Chapter 22: The Confluence of Rebels, The Shadow of Ashford
The march north from the blood-soaked fields of Summerhall was a relentless grind. Lord Vorant's contingent, a dark river of iron and disciplined manpower, moved with an efficiency that both impressed and unsettled their fellow Stormlords. While other forces straggled, their supply lines stretched and their discipline frayed by the long trek through the increasingly hostile Crownlands, Vorhax's army maintained its cohesion. His foresight in establishing mobile quartermaster units, his insistence on disciplined foraging (paying for what could be bought, taking what was needed with swift, unapologetic force where denied), and the tireless reconnaissance provided by Nyx and his outriders ensured his men remained fed, supplied, and informed.
Vorhax himself rode at the head of the Obsidian Guard, a figure of cold, unwavering resolve. He used the long days to drill his troops further, to observe the terrain with a tactician's eye, and to analyze the reports brought by Will's agents, who seemed to materialize from the very shadows with fresh intelligence. He noted Robert Baratheon's charismatic but often reckless leadership, Stannis's grim, thankless efforts to maintain order and logistics for the entire Stormlord host, and the varying quality of the other lords' forces. Many were brave, but few were truly disciplined or well-equipped by Vorhax's demanding standards.
In the northern reaches of the Crownlands, near the border of the Riverlands, they finally rendezvoused with the armies of the North and the Vale. It was a vast, sprawling encampment, a sea of banners proclaiming the direwolf of Stark, the falcon and moon of Arryn, and countless other sigils of their bannermen. The air buzzed with a mixture of grim determination, grief-fueled rage, and the nervous energy of an army bracing for a cataclysmic confrontation.
The arrival of the Stormlord host, with Robert Baratheon's boisterous presence at its fore, was met with cheers. But as Lord Vorant's distinct, black-clad legion marched into the encampment, a hush fell over many onlookers. The Obsidian Guard, nearly four hundred strong, moving like a single, perfectly articulated war machine, their hawk helms glinting, their dark iron armor drinking the light, were unlike anything the Northmen or the knights of the Vale had ever seen. Brandon Snow's Wolf Brigade, their rugged appearance and Northern ferocity now amplified by Stonefang steel and a shared discipline, added to the formidable impression.
Vorhax met the other principal rebel leaders in Lord Jon Arryn's command pavilion. Eddard Stark, the new Lord of Winterfell, was a young man consumed by a cold, quiet fury, his grey eyes reflecting the recent, horrific loss of his father and brother. He was honorable, Vorhax sensed, and therefore predictable, a potent symbol but perhaps lacking the ruthlessness this war would demand. Jon Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie and Warden of the East, was the elder statesman, his face etched with weariness and the weight of his decision to defy his King. He was shrewd, respected, the glue holding this disparate alliance together.
Robert, of course, dominated the initial council with his sheer presence and righteous anger. "We have Aerys on the run!" he boomed, slamming a fist on the map table. "The Mad King cowers behind his walls! We march to King's Landing and drag him from his throne!"
It was Jon Arryn who counseled caution. "Our forces are still gathering, Robert. And the Targaryens are not without teeth. Lord Tyrell commands a vast host in the Reach. Crownlands lords loyal to Aerys are mobilizing. And Prince Rhaegar… his whereabouts are still uncertain, but he will surely lead an army against us."
Vorhax listened, his Force senses analyzing the undercurrents. He noted the respect afforded to Arryn, Ned Stark's quiet grief hardening into resolve, and Robert's burning impatience. Stannis, ever present at his brother's side, observed Vorhax with undisguised suspicion, particularly when Vorhax offered a piece of intelligence from his own network regarding loyalist troop movements near the Mander.
"Lord Randyll Tarly commands Mace Tyrell's vanguard, my lords," Vorhax stated, his voice calm and precise. "He is a proven commander, disciplined and aggressive. His forces are reportedly moving to interdict our march west of the Kingsroad, perhaps near the town of Ashford." This information, gleaned from an Essosi merchant captain his agents had "persuaded" to talk after docking at a Crownlands port, was more current than Arryn's own.
Robert scoffed. "Tarly? Let him come! We crushed Fell and Cafferen at Summerhall! We'll do the same to this Reachman peacock!"
Vorhax offered no direct counter to Robert's bravado, but suggested, "A thorough reconnaissance of the Ashford region might reveal Lord Tarly's dispositions, my lord. Foreknowledge of the terrain and enemy numbers could prevent unnecessary… complications."
Stannis surprisingly grunted something that might have been agreement, though his gaze remained hostile. Robert, however, eager for another swift victory, waved away the concerns. "Complications? The only complication Tarly will face is how to count his dead! We march to Ashford!"
The rebel army, now a combined host of Northmen, Valemen, and Stormlanders, moved south-west. Vorhax, foreseeing the likely outcome of Robert's impetuousness against a skilled commander like Tarly, ensured his own contingent was prepared for a difficult engagement. He positioned the Obsidian Guard and the Wolf Brigade to form a strong, flexible reserve, capable of shoring up a failing line or exploiting a sudden opportunity.
The Battle of Ashford, when it came, was a brutal, confused affair fought in rolling hills and scattered woodlands. Randyll Tarly had indeed chosen his ground well, his archers positioned on higher ground, his heavy horse ready to exploit any break in the rebel lines. Robert Baratheon, leading from the front as always, charged with his Stormlords into the heart of Tarly's formation. The fighting was desperate, and for a time, Robert's sheer ferocity seemed to carry the day. He personally slew Lord Cafferen (who, having bent the knee to Robert after Summerhall, had inexplicably, or perhaps under duress from Tarly, switched sides again, a fatal mistake).
But Tarly was a more cunning opponent than the lords of Summerhall. He fed his reserves in skillfully, his archers inflicted a steady toll, and his disciplined formations held against Robert's charges. Soon, the rebel left flank, held by a contingent of Valemen, began to buckle under a fierce assault by Tarly's heavy horse.
Robert, his forces mired in the center and taking heavy losses, roared for reinforcements. Jon Arryn struggled to disengage his own knights to aid the crumbling flank. It was here that Vorhax acted.
"Captain Snow," he commanded, his voice cutting through the din of battle, "take the Wolf Brigade, reinforce Lord Arryn's left. Shore up that line. Ser Gareth, the Obsidian Guard will advance with me. We will break Tarly's center before he can envelop us."
It was an audacious move. Instead of merely plugging the gap, Vorhax intended to launch a counter-attack against Tarly's strongest point. The Obsidian Guard, moving with their characteristic terrifying discipline, advanced in a dense, black iron wedge. They absorbed a volley of arrows on their superior shields and thick plate, then crashed into Tarly's veteran infantry.
What followed was a display of brutal efficiency that stunned both friend and foe. The Obsidian Guard, wielding their heavy Stonefang swords and axes, their hawk-helms giving them an inhuman aspect, fought with a cold, silent fury. Their blows shattered shields, pierced armor, and crushed bones. Vorhax himself was at their apex, his own black blade a whirlwind of destruction, the Force guiding his movements, allowing him to anticipate and counter every blow, his strikes always finding their mark with lethal precision. He did not fight with Robert's wild abandon, but with the focused lethality of a Sith weapon.
The ferocity of the Obsidian Guard's assault momentarily staggered Tarly's center. Brandon Snow's Northmen, meanwhile, had slammed into the flank of Tarly's attacking cavalry, their axes and greatswords taking a bloody toll, giving the Valemen vital breathing room.
Despite these successes, the overall tide of the battle was against the rebels. Tarly's numbers were greater, his position stronger, and Robert's initial charge had lost its momentum. As dusk began to fall, with both sides having taken grievous losses, Lord Arryn and a chastened Robert Baratheon gave the order to disengage and withdraw. The Battle of Ashford was a defeat for the rebels, their first significant setback.
Vorhax's forces, however, had performed with distinction. The Obsidian Guard and the Wolf Brigade, having punched a bloody hole in Tarly's center and stabilized the flank, conducted a disciplined fighting withdrawal, covering the retreat of other, more disorganized rebel units. They were among the last to leave the field, their dark banners defiant amidst the carnage. Lord Tarly, though he held the field, had paid a heavy price for his victory, particularly against Vorhax's contingent.
In the aftermath, the mood in the rebel camp was somber. Robert Baratheon was wounded, his arm in a sling, his pride battered. Many good men had fallen. The myth of their invincibility, born at Summerhall, had been shattered.
In the council of war that followed, accusations flew. Some blamed Robert's recklessness, others the Valemen's collapse. Vorhax remained silent, allowing others to vent, until Robert himself, his voice hoarse, turned to him.
"Your men fought like cornered wolves, Vorhax. Like bloody demons. If all my lords had such troops…" He trailed off, then asked, "What say you, Hawk? Why did we lose?"
Vorhax met his gaze. "Lord Tarly is a skilled commander, my lord. He chose his ground well, and his men are disciplined. Our reconnaissance was perhaps… insufficient. And our initial assault, while brave, allowed him to dictate the terms of the engagement." He paused. "Victory often lies not just in valor, but in foreknowledge, precision, and the exploitation of weakness. We underestimated our foe."
His words, though a subtle critique, were delivered as a statement of fact, not accusation. Robert grunted, accepting the assessment. Even Stannis, who had managed the difficult logistics of the retreat with grim efficiency, offered a rare nod of agreement with Vorhax's analysis of Tarly's skill.
The defeat at Ashford, though a blow, had paradoxically elevated Vorhax's standing. His counsel, previously offered and sometimes ignored, would now carry more weight. His troops had proven themselves the most formidable in the rebel host. Robert Baratheon, though still the charismatic leader, now looked upon his Hawk Lord with a new measure of respect, tinged with the usual fear.
The rebel army, battered but not broken, retreated northwards, seeking a place to regroup and lick their wounds. Vorhax used the march to gather intelligence from captured Tarly soldiers (his interrogations, conducted privately, were chillingly effective thanks to the Force) and to analyze the lessons of Ashford. His Obsidian Guard had performed magnificently, but he noted areas for improvement in their coordination with other, less disciplined allied forces.
A few days into their retreat, as they neared the town of Stoney Sept, a scout brought urgent news. Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, at the head of a substantial royalist army, including Dornish levies and Crownlands lords, was marching hard to intercept them. He sought a decisive battle to crush the rebellion in its infancy.
Vorhax listened, his expression unchanged. The true test was at hand. Rhaegar, the prophesied prince, the catalyst of this war, was finally taking the field. The shadow of Ashford had been a harsh lesson. Now, the fate of the rebellion, and Vorhax's own intricate plans, would hang in the balance in the battles to come. The Battle of the Bells, he sensed, was near.
(Word Count: Approx. 4300 words)