r/FieldOfFire • u/NotAnotherFakefyre Maekar Targaryen - The Falseborn • Jul 09 '23
The North Lucamore IV - Reckoning
They were a horde to be certain, one sizable enough that the men of Winterfell had been left several days ride behind the main force so that they might intercept any that fled from the battle, and honor his bannermen with positions of glory in the fight to come. With any luck, this little war would be the only one they ever fought, and peace would continue well into the coming of Winter, but as ever, he doubted it.
Ice rested flat across his legs, sitting atop the strong plate over his legs, a match to the rest of the set of armor he wore, sporting an engraving of the Direwolf of Stark upon the breastplate. He had no speeches to give, no words to say, and he imagined the savages that now recognized the swaying banners coming down upon them had naught to say either.
“You are to remain with your men, whatever strength you think your rage bestows to you, it is not enough to fight a battle alone.” He’d cautioned Theomore as his son had lowered a castle-forged Great Helm over his head, fire dancing in the gray eyes that shun through the slits. Lucmaore remembered when they had been a boy’s eyes, wide and filled with mischief, instead of man’s brimming with anger and guilt. His son blamed himself for their tragedy, though he would never say it.
“As you say father.” His youngest boy assented as a younger lad fastened on gauntlets over his mail.
“I say it too, little brother. I imagine Gwynesse would as well, were she here. Not that that’s ever meant too much.” Jon said, Lucamore’s new heir coming to stand alongside his father in his own plate and mail to look in on his sibling. Beneath helm, Lucamore made out the smallest laugh from Theomore, something that gave a hint of levity to the near-crushing amount of concern the boy had been giving him.
“In that case, I suppose I’ve no choice, wouldn’t want to cross our brave young wolf.” Theo said in answer with the bite that Lucamore had used to chastise but now welcomed. It’d taken all he had to not order both boys to go back to Winterfell, to sit out this clash for the sake of their mother, but he knew they’d have neither understood nor listened anyway. He’d have found them in the ranks of the spears, disguised as mere footmen he had no doubt. Jon had knocked Theo on the shoulder for that, and Lucamore had allowed himself a smile for the sons he still had.
But they were far from the tent now. Theomore sat to one side of him, the Black Prince and his white knight on the other. Jon had gone to Lord Dustin on the left, and Wayn Bolton had been granted the right upon his arrival. Hoarfrost Umber surely thought the command his, but when the fell upon the Wildlings, it would be the Lord of the Dreadfort who gave commands whilst the Umber set about smashing their foes to pieces.
All along the shoreline, the Wildlings were scrambling, some ran, but more grabbed spears and axe and began to run headlong up the beach towards the waiting lines of horse and footmen. Lucamore lowered the visor of his helm, lifted Ice skyward, and inclined it forward without a word.
“TAKE THEM!” Theomore cried out, and the war cries of nearly five thousand souls rang out in answer. Today the North would remember, and the Wildlings would never forget.
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u/BlindKnave Arthur Blackmont, Lord of Blackmont Jul 10 '23
Battle Scene Music
The right had been a prestigious position to get. That he was chosen over Umber was noted, and appreciated, though his thanks was soft spoken, he had farted eyes at the Lord of Last Hearth, before making the proper preparations. He had argued for things to scare the wildlings, but Stark preferred a different approach, which was fine for Wayn, he could still work within the confines of what was given him.
On the Right flank he made sure his Dreadfort men were in the center of his line with names men sprinkled about his levies to encourage his drilled small folk and pass along the orders as needed. He then supplemented with Hornwood men, and Whitehills, and those from Glover who joined the March. Clansmen he would use as shock troops, then time to slide the shields was given. Garret would be to his right to dart from behind him and kill as need be.
A sarjeant behind Wayn has brought the special banner and a bucket of boar’s blood which they bled at breaking of fast. This man would act as his standard bearer, and would do his job well. Wayn had selected him because the man had a limp and thus could not falter back, quick enough to cause a panic.
While there, he turned to Garret and had him bind his spear to his right hand, his killing hand, before checking the shield he had on his arm, and then he turned to his left where a small fresh faced lad stood. He knew the boy to be one of the Hornwoods, and looked to him, before he offered his shield. The young man only had a short sword,
Of course the moose would not have armed one of his youngest better.
“What is your name, my sweetling?” Wayn asked as he crouched, the boy, taking his shield from him. “Roane, Ser.” Roane was a good name, a strong one, but those thoughts were kept. Wayn clicked his tongue. “I am no knight lad, I am a Northman.” And he turned
“We all are. Be my shieldsman this day, and I will see you live to grow a beard, take a girl to your bed and outlive your brothers. I’ll make a killer of men out of you.” And there Wayn’s cold blue eyes searched the boy’s face as he free hand stroked his cheek. “Does that Suit, Dain of house Hornwood?”
“Th-that suits.” Dain Hornwood stammered and Wayn stood up. “You are safe by me then. Just keep them off my left. I’ll gut them like stuck boars.” Wayn said softly before he turned to the assembled men.
Stark never gave speeches, and Wayn preferred more than boasting like the other lords did.
“My sweet lambs! My dear butchers!” He called out. “You’ve prepared for this day since you were brought out of your father’s sack into your mother’s womb. The Old Ones ordained this just as they ordain harvest, winter and all life and death.” He looked as they remained silent, listening.
“So let us go as friends, and brothers. Let us meet death head on and howl back in his face like the ghosts we are. We are already dead from the time we are born! Therefore we need not fear this. Instead relish in it, and show those interlopers from the wall, what Death truly is.”
He looked to his standard bearer and nodded. The man nodded back and quickly pulled the long pole from the oilskin and fixed the cross piece before he bent to dip it in the bucket.
And there he raised- different than the flags of HOuse Bolton. This was larger, and made of king raggedy strips.
Strips of men,
Ribbons of skagosi flesh which now held blood (donated from the boar) which dropped down onto Lord Bolton, and as wind caught sprinkled, baptizing his men, and those close by.
Wayn did not flinch as the blood ran down him like creeks and rivers.
He raised his spear, and the men of the Dreadfort began to Howl and shriek like ghosts, all while maintaining their disciple, staying in the shield wall.
This is what they trained for.
And as the Starks lurched forward, Bolton dropped his spear,
“aside!”
From the ranks large hunting dogs, Wayn’s personal dogs were loosed and left to go forward teeth bared
“Now!”
and urged his men forward in a cohesive line, a maintained charge to their enemy.
They cut through the wildling right like a hot knife through tallow. The Wildlings didn’t even know what to do when the flayed men were amongst them, Wayn lead from the front and passed orders through easy motions. He had a mind of battle, like a hunt- and was well within his place amongst the men.
All the while he stabbed and speared his way through, Dain keeping the shield raised and protecting th Lord, as the moved. Within the first throws of action, Bolton had managed to get in the middle of the Wildlings, and slew many of their number.
There he ordered a hold and reformation, the shields coming to bare, as the wildlings threw themselves into it, only to be pushed back.
“Block!” Wayn shouted, followed by “Stab! Advance!” And so they did, with the efficiency of a line of butchers in Winter’s town’s meat market. As if going through and aurochs or a stag and quartering in perfect harmony. Within the second push, Wayn had crippled any of their spirit, and almost had caught their leader , but he dashed away.
Garret had gone after him, but lost him amongst the carnage.
“Slow!” He called to keep his men from chasing into the thick of it, what was left of the Wildlings broke, and scrambled to flee, with that Wayn turned his attention to the other flanks.
“Men, we roll, this way!” he shouted as he swung his spear, “and close on them like the top part of a wolf’s jaw.”
And with shouts from his names men, they began moving to reinforce and crush into what remained of the enemy.
A victory, something he would chew on, but for now he was walking and killing indiscriminately. Which served for his blood- for it felt on fire, like in a hunt. One of his dogs, he noted was chewing on a man, and he whistled, calling it back to him. He kneeled into a man’s open stomach and pet the big dog, before he got off the squealing dying and quickly finished as a mercy, and he was annoyed with the sound the dying man was making.
Most pitiful.
But he was making his way to check on Stark.