The rain came pouring down as the tired commander stood over a small table in a nearly-abandoned outpost built aside the Sheepshead Hills, some leagues away from the White Knife. A desperate plea for reinforcements had been denied, and the remaining forces- some five hundred of House Marric and their bannermen- had taken up the outpost after a foray into Stark territory ordered by the Red Prince Aren, who was the royal commander at the border. After being ambushed, none of the force were killed, but some were injured beyond the point of combat. Archers from House Faerson manned the single tower of the small outpost, while some Whiteblades manned the small walls and patrolled the nearby area, whereas some soldiers- noble and smallfolk alike- took to digging trenches and erecting traps to ensure that the small signaling outpost- only meant to hold about three-fifths their number, was as defensible as possible.
The healers and wounded were given priority in the signaling outpost's buildings, along with the rotating watch- even the young nobleman commanding the troops slept in a modest tent behind the outpost walls. The letters had said the outpost had no value, but Anselm knew better- if even one of these outposts were taken, Starks could intercept and disrupt communication of the Bolton forces and could directly attack the major fortresses and towns that the the hills and various outposts blocked access too.
The outpost's main entranced faced the west, towards the White Knife. There was a secondary entrance on the northern hillside, wherein the soldiers under the banner of the Red King set up their tents and halls. The walls were two stories, and the watchtower that stood twice as high as the walls comprised the northwest corner. There were two buildings in the northern wall- the stables and the blacksmith's workshop. The south wall was comprised of what would typically be the barracks and mess hall, although it held only the wounded and those who tended to them. The eastern wall had an outcropping to it, onto which a great bonfire was kept dry by a large tarp covering the wood and brazier. The signal outposts relayed messages using herbs that colored the smoke that burnt, each color having its own meaning. Against the eastern wall opposite the brazier was the storehouse and a small office that Anselm used a war room, surrounded by sergeants, lieutenants, and captains. The scouts reported that the retaliating force was somewhere between one and two thousand strong- but the majority of cavalry hadn't been able to pursue them due to the fact the Bolton force had burned the bridges behind them- what approached them now was mostly infantry and scarce light cavalry. Anselm's estimate was that they had about two and a half men for everyone that they had- not an impossible victory, but a difficult one.
The terrain was in their favor, but sheer numbers would aid in the Starks' attempt. As he continued to ponder what strategies they could use, a soldier came in, holding a piece of parchment addressed to the commander. The Whiteblade soon opened it up, reading it with a stern expression.
To Commander Marric,
I, Ruban Stark, commander of the advance forces and son of the White King, hereby offer you the following honorable terms of surrender:
All weapons shall be laid on the ground, save for your swords which you may carry home.
The signaling outpost shall be turned over as property of House Stark.
You, as commander, will be taken as a respected prisoner until your men have abandoned the outpost.
Your wounded shall be tended to and given additional time to evacuate.
Your men shall be given enough supplies to live on until they reach their homes.
You have until dawn to accept this surrender. If you accept these terms, open the front gates and use your signaling brazier to release a great white smoke.
Honorably,
Ruban
White Prince
Third Son of House Stark.
With a sigh, Anselm slammed his fist on the table, looking to the others in the room.
"Gather the men at the northern wall. It is time that I speak with them."
The commander then put on his cloak, tying his longsword to his hip and his dagger to the small of his back before climbing the stairs and standing at the rampart, watching as the men who weren't on patrol or manning the defenses gathered in an arch-like formation by the wall in order to hear their commander speak.
Lifting up the parchment, Anselm read the letter to them, soon dropping it before speaking up, address them with as firm and calm a voice as he possibly could as his baritone travelled throughout the hillside.
"What you have just heard is what I just received moments ago. These terms, as Prince Ruban stated, are honorable. We would not lose a single man if these terms are upheld.
"But think of the risk- if we accept, the Starks will gain a foothold in our lands. Prince Aren has said in a letter that arrived this morning that he will not dispatch reinforcements to our position. If we are to drive off this force, it will be done so with our force of roughly five hundred. The Starks come primarily with infantry and light cavalry, so they hold numbers over us. We have dug the trenches and made this place as defensible as best possible- every man has done his work, and for that I thank you.
"But we now have two options- we can light a small fire with white smoke at dawn to tell of our surrender, or we can light the great brazier with a grand fire as we fight to halt the Starks from taking our lands and threatening those we hold most hear to us! I am but one man who serves the Red King, I may be an heir but I haven't yet any land to covet. I shall obey the choice of my men. Shall we stand and fight for our people, or shall we surrender and return to our families?"
There was a silence as only a faint breeze passed through the camp. Then, there was the sound of the flat of a sword against a shield in a steady beat.
The sound soon grew louder and louder until it was almost deafening, with swords and axes places against shields as soldiers chanted and other slammed the butts of their spears against firm stone. The soldiers had given their answer- they would fight to protect their lands if it meant their lives.
Anselm raise his hands, a motion to silence the soldiers as he spoke again.
"Then, at dawn, let every man capable of fighting put on his whole armor and prepare for the oncoming battle! At dawn, we light the mighty brazier! At dawn…" The young commander then drew his longsword, raising it into the air. "...we make our stand! We shall return home carrying our shields or being carried on them!"
The soldiers cheered and soon dispersed as the outpost was alive with new activity- the sound of whetstones and grindstones being used to sharpen blades while armor was cleaned and treated, the sound of prayers being sent to ask for victory and safety, the sound of men confiding in one another as they prepared for the upcoming battle at dawn. Their commander sharpened his own longsword before returning to makeshift war room and lighting a lantern as he stared at the table. Countless thoughts and ideas went through his head. Their defensive position was strong, but they wouldn't survive a siege, and if the Starks made it into the tower, they were done for.
If only they could envelop the enemy and prevent their passage…
Wait. If they could envelop the enemy to prevent their passage!
He immediately called his officers and sergeants and discussed the ideas running through his head. They agreed it would be difficult, but should it prove to be a success, it would bring a great victory. This plan that had come in a moment was not the only one they would employ, of course- if it should fail, they laid down commands for other viable options. As soon as they had finalized their plan of actions, the officers and sergeants went, briefing their men as the night watch took over, the commander taking a brief sleep before being the first, putting on his mail and leather before attaching his sword to his side after putting his dagger to his belt. Lasty, the commander donned his helm, tying the straps beneath his chin before pulling his battle-map and preparing for the battle ahead. But, before, anything else could be done as dawn threatened to emerge, the commander took the lantern in his office, using the dying flame to set the tinder of the brazier alight as it slowly took on life, glowing brightly and the soldiers marshalled.
Anselm had his men form into three strata, with a sub-strata comprised of shock-troopers in front to initially pierce the enemy and give them some advantage, each of whom volunteered for the duty.
The first strata consisted primarily of the Whiteblades, separated down the center to allow room for the second strata, which consisted of the lighter infantry and some short-range archers. The remaining heavy soldiers and archers made up the third, defensive line, while what calvary they could muster was to one side and their reserves to the other, mainly to wait for the signal and to pull wounded soldiers, respectively- in total a little less than four hundred while the remaining forces were responsible for the defense of the signaling outpost. The third strata marshalled behind the trenches dug by soldiers in the days prior, while the first two strata were slightly further ahead.
The morning was quiet as the sun rose behind them, the black smoke filling the air as Anselm stood with some others behind the main line of the first strata. The men placed their feet into the ground and stood with shields and spears at the ready. Then as a whistling could be heard, he yelled out quickly, men raising their shields to catch arrows loosed by the enemy as the thunderous footsteps of the enemy could be heard. Anselm drew his sword, raising it in the air with a stern expression, soon dropping it as the longbowmen loosed their arrows in the oncoming enemy and the shock-troopers charged to meet the enemy. The Whiteblades locked shields, forming a moving wall with spears outwards as they slowly moved forward while the light infantry charged through the central gap and the sides, acting on their orders. The enemy had to be thinned before they could do this successfully.
Almost immediately, the light infantry penetrated the cracks made by the shock-troopers as they spread disarray in the enemy ranks, while the archers and longbowmen picked off the stragglers and the Whiteblades repulsed attacks that came their way. But, soon enough, the cavalry came charging to their backs, mowing down some of the medium infantry. Picking up one of the dropped tower shields, Anselm thrust his blade into the side of one of the horses, giving commands to enter a semicircular formation that could be used to pick off the cavalry that was avoiding the skillful shots of their archers.
Meanwhile, Anselm kept close to the shield he had picked up as the enemy archers had begun to fire at will. Some arrows lodged themselves to his shield in the process, all after once found their way to his side, cutting through the side of his leathers before being caught in his chainmail, inches away from piercing his skin. Ripping it out, Anselm spat to his side before giving the order for the small band to charge the cavalrymen whose beasts had fallen to spears and arrows from both sides of the battlefield, though the horsemen were resilient, they did fall.
At this point some twenty Red soldiers had fallen while ten times that number had fallen on the enemy's side. Slapping his sword against the shield, Anselm called out new orders as men rushed together, combining their shields into a tortoise formation, with other groups following suit, penetrating a layer of the enemy before unfolding into an arch and beginning to cut down the enemies at their edges as they pushed forward slowly, the edges of the various arches working to reach one another while the light infantry continued to wreak havoc with the shock-troopers, mowing down enemies with their ranks and bring about mass confusion.
As more and more soldiers fell, the scattered arcs began to approach one another slowly, with some of the light infantry joining the shield walls while those on the edge. Anselm continued to give rallying cries as he pushed alongside those who had volunteered to protect their homes, using their spears and longblades to wound and kill those in front of them. For the most part, the enemy put their efforts towards breaking the enclosing shield wall, although some made their way behind the line. Anselm gave the call for some of the soldiers to break away while the others closed in, Anselm himself turning around and covering the back of two of his fellow soldiers as he heard the enemy charge.
Raising his shield, Anselm slammed his shield into the ground as the enemy's axe threatened to pierce his armor, although Anselm responded by forward bashing the foe before raising his arm in the air, looking to one of the sergeants and lowering his shield quickly. That sergeant then reciprocated the motion, as a pair of flaming arrows entered the sky- a signal for the heavy infantry and reserves to take up forward positions.
The ground shook somewhat as the reserves entered the field and slammed into the infantile flank of those who had attempted to escape the shield wall, which had now enclosed around the remaining forces that weren't entangled with the reserves, although after a while where they found that they could get no room out of the enemy, and Anselm called out, almost as if barking.
"Drop your weapons and raise your arms! Surrender now and live honorably, no more blood needs to be spilt!"
The other soldiers echoed their commander's call for the enemy to surrender as the enemy began to stop pounding away at the shield wall that entrapped them little by little, and eventually the first pair of hands slowly rose into the air. And then the second. Then the third. Soon metal rattled against metal before reaching the damp ground, the the shield wall opening slightly as some of the light infantry passed through the gap, picking up all the weapons save for the swords and shields It was then Anselm looked around, calling out once more.
"Prince Ruban Stark, I call for you to step forward. The time has come for parley regarding the terms of your surrender! "
Soon enough, an individual man stepped forward, he was tall and somewhat gaunt. Although there were some speckles of blood on his clothes, it was apparent from his bearing and the quality of his armor that this man was the princeling in command of the routed forces. He stood about an inch taller than the other commander as he removed his helm to reveal dark brown hair and a long, narrow nose. A small, thick beard and mustache graced his face in addition to a small, hook-shaped scar along his left cheek as his eyes were a dark, compassionate blue in stark contrast to the ice-like and burning blue of Anselm's own eyes. His voice was a soothing tenor, almost as if were to narrate a story, looking for the one that the commands originated from. He was two years Anselm's senior and fought bravely, and acted with grace in defeat as he spoke up.
"I am here- and where are you, Commander Marric?"
"I am here."
Anselm's baritone responded as he lowered his shield and rose from his ready position in the shield wall, returning his longsword to its sheath before removing his own helm and breathing deeply as the crisp air filled his lungs. Raising his free hand clenched into a fist before flattening it, all of his soldiers adopted a standing ready position, the commander speaking afterwards.
"It is a pleasure to meet you, Prince Ruban. If you and your captains- as well as a guard or two- will come with my forces, we will discuss the terms of your surrender while your men gather their dead."
"Aye, Commander. Captain Balimund, Captain Tormund, come!"
Two older veterans appeared, taking their prince's side before the group walked to a place in the center of the battlefield, wherein one soldier accompanied each of them, while Anselm himself was with one of the Whiteblade captains and the ever-present Baylon in addition to two of the heavy infantry as they slowly made their way towards the compound of the victors.
About a hundred yards before the main gate, a messenger brought updates to their commander in whispers, but not before they stopped as they saw the black fire rising even higher as a mark of their victory, signaling for a replenishing force- something that could not be refused after such a fight against a larger force.
The princeling smirked as he looked at the elder man, chuckling.
"I see you've chosen your side, Baylon. I hadn't realized you'd grown a conscience of some sort!"
Baylon stifled a raucous laugh,turning his head to look at the prince.
"And I see you Starks are still as naive as ever- I have no such burden on my talents."
Eventually a small table was brought out onto the battlefield, on large enough for the six officers to sit at as a small, meager meal was served to act as an extension of guest right from the victors to their defeated counterparts- a simple bowl of beef and barley stew, some double-baked bread, and fresh drinking water- a good meal insofar as a soldier was concerned.
In the background, septons and healers from both sides worked in the reclaiming of the dead that littered the field in order to prepare for final rites and burials.
As an attendant brought out the original letter sent to the Marric by the Stark, Anselm began writing down some terms- a good amount of which were amended from the letter as he spoke while penning things down.
"I think you'll find, Prince Ruban, that the terms I offer are fair and honorable.
"All weapons shall be laid on the ground, save for your swords which you may carry home. You will cross over into the White Knife tomorrow morning after you collect your wounded and your dead by dusk. You, as commander and prince, will be taken as a respected prisoner of war until your men begin the mark back into your own territory in order to ensure complaince. All property you leave behind will be taken by the forces of House Bolton to provide for House Bolton. As you have all you require, you shall be given additional medical care, but not food and other supplies aside from things such as blankets."
The other five officers responded to the terms, laying down some more specific information before all six men present signed it, with the nobleman and the princeling affixing red wax seals to the parchment once when signed and another when enclosed. When all was done, the princeling stood up, drawing his sword and extending the pommel to the enemy commander as he spoke.
"As is such, commander, I give you my sword- Coldclaw- as token and proof of surrender."
Anselm took the blade, stepping back as he balanced it and performed some swings with it before speaking back to the princeling.
"I have never seen its equal."
"It was forged by order of my father for me- it will be hard to replace. Hopefully it may be returned to me one day when all this warring has ceased.
And soon enough, morning turned into evening and dusk turned into dawn. The princeling smirked as he left to meet with his captains and vanguard to begin the march top Winterfell, the Marric accompanying him to where the Stark would speak of when he and the Marric would next meet.
"This war does terrible things. After all, Commander Marric, you seem a decent fellow, I'd hate to kill you should we meet again."
The commander chuckled, smirking in return after clasping the prince's forearm in an exchange of farewells.
"You seem a decent fellow, Prince Ruban, I'd hate to die."
"May we next meet under a more peaceful sky, Anselm Marric."
And so, the Starks returned to their lands, crossing the White Knife. In about a week's time, Anselm was greeted with relieveing forces as the Red Prince Aren met the victorious commander, the latter of whom presented the Red Prince with the enemy's sword and the document of surrender. A act that, after showing the replacing officers and sergeants the means by which they maintained and defended the outpost and its defenses, allowed a tired and well-worn group of soldiers to return and rest at their homes until they were called upon next.
It would not be the first vcitory for the Marric, nor the last- but it was one where his more unique tactics began to shine.
