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An Elf in Westeros - 1 (GoT/ASoIaF - Original Setting)
Galchobhar had wandered through the woods in a daze for some time now, struggling to explain to himself what had even happened to him. His trial had been concluded, and to his surprise he'd only been sentenced to several decades of imprisonment. His first thoughts had bordered on despair, his continued fears that the new leadership did not have what it takes to safeguard the People from any and all threats. Then he had considered that maybe, just maybe this was a good sign. An indication that things would become better going forward. That the age of bloodshed which had engulfed the Seelie for so long would be replaced by a brighter future under the tutelage of the People, via their democratically elected representatives that is. He'd cursed and raged in his captivity when he'd heard that Rös, vile serpent that she is, had managed to scheme her way into becoming the Prime Minister. Her house of cards had collapsed soon after though, and the bloodless transition that followed the vote of no confidence had been an important milestone for the new system.
Therefore he had allowed himself to be hopeful about the future of the Seelie. When it came to his own future however, he had been lost. Previously his life had been nothing more than a holding action, even as the years dragged on. Waiting for the powers that be to finally get their act together and put him in front of a firing squad. Even if he had no way of knowing how long it would take, he had been certain that the only thing waiting for him at the end of the tunnel was an execution. Instead he'd been promised freedom, after he served his sentence of course.
Quite simply, he hadn't known what to think. Still didn't, really. Then, as he'd been escorted out of the courtroom, hounded by journalists and flashing cameras, it happened.
He'd stepped wrong, almost stumbled over himself, and noticed that everything was just a little bit wrong. Also that he found himself in some wooded area with nobody else around, which was more than just a little wrong. Moreover, he didn't recognize any of the vegetation. The colours were all slightly off as well. The air was cleaner. Strange creatures chirped all around him, he even saw something furry climb a tree. The whole thing was so unreal that he hadn't even felt any relief at finding a dirt track, which he followed. The implication there was some sort of civilization around and nearby was good news, but everything had such a dreamlike quality to it that it had been heard to muster any emotion at all.
So, when the smokestack he had been moving towards resolved itself into a burning farmstead he'd decline to do the sensible thing and turn around. Even as the small shapes scurrying resolved into people in strange garbs carrying ancient weapons of war, more fit for the feudal era than the one Galchobhar came from. Even as he saw that they were busy looting rather than fighting out the fire.
Even when he saw the bodies laid out on the damp ground, two of them gut-clenchingly small.
Memories of burnt out forests, desolated cities and bodies stacked upon each other in great piles returned, and despite thinking he had grown cold to these things long ago he had to swallow back bile. It only took a moment to collect himself though, as one of the armed men take notice of him and shout an alarm, dropping the pair of dead, feathery creatures he held in both hands. Galchobhar held his hands up placatingly as the man approached, drawing a short sword and yelling something at him. Something he didn't understand, because of course they spoke a different language. He kept his tone light as he responded.
"My apologies, I don't understand what you are saying."
The sword armed man stopped at that, still a good five meters or so away from Galchobhar, who took the opportunity to eye the other three men behind him. Two of them had spears, while the other had a round shield slung over his shoulder and a flanged mace in his belt. They were eyeing him with clear anticipation. Swordsman and maceman had mail shirts while the rest wore padded jackets; all had open-faced metal helmets. He marked the two men with spears as the highest threats, but returned his focus to the swordsman, who was pointing at him with said sword while saying something. The language he was using tended towards shorter words with less flow in them, Galchobhar noted idly, as he responded with a shrug and a repeat of what he'd already said.
Growing annoyed at his antics, the sword-man drew closer. Galchobhar was half a head taller, which didn't seem to phase the man much. Admittedly, only one of them was armed. Waving his sword threateningly, he made a grab for Galchobhar's collar with his left hand. A lightning quick jab broke his nose, and Galchobhar slipped close and immobilised the sword-arm with his left before he could respond. Three more strikes and the man's face was a bloody, unrecognisable mess, body limp.
Galchobhar had never thought the mandatory hand-to-hand lessons he'd received were ever actually gonna come in handy, but here he was.
Snatching the sword off the ground while the three other men yelled and rushed towards him, he made a snap decision and took off towards the forest. He didn't think he could outrun them necessarily, but the rougher terrain would provide opportunities to engage them one at a time, if he was lucky. Turning around after reaching the edge of the forest he then found himself surprised at the distance he'd made from his pursuers. He probably could outrun them, actually.
On the other hand, they'd stretched themselves out. One of the spearmen, red in the face from wrath, was at the lead of the pack, ten seconds ahead of the others.
It would have to do.
The man, or rather boy as his youthful features and smaller stature indicated, leveled his spear at Galchobhar and charged. A sidestep and a swipe with the sword saw the spear deflected safely away, and anger turned to fear as the momentum carried the boy close enough for Galchobhar to lash out his free hand, grabbing onto his shoulder. Fingers dug in harshly to secure the grip, and he did not manage to free his hands in time to fend off the slash at his throat. Galchobhar left the blade halfway through the spine as he let go of the body, seeking instead the spear. The other two were upon him now, but too late to take advantage as they squared up against each other, mace and spear against spear.
Trying to remember the old bayonet drills, Galchobhar kept his speartip aimed at the other spearman. He looked disturbed by how rapidly his fellow bandits had been eliminated, hesitant. The maceman was more aggressive, seeking to turn Galchobhar's left flank. A quick probe with the spear kept him away for a few seconds, but he was a deft hand with the shield. Deciding to turn away from this threat, he circled right instead, isolating the spearman for a moment, and then went on the offensive. Two shafts made contact with each other as Galchobhar batted the other man's spear away, and followed up with a step forward and a thrust.
The tip of the spear caught on the man's jacket as he threw himself back, but no blood. Galchobhar snarled in frustration, but was unable to follow up as the maceman threw himself into a shield bash. He was already inside Galchobhar's reach, and in desperation Galchobhar decided to throw himself into a bodycheck of his own. The two collided hard, rattling teeth and bruising skin, but Galchobhar recovered quicker and swept the other man off his feet, the two of them falling over in a tangle. Shield and mace was quickly forgotten as the two rolled around in the dirt. Two hands sought Galchobhar's throat. Amateurish. Following his own training, Galchobhar instead managed to jam a thumb in his opponents eye, leaving vitreous body on the digit as the eyeball popped under the pressure.
The distraction was well timed, as the spearman was approaching with a dagger held in an ice-pick grip. Galchobhar managed to disentangle himself from the man howling in pain just in time to bring both feet up, just as the spearman lunged forward. His own momentum carried him straight over, as Galchobhar rolled, feet placed squarely on the man's stomach. Wasting no time he got back up and delivered a vicious soccer kick to the head of the one-eyed man still wailing on the ground. Galchobhar felt pain shoot up his foot at the impact and turned towards his last opponent still getting his feet under him. Wasting no time, Galchobhar charged forward, delivering a one-two jab that sent him straight back down to the ground. Cold pain lanced over his forearm in return; the man had managed to swipe him with the dagger . Galchobhar returned the favour with a heel stomp to the head, and another, and another, until something finally gave in.
Galchobhar lifted his foot with a wet squelch, and let out a shaky breath.
That, he decided, had been a bad call.
-
281 AC would be known as the year of the false spring due to the cruel twist of weather which resulted in the false impression that winter had ended and spring began for a couple months, until the cold returned. Winter would continue into 282 AC before spring returned to Westeros.
Banditry always sprung up like weeds during winter. It was a harsh time, and although the smallfolk did their best to prepare, there was only so much they could do to secure themselves. Many would inevitably find themselves destitute at the capriciousness of the climate, the bickering lordlings or, in a cruel spiral, bandits. From such, more bandits spread like a rot.
The lords of the lands would try to stamp them out, with the infamous Kingswood Brotherhood themselves being cornered and stamped out, an event which would see Jamie Lannister knighted and elevated into the Kingsguard. However, the Brotherhood had become infamous for targeting nobles, not peasantry. More humble outlaws could, and did, skirt under the attention of the ever aloof nobility all the time. As such the burning of a small, isolated farmstead was neither an isolated event nor something that warranted much attention.
The fact that the attackers had been slaughtered, seemingly to the man, did.
The family that had lived at the farmstead had been killed, seemingly without putting up any fight at all, so it could not have been them. None of the local nobility took credit for the event either. House Bolling, who held authority over the land where this event had happened, was soon awash in rumors of one or more hedge knights, traveling and slaying bandits as they went. No such hedge knights would show themselves, however, and instead a new rumor would replace it. A traveller from foreign lands, towering in stature and brown in skin. They say he knew nothing of their language, nor cared to know, only speaking his own. Others claimed him to be mute in truth, only able to communicate with gestures and by drawing pictures in the dirt. Most agree that he comes from Essos. Some even claim him to be one of the tall men. Who else could hold such unnatural features as he?
Whatever the truth was, it would have to wait. The abduction of Lyanna Stark, followed by the executions of Lord Richard Stark, his son Brandon Stark, Elbert Arryn and more would kick off Robert's Rebellion. Lord Jon Arryn refused to turn in the heads of his two wards, Robert Baratheon and Eddard Stark and instead raised his banners. The Seven Kingdoms were engulfed in civil war once more.
Meanwhile, the unwilling traveller would once more be witness to the powers that be ravage a world with war, the People suffering at the hands of an uncaring elite, too lost in their own games to care for the untold cruelty they inflict in their every moment. This was the true rot from which all suffering took root, he knew. And there was only one cure.
He'd carve out the rot once more, root and branch.
May the children prosper from the sacrifices their fathers would have to make in order to see this done.
A/N:
So, this is me tossing my hat in the ring when it comes to GoT/ASoIaF SI uplift kinda fics, although the main character is an OC (not mine), more isekai'd then inserted and is so rabidly anti-noble that he'd kill more than 90% of GoT/ASoIaF SI protagonists for being proto-oligarchic scum. The less said about the rest of the nobility of westeros the better.
Oh, also he isn't human.
Instead, he is one of the Seelie, which to give a very reductive overview are almost superhuman elves that don't age after reaching adulthood, and could theoretically live forever even if the vast majority don't because of war and accidents. He also happens to be a particularly impressive example of his already impressive species; he is (arguably) a war criminal, a military genius, world dictator at one point and last but certainly not least the greatest revolutionary his world has ever seen. Think French Revolution, but more rabid.
If you want read more about him, he happens to be the player character for the quest Towards The Future, which is the prequel to the quest Ad Astra ex Lutum. I highly recommend it, although do be warned that Towards The Future especially can be absolutely gruelling to read through. It covers the immediate aftermath of a full nuclear exchange, and does not pull punches in doing so. It's a quest which has legitimately made me feel ill from the sheer scale of consequence following poor decisions and misjudgements. It does, however, end quite optimistically, and the sequel is much more light-hearted so far.
Therefore he had allowed himself to be hopeful about the future of the Seelie. When it came to his own future however, he had been lost. Previously his life had been nothing more than a holding action, even as the years dragged on. Waiting for the powers that be to finally get their act together and put him in front of a firing squad. Even if he had no way of knowing how long it would take, he had been certain that the only thing waiting for him at the end of the tunnel was an execution. Instead he'd been promised freedom, after he served his sentence of course.
Quite simply, he hadn't known what to think. Still didn't, really. Then, as he'd been escorted out of the courtroom, hounded by journalists and flashing cameras, it happened.
He'd stepped wrong, almost stumbled over himself, and noticed that everything was just a little bit wrong. Also that he found himself in some wooded area with nobody else around, which was more than just a little wrong. Moreover, he didn't recognize any of the vegetation. The colours were all slightly off as well. The air was cleaner. Strange creatures chirped all around him, he even saw something furry climb a tree. The whole thing was so unreal that he hadn't even felt any relief at finding a dirt track, which he followed. The implication there was some sort of civilization around and nearby was good news, but everything had such a dreamlike quality to it that it had been heard to muster any emotion at all.
So, when the smokestack he had been moving towards resolved itself into a burning farmstead he'd decline to do the sensible thing and turn around. Even as the small shapes scurrying resolved into people in strange garbs carrying ancient weapons of war, more fit for the feudal era than the one Galchobhar came from. Even as he saw that they were busy looting rather than fighting out the fire.
Even when he saw the bodies laid out on the damp ground, two of them gut-clenchingly small.
Memories of burnt out forests, desolated cities and bodies stacked upon each other in great piles returned, and despite thinking he had grown cold to these things long ago he had to swallow back bile. It only took a moment to collect himself though, as one of the armed men take notice of him and shout an alarm, dropping the pair of dead, feathery creatures he held in both hands. Galchobhar held his hands up placatingly as the man approached, drawing a short sword and yelling something at him. Something he didn't understand, because of course they spoke a different language. He kept his tone light as he responded.
"My apologies, I don't understand what you are saying."
The sword armed man stopped at that, still a good five meters or so away from Galchobhar, who took the opportunity to eye the other three men behind him. Two of them had spears, while the other had a round shield slung over his shoulder and a flanged mace in his belt. They were eyeing him with clear anticipation. Swordsman and maceman had mail shirts while the rest wore padded jackets; all had open-faced metal helmets. He marked the two men with spears as the highest threats, but returned his focus to the swordsman, who was pointing at him with said sword while saying something. The language he was using tended towards shorter words with less flow in them, Galchobhar noted idly, as he responded with a shrug and a repeat of what he'd already said.
Growing annoyed at his antics, the sword-man drew closer. Galchobhar was half a head taller, which didn't seem to phase the man much. Admittedly, only one of them was armed. Waving his sword threateningly, he made a grab for Galchobhar's collar with his left hand. A lightning quick jab broke his nose, and Galchobhar slipped close and immobilised the sword-arm with his left before he could respond. Three more strikes and the man's face was a bloody, unrecognisable mess, body limp.
Galchobhar had never thought the mandatory hand-to-hand lessons he'd received were ever actually gonna come in handy, but here he was.
Snatching the sword off the ground while the three other men yelled and rushed towards him, he made a snap decision and took off towards the forest. He didn't think he could outrun them necessarily, but the rougher terrain would provide opportunities to engage them one at a time, if he was lucky. Turning around after reaching the edge of the forest he then found himself surprised at the distance he'd made from his pursuers. He probably could outrun them, actually.
On the other hand, they'd stretched themselves out. One of the spearmen, red in the face from wrath, was at the lead of the pack, ten seconds ahead of the others.
It would have to do.
The man, or rather boy as his youthful features and smaller stature indicated, leveled his spear at Galchobhar and charged. A sidestep and a swipe with the sword saw the spear deflected safely away, and anger turned to fear as the momentum carried the boy close enough for Galchobhar to lash out his free hand, grabbing onto his shoulder. Fingers dug in harshly to secure the grip, and he did not manage to free his hands in time to fend off the slash at his throat. Galchobhar left the blade halfway through the spine as he let go of the body, seeking instead the spear. The other two were upon him now, but too late to take advantage as they squared up against each other, mace and spear against spear.
Trying to remember the old bayonet drills, Galchobhar kept his speartip aimed at the other spearman. He looked disturbed by how rapidly his fellow bandits had been eliminated, hesitant. The maceman was more aggressive, seeking to turn Galchobhar's left flank. A quick probe with the spear kept him away for a few seconds, but he was a deft hand with the shield. Deciding to turn away from this threat, he circled right instead, isolating the spearman for a moment, and then went on the offensive. Two shafts made contact with each other as Galchobhar batted the other man's spear away, and followed up with a step forward and a thrust.
The tip of the spear caught on the man's jacket as he threw himself back, but no blood. Galchobhar snarled in frustration, but was unable to follow up as the maceman threw himself into a shield bash. He was already inside Galchobhar's reach, and in desperation Galchobhar decided to throw himself into a bodycheck of his own. The two collided hard, rattling teeth and bruising skin, but Galchobhar recovered quicker and swept the other man off his feet, the two of them falling over in a tangle. Shield and mace was quickly forgotten as the two rolled around in the dirt. Two hands sought Galchobhar's throat. Amateurish. Following his own training, Galchobhar instead managed to jam a thumb in his opponents eye, leaving vitreous body on the digit as the eyeball popped under the pressure.
The distraction was well timed, as the spearman was approaching with a dagger held in an ice-pick grip. Galchobhar managed to disentangle himself from the man howling in pain just in time to bring both feet up, just as the spearman lunged forward. His own momentum carried him straight over, as Galchobhar rolled, feet placed squarely on the man's stomach. Wasting no time he got back up and delivered a vicious soccer kick to the head of the one-eyed man still wailing on the ground. Galchobhar felt pain shoot up his foot at the impact and turned towards his last opponent still getting his feet under him. Wasting no time, Galchobhar charged forward, delivering a one-two jab that sent him straight back down to the ground. Cold pain lanced over his forearm in return; the man had managed to swipe him with the dagger . Galchobhar returned the favour with a heel stomp to the head, and another, and another, until something finally gave in.
Galchobhar lifted his foot with a wet squelch, and let out a shaky breath.
That, he decided, had been a bad call.
-
281 AC would be known as the year of the false spring due to the cruel twist of weather which resulted in the false impression that winter had ended and spring began for a couple months, until the cold returned. Winter would continue into 282 AC before spring returned to Westeros.
Banditry always sprung up like weeds during winter. It was a harsh time, and although the smallfolk did their best to prepare, there was only so much they could do to secure themselves. Many would inevitably find themselves destitute at the capriciousness of the climate, the bickering lordlings or, in a cruel spiral, bandits. From such, more bandits spread like a rot.
The lords of the lands would try to stamp them out, with the infamous Kingswood Brotherhood themselves being cornered and stamped out, an event which would see Jamie Lannister knighted and elevated into the Kingsguard. However, the Brotherhood had become infamous for targeting nobles, not peasantry. More humble outlaws could, and did, skirt under the attention of the ever aloof nobility all the time. As such the burning of a small, isolated farmstead was neither an isolated event nor something that warranted much attention.
The fact that the attackers had been slaughtered, seemingly to the man, did.
The family that had lived at the farmstead had been killed, seemingly without putting up any fight at all, so it could not have been them. None of the local nobility took credit for the event either. House Bolling, who held authority over the land where this event had happened, was soon awash in rumors of one or more hedge knights, traveling and slaying bandits as they went. No such hedge knights would show themselves, however, and instead a new rumor would replace it. A traveller from foreign lands, towering in stature and brown in skin. They say he knew nothing of their language, nor cared to know, only speaking his own. Others claimed him to be mute in truth, only able to communicate with gestures and by drawing pictures in the dirt. Most agree that he comes from Essos. Some even claim him to be one of the tall men. Who else could hold such unnatural features as he?
Whatever the truth was, it would have to wait. The abduction of Lyanna Stark, followed by the executions of Lord Richard Stark, his son Brandon Stark, Elbert Arryn and more would kick off Robert's Rebellion. Lord Jon Arryn refused to turn in the heads of his two wards, Robert Baratheon and Eddard Stark and instead raised his banners. The Seven Kingdoms were engulfed in civil war once more.
Meanwhile, the unwilling traveller would once more be witness to the powers that be ravage a world with war, the People suffering at the hands of an uncaring elite, too lost in their own games to care for the untold cruelty they inflict in their every moment. This was the true rot from which all suffering took root, he knew. And there was only one cure.
He'd carve out the rot once more, root and branch.
May the children prosper from the sacrifices their fathers would have to make in order to see this done.
A/N:
So, this is me tossing my hat in the ring when it comes to GoT/ASoIaF SI uplift kinda fics, although the main character is an OC (not mine), more isekai'd then inserted and is so rabidly anti-noble that he'd kill more than 90% of GoT/ASoIaF SI protagonists for being proto-oligarchic scum. The less said about the rest of the nobility of westeros the better.
Oh, also he isn't human.
Instead, he is one of the Seelie, which to give a very reductive overview are almost superhuman elves that don't age after reaching adulthood, and could theoretically live forever even if the vast majority don't because of war and accidents. He also happens to be a particularly impressive example of his already impressive species; he is (arguably) a war criminal, a military genius, world dictator at one point and last but certainly not least the greatest revolutionary his world has ever seen. Think French Revolution, but more rabid.
If you want read more about him, he happens to be the player character for the quest Towards The Future, which is the prequel to the quest Ad Astra ex Lutum. I highly recommend it, although do be warned that Towards The Future especially can be absolutely gruelling to read through. It covers the immediate aftermath of a full nuclear exchange, and does not pull punches in doing so. It's a quest which has legitimately made me feel ill from the sheer scale of consequence following poor decisions and misjudgements. It does, however, end quite optimistically, and the sequel is much more light-hearted so far.
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An Elf in Westeros - 2 (GoT/ASoIaF - Original Setting)
The sounds of merriment could be heard even from here, a couple hundred meters from their camp. Bastards, Galchobhar thought to himself. The fucking pricks were celebrating after a day of pillaging.
"How many of them do you think there are?"
His voice was low, foreign words rolling uneasily off his tongue. Learning a completely new language on his own hadn't been an easy feat, but necessity made the best teacher.
"Up to a hundred," Lieutenant Greens replied. "At least that's what I figure, going by the amount of tents."
Galchobhar hummed in agreement.
"Including servants?"
"Aye, not too many though. This is an outrider force, a few knights and squires mayhaps, but no more. Doubt most of them have many servants. Otherwise we'd have seen even more horses. The nobility likes to bring a couple of 'em each."
Horses, another one of the surprises this world had held in store for him. Draft animals that also doubled as war mounts. The idea of riding on top of a beast as if it were a bike boggled the mind, but these people had made it work. And from what he'd been told it worked well, too. Providing mobility and shock, knights and squires wearing heavy armors, wielding lances and mounted on horses were the premium military formation here. All that combat power, concentrated under the power of the nobility.
Unfortunately, most of the enemy in front of him were only the servants of tyrants. It would have been good to deal an early blow to the nobility this soon. Still, it would have to do. Retaliation for the villages they'd "foraged" from, for the past couple days.
"I see. Leave your platoon here and follow me back to the rest of the column."
"Ser."
It was finally time to strike back against those who thought to oppress the People.
-
The officers of the 1st Independent Company of the Stormlands People's Guard, or 1st Guards Company for short, were gathered in a circle, huddled in warm cloaks to ward off the cold. None of them wore anything that could've been considered a proper military uniform, not even Galchobhar himself who'd only arrived to this world in his civilian suit. It did not matter though, it was the men and women who mattered most, not the uniform. Speaking of, he took stock of said men and women who made up his scratch officer cadre.
Lieutenant Katherine Greens, a merchant's daughter before she joined up. The family had been made destitute by a band of Reach soldiers; apparently the Stormlander army had been defeated recently by one from the Reach, led by some noble twit named Mace Tyrell. They were now laying siege to Storm's End, and were busy ravaging the countryside to sate their need for food, loot and bloodshed. She held command of 3rd Platoon, a little under thirty women organized and equipped as skirmishers, mostly using hunting bows and crossbows.
Lieutenant Dunkan Storm was the bastard of a noble family. His mother had been a whore, and his father had not cared to raise him at all; the man had become a poacher to make his living instead. He held no love for the nobility for obvious reasons and was a good shot to boot. He held command of 2nd Platoon, a mix of around twenty men and women, also skirmishers.
Lieutenant Frank Smith was the son of a blacksmith, as the name implied. He was a stout man compared to the rest of the people of this land, although a whole head shorter than Galchobhar still; most people were at least that. He was enthusiastic, with a loud voice that carried far, and literate; all those he had promoted to officers were. He held command of 1st platoon, around thirty men of armed mostly with spear and shield, although a few of the sergeants and corporals had elected to use heavier two handed axes; one man even carried a two handed hammer.
Finally there was Lieutenant Roger Keeps, a retired soldier. Despite his body having started to deteriorate from his older age, the man could still march better than most of the company, and his experience was sorely needed. Galchobhar had made him his executive officer; if there was anyone who could be trusted to command in his stead it would have to be Keeps.
Body deteriorating from old age… Galchobhar wasn't a religious man, even after what had happened to him, but if the Gods existed in this world then they must have cursed the people here. He could scarcely imagine having a time limit for your own life, your body breaking down after long enough. And long enough being a scarce handful of decades at best. It was cruel, he'd thought, but it's not like they could imagine any alternative, so the people here soldiered on admirably despite how objectively terrible their whole existence was.
They deserved so much better.
The whole of 1st Company's bayonet strength was here; the main body of which was currently resting after the march. In addition to the three platoons, there were about a dozen men and women forming the reserve troop, which is to say they were so green that they weren't meant to be thrown into the fighting, instead acting as free hands while building up their own stamina from marching around. The company train, about fifty men, women and children who acted as the rear service formation, were staying behind in the village of Woodsfell. It wouldn't do to have their carts slow down the fighting force after all, especially since they were hiking along a trail in the woods.
"Alright, everyone listen up! We've found the bastards that have been raiding villages in the area, a group of outriders, up to a hundred strong. They've camped up close by, and are currently making merry with their ill-gotten gains."
I heard some angry muttering from Lieutenants Smith and Greens at that, but carried on without commenting. Some amount of hate for the enemy was appropriate, after all.
"We will rest up until darkness arrives, then we will take them by storm. The main objectives are to seize the camp and kill as many of them as we can manage. Secondary objective is to capture as many horses as we are able to; if we can't capture, we'll slay the beasts instead to deny them to the enemy. After we've defeated the enemy, or if our assault stalls out, we will fall back here, to our packs, and then make our way back to Woodsfell to rest.
"3rd Platoon will hold the left flank, 2nd Platoon the right flank and 1st Platoon the center. We'll form up in line, everyone up front. Keep in contact with your neighbouring platoons, and advance aggressively and decisively. The enemy will be distracted and vulnerable, and if we give them enough of a shock they'll break and run without much of a fight. Any questions?"
There were none, so all that was left was to hurry up and wait.
-
Ser Ridley Graves was quite drunk, it must be said. They'd foraged for quite some time now, and managed to come across many barrels of beer at one of the villages they'd visited. It was about time to return to the main camp, but nobody had any desire to return too fast; when you put so many men together, the odour of shit would rapidly become overwhelming. Nay, instead the men assigned to him deserved a treat for good work, Ridley had figured.
And so the men had made merry, some of them having wet their blades on the smallfolk of the land, others 'merely' having stolen the bread required to survive Westeros' long winters. Alcohol had a certain effect on men, and the camp was loud with song and cheer. A small handful of tired and annoyed sentries kept watch, or at least pretended to. The rebel army had turned north after being defeated in the field; what was there to worry about?
Therefore few were ready when one of the sentries shouted an alarm which turned into a pained gasp when an arrow found its mark.
Men were slow to respond, many failing to realize that there was a threat before it was upon them. A line of dark figures, spears and shields, bow and crossbow, overtook them with malice in their eyes. Lone men and small groups who'd kept their wits tried to resist, armed with whatever they could grab on short notice. Most did not have their armour on, and all were quickly overwhelmed either by several speartips working in concert, or by bolts and arrows fired at almost point blank range. Some men, too drunk to stand or even sleeping through the ruckus were simply overtaken; they'd be finished off by the watchful sergeants following behind the frontline, either by dagger, axe or sword.
Ridley had managed to grab his sword and shield, but yelling for his squire had failed to summon the boy. Not that there would be any time to get his armour on.
"Too me," he yelled. "Rally on me!"
A good handful did, enough to make the enemy halt upon reaching them. Ridley squinted at his opponents, his vision cloudy from too many drinks. It was all he could do not to gape at the sight. Women, clad is peasant garbs, dresses cut shorter to assist in mobility.
His camp was being assaulted by smallfolk whores!
The volley of arrows reminded him that these were armed whores, and he barely managed to raise his shield in time to avoid being punctured. By the sound of it, several of the men that had come to him failed to be so lucky. There was only one thing Ridley could think of to do.
He charged forward, a battle cry on his lips.
The women in front of him gave way, as expected from their ilk, deciding to fall back instead of facing his sword. One dropped her bow and drew a hatchet, as well as a small shield, an angry snarl marring an otherwise plain face. Ridley had not thought himself the kind of man to slay fair maidens, but this one was neither fair and probably neither a maiden, so he pressed forward.
A bolt puncturing his side, through the liver put an end to his one man advance. Two more had him splayed on the ground, gasping in pain as his body went into shock. As it turned out, one man could not defeat ten women. A shocking revelation for Ser Ridley Graves.
Alas, it would be his last. Lifeblood draining into the soil, he could do no more than writhe in pain as someone else ran over and started barking orders in a loud, authoritative voice, urging the women back in line so they could continue the advance. Ridley managed to get a mere glimpse at the enemy commander, a tall figure, taller than most knights he knew of. Dark features made darker by the shoddy lighting, face stony. It was, Ridley thought, someone not of this world.
And then he thought no more.
"How many of them do you think there are?"
His voice was low, foreign words rolling uneasily off his tongue. Learning a completely new language on his own hadn't been an easy feat, but necessity made the best teacher.
"Up to a hundred," Lieutenant Greens replied. "At least that's what I figure, going by the amount of tents."
Galchobhar hummed in agreement.
"Including servants?"
"Aye, not too many though. This is an outrider force, a few knights and squires mayhaps, but no more. Doubt most of them have many servants. Otherwise we'd have seen even more horses. The nobility likes to bring a couple of 'em each."
Horses, another one of the surprises this world had held in store for him. Draft animals that also doubled as war mounts. The idea of riding on top of a beast as if it were a bike boggled the mind, but these people had made it work. And from what he'd been told it worked well, too. Providing mobility and shock, knights and squires wearing heavy armors, wielding lances and mounted on horses were the premium military formation here. All that combat power, concentrated under the power of the nobility.
Unfortunately, most of the enemy in front of him were only the servants of tyrants. It would have been good to deal an early blow to the nobility this soon. Still, it would have to do. Retaliation for the villages they'd "foraged" from, for the past couple days.
"I see. Leave your platoon here and follow me back to the rest of the column."
"Ser."
It was finally time to strike back against those who thought to oppress the People.
-
The officers of the 1st Independent Company of the Stormlands People's Guard, or 1st Guards Company for short, were gathered in a circle, huddled in warm cloaks to ward off the cold. None of them wore anything that could've been considered a proper military uniform, not even Galchobhar himself who'd only arrived to this world in his civilian suit. It did not matter though, it was the men and women who mattered most, not the uniform. Speaking of, he took stock of said men and women who made up his scratch officer cadre.
Lieutenant Katherine Greens, a merchant's daughter before she joined up. The family had been made destitute by a band of Reach soldiers; apparently the Stormlander army had been defeated recently by one from the Reach, led by some noble twit named Mace Tyrell. They were now laying siege to Storm's End, and were busy ravaging the countryside to sate their need for food, loot and bloodshed. She held command of 3rd Platoon, a little under thirty women organized and equipped as skirmishers, mostly using hunting bows and crossbows.
Lieutenant Dunkan Storm was the bastard of a noble family. His mother had been a whore, and his father had not cared to raise him at all; the man had become a poacher to make his living instead. He held no love for the nobility for obvious reasons and was a good shot to boot. He held command of 2nd Platoon, a mix of around twenty men and women, also skirmishers.
Lieutenant Frank Smith was the son of a blacksmith, as the name implied. He was a stout man compared to the rest of the people of this land, although a whole head shorter than Galchobhar still; most people were at least that. He was enthusiastic, with a loud voice that carried far, and literate; all those he had promoted to officers were. He held command of 1st platoon, around thirty men of armed mostly with spear and shield, although a few of the sergeants and corporals had elected to use heavier two handed axes; one man even carried a two handed hammer.
Finally there was Lieutenant Roger Keeps, a retired soldier. Despite his body having started to deteriorate from his older age, the man could still march better than most of the company, and his experience was sorely needed. Galchobhar had made him his executive officer; if there was anyone who could be trusted to command in his stead it would have to be Keeps.
Body deteriorating from old age… Galchobhar wasn't a religious man, even after what had happened to him, but if the Gods existed in this world then they must have cursed the people here. He could scarcely imagine having a time limit for your own life, your body breaking down after long enough. And long enough being a scarce handful of decades at best. It was cruel, he'd thought, but it's not like they could imagine any alternative, so the people here soldiered on admirably despite how objectively terrible their whole existence was.
They deserved so much better.
The whole of 1st Company's bayonet strength was here; the main body of which was currently resting after the march. In addition to the three platoons, there were about a dozen men and women forming the reserve troop, which is to say they were so green that they weren't meant to be thrown into the fighting, instead acting as free hands while building up their own stamina from marching around. The company train, about fifty men, women and children who acted as the rear service formation, were staying behind in the village of Woodsfell. It wouldn't do to have their carts slow down the fighting force after all, especially since they were hiking along a trail in the woods.
"Alright, everyone listen up! We've found the bastards that have been raiding villages in the area, a group of outriders, up to a hundred strong. They've camped up close by, and are currently making merry with their ill-gotten gains."
I heard some angry muttering from Lieutenants Smith and Greens at that, but carried on without commenting. Some amount of hate for the enemy was appropriate, after all.
"We will rest up until darkness arrives, then we will take them by storm. The main objectives are to seize the camp and kill as many of them as we can manage. Secondary objective is to capture as many horses as we are able to; if we can't capture, we'll slay the beasts instead to deny them to the enemy. After we've defeated the enemy, or if our assault stalls out, we will fall back here, to our packs, and then make our way back to Woodsfell to rest.
"3rd Platoon will hold the left flank, 2nd Platoon the right flank and 1st Platoon the center. We'll form up in line, everyone up front. Keep in contact with your neighbouring platoons, and advance aggressively and decisively. The enemy will be distracted and vulnerable, and if we give them enough of a shock they'll break and run without much of a fight. Any questions?"
There were none, so all that was left was to hurry up and wait.
-
Ser Ridley Graves was quite drunk, it must be said. They'd foraged for quite some time now, and managed to come across many barrels of beer at one of the villages they'd visited. It was about time to return to the main camp, but nobody had any desire to return too fast; when you put so many men together, the odour of shit would rapidly become overwhelming. Nay, instead the men assigned to him deserved a treat for good work, Ridley had figured.
And so the men had made merry, some of them having wet their blades on the smallfolk of the land, others 'merely' having stolen the bread required to survive Westeros' long winters. Alcohol had a certain effect on men, and the camp was loud with song and cheer. A small handful of tired and annoyed sentries kept watch, or at least pretended to. The rebel army had turned north after being defeated in the field; what was there to worry about?
Therefore few were ready when one of the sentries shouted an alarm which turned into a pained gasp when an arrow found its mark.
Men were slow to respond, many failing to realize that there was a threat before it was upon them. A line of dark figures, spears and shields, bow and crossbow, overtook them with malice in their eyes. Lone men and small groups who'd kept their wits tried to resist, armed with whatever they could grab on short notice. Most did not have their armour on, and all were quickly overwhelmed either by several speartips working in concert, or by bolts and arrows fired at almost point blank range. Some men, too drunk to stand or even sleeping through the ruckus were simply overtaken; they'd be finished off by the watchful sergeants following behind the frontline, either by dagger, axe or sword.
Ridley had managed to grab his sword and shield, but yelling for his squire had failed to summon the boy. Not that there would be any time to get his armour on.
"Too me," he yelled. "Rally on me!"
A good handful did, enough to make the enemy halt upon reaching them. Ridley squinted at his opponents, his vision cloudy from too many drinks. It was all he could do not to gape at the sight. Women, clad is peasant garbs, dresses cut shorter to assist in mobility.
His camp was being assaulted by smallfolk whores!
The volley of arrows reminded him that these were armed whores, and he barely managed to raise his shield in time to avoid being punctured. By the sound of it, several of the men that had come to him failed to be so lucky. There was only one thing Ridley could think of to do.
He charged forward, a battle cry on his lips.
The women in front of him gave way, as expected from their ilk, deciding to fall back instead of facing his sword. One dropped her bow and drew a hatchet, as well as a small shield, an angry snarl marring an otherwise plain face. Ridley had not thought himself the kind of man to slay fair maidens, but this one was neither fair and probably neither a maiden, so he pressed forward.
A bolt puncturing his side, through the liver put an end to his one man advance. Two more had him splayed on the ground, gasping in pain as his body went into shock. As it turned out, one man could not defeat ten women. A shocking revelation for Ser Ridley Graves.
Alas, it would be his last. Lifeblood draining into the soil, he could do no more than writhe in pain as someone else ran over and started barking orders in a loud, authoritative voice, urging the women back in line so they could continue the advance. Ridley managed to get a mere glimpse at the enemy commander, a tall figure, taller than most knights he knew of. Dark features made darker by the shoddy lighting, face stony. It was, Ridley thought, someone not of this world.
And then he thought no more.
An Elf in Westeroes - 3 (GoT/ASoIaF - Original Setting)
Ser Corvin Graves was exhausted by the time he'd been called to meet with the Lord Paramount of the Mander. Dread had filled his very essence ever since word of the dishonourable ambush that defeated the foraging party led by his brother reached camp. No words had reached him when it came to the condition of his brother for several days, and Corvin was fearing the worst. Whatever hope he still had vanished when he entered the Lord Paramount's telt and did not see Ridley standing there, ready to tell him that he's in good shape. Instead there was a morose looking man with his right arm in a sling standing next to the Lord of Highgarden, who was himself seated with a cup of wine in his hand. Corvin knelt down and said in as strong of a voice he could muster,
"My Liege, you wanted to speak to me?"
A large hand, the one not curled around the cup waved him up as Mace Tyrell spoke,
"Yes, I wanted to offer my condolences-"
Corvin felt his stomach drop like an anvil, a buzzing sound filling his ears.
"-about your brother, Ser Ridley Graves. This man served in the foraging party and claims to have witnessed his demise."
Upon being mentioned, said man took a step forward and started talking as Corvin had to rediscover how to breathe.
"My condolences Ser, but yes, I witnessed Ser Riddley's death in person."
"How?" A singular word managed to crawl its way past too tight a throat.
"Our camp was surprised by a superior force at night. Ser Riddley was attempting to rally everyone to him so we could beat them back, but in the chaos he had not been able to put his armour on. Despite this he threw himself bravely into the fray, but could not hold against ten times his number. He went down fighting, ser."
"As good of a death as any could hope for," Mace bobbed his head in agreement with himself as he spoke, accidentally spilling some wine over his expensive green velvet tunic. Corvin chewed his lower lip raw as he tried to formulate some sort of response so as not to come across as an oaf, but found himself lost for words.
"I… see. Thank you for informing me, My Liege. Is there anything else?"
"Yes, there is. How would you like to get revenge for your brother?"
…
Ser Corvin felt queasy as he watched his men scour through another burning village. A voice in his head was shouting at him to do something, no true knight should be standing around like a lout while there is fighting to be done. Another voice was yelling that he should get in there and defend the smallfolk from being brutalised like a true, honourable knight. Both voices agreed that he was a coward of the worst sort. A heavy thud to his back shook him out of his mood, and Corvin turned his head towards the source as the horse and rider trotted up next to him.
"Are you feeling alright, Ser? Are you suffering from some sort of ailment? There is a distinct lack of colour in your face."
The booming voice of a fellow knight Corvin was too embarrassed to admit he forgot the name of was unpleasant at the best of times. At this point Corvin just called him 'Ser Butcher' in the safety of his mind… although that place was growing more precarious every day.
"I am hale. It is just that… I'll admit, it does not seem very chivalrous to be burning down smallfolk dwellings like this."
He was cursing himself for having accepted The Lord Paramount's offer to lead the group of five hundred or so outriders to hunt down the bandits that had slain his brother. After the dark cloud that had settled over his thoughts had cleared somewhat he'd felt apprehension, realising that he did not actually know how to lead five hundred horsemen on a grand hunt. The few ideas he'd proposed had been all but laughed down by his fellow knights, some six total including himself, a shame that still burned inside of him. In effect Ser Butcher was now leading the hunt more than Corvin, even though everyone was still pretending otherwise.
"Bah, feeling sympathy for the smallfolk? You shouldn't, this lot is clearly working with the bandits. You should've heard what they were calling the leader of that rabble! 'The Peoples Knight' they call him. Someone even claimed that it was The Warrior himself in the flesh, coming to smite us down for our sins! Hah! Can you imagine?"
Corvin couldn't help but think less of Ser Butcher as he laughed over the faint, terrified screaming of the smallfolk. His gauntleted fist clenched tight around the reins of his horse, and he felt some fire returning to the desolate wasteland that was his soul. He opened his mouth, about to send a scathing reply-
"Sers! Sers!"
Galloping their way was one of the outriders, waving excitedly at them. Corvin shared a glance with Ser Butcher before they both turned to meet him.
"What is it?" asked Ser Butcher, taking the lead as usual.
"We've found the bandits!"
"Who's 'we'? Who sent you?"
"Erm, Ser Lyon sent me! I was told to find and lead you back to him."
"Well, what do you think?" said Ser Butcher, giving Corvin a full toothed grin before clapping him on the shoulder. "I'll round up the men, let us slay these bastards right now and be done with it!"
He then turned around and rode off with another word. At any other time Corvin would've felt anger at the blatant disrespect of his so called authority, but now he shared Ser Butcher excitement. Yes, let him be done with this whole ugly business, finally!
By the time they'd finally reached Ser Lyon's group the bandits had already escaped into the woods, leaving only a dozen dead or dying horses, a few bodies and a fuming Ser Lyon. Corvin had an awful feeling that this would become a common sight in the next few weeks.
…
Ser Corvin felt nothing at all as eyed the village his scouts had sworn The Peoples Knight was hunkering down in. After the first unfortunate clash Ser Butcher had grown angry, doubling down on the strategy of putting the smallfolk to sword and torch in an attempt to force the 'bandits' to accept battle. And battle had been given, over and over again, if not the sort Ser Butcher had wanted. A sudden volley of arrows and bolts from a treeline was the most common of these 'small battles', at least until they'd grown wary of venturing too close to the woods. An unfortunate condition, considering how much of it could be found in the Stormlands. Occasionally they'd sally out to clash with some of his outriders, usually when they were busy raising one of the villages that littered the countryside. These clashes were bloodier affairs, but the enemy would always manage to disengage and slip back into the woods they came from, fending off any attempt to delay their escape with long spears, bows and crossbows.
Corvin had only been in one of these clashes yet, a frustrating and, to his great shame, somewhat frightening affair. The long spears the enemy wielded against them were more than enough to keep him and his men at a distance, lest they risk getting dismounted and overwhelmed. And all the while arrows and crossbow bolts would keep peppering them, very rarely lethal yet no less of a problem as men and horses both got wounded in large numbers. More disquietingly was the realisation that most of the archers they were fighting were actually women. Some of the men had jeered at that, at the start.
They'd stopped doing that by the time Ser Butcher got shot through the eye, slaying him instantly. Unfortunately that had left Corvin in command, and for some reason people actually expected him to lead this time. Not knowing what else to do he'd stuck to Ser Butcher's strategy; the voices cursing him had quieted down by that point. And now it seemed like his decision would bless him with the one, proper battle he needed. Eyeing the fortified village up ahead, logs and dirtworks turning it into a miniature fort, he couldn't help but grimace. Not somewhere you'd want to be riding a horse. He'd have to dismount all his riders and attack on foot. He still had more than three hundred men in fighting shape, and through all the clashes they'd gotten a good estimate of how many men and women were fighting under The Peoples Knight's command, which was around a hundred. Three to one odds, assuming none of the locals had joined in to defend their homes.
A fool's bet, that.
Not that he was enjoying the idea of finding out which advantage was the greater. The fighting mettle of the enemy was without question. Unless… despite his moniker, The Peoples Knight did not actually fight, as far as he could tell. Always kept himself behind the lines. Was he a coward? Surely not, a coward would not have been able to do this. What if his skill at arms was significantly poorer than his ability to lead? What if this could be ended without further bloodshed?
What if his honour could be restored, the voice whispered in his head, barely audible.
Yes, a duel would be for the best. Only one man had to die, and Corvin would be known as the man to finally put down The Peoples Knight.
"Let us parley with them," he announced.
"Parley, Ser?"
"Yes, Ser Lyon, let us parley so that this bloodshed can end without another butchery. I'll challenge The Peoples Knight to a duel, and we can declare a victor this way instead."
Ser Lyon looked dubious.
"Are you certain this is-"
"Yes," Corvin bit out. "I am certain. Do not spar words with me, Ser, for these have been trying times and I find myself short in temper."
Ser Lyon ceased at that, merely nodding in reply. Not soon after, Corvin stood alone in the muddy field, just out of crossbow range while a squire keeping two horses stood a stones toss behind him. A lone figure left the safety of the barricades to meet him. A tall and stout figure, dark of skin and dark of hair, clad in a gambeson, simple trousers, leather boots and a simple steel helmet. The longsword he carried was kept in its sheath, a gloved hand kept on the pommel at all times. Hard brown eyes bore into Corvin's own.
"You wanted to speak with me? Then speak."
"My Liege, you wanted to speak to me?"
A large hand, the one not curled around the cup waved him up as Mace Tyrell spoke,
"Yes, I wanted to offer my condolences-"
Corvin felt his stomach drop like an anvil, a buzzing sound filling his ears.
"-about your brother, Ser Ridley Graves. This man served in the foraging party and claims to have witnessed his demise."
Upon being mentioned, said man took a step forward and started talking as Corvin had to rediscover how to breathe.
"My condolences Ser, but yes, I witnessed Ser Riddley's death in person."
"How?" A singular word managed to crawl its way past too tight a throat.
"Our camp was surprised by a superior force at night. Ser Riddley was attempting to rally everyone to him so we could beat them back, but in the chaos he had not been able to put his armour on. Despite this he threw himself bravely into the fray, but could not hold against ten times his number. He went down fighting, ser."
"As good of a death as any could hope for," Mace bobbed his head in agreement with himself as he spoke, accidentally spilling some wine over his expensive green velvet tunic. Corvin chewed his lower lip raw as he tried to formulate some sort of response so as not to come across as an oaf, but found himself lost for words.
"I… see. Thank you for informing me, My Liege. Is there anything else?"
"Yes, there is. How would you like to get revenge for your brother?"
…
Ser Corvin felt queasy as he watched his men scour through another burning village. A voice in his head was shouting at him to do something, no true knight should be standing around like a lout while there is fighting to be done. Another voice was yelling that he should get in there and defend the smallfolk from being brutalised like a true, honourable knight. Both voices agreed that he was a coward of the worst sort. A heavy thud to his back shook him out of his mood, and Corvin turned his head towards the source as the horse and rider trotted up next to him.
"Are you feeling alright, Ser? Are you suffering from some sort of ailment? There is a distinct lack of colour in your face."
The booming voice of a fellow knight Corvin was too embarrassed to admit he forgot the name of was unpleasant at the best of times. At this point Corvin just called him 'Ser Butcher' in the safety of his mind… although that place was growing more precarious every day.
"I am hale. It is just that… I'll admit, it does not seem very chivalrous to be burning down smallfolk dwellings like this."
He was cursing himself for having accepted The Lord Paramount's offer to lead the group of five hundred or so outriders to hunt down the bandits that had slain his brother. After the dark cloud that had settled over his thoughts had cleared somewhat he'd felt apprehension, realising that he did not actually know how to lead five hundred horsemen on a grand hunt. The few ideas he'd proposed had been all but laughed down by his fellow knights, some six total including himself, a shame that still burned inside of him. In effect Ser Butcher was now leading the hunt more than Corvin, even though everyone was still pretending otherwise.
"Bah, feeling sympathy for the smallfolk? You shouldn't, this lot is clearly working with the bandits. You should've heard what they were calling the leader of that rabble! 'The Peoples Knight' they call him. Someone even claimed that it was The Warrior himself in the flesh, coming to smite us down for our sins! Hah! Can you imagine?"
Corvin couldn't help but think less of Ser Butcher as he laughed over the faint, terrified screaming of the smallfolk. His gauntleted fist clenched tight around the reins of his horse, and he felt some fire returning to the desolate wasteland that was his soul. He opened his mouth, about to send a scathing reply-
"Sers! Sers!"
Galloping their way was one of the outriders, waving excitedly at them. Corvin shared a glance with Ser Butcher before they both turned to meet him.
"What is it?" asked Ser Butcher, taking the lead as usual.
"We've found the bandits!"
"Who's 'we'? Who sent you?"
"Erm, Ser Lyon sent me! I was told to find and lead you back to him."
"Well, what do you think?" said Ser Butcher, giving Corvin a full toothed grin before clapping him on the shoulder. "I'll round up the men, let us slay these bastards right now and be done with it!"
He then turned around and rode off with another word. At any other time Corvin would've felt anger at the blatant disrespect of his so called authority, but now he shared Ser Butcher excitement. Yes, let him be done with this whole ugly business, finally!
By the time they'd finally reached Ser Lyon's group the bandits had already escaped into the woods, leaving only a dozen dead or dying horses, a few bodies and a fuming Ser Lyon. Corvin had an awful feeling that this would become a common sight in the next few weeks.
…
Ser Corvin felt nothing at all as eyed the village his scouts had sworn The Peoples Knight was hunkering down in. After the first unfortunate clash Ser Butcher had grown angry, doubling down on the strategy of putting the smallfolk to sword and torch in an attempt to force the 'bandits' to accept battle. And battle had been given, over and over again, if not the sort Ser Butcher had wanted. A sudden volley of arrows and bolts from a treeline was the most common of these 'small battles', at least until they'd grown wary of venturing too close to the woods. An unfortunate condition, considering how much of it could be found in the Stormlands. Occasionally they'd sally out to clash with some of his outriders, usually when they were busy raising one of the villages that littered the countryside. These clashes were bloodier affairs, but the enemy would always manage to disengage and slip back into the woods they came from, fending off any attempt to delay their escape with long spears, bows and crossbows.
Corvin had only been in one of these clashes yet, a frustrating and, to his great shame, somewhat frightening affair. The long spears the enemy wielded against them were more than enough to keep him and his men at a distance, lest they risk getting dismounted and overwhelmed. And all the while arrows and crossbow bolts would keep peppering them, very rarely lethal yet no less of a problem as men and horses both got wounded in large numbers. More disquietingly was the realisation that most of the archers they were fighting were actually women. Some of the men had jeered at that, at the start.
They'd stopped doing that by the time Ser Butcher got shot through the eye, slaying him instantly. Unfortunately that had left Corvin in command, and for some reason people actually expected him to lead this time. Not knowing what else to do he'd stuck to Ser Butcher's strategy; the voices cursing him had quieted down by that point. And now it seemed like his decision would bless him with the one, proper battle he needed. Eyeing the fortified village up ahead, logs and dirtworks turning it into a miniature fort, he couldn't help but grimace. Not somewhere you'd want to be riding a horse. He'd have to dismount all his riders and attack on foot. He still had more than three hundred men in fighting shape, and through all the clashes they'd gotten a good estimate of how many men and women were fighting under The Peoples Knight's command, which was around a hundred. Three to one odds, assuming none of the locals had joined in to defend their homes.
A fool's bet, that.
Not that he was enjoying the idea of finding out which advantage was the greater. The fighting mettle of the enemy was without question. Unless… despite his moniker, The Peoples Knight did not actually fight, as far as he could tell. Always kept himself behind the lines. Was he a coward? Surely not, a coward would not have been able to do this. What if his skill at arms was significantly poorer than his ability to lead? What if this could be ended without further bloodshed?
What if his honour could be restored, the voice whispered in his head, barely audible.
Yes, a duel would be for the best. Only one man had to die, and Corvin would be known as the man to finally put down The Peoples Knight.
"Let us parley with them," he announced.
"Parley, Ser?"
"Yes, Ser Lyon, let us parley so that this bloodshed can end without another butchery. I'll challenge The Peoples Knight to a duel, and we can declare a victor this way instead."
Ser Lyon looked dubious.
"Are you certain this is-"
"Yes," Corvin bit out. "I am certain. Do not spar words with me, Ser, for these have been trying times and I find myself short in temper."
Ser Lyon ceased at that, merely nodding in reply. Not soon after, Corvin stood alone in the muddy field, just out of crossbow range while a squire keeping two horses stood a stones toss behind him. A lone figure left the safety of the barricades to meet him. A tall and stout figure, dark of skin and dark of hair, clad in a gambeson, simple trousers, leather boots and a simple steel helmet. The longsword he carried was kept in its sheath, a gloved hand kept on the pommel at all times. Hard brown eyes bore into Corvin's own.
"You wanted to speak with me? Then speak."