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Game of Thrones: Dwarf Become King
Game of Thrones: Dragons Dance
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Once Jon confirmed that Stannis had committed the bulk of his forces to Riverrun, he moved.
He chose twenty-six hundred of his best men for the flanking column—hardened veterans, every one of them. More than two hundred were knights of real quality. The force was split into seven smaller companies. In the Riverlands, where the Faith of the Seven held strong, seven was considered a fortunate number.
If more than three of those companies were destroyed before they reached the rendezvous point, the mission would be called off. A thousand men could not hold ground or create a real threat.
Their purpose was simple: pin Stannis's main army in the Riverlands and keep it from withdrawing until the Reach host arrived. When the southern army struck, the balance would shift in an instant.
As old Walder had understood, Riverrun was only bait. The army Jon truly waited for was not Robb's northern host. It was the Reach army Stannis believed was safely contained.
Thanks to his divine sight, Jon could watch enemy movements for dozens of leagues in every direction. He did not need skinchangers or ravens. He took the largest company himself—more than five hundred men—and led them straight through the heaviest concentration of Stannis's scouts. They moved faster than any other group. In a day and a half they slipped past the enemy lines with almost no noise and pushed hard for the meeting point.
Leo and Harken worked well together. With nearly four hundred men they crossed the lines two days later.
One by one the other companies followed. Only Rickard Karstark's group and the final company were still fighting their way through.
"Seven hells," one of Rickard's scouts muttered. "There's a bear in these woods. Already mauled two of ours."
"Damn thing. Take some men and kill it," Rickard ordered. "Weather's turning colder. I could use a good bearskin cloak."
A handful of soldiers, led by a minor lord from the Vale, grabbed spears and a net and slipped into the trees, following the blood trail.
They found the bear quickly. It was a white bear—rare, valuable, and apparently sleeping.
The Vale lord's eyes lit up. "Don't shoot it! Net it! White bear fur is worth a fortune."
The men moved in carefully, leaving their horses behind. Ten men against one bear should have been simple.
The bear's eyes opened.
The nearest soldier felt a chill. There was no wild rage in that gaze—only cold, human calculation.
Arrows hissed from the trees.
The Vale men died where they stood, most of them never realizing they had walked into an ambush.
Rickard Karstark's company had used the bear as bait. When the scouts closed in, they struck.
Rickard himself cut down the last man with a spinning backhand that took the head clean off. He wiped his blade on the dead man's cloak and allowed himself a grim smile.
"Jon said get past them. He never said how."
He ordered his men to move out.
"Make sure that Westerlands boy stays close," he told a runner.
The "Westerlands boy" was Reynard, brother of the girl Jon had taken an interest in. His company carried most of the spare arrows—eighty percent of his men were longbowmen. Because they were slowed by supplies, they had waited for the other groups to clear a path before choosing the safest route.
Rickard sat on a fallen log to catch his breath. Mushrooms grew from the rotting wood beneath his hand. For a moment his mind drifted—to Eddard Stark, to Brandon, to their father Rickard. He had lived too long. He had fought for Robert against the Targaryens, and now he fought for a Targaryen against Robert's brother. The world had a strange sense of humor.
Then he saw the firelight in the distance.
Too many fires. Too close.
His scouts returned breathless. Two enemy columns—more than three thousand men combined—were closing in from different directions. Rickard's own scouts had been ambushed and scattered.
Rickard drew a long breath and gave the only order he could.
"Form up. Tell Reynard to take his archers and go around us. We'll hold them here."
His skinchanger had already accepted that this would be the end. Jon had promised to take care of their families if they fell.
They armored the white bear with whatever plates they could strap on. The great beast roared, drawing more enemy attention toward Rickard's position.
The fight began at dusk and lasted until dawn.
Rickard's men were outnumbered ten to one, but they sold their lives dearly. By first light the formation had broken. Rickard himself was old, and his strength was fading. Two young nobles who looked like brothers drove their swords into his chest.
As the light left his eyes, Rickard saw a tall figure in ancient bronze armor watching from a distance.
Royce…
The white bear died too. Its head was hacked off and hung from the bronze-and-rune banner of House Royce like a trophy.
Bronze Yohn Royce and the other Vale lords stood over the corpses, speaking in low voices.
"Lucky we had the red priest. Without his fires we would have missed them entirely."
"If he can keep seeing enemy movements in the flames, we'll win this war easily."
"Shame we can't see where Jon Snow is. One good arrow and this would all be over."
Thoros of Myr stood apart from them, staring into the dead faces of Rickard's last thirty men. They had fought for a full day and night against impossible odds. Only a handful were still breathing when the end came.
He felt no triumph.
He had seen the enemy in the flames again and again, yet something—someone—had interfered with his visions more than once. That should not have been possible. The flames showed the will of the Lord of Light. Who could twist that will?
When the interference finally lifted, he had seen Rickard's company. But he was certain other groups had already slipped through.
Thoros looked at the bodies and felt the weight of it. These men had believed in Jon Stark so completely that they had thrown their lives away to buy time for the others.
Great Lord of Light… is Stannis truly the savior you chose? Because I see no path to his victory.
He had followed Stannis out of respect for Melisandre's certainty. Now he wondered if that certainty had been misplaced. He only hoped the war would end before the Long Night came and found the living too weak to face it.