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Post by Magnate Lucius on May 31, 2020 15:29:33 GMT -5
Battle in the Ice The forces of King Stannis Baratheon, the rightful Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and mocked as the King on the Wall, have marched south to face the troops under Roose Bolton, the Warden of the North. On both sides are a rummage of various forces ranging from wildlings and mountain clans to southron troops and survivors of the War of the Five Kings. Though Stannis' forces are smaller than Roose Boltons, they are highly loyal and still possess a core of heavy cavalry and infantry to serve as the Baratheon spear tip. On the other side, while Bolton possesses veterans of Robb Stark's southern campaigns, a number of his fellow Northmen and their lords are of suspected disloyalty. A number of them hate Bolton for betraying the King in the North, Robb Stark, Catelyn Tully, and his family. The remainder of Nedd Stark's children are missing and presumed dead. Still, if Bolton can gain victory here, it would cement his hold over the North. If a Baratheon victory can be achieved, it would breathe new life into Stannis' cause and give him a means to levy fresh troops and coin for his campaign south. However, winter has come to the North. A thick snow has begun to fall and covers the field of battle, just beyond the walls of Winterfell. The Freys and Manderlys barely being able to see beyond their own steeds and the soldier in front of them. However, unknown to Lord Bolton, Roose's attempt to plant an enemy within Stannis' forces failed as the traitorous Karstarks, led by Arnolf, are imprisoned and their troops may likely follow Stannis without their commander. The battle has yet to begin, but it will certainly determine the fate of the North and the fate of two Houses of Westeros. {Baratheon Army}1,400 southron men (men-at-arms and knights)
3,600 northern troops
400 Umber men (led by Mors)
456 Karstark troops (after Arnolf is captured) {Bolton Army}Vanguard
2,000 Frey troops
300 Manderly troops
Main army
4,600 Northmen
400 Umber troops (led by Hother)
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Post by Gandalf on Jun 1, 2020 6:02:42 GMT -5
Roose Bolton stood on the ramparts of Winterfell's stern walls, winter wind whipping his bare face as his pale gaze watched the Freys disappear into the snowy mist. The men were all prepared, waiting in the hall for the order to march along with the rest of the northern lords. Even Ramsay had been convinced to remain in Winterfell whilst the vanguard softened Stannis' defences. The bastard had been rabid for the return of 'his bride and his Reek' but he was still of some use, and it would not do to have him killed or captured by Stannis Baratheon. Bolton turned away from walls and slowly made his way to his quarters. No word would come for some time yet, and so the Lord of the North withdrew to the company of Fat Walda whilst those he and sent out to die duly did their duty.
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Post by perry on Jun 1, 2020 13:00:08 GMT -5
The gallant knights of House Manderly pushed forward through the snow, ice and snow clinging to the barding and legs of their mounts. The hot breath of man and beast rising from the group. The men were dressed in an assortment of plate, covered with thick winter pelts. Teal tassels and barding hugging their mounts. The white and green merman of Manderly flew on teal banners rising up from the crowd of knights, each fluttering as they were battered in the icy wind.
The column was moving at a slow grueling pace, set by their Lord Wyman riding in his horse drawn litter. A gaudy thing, with teal drapery. They all knew what this day would bring, when Northmen would be forced to shed their own blood. They had made their peace with the Seven, all of them, including Wyman. Aware of the very real possibility that they might never return home to their kith and kin. Wyman was sweating in his litter, despite the cold, this was key to securing the return of Rickon and avenging the Red Wedding. “The farce is almost over.” He muttered under his heavy breath, his many chins giggling from the effort. The gash on his neck from that Frey bastard was only one reminder of their vile nature.
It was cold, even for northmen. Here, battling this blizzard, and the snow drifts, they were far from the warm southern winds that bathe the White Harbor. Visibility was low, a half dozen yards out and most could see nothing but blinding white.
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Post by Politburo Barry on Jun 1, 2020 19:09:37 GMT -5
While his enemies made their way toward his position through the biting snow and winds, the true King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men sat down at the head of his war table. Though stress and hunger had made the once-robust Baratheon into practically a tall skeleton with his skin still on, Stannis was already clad in his fighting mail and surcoat, pale yellow with the blazing heart of R'hllor and his family's stag atop it, and his eyes burned an intense blue with purpose. Summons - unfortunately delivered by lowborn serjeants and messengers in his service, for the squire he'd taken along with him, Bryen Farring, had died of the cold some time ago - had already been dispatched to the men (and women) still in his service, the likes of which included the southern Morrigens and northern Mormonts.
This would be their final planning session 'round the table ahead of the upcoming battle - which should be almost at hand, if the Umbers and his other scouts spoke true - and though he had gone over the strategy many times before, both in his head and at previous conferences with his lords and commanders, the Blackwater had long ago taught him that there was no such thing as being 'too cautious'. If anyone among his commanders had anything to say at this stage, this would be their last chance. The king leaned back in his chair and waited, without any grinding of teeth for now.
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Post by pontifex on Jun 3, 2020 16:46:24 GMT -5
Aenys Frey was in command of their forces, and none of the other Freys disputed it. Whether or not the fat man's knights followed competent instruction was another matter entirely. They could all be swept aside for all Aenys cared. The Banners were not waving, they were more or less floating, frozen where they stood. The advance was slow, but it was not faltering. Aenys was something of an oddity, a halfway competent Frey. He had a talent for command that few could doubt, but he had never faced a true test, and this would be his first.
Hosteen Frey reined up beside him, shivering in the intense cold. "We ought to kill all these mer-men knights out here in the field while we have the chance." He said to his brother.
Aenys regarded him coldly. "And when we have snuffed out the last Manderly knight and the gates of Winterfell remain closed behind us, maybe we could beg Stannis for a bit of his famed mercy, eh? You were a fool to lose your head in that pigheaded display." Aenys rode forward cautiously. He was not a man of the north, and this driving winter wind was enough to steal the warmth from his very soul. It was a forsaken place, and he hoped this matter could be resolved quickly so he could return south. There must be campaigns that need leadership in the RIverlands still. His family's grasp on it was weak.
Hosteen shut the visor of his helm in a weak attempt to stave off the cold. If he had stuck out his tongue it would have stuck to the interior metal, which would have made speaking difficult and pleased Aenys to no end. "I would have slit the fat whale's throat if he had a bit less blubber."
"If he had a bit less blubber." Aerys fired back "Then you would be in shackled, freezing your manhood off in some Winterfell cell, dear brother. Speak no more of it, ready your mind for the task at hand."
Hosteen rode off, disgusted at his brother's lack of support. Aenys, in the meantime, knew reconciliation on the eve of battle would be best, but knew it would be impossible. Yet if they did not, it might endanger all. He reluctantly galloped to the wain where the Lord of Blubber sat jiggling. "My Lord Manderly," he began, "We have had our differences but they must be set aside for the nonce. Do your duty to the King and all will be forgiven." He began.
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Post by pontifex on Jun 3, 2020 17:02:12 GMT -5
While his enemies made their way toward his position through the biting snow and winds, the true King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men sat down at the head of his war table. Though stress and hunger had made the once-robust Baratheon into practically a tall skeleton with his skin still on, Stannis was already clad in his fighting mail and surcoat, pale yellow with the blazing heart of R'hllor and his family's stag atop it, and his eyes burned an intense blue with purpose. Summons - unfortunately delivered by lowborn serjeants and messengers in his service, for the squire he'd taken along with him, Bryen Farring, had died of the cold some time ago - had already been dispatched to the men (and women) still in his service, the likes of which included the southern Morrigens and northern Mormonts. This would be their final planning session 'round the table ahead of the upcoming battle - which should be almost at hand, if the Umbers and his other scouts spoke true - and though he had gone over the strategy many times before, both in his head and at previous conferences with his lords and commanders, the Blackwater had long ago taught him that there was no such thing as being 'too cautious'. If anyone among his commanders had anything to say at this stage, this would be their last chance. The king leaned back in his chair and waited, without any grinding of teeth for now. The Morrigens arrived, clad and ready for battle. Their mail was black and a thin layer of snow covered it. Their shields bore the sigil of their House, a crow on volant sable, freshly painted. Longswords hung at their hips, though they would be fighting mounted in the battle to come it was sure. As they entered they fell to one knee before their king. "We are yours to command, your Grace." Lord Lester began. "Surely the god...Lord of Light will be with us this day." Ser Richard pushed past him. "Your Grace, allow me the honor of leading the van as you did my brother at the Blackwater. He gave him life to see you sit the Iron Throne once again and if need be, I would do the same."
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Post by perry on Jun 3, 2020 17:04:54 GMT -5
The Frey had to trek a bit back to reach the Manderly men, whose pace was set by lord Wyman and his impressive girth. As Aenys approached the knights all around were on guard, ready to defend their lord. The procession came to a halt as Aenys was allowed to approach, the curtain on Wyman’s litter pulled back by an attendant. He sat in comfort there, or as much comfort as you could provide here in the snow, his ass upon a plush cushion. The gash that the Frey delivered upon his neck was treated and bandaged, but blood stained the edges of the wrapping. “All will do their duty today, Frey.” Manderly attempted to hide the venom behind the last word. “My men are prepared.” He said with a smile, for it was no lie. He paused for a long moment, the effort of speaking was causing distress on his wound. “Stannis is weak and tired, let us put an end to his campaign.”
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Post by pontifex on Jun 3, 2020 19:00:59 GMT -5
Aenys saw through the words at once. The Lord of Lard would betray them, what else would explain their lagging so far behind? The gates of Winterfell remained closed to them, and Aenys could not begin to predict the mind of Bolton's bastard. Perhaps he meant to follow them into battle, perhaps he meant to force Stannis' army to lay siege and die a slow death in the attempt. Aenys drew his sword, prompting a reaction from Manderly's guards. Yet he drew his sword in salute. "You speak true my Lord, may we ride forth to victory together." He turned his horse aburptly and began galloping at a high speed back to his own lines. He would need to warn Hosteen...the rear could be held against these knights properly with enough warning. Indeed, perhaps Stannis' own men would take advantage of the lack of cavalry and seek to rush Winterfell. The Frey forces must remain an island in the storm, spears bristling. As he neared the lines, the plan formed more clearly in his head. Yes, there was a way to survive this, there was a way, narrow as it may be, to victory.
His course strayed a bit eastward in the driving snow and Aenys lost his way. He glimpsed the flank of the Frey forces and called out an order that was lost on the wind. Some of the spearmen glanced his way and caught sight of him just in time to see his horse stumble as the ground opened up before him. Another cry was lost on the wind as Ser Aenys Frey dropped several feet and was impaled by several sharpened stakes at once. His blood froze almost as soon as it was loosed from his veins. The cry went up along the Frey line, and they stopped marching in their tracks. Hosteen raised the visor of his helm, dumbstruck. His horse cantered a bit, then found a snarl. He was pitched from his saddle. The pain was immediate as it felt that his entire body had been frozen then rattled by the impact. He rose awkwardly, stunned by what had happened. It felt as if they were under attack and yet, where was the enemy? Some looked to Hosteen who was at a loss. "Erm, hold firm, men!" He said weakly. "Form up with shields!" This vague command was relayed among the Frey footmen with mixed results.
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Post by perry on Jun 3, 2020 21:27:07 GMT -5
The Manderlys continued on through the snow, making their way toward Stannis’ position. Their column behind that of the Frey’s, but not visible in the thick snow fall. A couple of knights scouted out the land ahead to make sure the trail was safe. When they came upon Freys in locked formation, or rather struggling to enter formation. The Mermen, rode forward upon this strange sight. “Is battle engaged?” They questioned, their voices partially drowned out by the snows. “Is battle engaged?!” They called again, as the frozen banner of house Manderly came into view through the blizzard.
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Post by Politburo Barry on Jun 4, 2020 10:29:25 GMT -5
While his enemies made their way toward his position through the biting snow and winds, the true King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men sat down at the head of his war table. Though stress and hunger had made the once-robust Baratheon into practically a tall skeleton with his skin still on, Stannis was already clad in his fighting mail and surcoat, pale yellow with the blazing heart of R'hllor and his family's stag atop it, and his eyes burned an intense blue with purpose. Summons - unfortunately delivered by lowborn serjeants and messengers in his service, for the squire he'd taken along with him, Bryen Farring, had died of the cold some time ago - had already been dispatched to the men (and women) still in his service, the likes of which included the southern Morrigens and northern Mormonts. This would be their final planning session 'round the table ahead of the upcoming battle - which should be almost at hand, if the Umbers and his other scouts spoke true - and though he had gone over the strategy many times before, both in his head and at previous conferences with his lords and commanders, the Blackwater had long ago taught him that there was no such thing as being 'too cautious'. If anyone among his commanders had anything to say at this stage, this would be their last chance. The king leaned back in his chair and waited, without any grinding of teeth for now. The Morrigens arrived, clad and ready for battle. Their mail was black and a thin layer of snow covered it. Their shields bore the sigil of their House, a crow on volant sable, freshly painted. Longswords hung at their hips, though they would be fighting mounted in the battle to come it was sure. As they entered they fell to one knee before their king. "We are yours to command, your Grace." Lord Lester began. "Surely the god...Lord of Light will be with us this day." Ser Richard pushed past him. "Your Grace, allow me the honor of leading the van as you did my brother at the Blackwater. He gave him life to see you sit the Iron Throne once again and if need be, I would do the same." Stannis replied, his tone curt and firm as always. While it'd be quite nice if the Lord of Light were to descend from his fiery throne and smite his enemies right now, the King was quite certain that victory today would have to come from his mortal hands and those of his followers, like these Morrigens. He'd sooner count on blades and pikes in faithful hands such as theirs, men who had followed him for years through disaster and triumph alike without wavering, than that of the gods - or God - who he knew to be a fickle sort at best. Better still would have been his true right hand, Davos, but Lord Too-Fat-To-Sit-On-A-Horse had butchered him. The King's gaze momentarily darkened and turned away from the Morrigens as the thought crossed his mind: while normally the least bloodthirsty of his brothers, Stannis was earnestly looking forward to smiting the bloated murderer with Lightbringer, or better still, roasting the lamprey once this was all over and he had the latter in his hands. Collecting himself, Stannis turned to giving orders. "My command is that you shall have the cavalry, Lord Morrigen." What little of it was left, at least. "You will begin the battle in reserve, but I do not expect it will be long before you and they will come to play one of the most decisive parts in this coming battle. That much, I can assure you." Next he turned his steely face upon the man's brother, and gave a slight nod. "And you...you shall have your wish. The van is yours. Fight well, Ser Richard." Morrigens and the vanguard of Stormlander hosts were not a combination that fared well historically, from Dickon Morrigen in Argilac Durrandon's day to Guyard the Green at the Blackwater, this Stannis knew. With any luck, Richard would break that trend. In any case, he was running out of prominent Stormland knights to give that role to anyway, as the Seveners at his court (save Davos) had run off with the bastard Edric; Justin Massey was on his way to Essos to recruit sellswords; and the formidable Richard Horpe was his sworn shield, tasked with protecting him in lieu of the Kingsguard. Having issued assignments to the Morrigens and, soon enough, the other Stormlanders, Stannis next had to await the arrival of his new Northern allies to do the same. If they were late, then nevermind ordering them around face to face - he'd just send runners to their tents to get them into position for the coming battle instead.
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Post by Royal Joker on Jun 5, 2020 12:44:52 GMT -5
"Victory to you, your fiery Grace. And to the sick Bolton bastards getting a taste of their own medicine."
Asha was not really speaking to anyone, chained as she was to a cart at the rear. Only a few guards remained from what she could tell. Stannis needed every soldier strong enough to hold a weapon against overwhelming odds. Had she been able to stand she would have asked for a club or a rock to fight under his banner. Alas, her ankle was broken and was now secured in a splint. For now, a casual observer was her role on this battlefield.
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Post by Politburo Barry on Jun 6, 2020 12:21:54 GMT -5
The King acknowledged Asha's well wishes with a silent nod. He would try mightily, certainly - that much he could promise her, and the various Northmen previously wronged by Bolton who now fought for him. Between her injury and her brother's captivity, Stannis was reasonably certain that he wouldn't have to worry about Asha trying to flee, so that he could focus entirely on the coming battle. If they prevailed and took Winterfell, he'd figure out a long-term use for the Greyjoy siblings.
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Post by pontifex on Jun 7, 2020 10:34:01 GMT -5
The Morrigens departed to muster the men and to form the battle line.
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"Hold!" Hosteen Frey ordered. He was at a loss for what to do. Would the Manderlys charge them in the rear, or would they stick to the plan? The fat whale had refused to share a line with them, preferring to operate independently, but that had its own perils, Hosteen knew. "Prepare for anything men, form up with the spears!"
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Post by Magnate Lucius on Jun 7, 2020 11:35:05 GMT -5
"Hold!" Hosteen Frey ordered. He was at a loss for what to do. Would the Manderlys charge them in the rear, or would they stick to the plan? The fat whale had refused to share a line with them, preferring to operate independently, but that had its own perils, Hosteen knew. "Prepare for anything men, form up with the spears!" The snow around the Manderlys and Freys was thick and torrential. The chill only grew worse with the men not advancing as Frey held his ground and set up a defensive perimeter. A howling wind blows across from one of the frozen lakes nearby, battering the soldiers that stood firm. From where Hosteen sat, upon his horse, as the time ticked slowly, a few of his men dropped their weapons and fell into the snow, unable to stand any further due to the deep chill of winter, penetrating their armor and freezing their limbs. They would likely freeze to death laying where they fell. Then a fire, a great fire, was seen from an elevated position nearby, just ahead of the Freys. A light that is seen by both Frey and Manderly, illuminating a watchtower of sorts with a figure barely seen beside the flames. It flickers, through the snow, a light that penetrated through. Then, as the winds whirled about, the snow cleared for a moment, revealing the Karstark flags, situated behind Baratheon's standards, declaring the position of their enemy. Both Frey and Manderly knew that Karstark was determined to betray Baratheon, but that wouldn't happen unless the fighting began. It seemed that Stannis was not aware of their betrayal, given their position. The appearance of the fire and the banners caused nobles under Hosteen to urge him to advance! The cold was getting to them rapidly and standing here would only freeze their limbs and make them unable to fight. Hosteen and Manderly knew Bolton's clear command: advance and attack the enemy. Knowing Bolton, if both retreated back, Winterfell would keep its gates shut and refuse them entry. It was either advance or die in the snow from freezing, one way or another. Fight with sword or fight the cold.
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Post by pontifex on Jun 10, 2020 16:29:53 GMT -5
Hosteen's sword felt like a lump of raw iron ore in his hand. He cursed under his frosting breath. "Advance!" he commanded numbly. Nowhere to retreat to, almost certain death ahead. At least he would die with the blood of his enemy's on his steel and not in some ditch like Aenys.
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