ASOIAF/Game Of Thrones: Ruler of Batannia

The first impact shook the bank. Lannister shields slammed against Battanian shields, and for a moment the whole line seemed to bend like a door under a ram. Kator roared, and the front rank pushed back with shoulders, knees, and every ugly muscle that kept a man upright when fear wanted him flat.

Spears stabbed through gaps. Lannister swords chopped at shield rims. Axes came down over shoulders. Men slipped on wet stones and were trampled by those behind them. The riverbank became a slaughterhouse in less than a minute.

”Hold them!” Arthur shouted. ”Push them back into the water!”

The Battanians fought from the advantage of position, but the enemy had numbers and discipline. Wave after wave pressed forward from the river. When one Lannister fell, another stepped over him. When a Battanian shield cracked, another man closed the gap. The Riverlands militia in the second line looked pale, but to their credit, they did not run. Several pushed forward with spears when wounded men were dragged back.

Arthur drew his sword and charged down the slope with Beland and several veterans. A Westerlands soldier swung a battle-axe at his head. Arthur caught the haft with his shield and thrust forward, the sword point punching through leather and into flesh. Hot blood struck his wrist. He twisted free just as another man came at him with a longsword. Arthur stepped aside and cut the man’s knee. Noli finished him with an axe before he could fall properly.

The fighting dragged on until time became meaningless. Arthur’s arms grew heavy. Every sword stroke felt as if someone had tied stones to his wrists. His throat burned from shouting. Men around him fell, were dragged away, or vanished under the press. The water near the bank turned dark red, bodies piling in the shallows until the river itself began to slow around them.

Still, the line held.

The archers on the slope kept shooting until their fingers bled. Horgos shifted targets constantly, focusing on officers, banner carriers, and men trying to organize new pushes. The Raiders threw until their javelins were gone, then fought with spears and axes. The Clan Warriors became a wall of mud, blood, wood, and stubbornness.

At last, a long horn sounded from the far bank. The Lannisters began withdrawing. Not routing. Withdrawing. That mattered. Tywin’s men pulled back in order where they could, dragging wounded, raising shields against arrows, leaving behind the dead and the dying. The riverbank remained covered in bodies.

Arthur leaned on his sword, chest heaving. Around him, less than half the Battanians still stood without help. Most were wounded. The Riverlands militia had suffered badly too. The ford was held, but the price lay everywhere.

”Clear the field,” Arthur said hoarsely. ”Treat the wounded. Recover arrows. Bring our dead behind the slope.”

The men moved in silence. The wounded groaned. The dying called for mothers, wives, gods, and water. Arthur tried not to hear too clearly. Hearing did not help unless he could answer.

By evening, a messenger from Lord Jason arrived. Other fords were under heavier pressure, and reinforcements would take over Stone Beach. Arthur was ordered to gather what remained of his force and return to Riverrun to rest. Rest. A civilized word for collapsing after being chewed by war.

Arthur left Stone Beach Ford with a little more than eighty men, nearly half injured. The setting sun turned the Red Fork dark red behind them, as if the river had decided to remember the day properly.

A few days later, Robb Stark returned to Riverrun from the west. With him came his new wife, Jeyne Westerling. Arthur stood with Lord Jason to receive the returning host. Jeyne rode beside Robb on a gentle mare, small and soft-looking, with delicate features and a quiet manner. She was not the sort of beauty men crossed kingdoms for, but she had a kindness about her that made sense of Robb’s mistake and made the mistake more dangerous. Young men carrying grief and duty often reached for gentleness as if it were shelter.

When Lord Jason saw Lady Catelyn, he greeted her with correct courtesy and no warmth. Arthur noticed. Everyone noticed, probably. Catelyn had released Jaime Lannister, destroying one of the strongest bargaining pieces the North and Riverlands possessed. Grief could explain many things. Lords still counted costs.

Arthur saw Ena in the crowd near Lady Catelyn. She looked tired from travel and strain, but her eyes were clear. Their gazes met. Arthur inclined his head slightly. Ena pressed her lips together, then allowed herself a small smile. Lady Catelyn noticed, and her expression softened.

”Go rest, Ena,” she said. ”You have worked hard enough.”

Ena bowed and left her side, walking toward Arthur. No dramatic reunion. No speeches. Just two people moving closer after too many roads and battles had tried to place distance between them.

Lord Jason went to attend Lord Hoster Tully’s funeral rites. Arthur did not need to follow, so he and Ena walked toward the godswood of Riverrun. The godswood was quiet, a strange mercy inside a castle full of mourning and war. Ancient trees rose above flowers, grass, and small streams. At its heart stood a slender weirwood, its carved face pale and sorrowful beneath dappled light.

Ena spoke softly as they walked. She told him of Renly Baratheon’s strange death in his camp, of Brienne of Tarth’s grief and loyalty, of Margaery Tyrell’s beauty and political sharpness. Arthur listened, but his attention kept drifting to her face. Sunlight fell through the leaves onto her cheeks. She looked calmer than usual, perhaps because exhaustion had softened the sharper edges of her temper.

They stopped beneath the weirwood.

”This tree is beautiful,” Ena said. ”They say the old gods can hear prayers through them.”

”Perhaps,” Arthur replied.

His eyes had not left her.

Ena turned. ”What?”

Arthur drew a breath. Orders came easily in battle. This did not. ”A great deal has happened. Too much, perhaps. I am glad you have stayed with me through it.”

Ena’s face colored faintly. She looked down at the grass. ”I am glad I followed you this far.”

The wind moved through the leaves. Arthur reached out and took her hand. Her fingers were cold. She stiffened, but she did not pull away. After a moment, she looked up at him, shy and steady at once. Neither spoke again. From the castle came the distant tolling of funeral bells for Lord Hoster Tully, and beneath the weirwood, for a little while, the world became small enough to hold in one joined hand.