The King of Winters

Chapter 69

Myles

Weary, Myles set his mount on forward. Weary of the battle, weary of the defeat. I can't go on like this, I can't. But his hands and feet spurred his horse on. Little by little the remainder of his once great host was moving south to join Prince Aegon's host at Stoney Sept. They were all tired he could see, but that didn't stop them from moving. There's no other choice for them. It's either this or be left behind for anyone who might be pursuing them.

When he looked behind he could see no one behind him. The air was heavy and the sky cloudy and grey. Rain was pouring down on them heavily, so unlike the perfect clear day when he had crept upon the Stark army at the Crossroads. He looked down as he remembered the day and the battle.

It would not stop, the rain. The downpour has been continuous from last night, so much so that his boots were covered in mud. His horse was well lathered, riding hard to get away from the knights of the Vale. His men were dragging behind him. The disarrayed army which followed behind him looked like some migrating commonfolk in search for safety.

Every fourth or fifth foot Myles would turn back in his saddle, reaching down and tugging up his swordbelt and watch intently for any army that could come chasing after them. At least he had not lost the sword on the fight, giving a chance to fight still.

Richard was riding close beside him. Their men were all stumbling around them, swords and spears in hand, ready to fend off anyone. They rarely stopped to rest, gathering beside rocks and roots of trees to spend the night. Most of his men had survived, a good part of it, only because they had broke and ran before the chivalry of the Vale.

Tired, Myles led his men forth as quick as he could. They were good and safe linking up with Prince Aegon's and his dragon. Pursuing the Stark or Arryn army from the Crossroads was a bad notion, especially with the men he now had with him. Richard had agreed as much. Let the Arrys hold the Trident for now, it would turn around for them when they come back with a dragon.

The journey to Stoney Sept felt longer than the one they had done while marching North for the Crossroads. The rain made it even worse, making the roads muddy and slippery and soaking everything that they had, clothes and food and fire.

He had made it clear for his men that anyone who straggled behind will be left behind. He could not risk to lose the rest of his men in order to get a good night's sleep. All his men knew that, the thousands who were left. They had been no less than a good eight thousand when they fled the Crossroads, maybe more, but some had wandered off in the night, a few wounded had bled to death and others straggled behind unable to keep up with the army. Often, Myles put his wounded men on horse back unwilling to leave the men who'd fought for him in the hands of fate, more like in the hands of wolves and crows. He took garrons from the healthy men and gave them to the wounded, organized the walkers, and set the mounted knights to guard their flanks and rear. He would have marched hard if his horses and men were stronger. They could be behind us. Nothing encourages an army better than the sight of a foe running broken before them.

His clothes under the fine armor was soaked riding through the rain. The rain had managed to drench the hose, the thick quilted coat that padded him against the cold steel of his armor, the fine surcoat with the red salmon of House Mooton upon the chest and even the layers of smallclothes beneath. His cloak did little to keep the cold away as it too was soaked in the rain, the triple-layered cloak with a salmon pin made of ruby that fastened tight under his chins. Its hood flopped forward over his forehead. The blood which had covered his armor and wool-and-leather gloves had been completely washed off by the rain.