He stood with his men on the northern ramparts of the castle, staring at nothingness. The mist had cleared somewhat, but not enough for the men to see the snowy grounds ahead of them. Those in high towers had a greater field of vision, and they were to signal the arrival of the enemy with toots. All men were in battle positions, ready, waiting for the toot, waiting for signs of life. If it were not for the maester, Yohn Royce would not know it was the middle of the day.
Of the eight scouts that they had sent, only one had returned. “They’re all dead,” he said softly, blood gushing where once was his left ear. The maester had done all he could to save his life, but Yohn knew there was no time. Thankfully, so did the scout. “They plan to take the castle,” he revealed, lying down in sheets soaked in red.
Before the scout died, Yohn had already assembled his men in positions for battle. “A cruel Usurper comes to claim this land,” he had told them, “but Riverrun is a great castle, and we great men. It has not been captured by conquest in a thousand years, and it will not fall today!”
As the men cheered, Yohn remembered asking himself if what he had said were true. It probably was, he told himself, ready, waiting for the toot. His ten-thousand men were outnumbered six-to-one by Daenerys’ army, but they had massive stone walls and an unflinching fortress on their side. Riverrun was built where the Tumblestone met the Red Fork, and the castle had towers on all coasts, protecting them from attacks by land and sea.
I had hoped for the Vale, but the fool Littlefinger gave me something better. If the Tully king could give Jaime Lannister’s eighty-thousand men a night to forget, as will I.
Then they saw it.
The lights were bright, sharp and discordant against the greyness of the day. Yohn’s eyes instinctively shut. When they opened, he realized that no one needed a signal from the high towers, when they had seen it set ablaze in front of their eyes. The dragon. Yohn had always been skeptical of the rumors. He felt like an unbeliever face to face with R’hllor.
The men shrieked in fright, but Yohn reminded them of their duties. “Nock!” he yelled, as the tower crumbled before their eyes.
As the men rushed to their positions, Yohn heard thousands of quick hooves charge in the direction of the drawbridge. The Dothraki.
Yohn had purposely left the drawbridge open, hoping to lure the enemy. They had taken the bait, and it was now time to strike. He left his position and rushed in the interior of the castle. “Open the sluice gates!”
His best men were defending the portcullis Daenerys wished to open, but Yohn knew they would have to fight no longer. For in a matter of seconds, after the sluice gates were set free, water would fill in the pits surrounding Riverrun, turning it into an island and plunging the men on the threshold of the castle in icy cold river. Yohn had given the enemy’s men a minute to test the portcullis – enough for ample men to gather, but not enough for the gates to fall.
But before the waters reached, Yohn heard the crack of gates giving way.
The castle shuddered slightly. Screams and shouts emanated from below. Yohn heard from under his feet the sound of sword and steel. They broke the doors down in seconds!
Fear gripped him, but Yohn pushed it deep inside himself. His hands curled tight around his sword. “Let’s fight the fuckers!”
Yohn and the men upstairs sprinted to the bottom. Confidence grew in his belly gradually. Ever since Royce was named Warden of the Riverlands, all he had done was prepare for this battle. His best men were downstairs. They had ample space for cover. All manner of obstacles was placed against the gates. The few hundreds that had spilled inside the castle would soon perish within its walls.
When they reached, Yohn caught sight of rooms so inundated with bare-chested men, he would be forgiven for thinking they had strayed into Vaes Dothrak.
They had sliced through the men with ease. Arrows and arakhs flew across the hall, finding their target lazily. The sound of a neigh alerted them to horses running amok, trampling over friend and foe. A small contingent remained guarding the stairwell from where he and others from upstairs came, but they were barely holding out.
In that moment, Yohn got to grips with how far removed his age had made him from war.
“Charge!” he told the men that had accompanied him from upstairs, while Yohn retreated up the stairs. He still had a final battalion of men on the northern ramparts, men whom he was standing with not long ago. It was his last throw of the dice. The stairwell is narrow. If we stand against it, we can defend the passageway like we do the Bloody Gate. Every screech of a dragon and moan of the dead impelled him to run faster. “Men!” he yelled, when he reached his destination. He stopped abruptly.
Where there were once hundreds, he saw only ash.
Every stench of smoke and shit he inhaled filled him with dread. My trusted men. Tears streamed down his cheeks like cold rivers as he, running from place to place, tried to discern his political rivals, his most loyal followers, his bastard brothers and his childhood mates from mounds of rubble.
It was astonishing the vacuum between Yohn and his outside surroundings, when mind had trapped him from any senses. If we were younger, fitter, or not lost in thoughts about the collaterals of war, he may have fled, or at least, heard the giant beast that returned from the skies. It was only a sharp blow on his back from what felt like a thousand talons which sailed him into the air that brought fright back to his senses. But by then, it was too late. He was flying, and then he was falling.
As he fell, Yohn felt the whipping wind numb the scars on his back, which lessened the pain but made him feel deader. He hoped to believe that, as a freezing river rushed to kiss him, his final thoughts were calm or poetic, and not the crushing realization of embarrassing defeat.
The waters around him forbade any space for breathing. Alone, lost in a sea of death, not knowing which way was up, Yohn gushed wind through his nose and followed the bubbles. As he reached closer to the light, waiting for him in the sky was fear itself.
Fire erupted through its face, dancing in his direction. It was cold, then it was hot, and then too hot.
*
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