Hafter

Shrugging his shoulders Hafter tried to settle the weight of his armor more comfortably. All around him his men where gathering, while most of his vanguard had been scattered to reinforce strong points across the Stark line he still had a strong force, nearly seven hundred swords. Also gathering where most of the remnants of the cavalry force that Lord Stark had led and a force of Blackwood and Manderly infantry that had managed to push ahead to their position. In all they numbered perhaps thirty two hundred men, divided near equally between horsemen and infantry.

The remaining fifteen hundred or so Stark cavalry had been given over to Halvard's command once more, they where tasked with attempting to circle around Connington's men and seize the south gate, sealing it and holding it against his retreat. Hafter had high hopes for the plan that they where about to enact, his uncle Mors and what men had entered the west gate, roughly five thousand foot from what messengers said, would assault the Targaryen forces in the square and draw their attention Allowing Lord Hornwood and the bulk of their infantry, some ten thousand swords to then attack the loyalists in the flank while Lord Stark led the third force to relieve Robert Baratheon and then strike at the Targaryen rear.

It all seemed so simple, so abstract, but Hafter knew that this plan, his plan would lead to the deaths of hundreds if not thousands of men today. Looking over his shoulder he met the gaze of Lord Stark, his liege lord would lead a third of the horse not sent with Halvard from behind the infantry, ready to commit them to wherever they might be needed in the lines. The other two thirds of their cavalry would be split equally and would proceed down parallel streets, ready to flank any enemy forces that they might encounter. Lord Stark had given over command of the two flanking forces to Gareth on their right and Lord Dustin on their left. The bulk of their heavy horse was under Lord Eddard, with Lord Dustin and Gareth mostly commanding free riders and more questionable horsemen.

At a nod from Stark Hafter grinned and nudged Benard Hull, the man he'd chosen as his second when he'd sent his handful of cavalry to join Lord Stark's depleted bodyguard. The Steele infantry, followed closely by the Blackwood and Manderly men, would act as the van for this assault. At his nudge Benard raised a war horn to his lips and sounded out two long and mournful notes. With that signal Hafter's men began their advance, it took them mere minutes to reach the corner that led into the small square where Baratheon was trapped.

Hafter was greeted by the sight of five hundred loyalist soldiers milling about in confusion, some had obviously taken the war horn as the signal it was and where scrambling to form a shield wall at the end of the street where it widened out into the courtyard. Whoever was in command was clever, he'd formed his wall in a rough crescent, meaning that as Hafter's men emerged from the narrower street into the square they'd be surrounded on three sides. Over the shoulders and through the shields of the enemy lines appeared a hedge of spears, making the enemy formation even more daunting.

Luckily Lord Stark had mentioned that the enemy commander had used this tactic twice before when fending off cavalry charges, and Hafter was ready for it. He had a shaved knuckle in his pocket for just this occasion, though he held his tricks as he eyed the enemy position, his own men stopping well short of the end of the street. Behind the Targaryen shield and spear wall a set of hastily erected barricades made from tipped carts and furniture faced a large, gaily painted stone building. The Peach if Hafter was any judge.

Crossbowmen crouched behind the barricades, eyeing the windows and doors of the Peach with weapons ready, and a handful of nervous looking men-at-arms and knights stood near the archers. The reason for their reluctance made clear by the dozen or so bodies scattered around the door in the colors of various loyalist houses. As the bulk of the men in the square moved to oppose Hafter's warriors however a voice rose above the noises of chattering men and rattling armor, "Storm that whorehouse you craven shits! Before these fucking savages reach the usurper!" From the men facing the brothel a handful of braver souls charged the brothel, followed more slowly by their more cautious comrades. Crossbow bolts from several windows killed three of the leaders before Hafter tore his gaze free and focused upon the men before him.

He scanned their ranks one final time before nodding again to Benard, who sounded the same two note signal. Steele men advanced in their own shield wall, though no spears joined the shields in facing the enemy. Their large oak shields where large enough to cover and entire man, and left little room to pear around or over, effectively blinding the northmen to what lay before them. Once his men had closed to a mere eight paces from his foes Hafter once more bellowed an order to halt.

His foes lines shifted nervously as they stared at his men, they could see they where outnumbered, and the loyalists in the square where tired, they'd already fought off numerous attacks by Stark cavalry. Now however they faced fresh men, infantry hungry for blood, and the thought made them nervous. Hafter grinned as he saw their unease, it would help the next phase of his plan. Glaring over his men's heads at the enemy he drew breath for another barked command, "Shields! Down!" Worry was replaced by confusion on the enemies faces as his front two ranks of men dropped shields and all to the ground, landing on their bellies. Hidden behind them was Hafter's shaved knuckle, three ranks of men, the first kneeling and equipped with the heaviest crossbows they'd been able to salvage from the loyalist dead. The second and third ranks where men bearing massive northern longbows, half a dozen arrows clutched in their fists.

At twenty paces a good longbow could pierce plate armor and stop a charging knight in his tracks, a heavy crossbow could do it at thirty. At half that distance? With only leather, chain-mail, and two fingers of wood to protect you? Death sprang from the northern lines, the street they stood on was narrow, only allowing fifteen men to stand abreast, which meant the crossbows killed relatively few of the Targaryen men. The longbows however managed four to five arrows apiece before the enemy commander managed to order the charge. In all the loyalist foot saw more than a eighty men in their front lines perish in a storm of goose feathers and ashen shafts. Some arrows even went through one man and his shield with enough force to carry on into the next man in line.

Hafter's grin only widened as his shield bearers scrambled back to their feet with barely enough time to reform their wall. Meeting the enemy charge with a tremendous clash of wood and steel, and holding their ground. His archers quickly trotted back further into his lines, allowing men armed with short stabbing spears room to join his ranks of shield bearers and begin to thrust into the enemy ranks. Other men joined behind them, readying swords and axes in case of a breach or just adding their weight to the backs of the heaving shield bearers, helping them hold their ground against the press of men.

Turning to Benard he nodded, and the slim Hull man grinned viciously before sounding his horn in a single long note. With a loud groan the Steele men pushed forward with their shields, then took one slow, agonizing step forcing the enemy back. Pressed hard against the northmen's shields, and with spears jabbing beneath the shields into their legs and feet, more than one loyalist fell and was passed over by the advance. Only to meet the axes and iron shod boots of the fourth rank, ordered to kill any man who they found living.

Slowly the Steele men advanced like this, leaving a path of slaughter until they reached the edge of the square. Hear Hafter's plan would be put to the test, slamming his helmet back on his head he nodded to the band of men he had hand picked from his forces before the assault began. They where mostly his father's household guards and sworn swords veteran, well equipped men utterly loyal to his father. When the shield wall advanced further into the square its flanks would be exposed, in order to keep it from being overrun Hafter had decided that he and Benard would each lead a band of a score of picked men in charging around their flanks, securing their sides and allowing the shield wall to be expanded under the command of one of his other captains.

As the edge of the shield wall took its first steps into the open of the square, Hafter charged, roaring a war cry as he did so, "Steele! For Brandon!" Hafter reached the edge of the formation just as the first Fenn man-at-arms tried to round it, slamming an armored shoulder into the man's chest and knocking him to the ground, where a steel booted foot quickly crushed his throat and jaw with a stomp. Then he was beyond the gap, allowing his men to pour out behind him.

A hedge knight was the next opponent to meet him, rushing in with morning star raised, only for Hafter to bat the weapon aside and plant his hand ax in the side of the man's neck before shoving his convulsing corpse to the side. After that everything became a blur of blood and screams. Cutting his way through the enemy Hafter remembered a handful of deaths in the chaos. A Rykker levy with half his head missing from a sword blow. Some Grandison knight coughing blood as he swung his mace with one hand, the other clutching a spear buried in his gut, until Hafter's sword removed leg at the knee and then tore his throat out. A guardsman whom Hafter had known since he was a boy having his head smashed in by a hedge knight's warhammer, only for Hafter to spill the man's guts across the cobblestones with a slash. All of it blended together in the mists of Hafter's blood lust.

He lost count of the men he killed and the time that passed, until finally no more men stood before him. Hafter shook himself loose of his battle rage as he glanced around in confusion. The enemy forces where gone, running for their lives from his men, who cheered behind him. Of his score of flankers whom he'd led Hafter counted a dozen men still standing, half of them wounded in some way or another. As his men cheered he caught sight of the inn across the way. The loyalist soldiers who had charged it where scattered before the doorway, and in their place stood fourteen men in the yellow and black of House Baratheon. Most of the Stormlanders looked to be common armsmen, though at least three wore their own sigils and carried themselves like knights. At the head of their tiny formation stood a muscular knight who matched Hafter for height, half armored, though with a magnificent antlered helm atop his head. The knight wielded a massive war hammer that dripped with blood, and was laughing hugely as he watched the loyalist men flee.

Hafter sagged slightly in relief as he realized the only man who the laughing giant could be, Robert Baratheon. Self declared King of the Seven Kingdoms, Lord of the Andals, the Roynar and the First Men, Lord Paramount of the Stormlands and Lord of Storm's End.

Jarren

Screams and the clash of steel surrounded Jarren as he desperately tried to hold up a defense against the wild blows of a stout Crownlands knight. Turning aside a heavy sword strike Jarren stepped in close and rammed his dirk into the man's armpit, then wrenched it free and slammed the short blade home into the knight's visor, ending his screams in a wave of blood. Taking a free moment to breath Jarren glanced around him. Everywhere there was chaos, corpses and wounded littered the square as men fought on, exhausted.

Jarren halfheartedly cast about for his ax for a moment before remembering that the heavy weapon had been lost in a frantic grappling match with a simple peasant levy. It couldn't have been more than a few minutes ago but seemed to have been a lifetime distant. With barely a thought for the gore staining his dirk Jarren slid it back into his belt, hefting the longsword of the man he'd just slain in the daggers place. With a weapon more formidable than the dirk in hand Jarren once more observed the battle.

Northmen where being pushed back, not thirty yards away in the heart of the square he could see the remains of Ned's bodyguard, a dozen men heading a ragged wedge of less than a hundred northmen who stood defiantly against their foe. In other places similar pockets of organized resistance stood, though none quiet as large. Everywhere else was just a chaotic melee.

Jarren could barely remember how they'd gotten to this point, Ned had ordered his men, now joined by Robert's handful of guards, deeper into the town. All with the intent of meeting up with Mors' and Lord Hornwood's forces. They'd reached the town square to find no battle raging, and where instead met by the readied spears of nearly three thousand loyalists. Not to mention a vicious charge by perhaps four hundred knights that had smashed Hafter's organized shield wall. Jarren had become separated from Ned in that charge, distracted by a duel with a tall knight with a serpent on his shield.

The northmen had barely any time to react before the melee began, a handful of messengers had run off to find their cavalry and collapse it on the enemy flanks as well as to find the rest of the army but otherwise little had been done. Not that Ned's gambit with the cavalry had worked yet, the rebels in the square where hard pressed and outnumbered and their reinforcements had yet to arrive. Jarren panted heavily as he began attempting to fight his way towards Ned's guards, their position was strong, with their flank anchored by a fountain in the shape of a trout.

As Jarren neared he began to make out the men who still stood around Ned. Theo Wull and Martyn Cassell where flanking the young lord paramount, cutting down all who threatened him. To their right stood Ser Mark Ryswell, the youngest brother of Lord Ryswell was wounded and battered but held his ground admirably against a pair of men-at-arms. Another mountain clansmen anchored the right side, a large man with the Flint sigil on his tunic. To the left of Lord Stark stood Jacen Blackwood and the slight figure of Howland Reed, the knight and crannogman seeming to dance amongst their fores. Edrik and Cedrik held the left with one of Mors Umber's sons, Marlon Umber, the three giants piling bodies before them.

As Jarren neared them he heard a war horn sound behind him, he turned just in time to watch as four hundred mounted northerners slammed into the southern flank of the loyalists. At their head he could see Gareth sitting tall in his saddle, the second Steele brother leading his men in cutting a vicious path through the Targaryen loyalists.

However within moments his charge began to stall. Aside from the two score armored lancers that where the leading edge of his charge Gareth's forces where mostly sellswords and green boys on plow horses. The initial impact they made was strong, throwing aside loyalist foot. But then they began to meet solid resistance and their numbers began to dwindle. Yet on Gareth pushed, the grimmest of the Steele brother's had always been known for single minded determination.

Gareth and ten of his lancers had made it nearly to Lord Stark and where rounding the fountain when disaster struck them. Jarren caught glimpses of it as he fought. He saw a tall knight in red and white charge into the flank of Gareth's men at the head of half a dozen other knights. They easily cut through the northerners, and by the time Gareth and his remaining men had turned to meet them the knights had slain half of them.

Gareth cut down one of the knights and his men managed to drag another from his saddle, but after just a few moments only Gareth remained. The remaining knights spread out to form a rough half circle around Gareth as the red and white armored leader moved to face him. Jarren knew his half-brother was a fine swordsman, but in the brief glimpse he'd gotten he knew the knight and red and white was better. Jarren bellowed his brother's name above the clamor of battle and began to fight his way towards the duel. He threw aside friend and foe alike as he moved to help his brother.

Through the sound of steel on steel and the screams of the dying Jarren heard three other roars that matched his own. The Steele brothers where a close brood, and in the north blood was the strongest tie. So seeing their brother in danger sent four massive warriors across the battlefield into a frantic rage as they began to carve bloody paths towards the fountain.

Edrik and Cedrik arrived first, meeting three knights of the enemy ring in a thunderous clash. The knights where skilled though, and stood their ground against the monstrous twins, though they where hard pressed to do so. Jarren hit next, sword meeting the shield of a burly knight as he watched Gareth and his foe touch blades for the first time. The exchange was fast, Gareth was a graceful warrior quick and agile. But his foe matched him swing for swing. They parted and met again three times, each time sword and ax meeting half a dozen or more times.

It was on the fourth clash that Jarren's heart caught in his throat. Gareth swung for an opening, blade diving for the knight's shoulder, only to have his blade batted aside as the red and white armored man revealed his gambit. With a flick of his ax the tall man threw Gareth's blade clear and slammed his shield into the Steele man's chest. Gareth fell, the back's of his knees striking the rim of the fountain so he landed in the water with a splash.

As the southerner stood over his fallen brother Jarren redoubled his efforts, efforts that he saw joined as Hafter than struck the ring of knights, smashing one man flat with his armored shoulder before engaging a slim warrior in purple. Edrik roared across the ring as he struck down one of his foes with a crushing blow from his longaxe. Then the tall knights ax descended, biting through Gareth's upraised gauntlet and carrying through into their brother's helm. Once again the remaining Steele brothers roared, now in rage and grief as the knight wrenched his ax free from Gareth's head.

Jarren snarled low in his throat and hammered his blade through his opponents guard, biting the blade into the knights throat. As the burly man crumpled, gagging, to the ground Jarren shoved past him and started towards the red and white armored knight. The tall man turned to him with an almost contemptuous flick of his ax. Speckling Jarren with his brothers blood and adding to the coat of red that covered him. Before the man could even raise his shield or weapon though Jarren launched himself forward.

His borrowed sword struck the man's ax aside and skated off his shoulder pauldron with a deafening squeal. The tall knight managed to get his shield up in time to block the next blow, and Jarren slammed his blade into the shield four times, destroying the sigil upon it. Slowly the knight was forced to his knees as Jarren struck his shield. As Jarren reared back for a fifth blow though the man lashed out with his ax, the blade biting into Jarren's calf through greave and chain mail.

Gritting his teeth Jarren struck downwards at the ax. His blade cleaved through the oaken handle and struck the knight's arm, he felt the blade cleave through the man's arm, severing it just above the wrist before it struck the paving stones and shattered. Both combatants stared in shock for several long heartbeats, on at the severed stump of his sword arm and the other at his shattered weapon. Just as the knight began to scream shrilly Jarren tackled the man to the ground.

Jarren rested his knees on the struggling knight's shoulders to hold his arms in place and began to slam his gauntleted fists into the man's helm. With each strike the knight spluttered and coughed, though Jarren carried on. Roaring in rage and pain he hammered on. The Steele bastard felt his gauntlets begin to malform from the impacts and felt at least one finger break from the pressure. But slowly surely, the knight's helm began to bend. The hardened steel began to dent inwards until with one last heavy blow the helm caved in and the knight went silent.

Panting Jarren stood, cradling his left hand which he was fairly certain was broken. Only then did he glance around. He saw the backs of his three brothers as they stood in their own protective ring around him, just beyond them he saw the shattered bodies of the red and white knight's companions. Beyond them he saw hundreds of Targaryen loyalists fleeing the square as northerners and riverlanders halfheartedly pursued them. Cedrik was the first to register his confusion, the quieter of the twins gesturing down at the fallen knight whom Jarren still stood over with his sword.

Jarren followed the swords gesture and for the first time registered the sigil on the man's chest. Red and white, with two griffins facing each other. He let out a disbelieving breath, "Gods..." Jarren had just bashed in the skull of Jon Connington. The hand of the king and commander of the Targaryen armies.

Hadrian

Hadrian sat upon a small stool and stared into the fire his men had built before his tent, the lord of the Dreadfort was exhausted, and he supposed he had every right to be. It had been two days since the battle at Stoney Sept. Though men where already calling it the 'Battle of the Bells' from what he'd heard. The battle had been a bloody ordeal, Lord Stark had told the gathered lords of their losses last night as they made camp, nearly four thousand men dead, a fifth of their army. Though the Targaryen's had lost more men, nearly ten thousand dead and with thousands more even now being held prisoner. The only organized remnants of the enemy army where those who had held the eastern gate, some four thousand men who'd withdrawn from the battle when the main force broke, their leader had managed to rally another two thousand or to him before beating a hasty retreat towards King's Landing.. The rest had been utterly broken, and Hadrian doubted that they'd be able to reform in any major group.

Despite their numbers the loyalists had all broken when Jarren had slain Jon Connington. Jarren, Hadrian's thoughts turned to his youngest son. Men throughout the rebel ranks where already calling him Stonehands for the way he'd supposedly crushed Jon Connington's helm with his fists. But the bastard of the Dreadfort had not taken the battle well, Hadrian knew it wasn't the killing, his son had fought multiple times against wildlings at his foster home. Jarren felt deeply the loss of his brother, despite his bastard status Hadrian's youngest son loved his brothers, even if they all didn't return his affection.

Hadrian had shed his own tears for his second son, though not nearly as many as his bastard had shed. All his sons where still grieving in their own way, Hadrian had grown quiet and brooding over the past two days, sitting quietly in his tent when not occupied with his duties. Hafter was throwing himself into any task he could find, organizing supplies and continuing to drill the Steele men. Edrik and Cedrik had grown quarrelsome, arguing with each other over everything and even getting into one fist fight as they tried to avoid thinking of their brother. Jarren though had spent the last two days endlessly polishing his brothers sword, and had all but refused to eat. The only place the boy seemed to be normal was with the remnants of Lord Stark's bodyguard. Nearly half of the young men who'd ridden into Stoney Sept with their liege lord had fallen.

Mors Umber's youngest son, Garth, spitted on a knight's lance in the town square. Rodger Flint beheaded in a charge on the peach. Duncan Hornwood, chest caved in by a kicking horse. The list went on, young lords and the sons or brothers of lords dead. But a handful still remained, and among that handful Jarren seemed to be growing particularly close to the young Lord Stark.

Hadrian pushed all thoughts of his sons from his mind as he stood and stretched, his aging joints popping with the effort as he turned to head back to his tent, eager for a night's rest. Tomorrow they would press on to the Red Fork, where messengers claimed that Jon Arryn had finally arrived with his host. From there the future was uncertain, but Hadrian felt confident in the lords in command of the host, Jon Arryn and Hoster Tully where seasoned men, though he was unsure if they could reign in the Baratheon lad. As he neared the entrance to his tent though Hadrian was distracted by a call.

"Lord Steele! M'lord!" Hadrian turned curiously to see two of his men striding towards him, flanking a battered man-at-arms in the colors of some minor riverlands house. The man was panting and covered in dust as if from a long ride as he bowed to Hadrian. Hadrian quickly gestured for water from another of his men nearby as the riverlander approached. After a quick drink and a moment to catch his breath the man reached into his jerkin.

"For you m'lord, raven arrived at Riverrun two days past. Maester said to bring this to you quick as I could, said it was important." The man withdrew a carefully folded parchment from his jerkin, the edges slightly stained by dirt and sweat. With a nod Hadrian took the packet from the man and looked it over, the seal was still intact, showing the Riverrun trout. Which only served to confuse him.

Looking to his men Hadrian gestured to the cookfire, "Get him some food." Then the Dreadfort lord turned and entered his tent, still inspecting the package. Sitting on his cot he drew an already burning lantern closer. With light present Hadrian flicked his thumb and broke the seal, out of the folded parchment fell a smaller, finer paper, the like carried by ravens. Its seal was already broken, and showed his house's sigil upon it. His confusion only mounting Hadrian clutched the tiny scroll in thick fingers and began to read.

To whomever receives this letter, please know that it is intended for Lord Hadrian Steele, Lord of the Dreadfort. Please bear it to him with all haste, or baring that to one of his sons or bannermen.

-Maester Willem

The first part of the letter seemed fairly typical, and did little to ease Hadrian's confusion, beneath it though came a second passage, written in a fairer hand that Hadrian instantly recognized. Mara.

Father,

I'm afraid that the saying is true, dark wings, dark words. Thought the maester tells me that you'll likely receive this by rider. I suppose I should just write this quickly, Megan is dead father. She went into childbirth late last night and it went poorly from the start. She bled badly when the babe came, and by the time it was done the babe was dead and Maester Willem said Megan was already showing signs of fever. She fought hard, and Willem did all he could, but she died just hours later. Tell Hafter that her last words where of him, maybe it will bring him some comfort.

Mara

After a moment Hadrian couldn't believe it, then he read the letter again. Megan was dead, his sweet little good daughter dead, gone just like that. Standing he strode out of his tent, still at a loss for words as he clutched the scroll gently in one hand. The guards must have seen the look on his face from the confusion in their eyes. Hadrian turned to one of them and managed to get the words out, "Bring me Hafter. Now."

Authors Note: Sorry about the delay on this one, did some last minute changes before I decided to post it. Thought I'd make one last check to try and spot my grammar mistakes on this one. Now to address some of the comments people left, Parzival vi Britannia: Ironically chapter 3 was the first chapter I did have another person edit. Unfortunately they appear to have missed those grammar errors you mentioned and I'm really bad at spotting them myself. However this chapter may be even worse as I can't contact my editor right now (this site won't let me) and they never got around to editing this one. (So jlc if you see this now you know).

Sceonn; This version of Robert's Rebellion will be different, as you might have noticed reading this part of the Battle of the Bells. (No more Griff in the future). However most of the changes are a few chapters ahead and will result almost directly from the increased Targaryen losses at the Battle of Bells.

Anyone else with questions, comments, concerns, constructive criticisms or the like feel free to comment of PM me. I'll usually PM you back with my response. As always thank you for reading and farewell

-J