was behind him.

I stepped forward as he dismounted. The embrace was brief.

“You rode fast,” I said.

“We had a wind at our backs.” Robb passed his reins to a squire, then walked beside me through the courtyard. “And Ashemark folded quicker than expected. Once the gatehouse was taken, the rest cracked.”

“You burned the keep? I had some Wargs fly by.”

“Yes. They resisted to the end. Garrison’s dead, the walls are intact. Might use it again one day with some repair.” He gave a small nod.

“They might use it again if there are any Marbrands still alive after this is over. How did you take it so fast?” I asked.

“The same way we took the Golden Tooth, brother.” He said. “I fainted an attack towards the main gate and had men scale the back walls. They never expected it!”

“They had few men then.” Robb nodded at that. “Sarsfield was the same; they are all moving towards the Rock.”

“And you? Sarsfield?”

“No fight in Sarsfield. Her ladyship folded instantly after seeing her son.”

Robb grunted. “She loves him, then.”

“She does.”

So many houses turned to ash or dust beneath our march.

The Swyfts… they have only a sickly infant girl left to carry their name. No father, no mother, no brothers to lift a sword or carry a shield. What hope can crawl from such a hollow shell? A cradle where once stood a house.

The Crakehalls, gone. Not a soul left to speak their name, save perhaps a whisper on the wind where from the ashes of all the bodies we had burnt.

Marbrand is a shadow of itself. The lord and one cousin, bound by marriage to a Lannister. How long before those fragile threads unravel? Before the last Marbrand falls beneath the weight of these wars?

We had Lord Raynald Sarwyck in custody, too, even though the last reports from the prisoner camps were that he was badly sick and may not make it. We had killed the Lords of House Lefford, Westerling, Falwell, Broom, Brax, Banefort, and Estren. And half again as many heirs, many times that number in distant or branch families, too.

If we kept this up, the Westerlands would be named the Wastelands after the war.

I will need many new Lords for this land.

The Riverlanders and Northmen would be happy if their second sons received new lands. And it would allow me to carve the Westerlands to my benefit, too.

I wonder if they see us as executioners, butchers. Either way, the night grows colder, and the wolves circle closer.

We climbed the shallow steps into the great hall.

He poured himself a cup of water. “Word is two thousand hold the Rock now. Maybe more. The riders we caught near the ridge were fresh from Lannisport. They say they are holed up, and the Rock’s locked tight.”

“Two thousand,” I repeated. “More than we hoped.”

“But less than we feared. Ashemark is ours. Sarsfield too. And we have Lady Sarsfield and her heir. Five hundred men inside that castle answer to Lord Sarsfield.”

I saw where his mind was going. “You think they’ll turn cloak?”

Robb shook his head. “Not yet. But maybe we can persuade him.”

“How?”

“Send word into the castle,” he said, leaning over the map. “Spread word that Lord Sarsfield’s son and wife are our guests. That his lady wife is being treated… honorably. Remind the lords in the Rock that they left their kin behind, in our hands. Make them start to wonder how long they’re willing to bleed for a lion who’s already lost the Riverlands and half his homeland.”

“It’s a good plan, paired with the men we already have in the castle, it may be enough to open the gates for us.” I conceded.

Robb’s smile was cold. “If the walls don’t break, we’ll make the hearts behind them do it instead.”

We were quiet for a moment. I thought of the road ahead. The Rock loomed large, but not untouchable anymore.

This actually seemed possible now.

“They’ll send riders soon,” Robb said. “To test our lines. Maybe a sortie. We need to be ready.”

“We are Howland's men, and your Meera will deal with them.”

“She is my Meera!” He picked up his sword again, buckled it on, and growled like his direwolf. “A raven came to Riverrun, from Storm’s End, by the look of it. It’s addressed to you. Aegon… the Targaryen boy.” Robb said, offering it without ceremony.

I didn’t reach for it immediately. I studied the seal, as if expecting the parchment to ignite.

“I thought you should see it before the war council meets,” Robb added.

I took the scroll.

I slit the wax with the point of his dagger and unrolled the vellum with care. The handwriting was firm, royal in its precision.

To Daemon, called Snow, called Stark, called Targaryen,

I write not as foe, but as kin, not with threat, but with honor. Westeros bleeds, and its people cry out for peace. You carry our name, brother, and with it, the burden of fire and prophecy. I have come to reclaim what was stolen from House Targaryen, from us, to build anew from the ruin of false kings and usurpers.

Join me. Kneel, and I will name you Lord Paramount. You may keep Moat Cailin and all you hold. Fight beside me, and together we will purge the Lannister rot and cast down the usurpers, old and new.

Join me, brother, let us avenge our father, our sister.

Together.

Aegon, Sixth of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men

I read it once, then again, slower. My jaw tensed. My eyes never left the parchment.

Robb watched him in silence for a long moment. “He offers you a Wardenship.”

My voice was low. “He offers to let me keep what I bled to build, if I kneel to a boy who’s never set foot beyond the Stormlands.”

“His language is flowery; is he trying to sound like Rhaegar?” Robb said carefully.

“No,” I muttered. “He’s trying to sound like me, fucking copycat.”

Robb gave a laugh. I folded the letter and tucked it into my belt.

“I’ll give him an answer,” I said, turning toward the stairs. “Let him hear it in the crack of stone and the fall of the Rock. There is only one King in this continent.”

He writes like I’m some up-jumped bastard squatting on a pile of Northern dirt.

Kneel, he says, and I will let you keep what is already yours.

He speaks of making me Warden, Warden of what? The North? That belonged to Robb, as if he had not earned that title a hundred times over already. As if Moat Cailin did not rise from the swamp and ruin because of my hand. As if the grain in Wintertown, the steel in our wagons, the men who followed me across half a kingdom, are his to command with a flourish of his pen.

I built my kingdom while his was still a rumor across the sea.

And now this boy would bid me bend the knee?

There is only one answer.

No.

As for Dorne…

They’ll think themselves clever, letting Aegon land, supporting him. They’ll talk of peace, of marriage, of Lyanna and Elia.

But I do not owe them justice. I do not owe them Rhaegar’s guilt. I am not my father’s shadow.

If they back Aegon, they will be treated as enemies. Not just in battle, but afterward. I will salt their trade routes, take their rights, strip their ports of coin, and their nobles of leverage.

Let them come. The Golden Company, the Dornish spears, the boy with his polished name and secondhand dreams.

They will all end up Bowed, Bent, and Broken.