The Ironborn; A Uniting Force

The fifty men he was now leading looked to him from their semicircle, all to the last man wondering why Alistair was hurrying along their line handing out pairs of bowls. Every last one of them were knights, bedecked in plate and mail from head to toe, all looking towards a man in leather armor with a riding horse, rather than a warhorse, for orders. It was a strange sight, to be sure, but finally, the clear leader of the men urged his stallion to trot forwards.

"Ser-"

"I am no knight, call me commander."

"I- of course… commander," The knight looked as though he had swallowed a lemon as he said the word, clearly displeased at having to follow not just a green knight, but a lowborn with no ancestry to speak of.

Alistair knew that it was a risk to weaken his authority, but the early parts of his plan did not require their absolute loyalty or even that much discipline. No, what would further his goals the most from this situation would be breaking the conception that the lowborn were not worth the time of the highborn, to give value to those who held none in the eyes of those above them. And what would be a better way to do so than by giving a shining example of lowborn ingenuity before the eyes of fifty soon to be knightly heroes of the rebellion? So it was important to first firmly cement himself as lowborn even in his own eyes, before then aweing them with his genius.

Alistair motionlessly drew himself from his thoughts as the knight continued. It would not do to show weakness of mind before his men and worsen their already faltering faith. After all, he was popular, yes, but to that point he had only proven himself to the Biscuits Troop, the other levies who saw the clear difference in result under his leadership as compared to theirs, and the high lords. However, if he wanted to truly rise in the world and then change it, he would first need to gain the absolute respect of all tiers of 'his' army. He had the bottom and the top, but with the clear class distinctions in this world, there would be very little bleed through. So now was his chance to take the middle.

"Now then, commander, we are all loyal to Lord Baratheon, and we would all fall for him should that be required, but I still must insist that you reconsider asking us to charge the enemy now. A cavalry charge is only truly effective against an unprepared opponent, and should we act now, we will lose a valuable war asset, and barely delay the enemy!" Angry muttering broke out at the end of the heated spiel from the experienced knight. Of course, experienced was a relative term, since even the war of the ninepenny kings was twenty-two years past, and even back then it was mostly Westerlander and Targaryen forces who fought at the stepstones.

Alistair waited for a moment, allowing all eyes to turn to him, and then simply raised his hand in a gesture for silence as he handed out his last bowls, hoping his ridiculous charisma would carry him through.

The mutters died as he had hoped, and they stared at him in confusion now, that he dared simply ignore the words of a knight while he was only lowborn. But that was exactly as he hoped. He could not, after all, allow them to carry on their anger into the next half of their conversation, and confusion was the very best at wiping clean the slate of conversation.

"Could I have your name, Ser…?"

"Ser Jakob, Commander."

"Well, then, Jakob, you are of course right. You are far too valuable, one and all, to waste on a suicidal charge. You have trained for years, and that should neither be underestimated nor undervalued. Which is why we won't be charging for quite some time." Jakob now looked confused enough now that he even let past the lack of a 'Ser'. Good. That would set a precedent for dropping more of those foolish honorifics which helped prop up the feudal system.

"But before I explain to you, Jakob, what the actual plan is, I would like to ask you a question. What does this sound remind you of?" Alistair then, in a move meant to baffle, bent down and clapped his bowls to the ground. A hollow sort of sound resounded ever so slightly.

"I… Am not certain? It is reminiscent of something or other, but I do not know what."

"See, I was hoping you would say 'the hoofbeat of a horse'."

"I suppose it does sound a bit like that, but if we could stop wasting time, and return to discussing the plan at hand" Jakob said, an edge of frustration in his voice.

"Oh, allow me to make clear then, that this is the plan, more or less," Alistair was smirking deviously now, in a very engineered look, to make it seem that he was letting them in on a grand joke of some kind. "Because if my single bowl sounds a bit like a horse, then I imagine that all of our bowls together, as well as the jangle of your armour, would sound quite a bit like the coming of a great many knights on horses. So, if we were to, for example, hide behind a hill and all hit our bowls to the ground with gradually greater and greater vigour, don't you imagine that we would sound not unlike the coming of a great charge? And without ever tiring our horses as well. One they would, of course, have to halt and prepare to meet. After all, a wise knight once said that 'A cavalry charge is only truly effective against an unprepared opponent' did he not?"

Now many of the other knights were also smirking, nodding, and grinning. But Jakob still took issue with one aspect of the plan.

"Do you truly believe that this will delay them significantly? They will stop once or twice, yes, perhaps even more times for the sake of safety, but eventually, they will learn that our charges are nothing more than phantoms and will simply march on."

Alistair's smirk grew to a grin dancing on the edge of being downright tricksterous.

"Well, my good man, to that I have but one question. If a marching, disorganized army was so used to no charge following the sound of calvary that they did not prepare at all, what do you imagine the result would be if we simply… charged? With not a hint of guile and all our power?"

Alistair's smile spread through the ranks of the knights more swiftly than dysentery through an army camp without latrines.

Robert staggered a bit as he made his way towards the whores in the back of the camp. It had been a great day. He'd fought, he'd drank - twice - and soon, he'd have fucked. And those battles. By the gods. Robert was sure he had never felt more alive than he did in those battles, knowing that he had loyal men who followed and trusted him, who put everything on the line for him and Ned, men who fought beside him, saved him as he saved them, who stood beside him against the dragons.

Men whom he had impressed and whose hopes he had exceeded.

Although, the last part had probably only happened because of Alistair. He still couldn't quite believe what the man had managed to accomplish, and to think he was a baker mere months ago. First his army, who were more skilled than any other levy force Robert had ever seen, which was great and all, but their discipline, by the gods, their discipline! He had seen it when he was riding for them during the first battle, when a gap opened in their lines. He had thought they would be routed soon enough, as the second row would try to fill the gap and force out the enemies, and the first row would be left alone to collapse. But no! They just gritted their teeth and kept the line. Then Alistair arrived, of course, and displayed more skill than many swordsmen he had seen as he slew knights while only wearing a chainmail tunic and no helmet. Robert didn't know if it was bravery or stupidity, but he was forcing that man into plate whether he liked it or not. They couldn't afford to lose that kind of commander, nor could morale take it if half the army suddenly lost their best friend.

And what a commander he was. That little bit of trickery with the bowls was a display so sharp Robert would hesitate to compare it with anything lesser than Valyrian steel. Granted, it wouldn't work again once word got around about it - even Alistair himself had noted that they had to call off a real charge when the commanders managed to catch the difference once - but with how green every warrior in Westeros was at the moment, it was glorious. The magnificent bastard had managed to kill near three hundred of their foes with three charges and had only lost three knights to the stranger. Robert had barely heard of any cavalry force charging twice, nevermind thrice.

Robert chuckled at that. A hundred lizards dead for every stag they felled. Seemed about right.

Robert still could not believe his luck that a man like Alistair Albright, from King's Landing itself, had chosen to travel to them and join them rather than the Targaryens. Must have been a gift from the gods, after they grew tired of having to watch the damned Targaryens fuck each other for three hundred years.

Robert didn't know what he'd do yet, but by the seven hells, he would do something so that there wouldn't be any more Alistairs who might stay as bakers.

Well, Robert thought as he patted his pouch, making sure that he had moon tea with him. Perhaps he was a mixed blessing, after the talk they had earlier that very day.

Robert halted as he walked by the main road our of camp. There was a procession of six or so wagons, with five men each, bearing torches as they headed out of camp. As they came closer, Robert noticed Alistair on the lead wagon, talking with his men and patting them on the shoulder. None of them wore armour, and from what he could spy, there was nothing inside the wagons either.

"Where are you off too, Alistair? Because if, after your first real battle, you're feeling the urge to fill six wagons with whores and fuck every last one of them out in the night, I promise not to bring it up too often even after our earlier talk. Though I must be honest with you, it's a bit strange to take thirty of your men with you to cheer you on." Robert said, making sure to have a clear jape in his voice, even in his drunken state. Alistair was far too good to actually be doing that, Robert knew that much, and he had a… special kinship with whores and bastards, apparently.

Robert's thoughts strayed, for a moment, to how he managed to find three men who all embodied honour in their own ways, and still not feel any of them to be right for him. Jon, proper, stalwart, and perfect in his honour. Honour for the sake of honour, really. Then there was Ned. Dutiful, wise-sorta, and respectful. Honour for the sake of the people around him, and for the realm. And then Alistair. Kind, brilliant, outspoken and… kind. Honour because he was good and kind, and wanted what was best. What kind of honourable was he then?

Was he even honourable at all?

Robert shook away the thoughts and hoped he would forget them by dawn. Robert cringed at the thought. Hopefully a quite bit after dawn, actually.

"We're travelling to the first battlefield. Collecting the bodies. I just remembered that we didn't have time to do so earlier, with the hurry of getting to the second battle, and it isn't right for the men we commanded to be left out there, when we march for Storm's End tomorrow. I didn't order the Biscuits Troop to help out, but when I asked, they readily agreed. They're good men. Most of them are digging a mass grave near our camp." Alistair said, and he patted one of his men on the back. The man - or was it a boy? - flushed a bit at the praise and straightened in his seat.

Robert felt his hand hover at his pouch as the first wagon started to pass him by. He grumbled under his breath a bit, then threw the pouch into the night, and prodded the thigh of one of Alistair's men.

"Get down from there. If Albright is helping, then I should too."

The man hoped down, and Robert climbed into the seat. Alistair smiled brightly at him, before nodding in thanks. Robert missed Ned. He always lectured on and on about honour. Never really got into how being honourable helped real people he knew. It was so much easier to ignore Ned.

It was an two hours later, and Robert sweated and cursed as he carried two corpses on his shoulders. He was barely drunk anymore, because as it turned out, carrying corpses was a great way of becoming sober. He had both never been more thankful too- or more mad at his drunk self.

"Alistair, when my lords hear that the future king has been out corpse collecting, they won't be very happy with me. So, I name you blather-defendant of the king, may you deal with disgruntled lords till the day you die. Or actually, the day I die. That's the most important part."

Alistair chuckled beside him, before quieting for a moment. Robert had only gotten one once before, but he could already recognize a lecture coming.

"What is it, man? Did that corpse turn into an Other right on your back?"

"No, not quite. At most, it is turning into a wight, and even that is probably fine. I could use a cooling down from all this hard work. And if the situation does arise, then just show them their own men as you tell them of your deed. I do however have a… question, for you. Do you even want to rule? In any capacity outside of war that is. Because, and if you weren't aware then I am truly sorry to shatter your illusions, but a majority of ruling is listening to lords' blather about what they want or don't want to happen."

"I am… aware, of that unfortunate fact. I always figured I could get someone else to help do most of that. Sort of like a King's hand. Or, actually the king's hand, now that I think about it. If we win that is. Stannis, or maybe Renly if he turns out to be good at those things. A bit too young to tell for now, I believe. Although maybe you could tell? You're quite good with people. You should meet the little scamp. I think he'd like you, although that is hardly a risky bet."

"Thank you, Robert, but… A hand ruling for the king has only ever led to decent reigns. Great reigns filled with prosperity has only ever been achieved when a king and hand worked together to better the realm. And the realm, the people, will need a great reign after this" He gestured widely, at all the fallen men around them.

Robert sighed. "I know. But I am not a king. I already know that. I've seen how Jon runs his court for years now, and I know that's not me, nevermind for nine kingdoms. Or eight kingdoms, and a very angry and loud group of islands." He grinned a bit at that. "But there needs to be a king. And you said it yourself. I'm the only real candidate."

They trudged in silence for a bit, before Alistair spoke.

"Is that true, though? Is it truly necessary for there to be a king? No need to look at me like that, I am not proposing nine independent kingdoms. That was a shit show, and Westeros couldn't return to that if they wanted to. The Reach has expanded its farmlands so much that should they lose access to lumber from the North, they would run out of wood in two decades, or face a massive famine when they repurpose their farmlands for lumber. Either way, the Tyrells are getting ousted, if it doesn't happen before then, anyways. And the Westerlands are so reliant on food from the reach to support all their mines that they would also face famine with the increased trade fees. Same with Dorne, whose population has grown beyond their own land's ability to support. The only ones who actually wouldn't be massively affected is the North, since no one can get food up there in large supply before it spoils, and they are otherwise also practically self-sufficient."

Robert's face split into a wide grin at that, and he couldn't help but interrupt. "Oh, Ned'll love to hear that. Those fools who made fun of him won't be laughing as much when they find out that the North could break the Reach, and the rest of the Seven Kingdoms through them, by doing nothing."

"It would be a bit more complicated than that, since the Kingswood might still be an option with the kingdoms working together, but it is a funny thought."

"But, back to the topic at hand. The Kingdom's can't split, but there is no king either. What then? Well, why not a council? There are nine Kingdoms, despite the stupid name. A representative council for most matters, with Lords Paramount being gathered for outside threats, or disputes between kingdoms. All centred around one central agreement. If any kingdom attacks another, all kingdoms aid the defender. Maybe even a small clause allowing for forced abdication, should all other Lords agree that another ruler such as Aerys has arisen. I am not saying that it is a perfect model for how it should be done, I just feel that… It is worth a thought, is it not?"

They had both stopped then. Robert wouldn't deny that he was a bit dazed from all of it, but even as something within him screamed against the thought of it - because really, a council of lords to lead Westeros? It was mad - but he could not help but think.

Robert was shaken from his thoughts as he felt his second body slip from his shoulders, and onto Alistair's.

"What are you doing?" He asked dumbly.

"Taking a bit of your burden. It looked heavy, and I thought you might enjoy the help, even if only for a little while." He said with a smile.

Robert stared after Alistair as he walked away, now carrying two bodies rather than one, only coming back to himself after a moment as Alistair turned back to him.

"Oh, and if it helps, then we both know that the Ironborn will attack someone almost immediately, thinking that the alliance will never keep. And let's be honest. No one wants the Ironborn to start raiding again, and no one wants to miss the chance to slap them upside the head for trying to do so. And is there anything more perfect than kicking the Ironborn together for cementing an alliance?" Alistair grinned, then walked away.

Robert stood there for quite a while, thinking over his words.

A/N: So, for those who remember what I said last chapter, about having two chapters this month, I was like, an hour too late on my end, but I hope you can forgive me that. On the bright side, there might also be two chapters in July, since I will be sailing to Poland, and there are limits to how long I can stare at the sea. Might as well write. Or get really into mobile games. Either could happen.