11 Ashfall

So. This chapter is big. Call it an apology, for the slow updates. Although, that really should be your expectation by now.

Victim-blaming? Psh! What are you talking about?

Anyway, I quite like how the chapter turned out, but even so, I am always happy to receive constructive criticism.

Well, enjoy.

The white banner of peace snapped and weaved through the air above Alistair as the wind played with it. The expansive fields of green leading to Ashford keep passed beneath his horse as he rode towards up the hill that the keep was built upon so many centuries ago. The keep was, peculiarly enough, built in the shape of a triangle, rather than the usual of either a square, or a strange, amorphous shape that could only be described through complex mathematical formulas. It was a cozy, inviting keep too. Small, yet with the simplistic beauty of its pale granite shining white under the sun and the orange banners of House Ashford flying from the battlements and towers, it made a sight that Alistair thought would be quite comforting to live beneath.

It was marred as well, of course, as war was wont to do to the places it ravaged. Really, only the central tower and keep were yet safe, seeing as the walls were manned with nervous guards and yet scuffed with signs of hooked storm ladders and the scrapes of weapons wielded and battles fought. The keep yet held, of course, even after two weeks had passed with just as many attempts to breach it, but the clearest sign of it faltering was clear as day. After all, it was quite difficult to miss the blackened granite of the tower left of the main gate, where someone - whether it was a defender or an attacker was not clear, given that anyone who knew or had done it had likely died in the desperate melee during which it occurred – but no matter how it happened, a fire had been set. 

Yet still, Alistair had to imagine that it only strengthened the belief and pride the citizens held for their town. Able to resist the march of the Stormlands, even if they took a blow doing so. And it really did give the castle a sense of weathered duty.

Alistair found all of this hard to appreciate the same way he had only days ago. For now, he was not walking with Robert and his closest advisors to 'discuss their surrender', even if that mostly amounted to exchanging witty insults. 

No, he was riding to the keep to deliver five rapists and two murderers from his own army, and request that the lord of the land, as the highest authority of the area, judge his men. 

The whole of it left a very bitter taste in his mouth. Very bitter indeed.

Alistair halted fifty metres from the gate as the garrison atop it called for him to do so, and waited patiently for Lord Steffyn to come and parley. 

As he waited, he could not help but look back to the men gathered behind him. They were a sorry bunch, yet Alistair found himself not caring in particular. Sorry would not bring back the girl. He had allowed their furious platoon members to violently strip them of their uniforms, and everything that ever showed them to be soldiers under his banner. Then he had ordered that buckets would be placed over their heads, after which the townspeople threw stones at them. Not enough to kill, but enough to make the long walk to the keep a painful one. Especially given the chains they bore, forcing them to stumble along.

He was, after all, in charge of keeping the peace within the occupied town, and it had been a very effective method of displaying that his promise of protection held true. Even from the horrors his own men might inflict.

"Why have you come, Albright? Have you been so thoroughly stumped by our defences that you can only take inspiration from the Dornish, and attack from beneath a flag of peace? I would normally not suggest such a thing, but the wretched-looking whoresons behind you are exactly who I would imagine to be the only ones desperate enough for this sort of shameful tactic, if it could even be called that." Steffyn prodded and heckled in his usual gruff and clipped tone, each sentence bit out, with long pauses between them. Normally, he only had time to do one of the three before someone would interrupt him with a barb of their own, and he clearly relished the chance to do all three in Alistair's unusual silence.

Alistair himself only waited as the laughter of the soldiers and men-at-arms died down before he spoke. "Lord Steffyn Ashford. I come to you to deliver my apologies, and your prisoners. These men are rapists and murderers, and I ask that you, as the lord of Ashford judge them for their crimes, or allow them to take the black." Silence echoed for a moment, before Alistair looked the lord in the eyes and decided to give his two cents on their fate. "I recommend execution." Some of the men behind him, a few of whom he had once counted as friends, whimpered quietly. 

Alistair could have pretended that the wind carried away their whimpers. 

He turned his head, looked each of them in the eye, then spat on the ground.

Steffyn was not tall, not for a lord at least. Compared to the peasantry, he was of a quite decent stature due to his superior nutrition, but even then he was only a bit longer than them, by perhaps three centimeters. He wasn't handsome either, not moreso than any fit middle-aged man at least, but there was a certain stoicism to his look that made him radiate at least a certain level of authority. Perhaps, Alistair reasoned, it was his beard, cut into a square of bushy black.

Alistair would almost consider trying such a beard himself, if he were not fifteen. Of course, he had to shave regularly. Otherwise people would start realizing that he was younger than they thought, given that not even his high charisma – no matter how it matured his features – could force his body to grow a beard.

That same hint of hard stone was in Steffyn's gaze as he considered Alistair below him, until he finally spoke.

"Not many lords would accept the loss of even seven swords for the sake of the peasants of a captured town. Mayhaps you could enlighten me on your thoughts?" There it came again, his voice. Alistair could only liken it to a person who had understood how long a sentence took, but spoke more quickly than would fill up that natural space of conversation, and simply allowing pauses to take that empty space. 

Alistair, for the first time in many days considered how honest he should be at that moment. He could give one of his usual speeches about how he was a man of the people who would not act as most lords, and finish with yet another explanation of what the Biscuits Troop was, and how they tried to fight for a better Westeros for the people. It was the one he always gave when his motives were questioned - be it by other smallfolk considering joining him or by green lords - and largely speaking it was true. 

It was good. Solid. And yet…

And yet it was not why he came to the keep that day. Had justice been his only concern, he would have allowed the townspeople their justice. With an internal shrug and an external righting of his body language for the coming speech, such as straightening his back and dawning a properly worn but steadfast expression, and began to speak.

"I shall be utterly honest with you, Lord Steffyn. I came here to show my mercy. To show that surrender is not submission to whatever evils the enemy might come up with, but simply a decision to no longer fight. To return to things that matter. To plough the fields after the arid cold, and rebuild what was brought low during war and winter. Then to let that message spread as far as the wind might take it."

Alistair knew that his face was now more weary then it was steadfast, and yet he could not bring himself to care that particular day. 

"But know that even if you do not care for what I have come to do, then at least know that this is not an act fuelled by the ambition, it is one fuelled by the fact that I have seen only three battles in my life, all within a day, and yet I already find myself firmly tired of war. Of seeing the smallfolk, brothers and sisters all, at least to some extent, killing and hurting each other" he was tempted to mention the petty nature of lordly dispute, yet he had seen the honour of Steffyn and his men both, and the loyalty they bore him, and decided not to.

"I do not know if this will truly work. Perhaps it was only bolster more men and boys to take up the sword or spear due to knowing that surrender is always an option. Perhaps it will do nothing at all. But if I wish to be a man worth remembering, then I must try and fail to hamper this bloodshed, rather than simply slaughter till Robert sits the throne and the Mad King is gone and buried."

Alistair knew he should be watching Steffyn. He knew that it was the intelligent choice. Yet as he stared at the blue sky beyond the battered keep, he could not bring himself away from revelling in being honest for once. Alistair was not burdened overly so by lying, but it was still refreshing to tell even such a minor truth.

But it wasn't long before Steffyn spoke, and reclaimed Alistair's attention. "What you speak of is admirable, Albright. Yet I cannot help but question how far this philosophy of yours reaches. I wonder, will you still take these risks for the smallfolk, were it you who pays the price for being wrong? If it were you who had to do battle with these possible extra swords, rather than your men? Would you still take these risks, when there is little for you yourself to gain, and everything to lose? Because you cannot deny that you gain in reputation when you speak with such conviction and dedication to goodness and honour."

Alistair rested his gaze on the other man for a moment, considering his words, and sinking into contemplation. Yet as he was mere moments away from opening his mouth to answer, he was distracted as Steffyn spoke once again.

"And for your forthrightness and honour in handing over these men to me, I shall grant you this courtesy," he said, and Alistair looked at the man expectantly, "The Vanguard of the Tyrell forces are currently charging down the hill behind you, right for your supplies. And I believe it is headed by none other than Randyll Tarly himself."

Alistair's head snapped around, and already he was tugging frantically at the reigns of his horse for it to turn and run back towards the town and the war camp situated a little further beyond the town. Alistair cursed as he saw the truth of the matter, saw the five hundred riders in heavy armour charging towards the unprepared war camp, with some bearing torches to burn their supplies with. 

Alistair drove his heels into the flanks of his horse with more force than he was want to use, riding through the siege camp as quickly as he could through the throngs of massing soldiers and shouting lords who themselves were trying to make their way to the blossoming battle. 

Alistair growled as he realized that he did not have the time to claim his armour. 

He dearly hoped he would survive riding in to support his allies even without the plate he had been offered.

He shook his head, realizing that it was not precaution enough, and hurriedly invested his few spare skillpoints in swordsmanship, bringing him to fifty-one in the skill, and poured his two spare stat points into dexterity, bringing him to nineteen. And so, with a rush of energy and a newfound grace stemming from the fact that the world seemed just the slightest bit slower than ever before, he rode to battle with only the sword and dagger at his side.

Jack could only see a shitshow when he looked around, which was good, since it meant that he was still sane even after Alistair went from impressive to legendary over a couple of months. Because only a madman could look around and call it anything else.

Tents and supplies burned, knights of the reach rode around with torches or swords, either burning the camp to the ground, or swatting down the people in the camp like they were flies. And those knights were, of course, getting chased around by Baratheon's own knights as they rode in in staggered waves of two or three at a time, most just ineffectively riding around looking for a fire small enough to put out, or a flower knight foolhardy enough to engage them, rather than just ride on to cut down more screaming levies.

Jack was only thankful that not many of his and Alistair's men were around the supply posts at the time. Because sure, when Alistair was leading their little warband, there was just something… clear, about what had to be done and how they should do it, that let the men use a stupidly complicated formation even with only the little bit of real training they had. That wouldn't be the case here. And sure, they were better than most of the other levies by a pretty big margin, and they could get some part of the Swiss Formation together on their own by now with how quickly the men learned from Alistair, but damn would it still have been horrible if the men were here.

But Jack was. Yes, with only half his armour and no helmet, but Jack was there. So he was the one who would have to rally the levies together until they had a clump of men a bit too pointy to just charge into. He had to get the knights to dismount.

It was hard at first, getting someone out of their panicked scrambling to get away and to stick around instead, but eventually he found some veteran who nodded and grit his teeth when Jack shoved a spear from the ground into his hands, rather than take it and keep running. Then it became easier, and eventually, men sought them out on their own, already with weapons, and joined their growing circle of bristling spears and axes, set up right in one of the camps most open clearings.

The knights, thank the seven, couldn't accept a starting regrouping. Especially not when it was still small enough to maybe crush.

But it was too pointy to charge.

So, the knights gathered round, dismounted, and started marching towards them. And fuck, was it terrifying to see men of steel rather than flesh walk towards his scraggly group of winter-starved peasants, but damn it, he had to keep shit together. 

Like Alistair would.

So he raised his sword, and ordered his men to fan out and surround the knights as he led the way. And damn it, they even seemed like they were winning, and more levies and even storm knights came to gather round him, and he even took his damned surcoat and stuck it on the longest lance he could find, to show everyone where the Baratheon resistance was, until finally, they had a messy, melee-like battle line, rather than the slaughter they had before.

Jack slammed his shield into the back of the knee of some hedge-knight hammering at a couple barely armed boys, making the hulking bastard topple backwards like he had been hit with a battering ram, rather than hit rather awkwardly in the back of the knee. 

Because Jack knew he wasn't Robert Baratheon or Alistair. He wasn't strong as a bull, able to be that battering ram, to knock people and walls and the seven kingdoms themselves down if he just battered at them hard enough. He also wasn't… whatever Alistair was these days, that let him move with perfect grace and beauty even as he was more deft with his sword than anyone Jack had ever seen, wasn't whatever gave him another half a moment for every moment the rest of them had.

But he was decent, he and knew when and where to be decent so that it mattered.

And as the boy scrambled atop the knight and drove a dirk into his eye, Jack thought it might just be enough to be decent that day, as he moved on and slammed his shoulder into some knight.

At least until who could only be Randyll Tarly arrived to bring death and terror. The man was clad in sparse armour for a knight, with only some parts such as the breastplate made entirely of steel, while other parts were boiled leather and chainmail. Normally Jack would have thought a man who did not wear all the armour he could into battle arrogant, like he did Alistair, but he reasoned that Randyll may have been justified, given the ease and skill with witch it allowed him to swing his sword.

And what a sword it was. It was long and yet not so wide again as other greatswords Jack had seen, as though it was made to pierce as well as swing, it's lacking sturdiness a sacrifice to ensure a that. Although, he supposed that the smoky look of the blade more than made up for that. There were, after all, no stories of Valyrian steel breaking as regular, lesser steel might.

Not a single one.

And he wasn't one to doubt stories of Valyrian steel, least of all when he himself was seeing one put to use, cutting through arms and armour and the men beneath it all there was nothing but blade and flesh to begin with, at least to a point.

Jack grit his teeth as he looked at the men he had rallied be slaughtered by the giant sword and the hard, narrow, and swift man wielding it, and knew that he had to do something, yet not much seemed viable as the man cut his way through their levies along the side of a slowly burning tent.

At least, not until Alistair himself rode into battle, charging his horse towards Tarly and jumping off it in a nimble roll, and letting the horse distract Tarly as the man gutted it when it reared up. Alistair himself then sprung forwards from his crouch to stab at the armpit exposed by the swing, but Randyll twisted from the point's path, and the fight was truly upon the two of them then.

Randyll swung for Alistair, a contemptuously wild swing from left to right, apparently not caring where he hit so long as he did, and underestimating Alistair due to him having ridden into battle with only his normal clothes and a sword. Alistair ducked beneath the razor edge of the sword, shifted his grip from the thrusting one he had used, and retaliated with a swiftness and agility Jack had never seen before from the other man, bringing the point of his sword from where it had been near the grass towards the trailing left arm of Tarly, and Jack nearly thought the fight over at how quick Alistair was.

But it was not meant to be, for even though Randyll's kick at Alistair's arm was far too slow to catch Alistair's blindingly fast slash, it also seemed that Tarly's range with a greatsword had not put him as near as Alistair might have hoped, and the arm ghosted past the sharp point of Alistair's slender, hand and a half sabre.

Alistair himself hopped away from the man's kick towards his arms, and they began exchanging words Jack could not hear. It was however only a brief exchange, and before long they were upon one another once again.

It was, however, very quickly clear that they were evenly matched in skill as far as Jack could tell, although that was hard given Alistair's sheer perfection in everything he did. But even if Alistair was faster, much faster even than Jack remembered, he was so outmatched in arms and armour that what resistance he did put up was a trifle for Randyll to eventually cut through, made all the more clear as Tarly got his first proper swing in on Alistair's blade, and the scream of tearing metal was heard as a decent bit of the edge was shorn off, not shortening it, bit leaving part of it thinner as a ribbon of fine steel fell to the ground. Another few hits like that, and the blade would break from the force of swinging it alone.

It was only through exceptional skill and a talent Jack couldn't really believe his brother had that he managed to dodge, parry, and redirect the Valyrian blade so that he could avoid blocking directly, and last even a moment in the duel.

Jack knew he had to help. 

But charging would do no good. He had seen what Valyrian steel did to charging men who were only decent with a sword, so he had to be decent with a sword the right way.

But then the question was how? He looked around, and it wasn't long before he truly noticed the burning tent some four feet behind Tarly, causing Jack to gain an idea, and cut open a rift in the part of the tent he was near, and run towards the fight from inside of the tent until he stood behind where they were fighting, uncaring of the flames near him.

Then the scream of metal was heard again, and the sounds of the battle right in front of him stopped, Jack heart did as well as he felt dread creep up his spine. He had to know, though, and he drew his dagger and cut a small slit in the canvas to look through.

The situation seemed impressively poor for Alistair, but thankfully, he was yet alive. But his blade was cut in half, and he held his dagger in hand as he looked around for any trace of a chance. 

They were circling around each other, the two of them. 

They both knew that there was no escape for Alistair, and so Tarly seemed willing to talk with him. To exchange last compliments, perhaps.

"You fought well, baker boy. But you are young yet - only twenty, I suppose? - and unwise to go against a man wielding steel which yours cannot even resist for three blows. Had you held to your honour and fought for the rightful king, you may have made it to be a lord. But you did not, and now you shall meet the fate that befalls traitors." Randyll spoke, not with great passion, but with a surety that Jack almost admired. It was at this point that his back was almost perfectly to Jack, but not blocking Alistair's view of Jack. He was tempted to attack, but now was not the time. The tearing sound of his charge through the canvas would be enough to get both he and then Alistair killed unless the other man was distracted. 

No, he would have to wait a bit longer. But Jack could prepare Alistair, so he stuck three fingers through and waved to the man who had pulled him and those he considered brothers and sisters from the filth.

Alistair must have seen him, for when Jack looked again, he could see the dirtied white of the back of Alistair's shirt, and hear the arrogant, knowing smirk in his voice, as though he knew something the other man did not.

"You say that, yet I believe you unwise, and I believe that not all is as lost for me as you believe. For I know something you do not."

Jack saw Randyll's face twitch ever so slightly into a look of hesitant suspicion, before fading into doubt as he looked his opponent up and down with the slightest snort of derision, even as his back neared Jack again. Then Alistair halted his movements, standing still opposite of Jack, causing Tarly to do the same.

"Oh? And what might that be? Are you perhaps in truth the imp, and I stand before a man wielding a sword fit for his size, rather than a greenhorn with a small dagger?" His tone was stern as it had been before, but there was a hint of bemused superiority to it. Only a hint, though.

"No," Alistair said, before throwing his knife lightly to his left hand, rather than his right, and performing a complicated display of twirls and flips which he had once used to impress and include new recruits they had taken in from the streets. Jack had never known him to be able to do it so perfectly, never mind doing it with such skill with his left hand, rather than his right. "I know, that I am not right handed."

And there. There was the chance Jack had waited for, the slightest pause in even the smallest of Tarly's preparations for ending Alistair, a halt to even his smallest movements as his mind tried to connect the air of superiority Alistair presented with the insignificant reveal, and Jack jumped on that chance as he cut open the tent and threw his shield at the back of Randyll's knees, causing him to topple backwards, and giving Jack the opportunity to cut and bite deep into the main arm of the man, causing his sword to fall from his grasp. 

Only moments later, Alistair was with him, holding down Tarly, and helping to tie his hands behind his back and knock him out with a hefty bash to the back of Randyll's head, again with Jack's shield, before they dragged him into the tent, Alistair carrying Heartsbane, with it's bow-shaped hilt.

They were both panting as they sat beside each other for a moment, both silent, and taking deep breaths to calm themselves at their near deaths. Nearer than they ever had been before, really.

Eventually, Jack spoke. Nothing important. Just simple talk to calm their nerves.

"I didn't know you were left handed?"

Alistair literally shook his head to bring himself from his thoughts, and smiled a more relaxed smile than Jack had seen for months. Probably granted by the rush they both felt at avoiding death. Jack felt it himself in his shaking limbs, each of which were singing like his nerves were the strings of a harp.

"I'm not. But there is a certain aspect born of me being me, you see. I am cool," Alistair grinned at Jack, elation in his voice, and slipping back into using some of those terms only he used. "And due to me being so cool, and hot for that matter, if I do something, I do it in the most awesome way possible. Just a fact of my life, really. It's pretty hard, being as cool as I am. So many expectations." Jack only snorted at the response. At least at first. Then, before long, he was roaring with laughter at the horrid jape, exhilaration filling him even as he sat within a burning tent next to a man who had only moments before been almost certain to kill the most important person in Jack's life.

"Good on you, Alistair. Now, I'll take our friend here back to some place safe, and you go show them that their leader has been beaten, and that his sword will now be the bane of Reacher hearts." Jack smiled at Alistair, hugged the other boy who usually looked so much older than his years, and went to carry the heavy lord back further into the camp.

At the very beginning of his trek, however, he just barely spied out Alistair. 

His brother was wielding Heartsbane, the greatsword, just as well if not better than he ever had his sabre and was rallying levy and knight and lord alike around him through the sheer presence he always had, and that Jack would never be able to explain. But Jack knew that it would take him somewhere great and good and true, and that Alistair would drag Westeros with him to that greater, more beautiful place, or die trying. 

And Alistair was never prone to dying.

The war tent was silent as they waited for the seat to the right of Robert to be filled. Robert had once had his doubts about giving Alistair that spot, a bit worried that the storm lords would get all prissy that one of them didn't get the seat, like pages arguing for the 'best' practice sword even when they would all get one.

And they had been, of course. If you could count on middling nobles for one thing it was to scrounge up whatever resources they could, and fight tooth and nail for the smallest of chances.

But with what Alistair and his own right hand man had managed that day? Well, duelling a bearer of Valyrian steel was something Robert himself wouldn't want to do, nevermind with only a blade and no armour. And capturing that blade and it's wielder? Why Robert was half certain that the bards amongst the camp followers were already strumming their instruments. And then he'd rallied their men to fend off the attack, taking command from his own second, who was competent by his own merits.

All while Robert was scrambling to get on his plate.

He really should get that Jack fellow a knighthood. He'd more than earned it, after all. And it was the least Robert could give the force that was quickly becoming, if not the iron core, then at least the left hand of his host. He'd have rather given Jack a knighthood and Alistair a lordship on top of that, but the other man was firm in taking no titles till the war was won.

The tent flap was lifted open, but rather than the man that the lords were tensely and silently waiting for, it was a knight who entered, walking to speak with Lord Morrigen, who swiftly grimaced. Not a good sign at all, given that Morrigen was the quartermaster of the army.

The tent was silent, had been for some time, yet Robert for once was too occupied by his thoughts to truly care to disrupt that silence. No, he had bigger matters to consider even before the council started. Such as what in the seven hells they ought to do now. He couldn't make any decisions because what he knew was little and his questions were many, but even so, he had to figure out what he wanted to do depending on what their circumstances were, so that he didn't have to sit on his arse thinking like a green boy who wasn't sure where he should stick his cock.

The tent flap opened again, and this time all who were gathered knew that the time of waiting was over, and that the time of talk had started. 

Alistair stood tall even in his exhaustion as he entered the tent, his dirtied white shirt now also stained with blood, if not a lot of it. Impressive on two accounts, both in how whole of body the man was even after waltzing into battle clad in a farmer's wear, and in how little of his enemies' blood had reached him, even with how many he and Heartsbane had cut down.

Alistair barely paid any mind to the gathered lords as he hung the magnificent sword on the rack as though it was any other sword, and moved to sit beside Robert. Robert couldn't help but pity the tired man, given that the Chairs were not the comfortable seats found in Storms End, given that they were simply whatever the townsfolk had to spare. A saddening fact after a long days work.

The tense silence of the room continued, at least until the new Lord Fell, whose Father Robert had slain, turned to Alistair. 

It had been… strained, at first, talking to the man, but he was a ernest man, and saw that it was simply the consequence of war, and after a night of drinking together, they were far closer friends then Robert had hoped for when he first took the man from the battle. He'd even heard some of the men start to call him Silveraxe.

"So, what shall happen to the blade? Will you grant it to Robert, or to someone else? Oh, or keep it for yourself. You can do that too, of course." He asked, Silveraxe's young voice brimming with excitement at the Stormlands gaining a Valyrian blade, even if it wasn't he himself who would gain it. Although, by the look in his eyes, he would certainly not mind wielding the blade himself. Then his face soured as he seemed to remember the sort of honourable bastard Alistair was, and mentioned the fourth option he could come up with. "Or will you give it back to house Tarly, because of their history with the sword?"

Robert could not help but chortle at the baffled face Alexander made as he stared at the Fell boy, showing clearly the exhaustion Alistair felt if he stare in such a way. How old was the Fell boy even? Ten and six, or the like? Perhaps he was a bit young for the council, if he was this possessed by a single blade in times such as these, especially given that his seat was granted only to teach him lessons his father no longer could.

Alistair then spoke, tired confusion evident in his voice, yet still resolute. "For now, it is mine and my house's to keep. I took it by right of conquest, if on a smaller scale, just as we are doing with the kingdom. Granted, I came to an agreement with Tarly that he would at some point get a chance to regain the sword, in exchange for him not cursing my name as dishonourable in front of others, but beyond that Heartsbane is mine to keep." Alistair's face became sour and exasperated then, in a way that it had never been in front of Robert's lords, and he grumbled one last remark under his breath.

"Besides, if a fully armed and armoured man with a valyrian blade faces off against an exhausted baker turned volunteer warlord and his singular man-at-arms, and still manages to lose, he doesn't really deserve to wield that sword." Laughter echoed around the room as Robert and his lords heard the usually perfect and pure Alistair Albright, the paragon of chivalry without ever being a knight, grumble justifications to himself.

Robert allowed the laughter to die out, sat straight in his chair, and spoke to the gathered Lords, his voice strong, firm, and sure even in the times they were facing. Tough times, they all knew. Hungry times.

"Alright fun as that was, we all know that a single blade will not win us this war. What will however win the war is supplies. And that makes Tarly burning lots of ours especially annoying." Dark looks and muttered curses were passed around the table, before Robert continued without wavering in his conviction that they would win. At least, not on the outside. 

"Now then, we all know that the Tarly bastard took us by surprise, and that he got far more of our supplies than we would have liked. Especially right as we're exiting winter." Grim nods were passed around the table. They had had to scrounge for what food they had before the raid, and it would be hard, if not near impossible to find more on the scale they would need now that they were in enemy lands.

"So, Lord Morrigen, how many days do you think we have left, and Lord Musgood, how many days trek are we from the nearest allied town. Stony Sept, I believe it is called?"

Lord Musgood was the first to speak, a grimace marring his face. "Thirty days perhaps. There are simply no good bridges which cross the Blueburn, and no conceivable way of gaining usage of the bitterbrige. We will have to march all the way to the Kingswood, and then keep at that distance until we circumvent the Mander if we wish to make it there. And with an army? I fear it is the equivalent of a caravan traveling from Storm's End to Winterfell."

Robert spoke in the terse silence that had swallowed the room. "And how much did we lose, Lord Morrigen? Or rather, how much do we have left is the more important matter."

There was a hesitance, for a moment, before he spoke. "If we ration out properly, and demand that any camp follower who isn't essential leave? Twenty days while encamped, perhaps five more should we attempt to live off the land while traversing the wilderness. Which we won't have time for, should we be harried by the Tyrells for the duration of our journey. Which is likely to happen, should we fail to take the Ashford."

Mutters of concern were heard around the table as they discussed solutions which ranged from dissolving portions of their army immediately to avoid having to order levies to leave in even greater numbers later, to he himself and Alistair together suggesting that they would have certain groups split off into smaller armies to harry the reach and crown lands while the main host marched to Stony Sept.

Robert heard their suggestions for hours, discussed with Alistair, considered their advantages and difficulties, before finally, he stood up before his lords and spoke to them.

"Alright, men, here is what will happen. Tonight, Alistair and I will lead a final attempt to break the siege of Ashford, just as we planned before the raid. If we take it, we can leave a sizeable garrison there, along with supporting armies in the area, and have them live off what remains in the town. Hells, the soldiers are mostly farmers, the can help with the fields when they aren't training. If that succeeds, then that is truly great, as it will force the flower lord to retreat all the way to Highgarden to cross to the other side of the river, so that the garrison isn't sure if he has left his own lands undefended. As long as the garrison doesn't know where he is, they can't do anything, but that's fine, because it means that Tyrell has to avoid anywhere the garrison can see." Robert said, looking around at his bannermen who nodded in agreement. It was the ideal scenario from where they were at that point, even if their situation as a whole was troubling.

"If we do not take it, those men who would have been the garrison split off, to harry the supply lines of Tyrell wherever they can. It will be dangerous, with the significant remains of Tarly's vanguard still out and about, even without it's head. But damn it if it won't also be satisfying to see the armies of the breadbasket of the realm scavenge for food as our armies take back what was burned tonight." Robert grinned at them, and they cheered even in the pit they had found themselves in.

"Alright! Everyone, see to your men, prepare to leave, let the town and keep and everyone within a hundred leagues know that we are leaving! After all, what's more fun than Alistair and I coming for a surprise visit?" Robert called out, his lords cheering and laughing as they left for their duties, and prepared to march.

Alistair also rose soon enough, to gather the elite force they would storm the castle with, but Robert motioned him to stop.

"Rest, Alistair. Rest and eat. You've fought for longer than anyone else today, and we will need you to be ready to wield that new blade of yours soon, if you are willing." Robert's voice was softer as he spoke to his friend and implicit Hand, pushing him back into the hard chair, for even it was better for Alistair than standing. 

Alistair made to protest, but Robert held up his hand to stop him before he even began. He wouldn't allow Alistair to wield his silver tongue to gain more work. He'd probably be able to convince Robert, too. It was amazing how convincing and just… charismatic, the other man was.

"I will hear no complaints. I may not be king yet, but you are also not yet a lord of such status that you can argue against me. Both those will come later." Robert said, smiling down at his friend. "For now, there are two hours till we start the opening moves of our push. Until then you will be eating, sleeping, or stretching at most. I have a cot, somewhere in the back of this tent-" Robert waved vaguely over his shoulder, for the small, separate room he made use of whenever he spent long nights looking over maps and playing out what he might do to win the war, and a cot he slept on whenever he could not be bothered making his way to his own tent.

"Oh, and you will need your rest. I will not have you walking into battle again without plate, not when I gave you a set."

Robert and Alistair's gazes were locked for a moment, staring each other down as they waited for one to give. Eventually, exhaustion reared it's head, and Alistair sighed.

"Fine then, you ready our force, I'll go get some food at the cooking fire, and after that, I'll get some of your precious sleep." Alistair said, grumbling, but standing more slowly now, finally allowing his brilliantly blue eyes to cloud with exhaustion as he ran his fingers though his now matted blonde hair. 

Robert couldn't help but wonder a bit at how the man still managed to look like a hero, even in that state. A harried, exhausted hero, but stalwart, and unbroken.

Robert shook his head with a laugh, shoving Alistair towards the compartment.

"No, man. You will rest now, and I will send a page to fetch food for you. Who knows what would happen if you went outside in your state? My personal guess is that one of the camp girls will finally manage to have her way with you. Can't let the mystery of how good a lover the Brightblade is die due to a single night of weakness, now can we? And even if you manage to avoid that, you'll end up spotting some poor sot practicing a strike wrong, and spend the whole time teaching away. No, you'll wait here, and then we'll attack." Robert said, his laugh booming and merry even as he headed for the exit of the tent.

Later in the night, they did indeed attack, and it was a narrow victory, but it was a victory none the less. Perhaps the sight of the raid being repelled had caused some sort of warp to their morale? Robert wasn't certain, but he was happy nonetheless, as they offered Lord Steffyn to be confined to his quarters or under guard when not confined, and left a sizeable portion of the army behind as they left for Stony Sept.

Robert smiled into the cool morning air as they set off on the first day of their journey. He could still feel the tingle in his veins as he remembered fighting side by side with Alistair, the two of them unstoppable together as they cleared the walls. He could only imagine what it would be like to fight with both Alistair and Ned at his right and left.

And other then that? Well, the first true victory not against their own lords had, after all, been won. That was certainly a pleasure too.