51 For Kislev!
Late 282 Spring William Mooton
Who could blame him for running? The smoke hadn't even settled over Saltpans by the time Jorah Moromont's horde descended on Maidenpool and unleashed an attack so effective only treachery could explain it. Damn him, damn his army of savages and his Frey bootlickers. The image of their banners running rampant across his hometown will forever be burnt into his mind. They covered ground as if the thousand men under arms he kept for the not-a-city's defense were shadow and smoke tricks the foe refused to fall for and not flesh and blood. The rivers of blood not dispelling the effect.
So no, Lord William Mooton wasn't going to sally out of his family keep with his loyal knights and the favor of the Seven on his side to cast down the foe over ten times his number. The Seven already proved who they prefer, and so William Mooton wisely chose to lead a small band of trusted knights and servants along with his new wife out a secret escape tunnel known only to the lords and heirs of the house. Best to leave quietly before whatever treachery let the enemy into the not-a-city lets them into the keep.
Torch in hand William came to the iron and oak door separating the escape tunnel from the basement of the keep, sliding back an iron grate to peer into the black darkness beyond. Using the break to catch his breath, the Lord of House Mooton stared beyond the grate until he felt satisfied, then slid it shut and unlocked the door.
William turned to nod his head to his wife and retainers then opened the door and hesitated to make the first step across the threshold. He stood transfixed by two glowing orbs of wildfire, orbs that came closer. Lord Mooton stepped back, horrified as a man stepped though the door, dipping his head to clear it.
"Right on time." the man growled then lowered his helmet's visor over his dark bearded face.
Under the black plate those orbs of wildfire still burned, holding Lord Mooton still as if binding his very soul in chains. He could say nothing, do nothing as his knights, his brave and loyal knights charged the man, the man so very large - much larger than they - and simply watched horrified as the man cleaved them apart with a twisted and hideous axe bearing runes burning with that same fell green light as his eyes. He'd never seen such a slaughter, such gore, in all his short life.
Willian Mooton cursed the craven heart that beat in his chest as the last of his knights fell and warriors poured in from the tunnel, his secret tunnel, and into the keep. He heard the wails and death cries of the men who should have bought him enough time to escape. Lord Mooton didn't understand, no one with knowledge of this tunnel yet lived, just he and his younger brother, and he simply couldn't make the connection how a squire of the crown prince could orchestrate such an attack.
His mind ground away at the conundrum, and he failed to notice the men tying his hands until they sat him down at a low table in his own hall. He looked at the rope binding him confused and concerned. He looked to his own seat and found the man with the wildfire eyes atop it, clapping loudly while a trio of men tapped their feet in dance.
"Now that's what it's all about!" he shouted, "Treat your work like play and every day is better than the last!"
What a savage man to treat such violence and disregard as play. Every inch the barbarian at large he'd seen at Harrenhal, the exemplar of the First Man evil decried by the Septons since the Andals first landed on the shores of Westeros. His jolly candor infected those around him, and many a man sang and danced as he drank the mead and wine of House Mooton. Their revelry almost drowned out the screams of the pitiful women dragged away and those already taken away for their taking. The spoils of the victor, despoiling all that was good for the defeated.
"Chin up, Mooton." the man grinned down, suddenly at his side leering over him, "Soon, you'll be on a journey to my good-father's house, and all this ugly business will be a thing of the past. Your house will kick up a cut to us for the next ten years, to cover the ransom for you and that pretty wife of yours."
"We… we'll pay gold for each of us." William sounded quite horse and raspy.
Had he been screaming?
"With what gold?" Jorah's brow furled and his eyes twinkled, his mustache arching up at the corners in good humor.
"With my gold, the gold of House Mooton." William explained, not wanting any confusion, "We are quite rich."
"You mean to pay me with my own gold?" Jorah mused, "How bold of you."
William despaired, realizing that in one short day he lost everything, all that he owned now rested in the hands of this wicked stranger, a stranger demanding he toil under the yoke to buy back some small measure of comfort and peace. No one considered him a brave man, but is there no virtue in the heart of a craven that the divine might take pity on and provide justice? Why must all things fall into the hands of evil men, and all others must suffer under their tyranny.
Late Spring 282 Me
I watched the tubby Lord of Maidenpool fall into the metaphorical pit I kicked him down. Once a line of kings, now a whore waiting for anyone to come take their turn. Unfortunately for Randal Tarly, I got here first, and I'm taking everything worth taking with me. We'd already hit three more of these not-a-cities along the Trident, the richest and most populous locations in the Riverlands. Without the donation of Red Rain by Lord Drumm, the split on these victories would have given me three times over the income generated through my trade this last decade. With that cash infusion invested I made far more, but I'm not one to leave money on the table.
Neither are my allies, who enjoyed the fruits of the cultural disdain for financial responsibility being built on the back of fat cash reserves. My friends in the North Western Trade Federation have taken enough coin to pay back their loans to me, and though they won't do so right away, eventually I emerge the true winner of these siege assaults by gains in reputation and gold. More soon shall be given, or should I say taken? I'm only one more war after this away from the world opening up to me like a particularly fat oyster.
I stepped up onto a chair then the high table of the hall, a horn of mead in each hand.
"Brothers, gather round!" I announced as my round table hustled over.
Ulfric and Skjor paid close attention to the gathering, but Galmar was off in the aether ruining some poor girls night, or salvaging it after all, my boys are more clean and sexually capable than most. His more responsible and less reprehensible brothers sat by their uncles, Galbart and Robett, and the Flints, Torghen of the First and Timotty of the Finger. Stevron and Bucket sat to my left, Bucket grinning for sealing the deal on one of Stev's daughters for his son. Roger Ryswell stood with his boot on a chair, the maverick.
"Four successful sieges in a fortnight." I grinned and downed one horn before tossing it away, "On big keeps and towns. The kind of deed legends are made of. But all good things must come to an end, or in this case, slow down. It's time to begin splitting our forces."
I nodded to Stevron and started, "Ser Stevron and his host are to escort our prisoners back to the Twins, and on the way begin establishing some order in the lands we've passed through."
The middle aged man looked happy to be heading home, having sated his thirst for blood an entire war ago. Some might say he lost his warrior's spirit, but those people are quite possibly the worst. Stevron wants to fight less, I want to fight more. What's not to like about the situation?
"The rest of us will head on to Antlers, get the Crownlands a piece of the action." the announcement roused some 'here here's and good cheer, "And after we've introduced the Buckwells to some proper lighting warfare, we split again. Roger and I will lead our calvary and hounds south of the God's Eye to intercept Lord Darry on his way back home, Galbart will take the foot to Sow's Horn and get the Hoggs out of the way. From the Horn, he'll be in perfect position to hit the Cox and Mooton forces while Ryswell and I hit Roote. Once we finish all that business, Stark and Arryn will be done getting Tully off his ass, and we can kick Connington off his high horse and open up the warpath right into the rich heart of the Crownlands."
I raised the other horn full of mead for the finish, "So drink up, lads. There's thirsty work waiting for us in the morning."
Big Bill Mooton and his pretty little wife joined a train of northbound nobles and notables slated for a guest stay with the Freys. A shocking state of affairs as despite the man's many marriages to highborn families, everyone seems to hate the family. Their loss my gain, and gain, and gain, and gain. Walder Frey will serve as my collection agent when the war is done and the dust settles. He'll skim, but it beats the hell out of collecting all that tribute myself. The Frey's simply have a lower opportunity cost on their labor, than I do. It comes naturally with our level of productivity moving product on our ships. We can't afford to sit on our asses like Walder and the boys can.
Sacking Antlers felt much the same as sacking Maidenpool, just with a whole lot less money involved. The landlocked keep and town had nothing really going on for it except some plush farming. More to the point, there isn't any geological cut off to easily delineate between the Riverlands and the Crownlands, just an arbitrary line the Targs put down to create a comfortable personal demesne and took it all from the Riverlands because they were the least likely group to ever be able to do anything about it.
Though the second verse read the same as the first, I did get excited about rolling up on Lord Darry and his host, so when we split with Galbart, my own giddy energy leaked out into the assembled animals with us. Though it made the horses a little more jumpy, it smoothed out their panic and discomfort every time I rode up… on a giant armored snowbear!
My ancestors smile on me, Targaryens, can you say the same?
Imagine if you would, the great and noble calvary-elite of Kislev. Now imagine those bears nearly half again as large, and more armor. That is the calvary-elite of Bear Island, and it was beyond easy to convince twenty nine other guys to mount up and ride with me. When Darry came upon us formed up in the field he called for a parley, and nearly shit himself when I arrived atop Ser Fluffles the Bold.
"Lord Darry, my terms are thus. Surrender yourself. Order your men to cast down their arms and return home." I made the man my best offer for him, and even scared he spat on it.
"It's really happening." I told myself on the ride back to my side of the battlefield.
"We don't need an inspiring speech!" I shouted and raised my sword spear into the air, "CHARGE!"
I don't normally go for the whole cinematic initial charge, usually preferring sane and slow tactics, but on advantageous terrain in a time and place of my choosing with a force entirely composed of calvary... forgive them Father, for they know not what they are in for.
Deus Vult!
The green and muddy downhill quarter mile between us and Darry shrank by the moment. Darry outnumbered us over two to one, but I outnumbered him in horseflesh almost five to one, so the man sequestered his horse behind and to the left of his foot. They brought pikes forward, but more than once had a cavalry charge demoralized and broke the cohesion of such formations. Put a line of thirty bear tanks at the head of the charge and the sinking morale drops like a stone.
The last time someone brought something new to the battlefields of Westeros, the Targs rode their dragons to war and no one had an answer save dumb luck. Emphasis on the dumb after the Targ response to that incident. Before that the Andals arrived steel in hand and only cold hard geography stopped their roflstomp of the First Men. Now it's Jorah's turn to break the balance of play, and when my two ton bear tank blasted into the already breaking line of Darry pikemen I booted up a copy of Dynasty Warriors and started swinging Longclaw around like I desperately wanted the meager praise received for slaying a thousand men in battle personally.
Ser Fluffles continued the charge, his massive paws with claws like shortswords tearing apart earth and man without stopping, carried forth on the momentum and weight of horseflesh behind him. Our charge completely broke through the Darry lines, leaving a hellscape behind us as we wheeled after the two hundred horse Lord Darry led in a galloping 'tactical' retreat. While the majority of my force scattered the Darry host, I led a team of elites at a canter after our fleeing foe. We let them run until their horses tired in the hills, and then I introduced them to the horde of direhounds I placed precisely at the end of their route.
Greensight can ruin a guys day like that.
A direhound isn't as large or powerful as a direwolf, but that doesn't make them small or weak. The donkey sized dogs could crush steel plate in their jaws, ruining the flesh and blood beneath. I cantered up on Ser Fluffles to find Lord Darry held in the maws of two hounds, one arm in each mouth like a man crucified. I had enough hounds on hand to capture everyone, but battle is a messy business and quite a few men died that day from nasty falls from the saddle or overly eager puppy play. You know, puppy play, man and a puppy playing in the field, puppy crushes the man's skull in its mouth, puppy play.
Lord Darry managed to tilt this head to peer up at me from under his open faced helm.
The man had the audacity to spit in my general direction again and grunt out, "Demon birthed from bleakest womb."
The man certainly held to his chutzpah.
"Well Darry," I grinned as I flipped up my visor, "the battle couldn't have been all bad."
The man continued to hold to his chutzpah.
I smiled wide enough to see teeth beneath my burly mustache and nodded down to him, "After all… I got to ride on a giant bear."
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Years ago I wrote a scene from 'It's Me, Dio!' that left a lot of people confused. I caught up on Rick and Morty last night and episode 2 of the new season did the exact same scene. Feels good to know my writing is good enough to make it onto TV.
In other news I found some neat pictures for everyone to enjoy.
Jorah
Jorah armor swag
Ser Fluffles the Bold
