The Third Day Begins

As the sun began to set on the second day, Robb sat in his command tent, irritably looking down at the table denoting the field of the Antlers. He'd been here since he had called an end to the battle and had just stared at the map, trying to find the answer hidden within because for the last two days, Tywin had defied all his expectations and he couldn't figure out why.

Why was Tywin being so cautious?

Why was he being so slow in his attacks?

Why was he not attacking as he had expected?

All these questions and more whirled through his mind as he attempted to figure out an answer to the conundrum that was Tywin Lannisters odd movements. But the answer eluded him and the more he seemed to search for an answer the more confusing it became.

No answer came to him, no matter how hard he searched all he was left with was dead ends. And in frustration, Robb slammed a fist on the table, a deep glare upon his face and his lips twisting into an angry scowl.

All his plans, all his preparations were useless if Tywin didn't launch a full assault. It forced Robb to take the initiative which Robb did not want to do. This was a battle of attrition, one that in terms of numbers of numbers, favoured Tywin heavily. However, in terms of supplies, Robb held the advantage and that's what he wanted to play into.

Tywin wasn't a brilliant commander, but he was a capable one nonetheless. But it seemed that after all this time in which he had been underestimated by Tywin and others, he was now falling into the same trap.

And so, taking a deep breath, Robb looked at the map once more.

It was obvious Tywin intended to use these probing attacks to not only find weaknesses in his flanks but also soften up his numbers. When that happened, whether Tywin continued to lose these skirmishes or not, it wouldn't matter because if he lost enough men, Tywin's superior numbers could overwhelm him.

Which meant he needed to do what Tywin wanted and take the initiative.

The question remained now though, what would he do?

And the second, what did Tywin expect him to do?

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Sitting comfortably, Tywin listened to the reports on casualties taken. Already their losses amounted to just under forty-five hundred in the second day, the Stark losses only around a thousand. Most of their losses were amongst the Sellswords which caused some discontent amongst them.

But he had given them extra rations to at least satiate their anger somewhat.

"Lord Tywin, there's a letter, from Lord Baelish." A messenger informed, entering into the tent accompanied by two guards. Tywin indicated for the man to step forward, taking the letter and then dismissing the messenger.

For a few moments, the tent was filled with silence as Tywin read through the contents of the letter. And as he did, Tywin while not smiling, the look on his face could only be described as pleased. "Send riders to Ser Addam and Ser Kevan, they're to pull back the Sellswords and send in the Smallfolk, same tactics."

There were nods of their heads and movement, Tywin reaching out to drink wine from his cup. With the news he had, it meant that victory over the Young Wolf was not far away.

And with the Young Wolf out of the way, all that would remain would be minor inconveniences. The Reach with no connection to the monarchy would abandon the northern forces and a more favourable match could be arranged between Margaery and Joffrey.

All the while he could use this to his advantage, slowly squeezing the Tyrell's dry of all their worthwhile stripping them of what little power they had remaining. When it was done, from the ashes of this war, House Lannister would rise to become the most powerful House in Westerosi history, surpassing even the Targaryen's.

Just as it should be.

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"Is it wise, father?" Brynden asked, watching as the Lannister army moved towards them. Unlike the elites, it wasn't disciplined and orderly like the Lannister elites they had been fighting since the start of the war. Nor was it confident and cocky like swagger the Sellswords had been in the beginning before their numerous losses. No, this was, unsure, undisciplined and they wore limited armour.

More so than the Sellswords of Essos who seemed to wear only chainmail as well as thick leather, possibly a few pauldrons and breastplates here and there.

No, these were more than likely the Smallfolk that had been conscripted into the Lannister forces. They looked like the northern and Riverlands forces before the war had truly entered into its final stages. Now every man in the Stark army was armoured, not like a Knight but more so than a Sellsword. "Have trust in your brother, these smaller forces should be easier to deal with than the Sellswords. They only have the minimum amount of training, Hoster will be fine."

"I know, I just worry about, Hos," Brynden muttered. "This is his first battle."

"Have faith in him." Lord Blackwood repeated once more.

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"Shield wall!" Hoster shouted and the front rows of men moved forwards, shields interlocking as the soldiers tensed their bodies in preparation. Rows upon rows of shields, slid along one another forming a large shield that the Lannisters charged towards. Their numbers were large, and more than two thousand men were charging towards the Stark forces. "Brace!"

As the command was given the second row of Stark soldiers rushed forwards, crouching their legs lower as they pushed against their compatriots in front.

It was at that moment the enemy forces struck the shield wall with a battle cry.

Hoster's men let out grunts of strained effort, pushed back as a result of the Lannister forces even as they tried to hold firm. Swords and spears and even shields struck the shield wall as the Smallfolk attempted to break through the wall and strike those holding the shields up.

"Third ranks, form up!" Hoster cried another row of soldiers marching forwards. "Spears!" Each of them gripped their spears in two hands and poised them at the backs of their comrades. "Open!"

As a result of his order, men in the shield wall stepped to the side, opening numerous gaps along with it and funnelling the enemy through them. Caught off-guard by the sudden lack of resistance, they couldn't stop themselves from stumbling into the enemy formation, directly into the waiting spears of third ranks of soldiers.

It was a slaughter.

Unused and unexperienced in a command position he maybe, but Hoster Blackwood was a boy of noble birth. As the third-born son of the Blackwood family, he was never expected to be given any land of his own and Hoster was fine with that. Despite being given basic lessons in what was expected of an heir, just as a preparation for the worst-case scenario, Hoster was mainly trained to be one of the future Lord of Raventree Hall's closest confidantes. He was meant to be a member of his inner council and he'd always had a fascination for his father's stories of Roberts Rebellion and the Greyjoy's Rebellion.

He had spent a great deal of his time studying military and while inexperienced in war, he was more than a match for the Smallfolk's assault.

And it showed by the way they were being slaughtered and after only this brief clash, were scattered and retreated. They had been conscripted into this army for food, but their heart wasn't in it and that lack of morale, that lack of discipline made them easy pickings for the experienced and battle-hardened Stark forces.

Watching from his horse, Hoster didn't smile, nor did he frown.

The victory was his, he knew that much, but he was too close.

Close enough to see everything and despite the sense of victory and triumph rising within him, Hoster forced down the urge to be sick as he watched men getting pierced by spears. Hoster knew now why his father and brother said that war wasn't glorious.

There was nothing glorious about killing someone.