Chapter 22: Andren
So far, the war had been going in their favor. The loyalists had not lost a single battle, and word had reached them that Lord Connington had taken Mistwood castle in a siege. Now, they were expected to have most of the loyalist forces arriving near the Weeping Tower in due time. Andren was excited to see them arrive, as that meant the appearance of a mighty army, a great number of banners, and even more lords and nobility. His father had assembled a decent sized force, of course, and he loved to see the three blood drops on white everywhere, but Andren was eager to see mighty battles like they had witnessed before in the Mistwood. So far, this "mopping up" procedure (as Ser Lester called it) had involved smaller scale battles, and oftentimes the enemy force had not proved much. Larger armies meant larger enemies, which meant larger battles, which meant the sort of sights that songs were sung of in taverns.
Sure enough, the Stormlander army arrived in January of 300 AL. Altogether, their forces numbered just a little over seven thousand, and had many of the same banners that Andren had noticed before. Lorys, Lester, and Andren were ushered into Lord Connington's command tent shortly after it had been set up. The other officers of the army were gathered around a familiar table, flanking either side of Connington, who was brooding over a map of the area with a sad look on his face. His eyes, obviously tired, lifted up when the trio of Threedrop personalities entered, though his expression did not change.
"Lord Lorys," Connington began, "you are here, good. You have done well with putting an end to that Cape Wrath force down here."
"It was nothing, really," Lorys replied, smiling. Andren had seen his father in immensely high spirits ever since he had been granted the position of Master at Arms for the Red Watch. Andren could not blame him – it had made him extremely happy as well. His own father, Lord Lorys, Ser Lorys, was now one of the most prestigious men in all of Red Watch. Surely in due time, he would make his way up to the halls of Storm's End itself.
"I will need all the men you can spare," Connington said. He lifted up a finger over the map, planting it down on Mistwood and tapping the area twice. "A small Cape Wrath force has joined up with the Dornish March army. They're here at last. 7800 men, under the command of Lord Paxter Selmy. They're coming down through Mistwood, and fast approaching us."
"They have a small numerical advantage," Lorys said, "but a small one. A few good arrow volleys, some determined defenses, and we'll cut them down to a more equal size."
Connington sighed, "All the same, it will be difficult. Selmy's forces will be fresh and eager for battle. I will need you to lead the center again. I want you to drive at them as hard as you did in Mistwood. But be careful – this will indeed be a tough fight."
Lorys laughed softly, "Leave the center to me, Lord Connington – I will make you proud."
The expected battle came that February. As the battle lines approached, Andren could readily identify some of the standards, just as his father had taught him. Ser Lomas, who had led the southern flank at Mistwood, was now in the center. The western flank was commanded by Lord Paxter Selmy of Harvest Hall, a nobleman of the Dornish Marches. The eastern flank was commanded by Lord Eldon Estermont himself, one of the leaders in the rebellion. The Estermont banner – a turtle over a light green field – was a strange sight to see on a battlefield. Andren could only hope those who fought under him had some glorified opinion of what a turtle banner could mean.
"They've placed much of their force in the center," Ser Lester commented.
Andren bit his lip nervously, as he realized that Ser Lester was right. The western and eastern flanks were about equal in number for both sides, but in the center, the rebel army probably had about a thousand men over the loyalists. Lord Connington had been right – this was going to be a tough battle indeed. And sadly, Andren and his father had been placed in the toughest spot in all the battlefield.
The Dornish March army began to advance with its infantry first, the heavily mailed footmen marching in perfect rows towards the center. Andren's father gave the signal, and the loyalist footmen, equally mailed, now marched forward. Andren watched with fingers gripping his reins tightly as the two lines approached one another. When they finally met, the shouts and screams of battle began, nearly drowned by the sound of shield upon shield, sword upon shield, and sword upon flesh. Some years ago, when he had been much younger, Andren had feared the battlefield for the death and carnage that it brought about...now, however, it was almost expected. He knew what he would see, and he no longer feared it. All the same, that did not mean he loved it.
A loud clank was heard, and Lorys turned to see that his father had steadied his helmet. "They seem to be bringing the knights around," he said. Sure enough, Andren could see, far behind the infantry lines, a group of knights, bearing brown banners with three objects that seemed to be haystacks, fast approaching the lines. Andren's father gave a signal with his sword, and together with Ser Lester he surged forward with the contigent of loyalist knights, going out to meet them. Andren could not take part, of course – his father had once again refused any suggestion of that. He could, however, watch from the command post, and his father had even given him a cheap lens-tube to use, in order to see the battle in a closer, but safer, view.
Andren pulled out the lens tube and looked through it, just in time to see the two forces of knights crash right into each other. From the distance, he could hear horses whinny and and metal break as two groups of the greatest warriors in all of Westeros met in battle. He scanned about, watching as men were stabbed in the face through their visors, or arms and limbs were hacked where the body was exposed. He did not care. What he wanted to see was his father. He wanted to see Lord Lorys Threedrop, and know that he was safe and sound. He wanted to see his father fighting bravely, and courageously.
Finally, he found him, girded in the armor that Andren himself had helped strap on him that morning. He had just come in contact with someone who, like Lorys, wore exquisitely finer armor. Then, something dawned on Andren...was this Lord Selmy himself?! It must have been! Sure enough, when Andren squinted his eyes, he could make out the standard of Selmy on the knight's torso – the same standard on the banners of the knights that had attacked. His father was locked in combat with Lord Paxter Selmy!
The two men struck with their swords at one another. Suddenly, as their swords were pressed together, Lord Selmy reached out and grabbed Lorys under his helmet, around the neck. Lorys drew his sword back as if to swing again, but this time swung it over and downward, right into Selmy's horse. The steed went down, nearly crushing the knight underneath, but landing in such a way that he could lift his leg up from under it. Lorys turned and raised his sword to strike again, but Selmy counterattacked quickly: he thrusted his sword right into the neck of Lorys' own horse, killing it instantly. The horse bucked and readed a death throw, and Lorys quickly lifted his feet from the stirrups shoved himself backward, landing on his back just as the horse collapsed into the dusty ground. Selmy charged at him, and though Lorys had obviously been somewhat stunned by the fall, he was still capable of defending himself. As Selmy brought down his sword, Lorys shifted, missing the blow and standing back up to face his opponent on foot.
Andren, this whole time, was gripping his reins even tighter, smiling broadly as he said over and over again, "Kill him! Kill him, father! You can do it! You are a great knight! You can do it!"
Selmy and Lorys continued to pace one another, neither one daring to make a move. Finally, Selmy surged and attempted a thrust at Lorys' torso. Lorys waited until the last minute, and then spun, gliding harmlessly past the thrust, and then elbowing Selmy in the back of his helmet. The impact stunned Selmy, and the force of the blow sent him to the ground. While he was dazed, Lorys spun again, lifted up his sword, and drove it right into an exposed part of Selmy's side. It went clear through his rib cage. The Dornish March lord flailed for just a moment, and then went limp.
"Hooray father!" Andren cried out. He waved his hand, hoping his father would be able to see him waving. "Hooray, father! Hooray!" He was shouting all the more, hoping that over the screams, the cries, the shouts, the noise of weapons and the thunder of hooves, his father could hear him.
Then, in an instant, it happened.
Andren could see the dust behind Lorys start to clear, ever so slightly. He saw a footman suddenly appear, approaching Lorys from behind. He could see the cruel look in the man's eyes. He could see the man raise up a mace, with an end as round and large as a man's head. He could see the man lift it high, and then bring it down. And Andren could see it make a hard impact against the back of his father's head.
"
Father!" Andren shrieked.
Through the lens tube, Andren could see his father stumble to his knees, and then topple over and fall. Then, dust enveloped the scene, and his body could not be seen at all.
"Father!" Andren cried out again. His voice cracked as he said the word. He couldn't think any more. He hoped this was all a bad dream. He hoped and prayed to the gods that this didn't mean what his worst fears were telling him. "Father! Father!" He kicked his horse and began to ride it towards the clash of knights. He rode past the footmen, towards the dust, and looked about. It was only then that he realized he was alone. The enemy footmen had advanced far along the line, and man of the loyalist knights had begun to flee.
Suddenly, a man grabbed at the reins of his horse, and caused it to gallop alongside his own. Andren began to hit at the man's hand, threatening to cut off his arm.
"No!" said the man's voice. At once, Andren recognized it as Ser Lester. "Come with me, Andren! I must get you to safety!"
The entire loyalist center was in retreat. Andren ducked down as one enemy knight came by and swung at him. He could see footmen scattering about the field, heading back towards their camp. It was only then that he saw loyalist troops coming in from the center, and distracting the rebel soldiers from pursuing Lester and Andren any further. The knight took the lordling some distance away, and waited until the fighting had died down. By the end of the day, the sky had become overcast, the crows filled the air, and the field was covered in corpses.
"Did we win?" Andren asked in a low, timid voice, as he and Ser Lester went back over the field.
"Yes, we did," Ser Lester replied, with a sigh, "both sides lost heavily...perhaps two thousand per side. But we've won. Lord Connington was right, Andren – it was not going to be a good day either way."
Ser Lester's choice of words sat uneasy with Andren. It was a good while of quiet riding before Andren could ask his next question, "Where is father?"
Ser Lester turned and shot Andren a sad, grieving expression that was enough of an answer. It was certainly enough to bring tears to Andren's eyes, despite himself. He could feel his hands grip the reins, and hear the leather tightening, and knew it could be heard – but at that moment he didn't care. When the two finally stopped, it was at a clearing in the sea of bodies. In the open space, Andren saw the dust-covered armor over his father's body, surrounded by Lockport footmen and knights. He dismounted quickly and rushed over to him.
Andren knelt down beside his father's body, lifting up his head with one hand and cradling his shoulders with his other arm. The sight choked the Lockport heir in the throat, and he had to cough before he could find words to speak.
"Father?!" he cried. "Father...Father?!"
Lorys stirred a bit. His visor had been pulled back from his helmet. Blood poured down one side of his face, and his eyes were rolled back into the side of his head. He was breathing, and he seemed to be conscious...but he made no effort to respond to Andren.
He is alright, Andren thought.
Surely he is alright...he will rise again, he just needs to rest. He just needs to regain his strength. He will wake up, as if sleeping, and...
"He will live, Andren," Ser Lester said, kneeling down and placing a gloved hand over Andren's shoulder, "but the blow to his head was terrible. I am afraid...he may be like this for the rest of his life..."
Those words struck hard in Andren's mind. This meant his father would never talk to him again. His father would never joke with him again. His father would never lecture him again. His father would never shake his hear and share a laugh with him. His father would never sharpen his sword and offer to train him in the courtyard again. His father would never go out on horseback and train him how to joust again. His father would never look him in the eye, smile, and call him his son any more. All those days were suddenly gone...instead, he would simply see his father lying there, as if about to wake up...but never waking up. Somehow, this was even worse than the possibility of his father being dead.
Long ago, Andren had promised himself that he would not be like a little girl on the battlefield. He had promised he would not cry. Now, those promises meant nothing. Right there, beside Ser Lester and surrounded by his father's men, he wept. Andren let the tears flow, and he began to cry as hard as he ever had in his life. He buried his face in the cold, dirty metal of his father's armor, and he kept it pressed there as he hugged his father close.
The struggle that day would be called the Battle of Wailing Keep. For Andren, the fortress' namesake had another meaning...
