Chapter 18

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Chapter 18

Brynden Tully

It was very comforting, Brynden thought, to wage a war with skillful commanders at your helm.

He was not a strategizing sort, he admits, never for commanding large armies, the chaos that is logistics, and the politicking between petty lords and their matters.

He was skilled when it came to being at the thick of it, scouting deep in enemy lines, ambushing baggage trains, or hitting the enemy the place he least expects it to. He was most comfortable where most were not, which spoke worrying things about his life.

"How goes our rations?" He asks.

One Smalljon Umber, who he'd taken as some weird kind of protégé at the urging of his father, rode on the horse next to his.

He found that whilst the man was much less boisterous and of quicker mind than his father, he had a deep disdain for the details of a battle, so naturally, he put him in charge of tallying the supplies, putting sentries in order, and organizing the scouts.

Not alone, of course, it'd be the height of folly to put someone so inexperienced in such a crucial position. He had his men, who followed him for years, taking secondary leadership positions, who were easily able to fix any mistakes he'd made.

"We haven't had a late shipment since Edmure was in charge." Brynden comments. "Leadership from the rear suits him."

The Umber heir almost scoffs, but doesn't. He had made sure to make the importance of such things clear, the men and horse need to eat, and they need equipment, replacements for cracked swords, axes, and shattered armor. Things that were largely reliant on the greater organization of the war effort, which the Tully heir achieved almost perfectly.

The baggage train kept coming in cycles, bringing not only provisions, but men who would search their camp and make not of their needs, and inform them of the happenings on the other fronts.

They would leave with their scraps and loot, reinforcing their escort guards with some of their own men until they crossed the river.

"What's next, Ser?" Smalljon asks.

"We wait."

They had been busy, they liberated several castles, villages, and towns, chased outriders and bandits out of their lairs, and chased the Mountain until he fled back to his master.

Not only that, but days ago, when news reached them of a Lannister host attempting to cross –and failing- in Mummer's Crossing, they bled them Lannisters dry as they retreated back to their center base.

Further back in time, another host tried the same against Tytos' host, and more days before that, Roose Bolton's too. Each failing due the entrenched position their forces were in.

The Pipers in Pinkmaiden faced no attacks, but their presence in the area scared the Lannisters off from getting close to the entire stretch of the river on this side.

At this point, Tywin Lannister and his advisors must have realized that simply sending a host –no matter how formidable- in an attempt to cross would be too hard as all possible ingress areas were heavily fortified.

What he needed are his own forces on the other side, doing the same. With a forward base on the other side of the river, it'd be easy for him to arrange a crossing at that point.

Not that it is easy, to do so, he had to find a point in their defense that is undefended, has shallow water, and an advantageous position for defense. Then he has to send an advance party in secret to secure the spot, and finally, the advance party has to hold their position until he comes as reinforcements.

If Brynden was in his place, he'd recruit old faced hunters with promises of gold in order to gather information, and then once he found a target, he'd send a significant host of fast moving cavalry to move quickly and silently. And he'd put his biggest, meanest, and scariest commander at its head.

Which is why 500 of his men are currently out there, looking out for any such movements.

"Ser! Ser!" A rider approached. "You were right! We barely managed to sight a significant host; but they were already close to the river."

Brynden hums. "Numbers?"

"We didn't get an exact number, but a rough estimate would be around twice and half again our number."

So 3 500 horsemen to their 1 500, very worrying.

"No rest for us, it seems." He says to Jon. "Have our men disembark, we move at sundown."

*-*-*

It took them two days to reach the bank of the river, following the tracks of the enemy cavalry. It could have been less, but Brynden didn't want to put undue burden on their horses in case of an ambush.

He almost regretted his decision when he saw the enemy camp on the other side of the river.

Smalljon hisses. "They've already entrenched themselves." He comments. "We cannot assail them even had they not the river to help."

Brynden nods, they had chosen their position wisely. At the center of their camp was a stone mill atop a windy hill, giving them the height advantage.

"They must have already sent a rider back to their base, now Tywin Lannister must be moving his own forces this way. Even if we do the same, I'm not willing to bet on the fact that ours would arrive before theirs." Brynden looks around. "We're also exposed, we must cross."

Men around him winces, if this war made something clear, it is that attempting to move across disadvantageous terrain with your enemy on the other side is nothing short of a nightmare. Any doubts they had of this notion was disproven with the many defeats suffered by the Lannisters as they tried to do just that.

"Have our horses advance at the side of the river for another mile, we shall make our attempt there."

*-*-*

Whoever was in charge of the enemy was needlessly cruel, the moment he realized their plans, columns of knights were already organized in order to foil their attempt.

He glanced at the enemy banners.

'Three black hounds on a yellow field.' He smirks inwardly. 'That stark boy sure is scary.'

Brynden was determined, because unbeknownst to the enemy, and even his own men, this was all according to plan.

So he gave the order to march, the water was shallow, but the river still put them at a lower height than the enemy.

Horns sounded from the enemy forces, as their horses galloped toward them at their quickest possible.

Brynden turns to his left, and nods toward his men. The signal is received, so they whip their steeds into frenzy and swerve sideways, away from the enemy.

Brynden finally sights the giant silhouette that is the mountain, the man was at the head of his forces, his giant black horse's wide steps allowed him to be the first to catch up.

He ignores the screams, steeling his heart at the deaths of his men when they started getting cut down.

"Ser!" Smalljon shouts, pointing toward another hill. "They're flanking us."

Brynden grunts, it seems like the Mountain had secretly moved another force, expecting their attempt.

"We'll have to cut through them!" He shouts. "Do not steer away!"

"But Ser-"

"No words now! Only actions!"

Brynden falls onto the first man like a hammer on a nail, whatever height advantage he had useless in front of his skilled hand.

He and his men easily matched the flanking force, cutting through them easily despite their disadvantage, but the same cannot be said for their rear. On his side view, he spotted a man not quite cut by the Mountain's sword as he was blown away, another of his tried to pierce the giant with his spear only to get the same treatment by another enemy.

"Ser! At this point we'll be crushed between the two! We have to turn away!"

"Look to your left!" Brynden dodges a slash before his own sword decapitates his assailant. "We're the bait, stupid!"

Smalljon crushes a poor man with his mace, giving him reprieve in order to look left.

Greatjon Umber stood at the head of his howling horsemen, once he sights his own son, the giant man lets out a deafening laugh!

"CLEGANE!" His scream echo through the battlefield. "WITNESS THE MIGHT OF THE TRUE BLOOD OF THE GIANTS!"

"AWOOOOO!" His men followed.

The seven foot tall Northman cuts a man from skull to groin, brutally pulling his stuck axe from the man's poor horse's back.

He then proceeds to cut through the men that follow with clear brutality, laughing in a manner that sent chills to his enemies.

Brynden is unbothered; however, as he pulls his men to charge turn into the Mountain and his men, while leaving enough men to finish off the other group of isolated enemies.

"Men!" He shouts. "Today, the Mountain becomes a Hill!"

The news of reinforcement is like a balm to his rider's despairing morale, when they charge their previous assailants.

And so the hunter becomes the prey.

The battle falls back to their favor, the enemies set into chaos by the presence of another 1 500 screaming horsemen at their flank.

Even the Mountain seemed shocked still, but as he stared stiltedly at their two forces, his eyes lock in the intimidating form of the Umber patriarch.

He shouts something to his men that seems to straighten up, before urging them toward the direction of his new foe.

Jon Umber stares directly at the approaching Gregor.

"Come!" He shouts, urging his horse to do the same.

Brynden and the younger Umber move to reinforce that area, it seems that the Mountain felt that his men's morale would be reignited with Greatjon's death, whilst the latter's whole reason of being here was the murder of Clegane.

None of them were wrong, of course.

Greatjon cuts a man down, Gregor had finally put himself before him, and so he unhesitantly charges toward him with a laugh.

The Mountain has a longer reach, so he swings first, aiming to end this fight with a single swing.

Jon ducks low, his face close to meeting his horse's mane, and takes advantage of the opening to wound the Mountain at his side with his axe.

The blow is met with hard armor, so the resulting wound isn't deadly, but it clearly causes Gregor to lurch at his side.

"Maggot!" He winces.

Greatjon laughs again. "That's a northern gift from me!" Gregor makes to approach again, only for the Umber to chuck his axe at his direction. "Have another!"

The axe misses, and instead lands on the horse's eye; Gregor quickly jumps off safely as his steed collapses from under it. Gregor stood in the warring field, his men scrambling around him to protect him.

Standing taller standing than ahorse, screaming in rage, the giant man smashes one of his own men with a glove, charging toward the smirking Jon like a beast.

Greatjon laugh, unsheathing his great sword, a large sword that, to the common man, would count as a two handed one.

When they come close, Jon swings first.

The blow echoed through the battlefield as it met the Mountain's sword, who showed his own sense of cunningness by decapitating Jon's steed instead of the man himself, stopping it to its track.

The Mountain takes advantage by aiming for the Umber's unprotected neck, yet is intercepted again, yet at great cost.

Clegane's sword embedded itself deep into Greatjon's left hand, and stopped inch from his eyes.

Greatjon grunts, painfully pulling his arm back and swiftly rolling away as he fell from his dead steed.

"A mad dog, that is what you are." He taunts despite the pain. "Much like those wildlings I like to cut down."

Brynden sights one of the Lannister men approaching the battle, and he swiftly grabs his bow and nocks an arrow, letting it fly straight to his throat.

That man seemed important somehow, as the men around him start to panic, yet he nonchalantly nocks another arrow, urging his steed to stay in shooting distance from the enemy.

His other men charge in even further, turning the area around the two tall men into a stalemate, and allowing them to have a duel in the midst of a battlefield.

Brynden wanted to shake his head and simply fill that wretch with arrows like a pincushion.

The two wounded titans clash in a manmade ring, and it became to any skilled warrior that as time went on, the Greatjon seemed to get an advantage.

Clegane was stronger and larger, and a skilled swordsman to boot. But he simply wasn't used to fighting men that were close to him, Greatjon however? He lived it.

Employing years of experience grappling with similarly sized cousins and nephews, Jon skillfully deflects a harrowing blow from his foe, kicking his shield off from the Mountain's hand.

Gregor roars in anger, using his new free hand to grab his sword with two, swinging it faster than usual.

Jon predicts that too, and he'd already created enough distance to step away from it. He then kicks again, his steel tipped boot breaking the Mountain's leg.

Clegane screams from the blow, his other knee buckling down to the ground. In a last ditch effort, he grabs Greatjon by the shoulder with one hand, striking with his sword on another.

Jon's laughs loudly as he cut the man's sword hand.

The Mountain screams once again, this one louder than all the others.

"Ah! It's like music to one's ears." Jon taunts.

"I will--"His words are interrupted, as Greatjon cuts his head off.

The Umber Lord kicks off the giant corpse, picks up the oversized head, and holds it up for all to see.

"Northern Justice has been enforced!" He bellows. "The scum you call the Mountain is DEAD!"

Once the panic sets in, it was easy for them to mop up the rest.