Desperate Times

As some may have noticed, I skipped May in my at least once-a-month schedule. This was not… entirely, my fault. Arguably, it is also the fault of the education system. And! Even in the times when I could have written but didn't, I was practically studying for writing this!... By playing Mount and Blade: Bannerlord, So, you know. Practically studying. Oh, and this is pretty early June, so there will be two chapters... in a whole month. I am not very fast, am I?

"So, think you're ready, Alistair?"

"Robert, I've been training in the art of swordplay for a solid two moons, my men have been training for one and a half, and we stand to battle two houses in a row, while we only possess numbers equal to one of them. How could I be anything other than thrilled?" Alistair said smiling confidently as he waved to his troops, whom he had finally badgered down into accepting the name, the biscuits troop. Mainly through promises of biscuits. Of course, his tone was far more nervous than his stance might suggest.

Robert laughed loudly from his horse as they rode side by side. He had only arrived recently, his journey up and down the ranks taking him past all the lords and men of his army as he spoke to them as he would a friend no matter their standing and boosted morale with his great antlered helm and hammer. They were positioned in the mouth of one of the valleys leading to Summerhall, with archers in the hills and cavalry at the left flank, positioned there both because it was the weaker flank, and the more disciplined one.

"No need to worry about that, Alistair. I've seen how your men have been training, even on the road as you march they're practising that Swiss formation as you whistle your signals. Honestly, your dedication has made half my lords ask me to take away your whistle, but with the results your troops are showing, I'd be a fool to do so. And you know what? If we win your first battle today, I'll get you half a dozen whores before the night is over. Nothing like a warm bed to calm boiling blood, ay?" Robert laughed once more, and Alistair had to stop himself from sniggering, if for completely different reasons.

Alistair, on a certain level, knew that it was childish of him to keep naming everything after things of the old world, but, on another level, he also found it quite hilarious when everyone else thought his naming sense mad. Besides, it was quite fitting to name a formation which had to run like clockwork to function properly after Switzerland, was it not? Even now, so near the battle, he could see three of his five platoons of fifty men practising the Swiss formation. He was quite proud of his little company, overall.

The formation worked on a system of squads, each with three men, two bearing a kite shield and a onehanded weapon of some sort, and one with a twohanded spear. The advantage of their formation then, was the double line, where, at a moment's notice, the squad of the front line could fall back as the spearmen of both the front- and backline of their section thrust their spears forwards. This would then cover the front shields as they retreated on their right and the back shields advanced to their left, significantly alleviating exhaustion among his men as they could always retreat to muster greater strength. The entire formation, at the moment, was two platoons wide and two layers deep, with one relief platoon meant to fill holes in the line whenever lieutenants signalled fallen men.

Alistair only hoped that their discipline and cohesion would be enough to bridge the gap between them and knights, with all their training.

"I wouldn't know, but I have to be honest with you Robert, and tell you that I am quite uninterested in fathering a bastard."

"What? You've never bedded a woman? At your age? Besides, having a bastard isn't so bad. I have one myself, back in the Vale. Sweetest little thing you'll ever see, Mya is." Robert sighed fondly, even as Alistair glanced at him from the corner of his eye. Robert did clearly love his daughter, but Alistair had also seen far too many bastards with wretched fates to allow Robert to comfortably languish in his own… naiveté.

"Robert, what exactly do you imagine the fate of bastards outside of their father's reach or awareness to be?"

"I… suppose I've never truly considered it. Why do you ask?"

"Well, if you truly plan to bed prostitutes left and right over the course of the rebellion, then I thought I should at least explain to you exactly what kind of fate you are foisting onto these children. Because, whether or not you like it, there is no way for you to 'catch' all your bastards. At least one will slip through."

"Well, is that truly so bad? I might not meet her, but-"

"Robert, would you like to hear the story of how I met one of my closest friends?" Alistair paused, his jaw clenched tightly as his lips formed a tight line. His current expression was the most effective kind of lie. The ones with a core of truth. Because he was truly angry, if not at Robert directly, then at least angered by the willingness of lords and ladies to- to… raise their children in such ignorance of the common man's burdens that a lord paramount would assume an uncared-for bastard to live a fine life.

Robert was silent, and, presumably, staring at him. For good reason, too. He had, after all, cut off a lord paramount after being only charming for weeks on end.

"We only heard of her through dark rumours and unsavoury taverns. Jack and I had only recently invited Arnold into… the union, and we were still only scraping by as we saved for… No matter. Suffice to say that we could not quite stand aside and do nothing at all when we heard of a girl only eight winters old selling her maidenhead to the highest bidder in a desperate attempt to scrape enough coin together that she might get a backwater maester to treat the disease-ridden prostitute who was her mother."

Robert froze on his horse. "Alistair," his voice was strained, "why are you telling me this? I know that some people are unfortunate, but I cannot seek out every man, woman and child to ensure their happiness."

"Because the fate she almost met - taken at eight by a sick wretch for a desperate hope for her only parent - is nowhere near the worst of bastard ends. In a city, they end as either thieves or whores or bodies in the streets. In the rural parts, well, they either live a normal if isolated life, or they never live at all. Young women so terrified of the persecution they might face travel to other nearby settlements when their child starts to show. There, they wait until the child is born… before they tearfully kill their own child, knowing that it is either death by their hands, or death for the both of them, in a ditch by the side of the road. Often, they admit their guilt only days later, broken by what they have done." Robert had gone pale.

Alistair's voice was cold as bared steel. A naked blade held against who Robert Baratheon was and would be. An open explanation of the consequences of his actions, of one of his preferred actions no less. "And then, no matter where they are, there are always some who… who take a different path. They take a long needle. Then they kill the child before it ever is born. Often, neither woman nor child survive such a procedure. So, tell me, Robert. Are you still interested in fathering bastards on this campaign?"

Robert was silent for quite some time before he spoke. Gathering his thoughts. Yet it seemed that they were not quite as gathered as he may have wished when he spoke. "Why would you- Why now? And-… Why?"

"Because, Robert, we both know that this war will not end before there is either no Targaryen on the throne, or your head is on a pike. I choose to back you in this war because I believe that you are not a bad person. And because you are not a bad person, I believe that I can twist and leverage my position in the rebellion into the highborn of Westeros finally doing something for the people they rule. But, there is also a very real chance that I might die this very day. And I refuse to have had the ear of the future king, and have wasted it on platitudes when I could have told you of the fates of bastards."

"So no, Robert. I will not often tell you what you want to hear. But I will tell you what you need to hear to be a king you yourself can recognize as good. Because you do care about the people. And I will force you to see the burdens they bear, or you will die crushed by the weight of your people's suffering, while you do not know how to help them, or even what you need to help them with. I will tell you how to help them, or at least what they need. And, with any luck, you will be able to see what must be done."

Alistair rode towards his men. He hoped that Robert would find his insights true enough that he would still seek his friendship. If not, then he supposed he would simply need another solution. And, until then, there was a battle to fight. Alistair saw men crest the hills far away in the mountain pass, and blew one long, alerting whistle followed by seven short ones. It was time to prepare for battle. They were currently at the eastern pass, where house Grandison was approaching from. They already knew that Bolling would not come from the south as they had expected, or at all for that matter. Then they would simply need to relocate to the western pass, where house Cafferen would come from, and after those two battles, the second exchange of the rebellion would be over.

Alistair was quite proud of himself. After all, two of three was quite the achievement in prediction.

Alistair retreated from his thoughts. Now was not the time for such things. Not when the thrums and streaks of black could be heard at the edge of his senses, and men fell to the ground under a rain of arrows. Not his men. Rebellion archers were in the hill ridges with greater range after all. But men of the people nonetheless.

He hefted his shield and decided that perhaps it was a good idea to invest the stat point he had earned in dexterity, given the number of arrows sure to be headed for mounted leaders. Besides, he already looked amazing doing literally anything. He could afford to also actually be good at the things he looked amazing doing. Extra coordination would certainly help with that.

Lines met, and Alistair was treated to the bittersweet sight of his own unyielding and inexhaustible line as farmers and stable hands with only an eighth of his men's training and worse equipment were rebuffed, grew tired, and died.

He wished death on none of them, and he refused to see them as enemies. He did not blame his men for doing so, of course. After all, they were the ones whose spear came from behind an impenetrable shield wall to pierce the heart of a scared farmer. They were the ones whose axe cleaved through flesh and bone when a miller's son stumbled over his own feet. It did not take long before the peasants routed and ran from a battle that did nothing for them. It wasn't to protect their home after all. It was just to stop some guy from maybe taking some throne.

Knights were eventually sent in as Lord Grandison realised that if he did nothing, the most stalwart part of the enemy line would soon be poised to swing around and act as the perfect anvil against the hammer of Robert's own knights. All the spearmen of the Biscuits Troop put their spears against the ground, so they jutted from between the shields, and the knights had no choice other than dismounting and charging on foot.

This battle was far more brutal on their side than the one before. The line still held, and knights did fall, but far fewer fell, and the lines wavered far more. One unfortunate squad was decimated, when a knight in full plate managed to duck the spears meant to repel him as the front line shifted, and broke through to kill left and right. Alistair himself charged in, and rode the knight down to the ground with a kick as he dismounted to plug the hole himself, as he noticed one of the resting men behind him scurry up and stab a dirk into the slits in the helm.

Alistair poured his remaining skill points into swordsmanship, and with it reached thirty-seven in the skill. He was now quite the swordsman, but the gap between his sword skill and shield skill would only hinder him now, so he threw his round shield at the helmet of the plated knight who had come to widen the gap. Then, he held the tip of the sword in his thick gloves and slammed the spike on his sabre's hilt into the helm in a mordhau strike. The knight fell to the ground, unconscious and dying or already dead, as blood spurted from the finger-sized hole in his helm.

Alistair gripped his sword normally once more then, as he prepared to face another knight, this one only wearing chain mail with a few plates strapped here and there. A far more common sight than the ones with full-plate.

Alistair readied himself to hold out until Robert's plan succeeded. He wasn't sure it was true, but he could hear roars rise on the left flank as the experienced sellswords Robert had hired and instructed to fake a retreat did just that, and their own left flank 'broke'. This however created an unprotected opening on the enemy's centre flank, where Robert and his knights could charge in and decimate enemy forces while Alistair occupied the knights who could have countered them. This would allow the now unoccupied centre flank to pincer the enemy left flank with their left flank of sellswords, and Robert and his knights to come and pincer the enemy knights with him and his flank.

A stroke of genius, really. Robert's plan forced Grandison to either have Alistair's flank decimate his forces and pincer the centre, or to engage his knights so Robert could wreak havoc on his centre without anything to challenge his power.

Soon enough, Robert came and charged like an incontrovertible force of nature into the knights, war lances spearing armour and Robert's hammer descending with the strength of a falling boulder.

The battle against house Cafferen went much the same, except with an even bigger advantage to them this time, as they had long known that this would be the second battle of the day, and they had as such dug a long ditch on the left and right flanks, while leaving their centre free for the cavalry to charge in.

And so, before the sun was even halfway to setting, they retreated to celebrate in the ruins of Summerhall.

The private party inside Robert's command tent was for lords and commanders, and Robert, Lord Musgood and Alistair were at the centre of the congratulations. Robert for his tactics and many charges throughout the day, Musgood for his impressive command over the sellswords they had hired, and Alistair for having the most formidable infantry force on the field, as well as for the feat of killing at least four knights in the melee of his line.

Alistair had just finished a song on his guitar when Robert finally came up to him, for the first time in their little feast.

"You did impressive work today, Alistair. And in all the days before now, in training your men to fight like that." Robert's gaze was considering, as he looked at Alistair. The focus on them had died down, and Robert had seemingly deemed that enough space for them to talk over what had happened between them before the battle.

Robert heaved a great sigh, cursing under his breath, before speaking, "You were right. I can't get some woman with child without any way of making sure the little bastard survives. Not that I'll stop whoring around, that'll put the whores in a ditch sure as a bastard would," he chuckled at his jape.

"But, I suppose it isn't a huge burden to give them a bit of moon tea. Now, enough of discussing my whoring habits, and let's drink some more!" He said with a smiling roar, and the people in the tent cheered as a new barrel of mead was opened.

Robert turned to walk away, but Alistair put a hand on his shoulder before he could.

"Thank you, Robert. I know I was both a bit crass and harsh in how I told you, but I do appreciate what you have decided to do. I myself am not a bastard, but many whom I view as family are. So, thank you."

Robert nodded to him once, then turned to leave.

Which was the exact moment when a man in the scout's uniform, panting as he looked around the room, before hurrying to Robert.

"My Lord, a Felwood force has been sighted two hours from entering the valley proper. They are approaching from the North, and should have a force near equal to our remaining combat ready troops, in scout commander Rogers' estimation."

Robert swore loudly after only a moment, and Alistair quickly realized the issue only moments later. They were too far from the northern pass to get into position. Which meant that they would be forced into open field combat, where the Biscuits Troop would be far more vulnerable to cavalry flanking.

"Everyone, head out to marshal your troops, we'll be staying in Summerhall in the main courtyard. There is still enough walls left for us to arrange a shield wall on all sides, and too many buildings and walls and other things for them to force our hands with arrows from a distance." Or they could do that. That was also a great solution. Better than field combat, certainly. Especially now that they needn't worry over enemy reinforcements.

"It'll be a hard battle, but we are Stormlanders, and if there is anything I can trust from the men of my homeland, it is that they will crush the Felwoods, and then ask why the scale-licking lords willing to put up with a madman sent in a skirmishing force before the rest of the army!" Robert roared, and lords streamed from the tent to gather their men, relocate supplies to secure locations, and equip armours and weapons.

Then, Robert turned to Alistair once everyone else had left, and Alistair had to try very hard to not gulp at being alone with a man who, yes, was his friend, but also had just received horrid news, was famous for his rage on the battlefield, and prowess on the battlefield.

"It's not your fault, Alistair, we were lax and complacent when you got two right, and thought they were the only ones who could attack. But, I do need you to do something about it," Robert's face was serious as he spoke.

There was silent for a moment.

"…What? What do you need me to do?" Alistair asked, hoping for a leading question.

"No idea. But you do. You seem to have a lot of ideas in general, and at the moment, we need one of them to slow down the Felwoods."

Alistair was rather sure he was screwed, then. Should he fail, it would be a massive setback in his climbing of the social ladder, which was a problem, since most of his own innate expertise was in trickery and deceit, and most of his learned expertise was in technology and knowledge. Really, he had barely watched any medieval based movies, and the only one he remembered was…

"Robert, I will be needing fifty of your best riders, and a hundred and two bowls of roughly equal size, two for each rider. But, if you give me that, I promise you this," He looked deeply into Robert's eyes, blue met blue in an ernest attempt to show that he was to be trusted, that his mistake was not something that would repeat itself.

"I will Monty Python these wretches."

"…You'll what now?"