Post by The Smith on Aug 22, 2009 23:55:33 GMT -5
The first of Driftmark’s bells sounded the alarm to be followed by the others. The noise was greeted by a huge roar from the assault troops as they streamed out from the various camps and pounded up the roads to the stronghold’s southern and eastern gate. Lord Velaryon led the assault, conspicuous in his plate armor, half covered by a surcoat showing his badge of a white seahorse on sea green field. Prince Aegon remained at the rear for the moment, directing men and equipment to where it could be best used in the assault.
Aegon moved up closer to the assault to direct the archers who were shooting in support of Lord Velaryon’s men. After he had ascertained the weakest part of the wall, the Prince gestured wildly, screaming in a high carrying tone. “You know what to do!”
The archers stood, drew their bows and loosed. There were no targets n the walls for the defenders were staying low, but the rattle of the steel-tipped arrows on the stones should keep them crouching. The white-feathered arrows hissed as they flew. Two other archer companies were adding their own shafts, many of them firing high into the sky so that their missiles dropped vertically onto the wall’s top, and to Aegon it seemed impossible that anyone could live under that hail of feather-tipped steel, yet as soon as Lord Velaryon’s attacking column came within a hundred paces the crossbow bolts began to spit from the walls.
There was a breach close to the gate. It had been made by a catapult, the only siege machine left in decent repair, and it was a poor breach, for the top third of the wall had been dismantled by the big stones and the townsfolk had crammed timber and bundles of cloth into the gap, but it was still a weakness in the wall and the ladder men ran towards it, shouting, as the crossbow bolts whipped into them. Men stumbled, fell, crawled and died, but enough lived to throw two ladders against the breach and the first men-at-arms began to climb. The archers were loosing as fast as they could, overwhelming the top of the breach with arrows, but then a shield appeared there, a shield that was immediately stuck by a score of shafts, and from behind the shield a crossbowman shot straight down the ladders, killing the leading man. Another shield appeared, another crossbow was loosed. A pot was shoved onto the breach’s top, then toppled over and a gush of steaming liquid spilled over to make a man scream in agony. Defenders were hurling boulders over the breach and their crossbows were snapping.
“Closer! Aegon shouted and the archers pushed through the hedge and ran to within a hundred paces of the ditch surrounding the castle, where they again loosed their long war bows and slashed their arrows into the embrasures. Some defenders were dying now, for they had to show themselves to shoot their crossbows down into the crowd of men who jostled at their foot of the ladders that had been laid against the breach or the walls. Men at arms climbed, a forked pole shoved one ladder pole back. An archer near Aegon twitched his left hand to change his aim and released his fingers to drive an arrow into the breast of a man pushing onto the pole. The man had been covered by a shield held by a companion, but the shield had shifted for an instant. Two more arrows followed before the dying man’s last heartbeat ended. Other men succeeded in toppling the ladder.
More stones were hurled from the ramparts, then a great mass of flaming straw was heaved onto the crowded attackers. A man succeeded in reaching the top of the breach, but was immediately killed by an axe that split his helmet and skull in two. He slumped on the rungs, blocking the ascent. The young Lord Velaryon who was following, tried to haul him free, but was struck on the head by one of the boulders. He reeled, but the blow was only glancing and he continued to frantically haul the man free. At last the man toppled and the young Lord resumed his climb with a jaunty wave to the men behind him.
The attackers gave a cheer and charged at the walls with swords, axes and spears. More men followed as a steady stream of soldiers began climbing the ladders. The crossbows banged from the ramparts and men were thrown back by the heavy bolts. The defenders stood on the ramparts to repel the survivors of the climb and swords clashed on axes. Blood was slick on the walls as men fought and died. One man-at-arms slipped and was trampled underfoot by his colleagues going to the fight. The attackers were howling the defenders shouting and every Sept bell in Driftmark was tolling the alarm.
Further along at the gate, the defenders had all the advantages. Their crossbowmen could shoot from the barbican and to attack them Aegon’s men had to funnel onto the narrow bridge approach, which was littered with bodies. At the end of the bridge below the barbican, a makeshift barricade had been thrown up. In a new attack, men, armed with axes, swords, billhooks and spears hurled themselves against the defenders in a new attack behind the barricade. A dozen of the new attackers fell to cross bow bolts, but the survivors leaped the bodies and closed right up to the barricade that was not defended by about thirty men at arms and as many crossbowmen. The attackers were crammed up against the arrow stuck barricade with little room to wield their weapons. The defenders stabbed with lances, hacked with swords and flailed with maces and as the front rank of the attackers died , the next rank was pushed onto the enemy weapons and all the time crossbow quarrels thumped down from Driftmark’s main barbican.. Aegon saw a man reeling from the bridge with a crossbow bolt buried in his helmet. Blood poured down his face as he made a strange incoherent mewing before falling to his knees and then, slowly, collapsing, where he was trampled by another rush of Aegon’s men.
These newly arrived men, who had not experienced the carnage of the first attacks here, took up the fight. A man-at-arms managed to climb onto an overturned wagon on the barricade and stabbed down with his short spear. There were crossbow bolts sticking from his chest, but still he screeched and stabbed and tried to go on fighting even when a defender disembowelled him. His insides spilled out, but somehow he found the strength to raise the spear and give one last lunge before he fell into the defenders. A half-dozen men were trying to dismantle the barricade, while other were throwing th dead off the bridge to clear the roadway. At least one living man, wounded was thrown into the deep moat. He screamed as he fell.
They were falling back at the gate now. Aegon looked despairingly at the carnage in front of him. His plan for the assault was working just about everywhere. Except for here! He looked to his left and could see the walls of Driftmark were now swarming with his nephew’s men-at-arms. The remaining defenders on the walls had few weapons other than their cross bows, while most of the attackers had swords or axes. The fight on the walls was now turning one sided, the slaughter brief. Aegon laughed exultantly as the mass of men began moving along the wall towards the barbican. HIs plan was slightly altered, but it was still working.
Aegon led the next charge at the barricade below the barbican himself. A man-at-arms who had momentarily got ahead of him was hit in the face by a crossbow bolt so that he jerked backwards with a fine mist of blood encircling his helmet. The bolt had driven clean through the bridge of his nose killing him instantly and leaving him with what Aegon thought wryly was an slightly offended expression. This time, as the barbican’s defenders turned to meet the new threat coming from their right, the hail of bolts from the barbican was lessened and Aegon plunged into the deadly hand to hand fighting.
Aegon was soon wielding his sword two handed. His shield had been hacked to pieces in the first furious minutes of the fight. A defender tried to defender himself with his bow, but Aegon's heavy blade sliced through the weapon’s stick as if it had been made of butter, the buried itself in the defender’s neck. A spurt of blood jetted over Aegon’s head as he wrenched the heavy sword free and kicked the crossbowman between the legs. The Prince stumbled on the man he had struck down, caught his balance and shouted the attacker's war cry. “Targaryen! Targaryen!” He swung the blade again chopping through the forearm of a man wielding a club. He ws close enough to smell the man’s breath and the stink of his clothes. Aegon was screaming like a fiend. The Stranger damn them all! He was spattered with blood and he kicked and clawed and slashed his way towards the barbican. The air seemed unnaturally thick, moist and warm; it stank of blood. An iron studded mace missed his head by a finger’s breadth and struck the wall instead and Aegon swung his sword upwards so it cut into the man’s groin.
More and more attackers were swarming up ton the barbican and the sound they made was a keening noise, a howl for blood and a wail of derision for the enemy that had killed so many of their fellows.
The gates of Driftmark under the barbican swung open, as the barbican was overwhelmed by Lord Velaryon and his men who had attacked it from the wall. The howling mob below, led by Aegon himself, overwhelmed the defenders cowering under the barbican’s arch. The defenders seeing their doom threw down their weapons and shouted that they yielded, but Aegon’s men were now in no mood for quarter. The survivors, where they could, scattered.
Aegon was moving into the castle’s bailey to where the usurper lord Tydwell would no doubt be waiting, when he heard the clash of hooves on stone. He looked back to see a dozen knights who must have been concealed behind the barbican. These men now erupted from a postern gate and with visors closed and lances couched, spurred their horses towards the barbican. They clearly wanted to charge clean through the castle to reach the greater safety of the keep. Aegon saw the sea-green and white surcoat of their leader. He knew his nephew was on foot atop the walls. This could only be the usurper himself – the false imposter who called himself Lord Tydwell Velaryon. Aegon beckoned to an archer beside him who un-slung his bow and took an arrow from his arrow bag. The man loosed, the arrow flying low to strike the lord in the small of his back. The man toppled, crashing onto the stone cobbles as his horse continued on. Aegon ran across to where the man lay. He lifted his visor to find Tydwell gurgling in his own blood, dying. Aegon removed the man’s helmet and calmly slit his throat, putting the dying man out of his misery. Blood gushed over his hands and fore-arms as the man’s heart pumped out his life-force.
As his men around him cut down their enemy like dogs and reduced them to nothing more than mangled meat and weltering blood Aegon lifted one of his bloody hands, examined it quizzically and began to laugh manically, his own laughter echoing in his ears.......
He woke with a start.
He was not at Driftmark but in King’s Landing, stretched out on his bed. It was unusual for him, the veteran of many a battle and siege, to dream about battles long gone. Still he had been explaining to his youngest nephew Jaeron Velaryon the strategy he had used for taking Driftmark that very evening. Jaeron was fourteen and impressionable, even now his head full of deeds of valour that he would perform on the battlefield and in tournaments one day when he became a knight. The reality of battle would be a harsh, but necessary lesson for the boy, when he became a little older. Aegon grimaced in the dark. No doubt there would be ample opportunity to demonstrate to his young nephew in the coming years.
Aegon Targaryen improves to Master in Siege-craft.
Lord Aurane Velaryon improves to Apprentice in Siege-craft
Aegon moved up closer to the assault to direct the archers who were shooting in support of Lord Velaryon’s men. After he had ascertained the weakest part of the wall, the Prince gestured wildly, screaming in a high carrying tone. “You know what to do!”
The archers stood, drew their bows and loosed. There were no targets n the walls for the defenders were staying low, but the rattle of the steel-tipped arrows on the stones should keep them crouching. The white-feathered arrows hissed as they flew. Two other archer companies were adding their own shafts, many of them firing high into the sky so that their missiles dropped vertically onto the wall’s top, and to Aegon it seemed impossible that anyone could live under that hail of feather-tipped steel, yet as soon as Lord Velaryon’s attacking column came within a hundred paces the crossbow bolts began to spit from the walls.
There was a breach close to the gate. It had been made by a catapult, the only siege machine left in decent repair, and it was a poor breach, for the top third of the wall had been dismantled by the big stones and the townsfolk had crammed timber and bundles of cloth into the gap, but it was still a weakness in the wall and the ladder men ran towards it, shouting, as the crossbow bolts whipped into them. Men stumbled, fell, crawled and died, but enough lived to throw two ladders against the breach and the first men-at-arms began to climb. The archers were loosing as fast as they could, overwhelming the top of the breach with arrows, but then a shield appeared there, a shield that was immediately stuck by a score of shafts, and from behind the shield a crossbowman shot straight down the ladders, killing the leading man. Another shield appeared, another crossbow was loosed. A pot was shoved onto the breach’s top, then toppled over and a gush of steaming liquid spilled over to make a man scream in agony. Defenders were hurling boulders over the breach and their crossbows were snapping.
“Closer! Aegon shouted and the archers pushed through the hedge and ran to within a hundred paces of the ditch surrounding the castle, where they again loosed their long war bows and slashed their arrows into the embrasures. Some defenders were dying now, for they had to show themselves to shoot their crossbows down into the crowd of men who jostled at their foot of the ladders that had been laid against the breach or the walls. Men at arms climbed, a forked pole shoved one ladder pole back. An archer near Aegon twitched his left hand to change his aim and released his fingers to drive an arrow into the breast of a man pushing onto the pole. The man had been covered by a shield held by a companion, but the shield had shifted for an instant. Two more arrows followed before the dying man’s last heartbeat ended. Other men succeeded in toppling the ladder.
More stones were hurled from the ramparts, then a great mass of flaming straw was heaved onto the crowded attackers. A man succeeded in reaching the top of the breach, but was immediately killed by an axe that split his helmet and skull in two. He slumped on the rungs, blocking the ascent. The young Lord Velaryon who was following, tried to haul him free, but was struck on the head by one of the boulders. He reeled, but the blow was only glancing and he continued to frantically haul the man free. At last the man toppled and the young Lord resumed his climb with a jaunty wave to the men behind him.
The attackers gave a cheer and charged at the walls with swords, axes and spears. More men followed as a steady stream of soldiers began climbing the ladders. The crossbows banged from the ramparts and men were thrown back by the heavy bolts. The defenders stood on the ramparts to repel the survivors of the climb and swords clashed on axes. Blood was slick on the walls as men fought and died. One man-at-arms slipped and was trampled underfoot by his colleagues going to the fight. The attackers were howling the defenders shouting and every Sept bell in Driftmark was tolling the alarm.
Further along at the gate, the defenders had all the advantages. Their crossbowmen could shoot from the barbican and to attack them Aegon’s men had to funnel onto the narrow bridge approach, which was littered with bodies. At the end of the bridge below the barbican, a makeshift barricade had been thrown up. In a new attack, men, armed with axes, swords, billhooks and spears hurled themselves against the defenders in a new attack behind the barricade. A dozen of the new attackers fell to cross bow bolts, but the survivors leaped the bodies and closed right up to the barricade that was not defended by about thirty men at arms and as many crossbowmen. The attackers were crammed up against the arrow stuck barricade with little room to wield their weapons. The defenders stabbed with lances, hacked with swords and flailed with maces and as the front rank of the attackers died , the next rank was pushed onto the enemy weapons and all the time crossbow quarrels thumped down from Driftmark’s main barbican.. Aegon saw a man reeling from the bridge with a crossbow bolt buried in his helmet. Blood poured down his face as he made a strange incoherent mewing before falling to his knees and then, slowly, collapsing, where he was trampled by another rush of Aegon’s men.
These newly arrived men, who had not experienced the carnage of the first attacks here, took up the fight. A man-at-arms managed to climb onto an overturned wagon on the barricade and stabbed down with his short spear. There were crossbow bolts sticking from his chest, but still he screeched and stabbed and tried to go on fighting even when a defender disembowelled him. His insides spilled out, but somehow he found the strength to raise the spear and give one last lunge before he fell into the defenders. A half-dozen men were trying to dismantle the barricade, while other were throwing th dead off the bridge to clear the roadway. At least one living man, wounded was thrown into the deep moat. He screamed as he fell.
They were falling back at the gate now. Aegon looked despairingly at the carnage in front of him. His plan for the assault was working just about everywhere. Except for here! He looked to his left and could see the walls of Driftmark were now swarming with his nephew’s men-at-arms. The remaining defenders on the walls had few weapons other than their cross bows, while most of the attackers had swords or axes. The fight on the walls was now turning one sided, the slaughter brief. Aegon laughed exultantly as the mass of men began moving along the wall towards the barbican. HIs plan was slightly altered, but it was still working.
Aegon led the next charge at the barricade below the barbican himself. A man-at-arms who had momentarily got ahead of him was hit in the face by a crossbow bolt so that he jerked backwards with a fine mist of blood encircling his helmet. The bolt had driven clean through the bridge of his nose killing him instantly and leaving him with what Aegon thought wryly was an slightly offended expression. This time, as the barbican’s defenders turned to meet the new threat coming from their right, the hail of bolts from the barbican was lessened and Aegon plunged into the deadly hand to hand fighting.
Aegon was soon wielding his sword two handed. His shield had been hacked to pieces in the first furious minutes of the fight. A defender tried to defender himself with his bow, but Aegon's heavy blade sliced through the weapon’s stick as if it had been made of butter, the buried itself in the defender’s neck. A spurt of blood jetted over Aegon’s head as he wrenched the heavy sword free and kicked the crossbowman between the legs. The Prince stumbled on the man he had struck down, caught his balance and shouted the attacker's war cry. “Targaryen! Targaryen!” He swung the blade again chopping through the forearm of a man wielding a club. He ws close enough to smell the man’s breath and the stink of his clothes. Aegon was screaming like a fiend. The Stranger damn them all! He was spattered with blood and he kicked and clawed and slashed his way towards the barbican. The air seemed unnaturally thick, moist and warm; it stank of blood. An iron studded mace missed his head by a finger’s breadth and struck the wall instead and Aegon swung his sword upwards so it cut into the man’s groin.
More and more attackers were swarming up ton the barbican and the sound they made was a keening noise, a howl for blood and a wail of derision for the enemy that had killed so many of their fellows.
The gates of Driftmark under the barbican swung open, as the barbican was overwhelmed by Lord Velaryon and his men who had attacked it from the wall. The howling mob below, led by Aegon himself, overwhelmed the defenders cowering under the barbican’s arch. The defenders seeing their doom threw down their weapons and shouted that they yielded, but Aegon’s men were now in no mood for quarter. The survivors, where they could, scattered.
Aegon was moving into the castle’s bailey to where the usurper lord Tydwell would no doubt be waiting, when he heard the clash of hooves on stone. He looked back to see a dozen knights who must have been concealed behind the barbican. These men now erupted from a postern gate and with visors closed and lances couched, spurred their horses towards the barbican. They clearly wanted to charge clean through the castle to reach the greater safety of the keep. Aegon saw the sea-green and white surcoat of their leader. He knew his nephew was on foot atop the walls. This could only be the usurper himself – the false imposter who called himself Lord Tydwell Velaryon. Aegon beckoned to an archer beside him who un-slung his bow and took an arrow from his arrow bag. The man loosed, the arrow flying low to strike the lord in the small of his back. The man toppled, crashing onto the stone cobbles as his horse continued on. Aegon ran across to where the man lay. He lifted his visor to find Tydwell gurgling in his own blood, dying. Aegon removed the man’s helmet and calmly slit his throat, putting the dying man out of his misery. Blood gushed over his hands and fore-arms as the man’s heart pumped out his life-force.
As his men around him cut down their enemy like dogs and reduced them to nothing more than mangled meat and weltering blood Aegon lifted one of his bloody hands, examined it quizzically and began to laugh manically, his own laughter echoing in his ears.......
He woke with a start.
He was not at Driftmark but in King’s Landing, stretched out on his bed. It was unusual for him, the veteran of many a battle and siege, to dream about battles long gone. Still he had been explaining to his youngest nephew Jaeron Velaryon the strategy he had used for taking Driftmark that very evening. Jaeron was fourteen and impressionable, even now his head full of deeds of valour that he would perform on the battlefield and in tournaments one day when he became a knight. The reality of battle would be a harsh, but necessary lesson for the boy, when he became a little older. Aegon grimaced in the dark. No doubt there would be ample opportunity to demonstrate to his young nephew in the coming years.
Aegon Targaryen improves to Master in Siege-craft.
Lord Aurane Velaryon improves to Apprentice in Siege-craft
Hope you all are well and happy.