Post by The Smith on May 27, 2009 13:05:24 GMT -5
The Reach, Horn Hill Fortress; October, 567 AC
From his window, the young heir to Horn Hill could see fires burning in the fortresses accompanying town. The smithy, a large section of the stables and four large inns were on fire, belching black smoke up into the night sky. This was no accident, and before he could say so to his squire, there came a heavy pounding on the wooden door of his chambers. His brother Simon, covered in soot and reeking of smoke burst into the room, panting as though he had run from the base of the castle all the way up to this tower.
“This is not an accident brother, some foul treachery has been wrought this night,” he said through clenched teeth. “Father is still abed,” he added, before turning and striding out the door without waiting to see if he was being followed. Justin hated how his younger brother always seemed to take charge in a crisis; HE was the heir, and HE would be lord, so why was Simon always the one giving orders and leading men around?
Justin hurried after his brother, donning his leather cuirass haphazardly as they raced through Horn Hill’s halls toward their father’s rooms. He entered the room three steps behind Simon; by the time he got there the second Tarly son had already drawn his sword and was hacking at two hooded figures standing of his father’s bed.
They were both dead in a matter of seconds, they did not seem to even defend themselves, for it was obvious that their goal had been achieved; the lifeless body of Lord Samuel Tarly lay in his bed, a red gash sliced across his throat, his hand reaching toward the hilt of his greatsword, only inches, and yet miles, away. Lord Justin Tarly dimly remembered that his mother was visiting her Redwyne kinsmen at the Arbor, and was momentarily thankful for that, before he took his father’s sword and strode out of the room wordlessly.
The Mander, south of Goldengrove on the west bank of the Mander River; November 568 AC
“We are about to fight a foe spawned from the very depths of hell. I took an oath to protect this realm from all dangers and this day we fight for justice, for survival, for the weal of the Reach, to protect our wives and children and homes! Our cause is just; for we sought no war but instead had it forced upon us. Let us now pray to the Father Above that if he be pleased with our undertaking, he may grant us victory. To him whose we are, let us commend ourselves, body and soul.” Swinging down from his saddle, Simon knelt in the snow, offering his prayers to the Seven Above with his sword point down in the snow. Men behind him did the same, stretching out their arms, raising their voices in praise of the Seven. As the men rose, Simon could see upon their faces the fervent faith of crusaders.
“My Lord!” The shout came from the crest of the hill behind which Lord Tarly had positioned his army. Simon urged his stallion forward, and at once saw the cause of the alarm. The seemingly endless tides of wights that were said to precede the armies of Winter was approaching across the plains, only to run into the advance guard of King Selwyn’s armies. The skirmish was brief, but the wights cut down the King’s troops and sent them fleeing back toward the main lines still ahorse. Dawn’s light seemed to be chasing them across the valley; the horizon was aglow. From the Downs, Simon’s men could see the shadows in retreat, could make out bodies crumpled in the grass, bright splotches of color amid a sea of white snow that had fallen the night before. “First blood,” Simon said softly. The battle of Goldengrove had begun
The Far Reach forces had gathered in Horn Hill after the assassinations that had all but crippled the aristocratic leadership of the domain. They had been reluctant to march north, unsure of what to make of varied and chaotic reports of demons invading the northern lands, and frankly, the men of the Far Reach did not feel any need to march and die for the son of the hated King Rodrick.
However when definitive reports arrived at the fortress that an army of the dead had truly crossed the Blackwater River and was marching south, Lords Pedric Hightower and Justin Tarly took command of the armies of the Reach, marching across the Mander River and north toward Goldengrove. There they had joined with the King’s arrayed on the western bank of the Mander River. The castle of Goldengrove stood out against the sky on the horizon, black smoke and fire billowing up toward the sky.
King Selwyn had given the armies of the Reach the left flank putting them furthest away from the river. The King’s army made a shallow arc west from the river hoping to catch the invaders as if in a net, and force them into the deep waters of the Mander. Subsequently, Lord Hightower had placed the Oldtown levies on the Reach army’s left flank, with his own soldiers in the center and Lord Tarly’s troops on the right, while Ser Simon Tarly had been ordered to take command of the rear-guard which consisted of several hundred of his household knights and freeriders, and the remained of the Oldtown levies.
When the charge was ordered the lines began to move forward toward a small town that had long been abandoned, which was nestled on the riverbank. The Oldtowners had hoped to reach the town before the wights could get around it; the closer quarters forced by the streets would negate the numerical advantage somewhat; there was sure to be utter chaos in a wild melee in such confined area.
However by the time the Oldtowners had reach the bottom of the hill and come upon the edges of the town, a fearsome group of what could only be demons sallied forth to intercept them, riding giant arachnids that were bigger than horses, with razor sharp mandibles and bladed legs. Ser Dustin Flowers, one of Lord Hightower’s bastard sons, who had command of the Oldtowners, and the few knights he had spurred forward meet the charge, with the Oldtown levies struggling to keep pace. They came together with a shattering impact, with a splintering of lances and a clash of swords.
A young soldier stopped, stared open mouthed as horses were flung back on their haunches, as men traded blows and curses with the silent, inhuman force facing them, as Ser Dustin’s knights were overwhelmed by sheer numbers. It happened so suddenly that there was no time for fear. One moment there was a writhing, thrashing line, there was dust rising and stallions screaming and blood spraying. And then the line was giving way, there were rider-less horses shearing off from the fighting, there were men down in the snow, and the Others’ cavalry were upon them.
From the heights of the Downs, the men of Simon’s army had watched in stunned disbelief. That the Oldtowners might break and run was no great surprise, but no one had envisioned a catastrophe of this magnitude. Not even the most experienced soldiers had ever seen a rout occur with such shocking speed. In what seemed to be the blink of an eye, it was over, their battle lost before it truly began. A full third of the Reach’s army was scattered, the mounted Others chasing them down slaying men as foxes catch rabbits, however as the men routed the undead cavalry kept chasing them, soon slipping through the valleys that spider-webbed around the riverbank.
Simon had ridden his stallion to the very edge of the bluff, staring down at the battlefield below. It was strewn with bodies, abandoned weapons, the wounded and the dying. The thick snow was trampled and torn, bloodied. Loose horses galloped aimlessly until they were pulled down by the hordes of wights. Simon watched in horror as the bodies of his fallen countrymen began to rise up, and join the forces of their slaughterers, marching inexorably south.
“My Lord?” Ser Danwell Costayne, who remained in the reserve force as Simon’s lieutenant, reined in beside him sheet-white. “What do we do?” The question was rhetorical, for to Danwell there could be but one answer; to use the reserve to fill in the gap on their left flank, and then await the advancing hordes from the defensive heights of the downs… and pray as they had never prayed before. “Shall I order the reserve to align themselves along the left battle?”
Simon glanced toward him, revealing a face as ashen as Costayne’s. “No. Hold the reserve. I do not know if my brothers still live, so you will sound the advance.”
“You would take the offensive? Warrior’s mercy, boy, why? How high can a bird fly if its wing ha been broken? They just crippled us, Simon, you saw it.”
“They saw it too,” he said, gesturing to the Reachmen who had not yet joined the battle. “Give them time to think about it and they’ll loose all stomach for battle. We attack and we attack now, ere those fiends return to the field and whilst the wights are still clogged up in the town streets. Costayne said something about too great a risk, but Simon was no longer listening. With his left wing destroyed, he could not afford the luxury of caution. He’d long since learned to trust his instincts, even if that meant taking chances other men spurned; right now that gut instinct was all he had. He raised his arm, and let it fall sharply. Trumpets blared and the banners of Tarly and Hightower caught the wind, and the center and vanguard began their descent from the Downs.
“What would you have us do, my lord?” asked Simon’s squire, a nephew of Lord Hightower. He had been badly shaken by the slaughter of the Oldtowners, but his voice was level; he had himself in hand.
“When those foul creatures come back to the field they will cut open your uncle’s flank, unless we can stop them,” Simon replied. Theirs was a small band for so great a task, and Ser Danwell and the young squire exchanged bleak looks, and then turned their eyes toward the field below. Both the center and the vanguard were now engaged, and the fighting looked savage, the fierce hand-to-hand combat of men with little to lose. Moreover, Lords Tarly and Hightower seemed to be acquitting themselves well, pressing the attack with enough ferocity to have gained a slight edge. For all their numbers, the undead hordes showed little tactical maneuvers or flair for command.
Simon swung away from the battlefield, turning to stare at the wooded valley into which the surviving Oldtowners had fled, chased by the demons atop giant spiders. A suspicion was stirring, one so improbable that only now was it infiltrating his conscious awareness. “Where are they?” he did not even realize that he’d spoke the question aloud. Supposition was crystallizing into certainty. “The fools!” He whirled his stallion about. “Danwell, do you not see?” He demanded, eyes ablaze with a sudden light, with a wild, surging hope. “I can scarce believe it, but their cavalry have left the field! If they were regrouping, they would have been back by now. They’re still in pursuit of the Oldtowners!”
They gazed at him in wonderment, but after a moment Danwell shook off Simon’s spell. “Simon… Simon what if you’re wrong?”
“I’m not.” Simon was smiling. “By the Warrior, Dan, I am not!” His household knights and the surviving Oldtowners had gathered around him, but not too close, giving his stallion a respectful berth, for destriers were notorious for their fiery temperament. Simon had found this particular mount in the Dornish Marches, the buy of a lifetime. His color was an unfashionable black, and he was not as big-boned as others of his breed, but most destriers could not sustain their speed; their natural gait was a jarring trot, but Simon’s black stallion could fly like the wind.
He was obviously at least half Dornish, and Simon often thought that one day he must experiment with such crossbreeding. He’d named the destrier Sirocco, which was a Rhoynar word for the hot windstorms that would appear as if by magic in the mountainous region, as a tribute to the animal’s blazing speed. Now he could feel Sirocco quivering under his thighs, feeling the stallion’s eagerness to run, he thanked the Father above for giving him the best horse of his life.
His squire was holding up his great helm. He took it with reluctance; while the eye-sights were wide enough to provide adequate vision, helms were heavy, often weighing twenty-five pounds or more, and so uncomfortable that no knight ever donned one until the last possible moment. Cradling it in the crook of his arm, Simon looked out over the assembled men. When he spoke, it was to the Oldtowners. “Your brothers died for us. You could not save them, but you can avenge them. Ere their cavalry returns to the field, we ride!”
Simon’s surprise attack on the Others’ flank was even more successful than he dared hope. He had to hold Sirocco in check, lest he outdistance his own knights, but they were not far behind; his confidence was contagious and the odds suddenly in their favor. Gathering speed as they charged down the hill they crashed into the wall of walking corpses before the wights could even maneuver to face them.
From the corner of his eye, Simon caught movement. He didn’t recognize the coat of arms on the dead knight’s shield, but that mattered for naught; what was relevant was the lance leveled at his chest. Simon braced himself, took the thrust dead center upon his shield. The lance shattered, rocking him back against the saddle cantle, but he retained his seat, and when the knight circled, sword drawn, Simon got the better of the exchange. He had no time to relish his triumph, though, and found himself threatened by two wights whose rotting surcoats marked them as former westermen. As one f them grabbed recklessly for Sirocco’s reins, his partner thrust upward with a halberd. It was a bold maneuver, deserving of success, but Simon had trained under the greatest warriors of the Reach and had been taught by his father what to do in such a situation. He made use of his spurs, and Sirocco reared up wildly, dragging the dead western soldier off his feet. Simon struck him across the face with his shield, shattering bones and sending the corpse down into the bloody snow, and then swung the stallion around to face the halberder. But the wight was gone, the tide of battle having flowed between them.
The Mander, south of the ruins of Goldengrove; December 568 AC
Simon’s reckless charge had had its desired effect during the battle, forcing the armies of the dead backward and not allowing them to break through his battle lines. He learned later that his older brother Justin as well as Lord Hightower had been killed in the first minutes of the battle, and he ended up knighting over a score of men who had held the center and right flank together instead of allowing a rout after those commanders were killed. The true savior of the battle, however, was the striking woman who called herself Saella Targaryen. She arrived on dragonback leading her daughters north in a blaze of fire and glory, burning to a crisp huge portions of the dead troops, which had the added effect of making them unable to rise again as they were wont to do.
When she arrived with her Dornish allies and dragons, as well as mercenaries from across the Narrow Sea, the battle was won with stunning acuity, and the forces of the Others melted northward in retreat from the dragonfire. However it took weeks to organize the survivors of the battle, and then negotiations took place between King Selwyn and Saella before he eventually decide to take the knee. Thousands of men had died, and by the time the armies of Westeros started to march north, past the burnt out shell that had once been Goldengrove, their forces were greatly reduced. It took three years to push the Others up out of Westeros, every league bought with the blood of hundreds of men, but eventually the dragon-queen led her subjects beyond the Wall itself, and in the Final Battle she led the armies of Westeros to a victory at the cost of her own life.
Simon Tarly inherits the Lordship of Horn Hill, Heartsbane, and gains Legendary Battle Command.
From his window, the young heir to Horn Hill could see fires burning in the fortresses accompanying town. The smithy, a large section of the stables and four large inns were on fire, belching black smoke up into the night sky. This was no accident, and before he could say so to his squire, there came a heavy pounding on the wooden door of his chambers. His brother Simon, covered in soot and reeking of smoke burst into the room, panting as though he had run from the base of the castle all the way up to this tower.
“This is not an accident brother, some foul treachery has been wrought this night,” he said through clenched teeth. “Father is still abed,” he added, before turning and striding out the door without waiting to see if he was being followed. Justin hated how his younger brother always seemed to take charge in a crisis; HE was the heir, and HE would be lord, so why was Simon always the one giving orders and leading men around?
Justin hurried after his brother, donning his leather cuirass haphazardly as they raced through Horn Hill’s halls toward their father’s rooms. He entered the room three steps behind Simon; by the time he got there the second Tarly son had already drawn his sword and was hacking at two hooded figures standing of his father’s bed.
They were both dead in a matter of seconds, they did not seem to even defend themselves, for it was obvious that their goal had been achieved; the lifeless body of Lord Samuel Tarly lay in his bed, a red gash sliced across his throat, his hand reaching toward the hilt of his greatsword, only inches, and yet miles, away. Lord Justin Tarly dimly remembered that his mother was visiting her Redwyne kinsmen at the Arbor, and was momentarily thankful for that, before he took his father’s sword and strode out of the room wordlessly.
The Mander, south of Goldengrove on the west bank of the Mander River; November 568 AC
“We are about to fight a foe spawned from the very depths of hell. I took an oath to protect this realm from all dangers and this day we fight for justice, for survival, for the weal of the Reach, to protect our wives and children and homes! Our cause is just; for we sought no war but instead had it forced upon us. Let us now pray to the Father Above that if he be pleased with our undertaking, he may grant us victory. To him whose we are, let us commend ourselves, body and soul.” Swinging down from his saddle, Simon knelt in the snow, offering his prayers to the Seven Above with his sword point down in the snow. Men behind him did the same, stretching out their arms, raising their voices in praise of the Seven. As the men rose, Simon could see upon their faces the fervent faith of crusaders.
“My Lord!” The shout came from the crest of the hill behind which Lord Tarly had positioned his army. Simon urged his stallion forward, and at once saw the cause of the alarm. The seemingly endless tides of wights that were said to precede the armies of Winter was approaching across the plains, only to run into the advance guard of King Selwyn’s armies. The skirmish was brief, but the wights cut down the King’s troops and sent them fleeing back toward the main lines still ahorse. Dawn’s light seemed to be chasing them across the valley; the horizon was aglow. From the Downs, Simon’s men could see the shadows in retreat, could make out bodies crumpled in the grass, bright splotches of color amid a sea of white snow that had fallen the night before. “First blood,” Simon said softly. The battle of Goldengrove had begun
The Far Reach forces had gathered in Horn Hill after the assassinations that had all but crippled the aristocratic leadership of the domain. They had been reluctant to march north, unsure of what to make of varied and chaotic reports of demons invading the northern lands, and frankly, the men of the Far Reach did not feel any need to march and die for the son of the hated King Rodrick.
However when definitive reports arrived at the fortress that an army of the dead had truly crossed the Blackwater River and was marching south, Lords Pedric Hightower and Justin Tarly took command of the armies of the Reach, marching across the Mander River and north toward Goldengrove. There they had joined with the King’s arrayed on the western bank of the Mander River. The castle of Goldengrove stood out against the sky on the horizon, black smoke and fire billowing up toward the sky.
King Selwyn had given the armies of the Reach the left flank putting them furthest away from the river. The King’s army made a shallow arc west from the river hoping to catch the invaders as if in a net, and force them into the deep waters of the Mander. Subsequently, Lord Hightower had placed the Oldtown levies on the Reach army’s left flank, with his own soldiers in the center and Lord Tarly’s troops on the right, while Ser Simon Tarly had been ordered to take command of the rear-guard which consisted of several hundred of his household knights and freeriders, and the remained of the Oldtown levies.
When the charge was ordered the lines began to move forward toward a small town that had long been abandoned, which was nestled on the riverbank. The Oldtowners had hoped to reach the town before the wights could get around it; the closer quarters forced by the streets would negate the numerical advantage somewhat; there was sure to be utter chaos in a wild melee in such confined area.
However by the time the Oldtowners had reach the bottom of the hill and come upon the edges of the town, a fearsome group of what could only be demons sallied forth to intercept them, riding giant arachnids that were bigger than horses, with razor sharp mandibles and bladed legs. Ser Dustin Flowers, one of Lord Hightower’s bastard sons, who had command of the Oldtowners, and the few knights he had spurred forward meet the charge, with the Oldtown levies struggling to keep pace. They came together with a shattering impact, with a splintering of lances and a clash of swords.
A young soldier stopped, stared open mouthed as horses were flung back on their haunches, as men traded blows and curses with the silent, inhuman force facing them, as Ser Dustin’s knights were overwhelmed by sheer numbers. It happened so suddenly that there was no time for fear. One moment there was a writhing, thrashing line, there was dust rising and stallions screaming and blood spraying. And then the line was giving way, there were rider-less horses shearing off from the fighting, there were men down in the snow, and the Others’ cavalry were upon them.
From the heights of the Downs, the men of Simon’s army had watched in stunned disbelief. That the Oldtowners might break and run was no great surprise, but no one had envisioned a catastrophe of this magnitude. Not even the most experienced soldiers had ever seen a rout occur with such shocking speed. In what seemed to be the blink of an eye, it was over, their battle lost before it truly began. A full third of the Reach’s army was scattered, the mounted Others chasing them down slaying men as foxes catch rabbits, however as the men routed the undead cavalry kept chasing them, soon slipping through the valleys that spider-webbed around the riverbank.
Simon had ridden his stallion to the very edge of the bluff, staring down at the battlefield below. It was strewn with bodies, abandoned weapons, the wounded and the dying. The thick snow was trampled and torn, bloodied. Loose horses galloped aimlessly until they were pulled down by the hordes of wights. Simon watched in horror as the bodies of his fallen countrymen began to rise up, and join the forces of their slaughterers, marching inexorably south.
“My Lord?” Ser Danwell Costayne, who remained in the reserve force as Simon’s lieutenant, reined in beside him sheet-white. “What do we do?” The question was rhetorical, for to Danwell there could be but one answer; to use the reserve to fill in the gap on their left flank, and then await the advancing hordes from the defensive heights of the downs… and pray as they had never prayed before. “Shall I order the reserve to align themselves along the left battle?”
Simon glanced toward him, revealing a face as ashen as Costayne’s. “No. Hold the reserve. I do not know if my brothers still live, so you will sound the advance.”
“You would take the offensive? Warrior’s mercy, boy, why? How high can a bird fly if its wing ha been broken? They just crippled us, Simon, you saw it.”
“They saw it too,” he said, gesturing to the Reachmen who had not yet joined the battle. “Give them time to think about it and they’ll loose all stomach for battle. We attack and we attack now, ere those fiends return to the field and whilst the wights are still clogged up in the town streets. Costayne said something about too great a risk, but Simon was no longer listening. With his left wing destroyed, he could not afford the luxury of caution. He’d long since learned to trust his instincts, even if that meant taking chances other men spurned; right now that gut instinct was all he had. He raised his arm, and let it fall sharply. Trumpets blared and the banners of Tarly and Hightower caught the wind, and the center and vanguard began their descent from the Downs.
“What would you have us do, my lord?” asked Simon’s squire, a nephew of Lord Hightower. He had been badly shaken by the slaughter of the Oldtowners, but his voice was level; he had himself in hand.
“When those foul creatures come back to the field they will cut open your uncle’s flank, unless we can stop them,” Simon replied. Theirs was a small band for so great a task, and Ser Danwell and the young squire exchanged bleak looks, and then turned their eyes toward the field below. Both the center and the vanguard were now engaged, and the fighting looked savage, the fierce hand-to-hand combat of men with little to lose. Moreover, Lords Tarly and Hightower seemed to be acquitting themselves well, pressing the attack with enough ferocity to have gained a slight edge. For all their numbers, the undead hordes showed little tactical maneuvers or flair for command.
Simon swung away from the battlefield, turning to stare at the wooded valley into which the surviving Oldtowners had fled, chased by the demons atop giant spiders. A suspicion was stirring, one so improbable that only now was it infiltrating his conscious awareness. “Where are they?” he did not even realize that he’d spoke the question aloud. Supposition was crystallizing into certainty. “The fools!” He whirled his stallion about. “Danwell, do you not see?” He demanded, eyes ablaze with a sudden light, with a wild, surging hope. “I can scarce believe it, but their cavalry have left the field! If they were regrouping, they would have been back by now. They’re still in pursuit of the Oldtowners!”
They gazed at him in wonderment, but after a moment Danwell shook off Simon’s spell. “Simon… Simon what if you’re wrong?”
“I’m not.” Simon was smiling. “By the Warrior, Dan, I am not!” His household knights and the surviving Oldtowners had gathered around him, but not too close, giving his stallion a respectful berth, for destriers were notorious for their fiery temperament. Simon had found this particular mount in the Dornish Marches, the buy of a lifetime. His color was an unfashionable black, and he was not as big-boned as others of his breed, but most destriers could not sustain their speed; their natural gait was a jarring trot, but Simon’s black stallion could fly like the wind.
He was obviously at least half Dornish, and Simon often thought that one day he must experiment with such crossbreeding. He’d named the destrier Sirocco, which was a Rhoynar word for the hot windstorms that would appear as if by magic in the mountainous region, as a tribute to the animal’s blazing speed. Now he could feel Sirocco quivering under his thighs, feeling the stallion’s eagerness to run, he thanked the Father above for giving him the best horse of his life.
His squire was holding up his great helm. He took it with reluctance; while the eye-sights were wide enough to provide adequate vision, helms were heavy, often weighing twenty-five pounds or more, and so uncomfortable that no knight ever donned one until the last possible moment. Cradling it in the crook of his arm, Simon looked out over the assembled men. When he spoke, it was to the Oldtowners. “Your brothers died for us. You could not save them, but you can avenge them. Ere their cavalry returns to the field, we ride!”
Simon’s surprise attack on the Others’ flank was even more successful than he dared hope. He had to hold Sirocco in check, lest he outdistance his own knights, but they were not far behind; his confidence was contagious and the odds suddenly in their favor. Gathering speed as they charged down the hill they crashed into the wall of walking corpses before the wights could even maneuver to face them.
From the corner of his eye, Simon caught movement. He didn’t recognize the coat of arms on the dead knight’s shield, but that mattered for naught; what was relevant was the lance leveled at his chest. Simon braced himself, took the thrust dead center upon his shield. The lance shattered, rocking him back against the saddle cantle, but he retained his seat, and when the knight circled, sword drawn, Simon got the better of the exchange. He had no time to relish his triumph, though, and found himself threatened by two wights whose rotting surcoats marked them as former westermen. As one f them grabbed recklessly for Sirocco’s reins, his partner thrust upward with a halberd. It was a bold maneuver, deserving of success, but Simon had trained under the greatest warriors of the Reach and had been taught by his father what to do in such a situation. He made use of his spurs, and Sirocco reared up wildly, dragging the dead western soldier off his feet. Simon struck him across the face with his shield, shattering bones and sending the corpse down into the bloody snow, and then swung the stallion around to face the halberder. But the wight was gone, the tide of battle having flowed between them.
The Mander, south of the ruins of Goldengrove; December 568 AC
Simon’s reckless charge had had its desired effect during the battle, forcing the armies of the dead backward and not allowing them to break through his battle lines. He learned later that his older brother Justin as well as Lord Hightower had been killed in the first minutes of the battle, and he ended up knighting over a score of men who had held the center and right flank together instead of allowing a rout after those commanders were killed. The true savior of the battle, however, was the striking woman who called herself Saella Targaryen. She arrived on dragonback leading her daughters north in a blaze of fire and glory, burning to a crisp huge portions of the dead troops, which had the added effect of making them unable to rise again as they were wont to do.
When she arrived with her Dornish allies and dragons, as well as mercenaries from across the Narrow Sea, the battle was won with stunning acuity, and the forces of the Others melted northward in retreat from the dragonfire. However it took weeks to organize the survivors of the battle, and then negotiations took place between King Selwyn and Saella before he eventually decide to take the knee. Thousands of men had died, and by the time the armies of Westeros started to march north, past the burnt out shell that had once been Goldengrove, their forces were greatly reduced. It took three years to push the Others up out of Westeros, every league bought with the blood of hundreds of men, but eventually the dragon-queen led her subjects beyond the Wall itself, and in the Final Battle she led the armies of Westeros to a victory at the cost of her own life.
Simon Tarly inherits the Lordship of Horn Hill, Heartsbane, and gains Legendary Battle Command.