The march north had been a lesson in logistics and frustration. Leading nine thousand infantry, a mix of seasoned men-at-arms and green levies, was like trying to herd cats through a storm. We had reached the lands near Tumbleton, and our supplies were running dangerously low.
My command was a fractured thing. The officers under me—younger sons, landed knights, and bastards of Stormland houses—viewed me with open resentment. They were men who had dreamed of riding with Robert Baratheon to glory, not shepherding peasants under a foreign upstart. Their loyalty was to their own lords, many of whom had likely counseled caution and independence. They saw my caution as weakness.
Their proposed solution to our supply issues was simple and brutal: sack Tumbleton.
"The town is lightly held, Ser Julius," argued Ser Roland Buckler, a brash knight who had become the ringleader of the discontented. "Our scouts say less than a thousand men guard it, all fresh-faced boys. We could take it in a day, fill our bellies, and line our pockets. The men grow restless."
"And what of the garrison?" I countered, my voice calm but firm. "What of the smallfolk? We are not brigands. Our cause is justice, not pillage. And have you considered the strategic position? Tumblington is a stone's throw from the Crownlands. We would be planting a flag and inviting a response."
My words fell on deaf ears. They saw only an easy victory and immediate gratification.
It was then that Alfy returned. He stumbled into my command tent, his face pale with exhaustion and fear. After a long draught of water, he delivered his report, his voice trembling.
"Lord Rowan, my lord. He marches from Goldengrove with twelve thousand men. Four thousand are heavy horse. They travel light. They will be upon us by tomorrow."
A cold silence filled the tent. My subordinates—Rick, Hale, Claw, and Morty—exchanged grim looks. The reckless knights wanted to attack a town; instead, a professional army was coming to attack us. We were outnumbered, outflanked, and low on supplies.
Ser Buckler's face went from arrogant to ashen. The plan to sack Tumbleton was now suicide.
I stood, my decision made. "We cannot fight here. The terrain favors their cavalry, and our men are not prepared for a pitched battle against such odds. Our mission is to reach the Riverlands and unite with Lord Stark and Lord Arryn. That has not changed."
I turned to Ser Buckler and the other dissenting knights. "You wanted a fight? You will have one. But not the one you envisioned. I am giving you a command, Ser Buckler. Take two thousand of our best men—a rearguard. Your task is not to hold, but to harass, to delay. Slow Lord Rowan's advance. Use the woods, the streams, the terrain. Make him think our entire host is still here, digging in. You will buy the rest of the army the time it needs to cross into the Riverlands."
It was a death sentence, and everyone in the tent knew it. But it was also a chance for the glory they so desperately craved—a heroic, if doomed, sacrifice.
Ser Buckler stared at me, the bravado gone from his eyes, replaced by a grim understanding. He gave a sharp, jerky nod. "We'll hold them as long as we can."
I felt no satisfaction, only the heavy weight of command. I was sacrificing two thousand men not out of malice, but to save seven thousand. It was a brutal arithmetic, the kind that haunts a commander's sleep.
As the rearguard prepared for its grim duty, I gave the order to the main host. We broke camp with a speed born of desperation, turning our march northward. I looked back only once, at the men who would die because of their pride and my command.
My new goal was clear: get these men to the Riverlands. And a name echoed in my mind, a place I knew from another life, where this war would pivot: the Stony Sept. Robert would need saving, and I intended to be there. But first, I had to ensure this part of his army lived to fight another day. The path to honor, I was learning, was sometimes paved with the most difficult of choices.