For a time, we rode in silence. Only the creak of wheels broke the stillness, along with the low murmur of nearby soldiers and the wind whispering through the treetops.
"So, we're retreating? Who's commanding the rearguard?" Jaime asked.
"Erik Fell."
"Can he handle it?"
"He should…"
"And what about Edmure Tully?"
"We'll link up with him soon."
"You do realize that if he betrays us, we're finished?"
"I do. But what can we do about it, Jaime? We're simply retreating and hoping Tully doesn't turn out to be a total asshole. We're stuck between the Mountains of the Moon and the Green Fork, with no way off this damned road. Right now, all we have is hope."
"Yeah, you're right. No point worrying. If Tully betrays us, he betrays us. Nothing we can do about it."
We fell silent again. Marwyn the Mage continued quietly preparing some sort of medicine. My retinue—battered, wounded, but unbroken—rode alongside us. Jaime had either dozed off or slipped into unconsciousness again. I checked his pulse—it was weak, thready, but steady enough.
Jaime had to survive. He simply had to. He was a true son of his world, and in Westeros only the strong endured. And he was one of them.
The next day, our scouts reported that Edmure Tully's army was approaching.
"Armor and horse!" I ordered and rode out to meet them.
We advanced in a small wedge formation. There were about fifty of us—Mooton, Hasty, Tyrek, Orm, and a handful of common soldiers. Our standard-bearer carried the great royal banner, the lion and the stag. We had dressed as if for a parade—battered but not beaten, wounded but not broken. If Edmure Tully intended to betray us, then let him remember us like this.
We rode slowly along the road toward the host of the river lords waiting ahead. The wind lazily stirred their banners.
Then a small detachment broke away from their ranks—perhaps a hundred men… They drew closer… closer… and finally approached.
At their head rode Lord Edmure Tully, clad in splendid armor not much inferior to my own. For some reason, he glanced back at his army, then fixed me with a resolute look, dismounted, and strode straight up to me.
"We have come to fulfill our oaths. Give your orders, Your Majesty!"
An immense, indescribable sense of relief literally washed over me. I coughed, trying not to let my voice crack, and replied:
"We fall back to the Ruby Ford."
Edmure Tully simply nodded and called for his squires, issuing orders.
That's exactly how it went. The enemy fell behind. We passed the Crossroads, and then the crossing began. Everything repeated itself in exact reverse—before, we had been driving the Blackfish; now he was driving us.
Yes, with the strength of the river lords, I could have continued the campaign and tried to force another battle. But I was simply afraid—afraid of the Blackfish's brilliance as a commander, afraid that Littlefinger would concoct yet another damned scheme, afraid that a new host might march out from the Vale and trap us. And I also felt a sharp shortage of capable officers. In that battle, many of those I relied on for counse, those who could command parts of the army, had fallen. Now they were gone.
If Jaime were on his feet, we would have stayed and taken the fight. But Jaime had fallen into fever, and his condition was worsening.
Besides, we had over a thousand other wounded. We needed rest, time to recover, and a chance to gather our strength again. We needed a respite…
Our army took up position on the southern bank of the Trident, while the enemy held the northern. We remained there for nearly two months, and history would remember the event as the "Stand at the Ruby Ford."
We repaired the old fortifications, dug new trenches, and reinforced the surrounding hills.
As we had expected, the enemy drew reinforcements from the Vale. Another two or three thousand joined them — Northmen and Freys. After that, they grew bolder and made four attempts to throw us off the ford. Once, they nearly succeeded.
Nearly.
The Blackfish lost many men and eventually ceased throwing them into the slaughter. A fragile lull settled over the field. But everyone understood that time was on our side—we had greater manpower and economic reserves, our armies were better supplied, and, in general, everything favored us. And we were all slowly but surely healing our wounds and traumas.
I gave up my great pavilion for the needs of the wounded — more than a hundred of them fit inside. As for myself, I made do with a medium-sized tent, the kind most knights lived in. Each day and evening I walked through our camp. A word here, a supper there, royal gratitude, a kind remark. My squires always brought along a cask of wine and a couple of deer or boar carcasses, and each night we held a communal meal with one unit or another, or with some lord.
We sat by the fire, trading stories. The flames crackled, and the scent of roasting meat filled the air. Simple hearts, simple jokes… I saw the way the knights and common soldiers looked at me, and I understood that, in this moment, I had become the one they would follow to the very end.
There were men here from three regions—the Westerlands, the Crownlands, and the Stormlands. Each had their own liege lords. But most of them looked at me with an indescribable sense of loyalty and approval. I saw how their gazes lingered on my broken arm and the healing scar on my face.
In those days, even the grizzled veterans, men not prone to sentiment, accepted me as one of their own.
On that field, by staying with them, I won their hearts. I did not abandon them in the battle at the Hill, did not flee—I helped the wounded and saved as many as I could. I shared their fate.
And now these men had become mine—I saw loyalty in their eyes, saw their approval and… pride. Yes, they were proud—proud of themselves, proud of that battle, and proud of their king.
It was then, at the Ruby Ford, that I first felt what true brotherhood in arms meant.