The year is 987 After Aegon's Conquest, and the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros remain, though in a different form. In 733 AC King Aegon XIV granted each of the nine regions of his realm more autonomy, creating the United Kingdoms of Westeros. Westeros has modernized its military, the feudal system has been replaced by a well-established aristocracy, and it has gone on an imperialist spree since 842 when it annexed five of the northern Summer Islands. Since then it has annexed chunks of Western Essos and colonized large parts of Ulthos and some parts of Sothoros. Since the Kingdoms have more autonomy they are free to make war against each other, provided they have a proper casus belli, it has only happened once from 792-799 when Lord Lancel V Lannister of the Westerlands invaded the Riverlands, but now it once more seems possible. The tensions have been rising between the two great alliances on Westeros, the Southern Union (the Reach and Dorne) and the Triumvirate (the Westerlands, the Riverlands and the Vale) and the three neutral kingdoms, the Iron Islands, the North, and the Stormlands are readying their defenses for the huge war to come. Each of the alliances hopes to gain the support of the neutrals. The two alliances are arming quickly, having mobilized their conscripts. Once again the words of the Starks have proved correct: "Winter is coming" though not the winter of nature, no it is in the middle of summer, but the Winter of War.

Highgarden, the Reach, United Kingdoms of Westeros, 987 AC

As the soldiers marched past, Donnel Tyrell felt uncomfortable. He was a distant cousin of Lord Tyrell's and had spent most of his life on a tiny mansion by the Mander only coming to Highgarden six months ago, so his thoughts mattered little. First came the 1st Highgarden Division, then the 2nd and then the 3rd and so on. The military parade continued for nearly two hours.
"Donnel!" shouted Lord Layton Tyrell, not too unpleasantly. Donnel walked up to him.
"Aren't they splendid, cousin?" the Lord Paramount of the Reach asked over the loud music.
"They are, my lord" Donnel replied. That was nothing but the truth. In their green and gold uniforms, the soldiers looked glorious.
But how glorious will they look when they have tasted battle? How glorious will they look when they've been shelled, when they've been wounded, when they've seen their friends die?
Donnel thought.
Lord Tyrell brought him out of his own mind.
"I have decided to give you a command, cousin"
Donnel had time to think, Fucking hell before he automatically panted:
"My lord?"
"Colonel Danwell Dunn of the 6th Highgarden Rifles passed away three days past, heart attack I hear, he wasn't a young man after all, anyway I have decided to put you in his place"
"I am honored of course, but wouldn't it be more prudent to put someone with more experience in command of a regiment?" he asked.
"I don't want experience, I want someone from my family, you're a Tyrell after all" replied the Lord of Highgarden.
"I am honored" Donnel repeated, too shocked to say anything else.

The cavalry followed the infantry, looking even more splendid than the foot soldiers. Donnel looked on; he would command a regiment of foot and the infantry would suffer the most. For all that, the military parade carried on.

General Edric Westerling waited eagerly for the telegram that would inform Sixth Army that a state of war existed between the Triumvirate and the Southern Union. Sixth Army was based on Lord Swyft's lands, centered around the towns of Tywinton and Reachwater, but with small bases in the smaller towns of Farbottom, Swyftwood and Westwell Rest. They were ready to sweep into the Reach, though Edric knew they wouldn't have an easy time in the war. The Reachmen had brought up their Army of the Greyflow to the border. The two armies were evenly matched and so the fighting would be hard, but Westerling was confident he would prevail. Of course the Westerlands didn't just have the Reach to worry about, Dorne as well and if the Stormlands decided to join the Southern Union… they weren't alone either, no far from it. The Riverlands and the Vale would commit to the fight as well, each with around eight million men. The Westerlands itself would commit twelve million. Each region of each alliance had mobilized their conscripts in huge numbers. Edric Westerling took a long swig of a glass of Braavosi firewater the color of amber, which the Braavosi called something unintelligible, Edric called it rotgut. His family was not very powerful in the Westerlands nowadays, but Edric had managed to rise through the ranks of the Army to command a field army of his own. He was not very well liked by the other Generals who commanded the other ten field armies, all of them from powerful houses. Once the war had begun the Navy would sweep down on the Shield Islands, though he didn't they could hold them for long, the Redwyne navy-which was larger than the entire Westerlands navy-would surely attack and retake them. The Redwynes would surely rule the Sunset Sea and Edric was sure they'd send a flotilla to reinforce the Dornish fleet in the Narrow Sea against the Arryns. The seas would belong to the Southern Union, even if the Tullys sent their navy to aid the Arryns or the Westermen, but the land, the land would belong to the Triumvirate, of that he was sure.

Suddenly, Edric's aide rushed into the room and handed him a telegram. Major Tybolt Yarwyck was normally a talkative young man, but now he was silent, a hungry smile on his face. Edric knew what the telegram said but he read it out loud all the same:
"The Department of War of Lord Loren Lannister of Casterly Rock hereby informs you that a state of war exists between the Westerlands and the Reach. You are commanded by the Department of War to invade the enemy lands by the Greyflow and besiege the towns of Greyborough, Goldentown and Greyburn in good order, then you will advance on Goldengrove" he finished. Those orders were less than ideal, Edric had hoped he would be sent to combat the Army of the Greyflow immediately and then go on a conquering streak instead of the other way around, but alas orders were orders.

Captain Dermot Sloane bellowed at the men of Company E of the 16th Goldengrove Rifles.
"Are we going to let the damn westermen beat us!?"
"Sir, no, sir!" his men bellowed back. The Army of the Greyflow had been fighting the Westerman Sixth Army for nearly two weeks, from one side of the river for which it was named. The Reachmen's artillery bellowed behind the trenches, firing their deadly projectiles at the enemy. The hostile artillery bellowed back.

"Well then, I suppose we'll have to go out there and lick 'em don't we?!" he shouted in his sharp Dornish marches accent.
"Sir, yes, sir!" his men screamed back at the top of their lungs. They clutched their Oldtown 15 rifles and climbed over the top, sprinting over no man's land. Company E had been in a stretch of trench in front of the Greyman's Ford crossing, they rushed splashing through the ford's waters now, along with Company F and Company G. Sloane threw himself down in a shell hole which could serve as a foxhole. He aimed and fired his Oldtown 15 at a Westerman in red, he didn't know if he'd hit him or not but the man went down anyway. He worked the bolt to bring another bullet into the breech and fired again. A few of his men threw grenades toward the enemy trench, just as a Westerman machine gun opened up on them, from behind a proper machine gun barricade.
"Fucking hell!" Dermot exclaimed as he saw en entire squad of his men being mowed down. The rest of his men had sense enough to find foxholes of their own.
"Captain Sloane!" the loudest voice Dermot had ever heard sounded behind him, he knew who it belonged to.
"Colonel Rowan, sir!" he bellowed as he turned around to see the commander of the 16th Goldengrove Rifles.
"This raid on the enemy trench has to be ended, captain, they'll be sending in a squadron of aeroplanes to bomb the foe in their trenches and I don't want three companies out of my regiment anywhere near that bombardment!" said Colonel Laswell Rowan, a fifth cousin once-removed to the Lord of Goldengrove.
"Yes sir, but that machine gun is going to shoot us in the back if we run, my men will be slaughtered!"
"It's a risk we'll have to take, captain!" Colonel Rowan said.

Reluctantly but quickly, Captain Dermot Sloane stood up and shouted: "Company E, fall back to the trench!"

His men followed the order and started sprinting back over Greyman's Ford. A few of the men went down in the water, red spreading in a great cloud around them but much fewer than he would have expected. Once they were all in the trenches, they waited only around five minutes before the squadron of bomber aeroplanes buzzed overhead, dropping their deadly cargo upon the enemy. The machine gun that had harassed Company E went up in flames as well, the explosion killing its crew. The Reachmen cheered. All the way up the trench they cheered, certain victory had come. Dermot Sloane knew better. The fight had just begun.

Colonel Cleos Ryger of the 17th Pinkmaiden Rifles rode beside the first line of his regiment as it marched with the rest of the Army of the Red Fork toward Bitterbridge and the towns north and south of it. Cleos knew which town was first, a town with which he was somewhat acquainted, a collection of houses that boasted ten thousand inhabitants called Bitterville, a name he thought of as undeserved as it was a pleasant place. He would have to fight his way into the town this time, instead of simply riding in behind the wheel of his father's motorcar. They weren't too far from Bitterville when General Vance decided to let the men stop marching. Supper that night was salt pork and beans. The next day they marched for about six miles before stopping about half a mile outside Bitterville. Soon enough the attack commenced. The Riverman batteries of twelve-inch field guns opened up, as did the smaller quick-firing three-inch howitzers. Then, they sent in the infantry. The 1st Pinkmaiden Division went in first; that included the 17th Rifles. Cleos commanded his men to run-and-fire, himself firing his .45 caliber pistol into the town. He regretted every round he squeezed off at the lovely town called Bitterville, which wouldn't remain lovely for long.

The sun was just rising when Captain Trystane Manwoody took a big gulp of coffee from his tin cup. The 4th Red Mountains Foot had been in said mountains for nearly three months before the war had begun, and they would remain here for its duration, or so Trystane thought. They were mountain soldiers after all and didn't do very well in other conditions. But surely the foe would send some forces into the Red Mountains, so that the Mountain Division of Dorne would also have some fun. The 4th Red Mountains Foot was stationed in the Prince's Pass, not far from Kingsgrave, so Trystane felt right at home. As he walked he could feel the weight of the Oldtown 15 rifle on his back. The Dornish forces had adopted the weapon six years earlier after their old rifle, the Volantene Yeoman's Rifle 12 (VYR 12) had proved inept at defeating the pirates on the yet-to- be Dornish Stepstones. The VYR 12 had been lighter and thus more suited for mountain warfare, or so Trystane thought, but no one had listened to him, and so he slugged around the heavier-if not much heavier-Oldtown 15. His boots crunched down on the red dust of the mountains as he knelt to splash some water out of his canteen on the face of one his men who was still asleep while most of the other mountain troopers of Company B were awake. The trooper shook awake and writhed out of his blanket.
"It looks like the entire regiment is moving; you better get up lest you want me to leave you behind" Manwoody said.
"Yes, sir, I'm sorry, sir" the trooper sighed as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Trystane handed the trooper his coffee, the man needed it more than he did.
"Where are we moving, sir?" the trooper asked once the coffee had forced his eyes open.
"Don't know, they don't tell me much neither, though we're moving north so might be we're going to Lemonpeak or Red House" Trystane said as he stood and started moving away from the trooper.
He turned his head and said with a smile:
"Or maybe, they're marching us off to war!"

The sound of artillery shook newly-appointed Colonel Donnel Tyrell to the core. The 6th Highgarden Rifles had been assigned to the Army of the Mander, and had marched upwards to Cider Hall to join up with the Army of the Cockleswhent. From Cider Hall they had moved west to Longtable to join up with the Army of the Blueburn, all in all it had been a hell of a lot of marching, now they were entrenched three miles south of some town called Blueburn Pines, that had been captured by the Riverman Army of the Red Fork, and the Rivermen made no qualms about defending their prize. A couple of quick-firing three-inch howitzers joined their fire to the roar of the Rivermen's twelve-inchers. All in all, the bombardment made for a chilling experience. Donnel had seen combat only once, squeezing the trigger of his .45 frantically during a raid by Riverman infantry, the rest of the time he had either been shelled, or relaxed whilst his own side bombarded the enemy. If the three Reachman armies could retake Blueburn Pines, then they could push onwards toward Goldwater and Bluefields and finally Bitterville. Suddenly, the enemy bombardment died down and Donnel heard someone shout:
"They're charging!"
He braced himself and shouted himself, to his own regiment:
"Get ready!" he didn't need to give the order, they knew what to do. They fired their Oldtown 15s with great accuracy, at the swarms of men in blue and red streaming over no-man's-land toward them.
"Tully!" the Rivermen shouted, that or "Piper!" or "Vance!"
Donnel drew his .45 and started blazing away at the enemy. He didn't think he hit anyone, his aim wasn't very good, but it soothed him just a little. Suddenly, a foe leaped into their stretch of trench, ready to fire his rifle. He never had a chance. Three of Donnel's men were on him in an instant, their bayonets rose and fell and they turned away, leaving behind a corpse with three holes in it. The men went back to firing at the hostile onslaught. Finally, Donnel did kill a foe, a fat riverman bearing a Vance badge. He took his aim and squeezed the trigger of his .45; the fat man fell into the mud, a bleeding hole in his head. The Reachman field guns picked up as well, firing into the charging Rivermen.

Finally, the attackers turned and rushed back toward Blueburn Pines. The Reachman guns died down with the attack, reluctant to damage the town.
I survived again… he thought and looked around. Two of his men lay dead from enemy fire, more experienced men, better men.

The aeroplanes swarmed overhead like so many bees. Captain Dermot Sloane looked up at them from his dugout. These aeroplanes were not of a friendly sort. Sloane squeezed off a few rounds at the machines, though they were too far up for the bullets to do any good. Antiaircraft guns took up the fight from behind the Reachman trenches, large puffs of smoke spreading in the air. Two of the enemy aeroplanes went down, and then another, but there were too many of them to do much good. One of the aeroplanes (a fighting scout) started to strafe Sloane's stretch of trench, the pilot firing his twin-machine guns. Dermot fired at the aeroplane and put a hole in one of its wings; he worked the bolt to bring another round into the breech and did the same again. The fighting scout went down, though not because of Captain Sloane. A Reachman machine gun opened up on the aeroplane and it must have hit the pilot because the aircraft managed to just get out of the trench before it crashed into the Greyflow. It looked as if the rest of the aeroplanes were observation crafts. A flight group of Reachman fighting scouts was joining the fray in the sky, helping the antiaircraft guns bring down the enemy observation planes. Most of the observers went down; others turned around in the air and sped over toward the Westerman aerodrome. Once Dermot reckoned it to be all clear, he shouted as much to the men of Company E.
"Let's go over there and lick 'em in their own trench!"
"Sir, yes, sir!" his men replied. They fastened their bayonets and went over the top with a howl, as they had many times before. They splashed over the water of Greyman's Ford; one of his men went down, his body was born away by the water of the Greyflow. Dermot threw himself down in a shell hole and blazed away with his Oldtown 15 at the enemy. His men did the same, they had learned from the last time when a machine gun had mowed down an entire squad. Dermot took a hand grenade from his belt, removed the pin and chucked it into the enemy trench. The explosion was a large one, and it looked to have killed some of the red-uniformed Westermen. Dermot aimed and squeezed his trigger; the man he'd aimed at went down. Sloane worked the bolt and fired again. Then, he made a hand gesture and stood and… charged. His men followed him, the entire company. They leaped into the enemy trench, stabbing with their bayonets and firing their rifles at close range. Dermot drove his bayonet through the belly of a blond Westerman before shooting another. His men howled and cleared out the stretch of the trench, they outnumbered the foes that guarded this stretch of trench.
"Section X, make sure to guard the entrance to the stretch whilst we loot it!" he commanded. The four men of Section X did as he commanded. The rest of Company E went about the business of looting. In a dugout, Dermot found a few pouches of chewing tobacco and burlap sack full of chocolate bars.
"Throw me some o' that chew, captain" said Sergeant Garlan.
"Later, go about gathering some more"
Dermot knelt down and searched the pocket of the blond man he'd killed, he found thirty Stags in the man's wallet a long with a hundred Stars. Suddenly, Dermot's hand closed around something hard. He removed it from the man's pocket and opened the cigar case. Inside were five cigars from the Summer Islands, of fine tobacco. Sloane smiled a broad smile and continued to loot the dead bodies and the dugouts. He ended up with a new pair of boots (better than his own), another pouch of chew, a flask of Braavosi rotgut, a small sack of coffee from Volantis, another three hundred Stars and ten more Stags and even two Dragons. His men had found things to their satisfaction as well. Dermot stowed the things in his large burlap sack and climbed out of the enemy trench. The men of Company E did the same and they rushed over no-man's-land. One man was shot in his back, a man from Section X picked up the burlap sack the dead man had dropped and splashed over Greyman's Ford. When they leaped back into their own stretch of trench, the men let out a happy howl. Dermot opened his burlap sack and retrieved his new boots. He removed his old ones and handed them to one of his men who'd asked for them (the man's own had several holes in them) and put on his new ones of thick black leather. Then he struck a match on the sole of his brand new boot and lighted one of his cigars. He puffed away happily and threw Sergeant Garlan one of the pouches of chew, as he'd promised, before retreating to his dugout, to watch the Reachman artillery start to bombard the enemy.

Trystane Manwoody knelt behind the cliff, looking out over the area of the Southern Dornish Marches. The bandits had taken up residence in the border town of Stormsand Creek, situated by the rill after which it was named. The town was in the contested area, which soured the relations between Dorne and the Stormlands, but it had been under Dornish control for nearly four years, well now it was under bandit control. Trystane would much rather be fighting Rivermen or Westermen, but he was glad he wasn't biding his time in the Red Mountains. When the 4th Red Mountains Foot had been informed of the bandits taking over Stormsand Creek and Redwall, Colonel Fowler had dispatched Company A to retake Redwall and Company B to take care of Stormsand Creek. Manwoody peered through the field glasses toward the town.
"About two hundred brigands, look like deserters from the Stormlands Army, no artillery" he said, and Sergeant Lemonwood went off to inform the rest of Company B, camped two hundred yards or so away. He didn't really have to keep his head down; night was coming on swiftly and the orange color of the Dornishmen's uniforms was almost the same color as the ground and the surrounding hills. Trystane stood up and walked off toward his command. He told his men to gather around him as he drew in the sand. He drew a circle with a stick:
"This is Stormsand Creek" he said in a flat voice.
"Platoons C, D and E will move in from the west, here" he put emphasis on the last word as he drew an arrow in the sand.

"Platoons A, B and F will move in from the east, here. Both groups will make sure to keep themselves a hundred yards away, and make sure too keep low. I will lead Platoon G up to the bandits' front door and do the same. On my signal all three groups will move forward with at a run with bayonets fastened, you will firing as well as running, signal will be a flare, any questions?" he finished. No one had any questions. Once everything was in place, Trystane removed the flare gun from his belt and squeezed the trigger. He threw the gun into the dust. He clutched his Oldtown 15 and charged forward, followed by his men. They fired into the town, as he'd commanded. Trystane dove down behind a rock when the bandits fired back. By the way they were organized they couldn't have been anything but deserters from the Stormlands Army. That made him both slightly less enthusiastic about fighting them, and slightly more. He squeezed off a few rounds into Stormsand Creek. A few of his men went down, bleeding from bullet holes. He heard more gunfire break out as the two groups he'd sent to the flanks of the town charged forth as well. Manwoody stood up as the enemy fire faltered, no doubt distracted. It looked as if the two other groups had drawn away several foes from his front. He waved his men forward and rushed forth himself before diving down into the red dirt after a fusillade of enemy fire cracked past him, killing two or three of his men. They couldn't be farther away from the town than thirty yards. Trystane got to his knees. He took his aim at a bandit standing in the window of a saloon and fired. The man went down with a howl. Trystane got to his feet and worked the bolt to bring another round into the breech of his rifle as he ran. Once he had gotten behind the wall of a small house, he heard a shout from the enemy.
"Damned brownies! Why can't ya get the fuck out o' here? This is our town, ya hear?"
Trystane knew what wanted to shout something back, he just didn't know what. He decided to go with the official drabble.
"This town is part of the sovereign territory of the Principality of Dorne, it having been taken over by enemies of the Principality, the Dornish Armed Forces are hereby commandeering this town by force!"
"Shut the hell up ya fucking browny!" the man shouted back, as if to underscore his words, a bullet cracked past Trystane. Several rifles barked not too far away and several groans and howls filled the air. Trystane took a risk and stuck out his head. A couple of men in mismatched clothing lay bleeding on the ground. One of the men, a big fellow with a long salt-and-pepper beard, lay crumpled against a barrel. The man pointed at Trystane after he'd broken cover completely.
"You…" the man coughed up blood.
"Ya damned-cough-ya damned brownie… I hope-cough -ya're happy now, ya fucking-cough-shithead, I hope ya're damned happy-cough -now, cause when we-cough-when we meet in the deepest o' them Seven Hells-cough-it's my fucking turn to be damned happy to see ya burn along with me"
Trystane aimed at the bandit's head and fired. The man's brains were blown out. He looked at the men who had killed the bandits. They were from Platoon A, to judge from that very letter being printed on the badges they wore. So they had broken in from the east then, as well as the south. The gunfire had not died down at all in the west however. The men from Platoon A led him and the men from Platoon G to the rest of Platoon A. Trystane led the two platoons toward where the gunfire hadn't yet died down. When they got there, Trystane had no trouble seeing why the fighting hadn't died down. While the other parts of town where the Dornishmen had attacked had by no means been empty-at least thirty bandits had protected both fronts-the western part had been where most bandits had been. By Trystane's best estimate, more than a hundred bandits were fighting the attacking Dornishmen. Both sides had suffered casualties-with a slight majority of the corpses not wearing Dornish uniforms-but now the bandits were attacked form both the front and the rear, and they were outnumbered. Trystane threw himself down behind a motorcar-a rarity in the Marches-and fired at a bandit who was firing in turn at the Dornishmen in front of him. The man went down, never knowing what hit him. After that bandit died, the fight intensified as the newly-arrived Dornishmen started to shoot. Manwoody squeezed off a round toward a bandit with a close-trimmed, black beard and worked the bolt to bring another bullet into the breech. Trystane fired again, this time at a bandit who had taken his position on the roof of a saloon. As the bullet penetrated into his skull, the bandit dropped his rifle and then slid lifelessly down the roof and onto the ground below. Trystane continued to fire until the last of the bandits in this part of town were dead. He looked around. No civilians had been stupid enough to exit their houses during the entire duration of the firefight, of that he was glad.
"Casualty count!" he commanded. After a few minutes, Sergeant Quentyn Lemonwood shouted back:
"Thirty-three of ours! Thirteen dead, twenty wounded!"
Trystane growled, that was more than a platoon's worth of men.
"Bring the wounded and the dead to that hospital over yonder," he pointed "then we move over to town hall, see if any bandits are held up in there"

As he watched the men Sergeant Lemonwood had assigned to the task go about it, Trystane thought to himself:
I hope Company A had an easier time taking back Redwall… thirteen men dead, now that's a hard pill to swallow

Once the men were done, Trystane led them toward the town hall. Once they got close, a machine gun opened up on them from the window of the bell tower of the town hall. The Dornishmen hit the dirt and many crawled off to find cover. Trystane was among those who did. Some of the unlucky fellows, who didn't crawl fast enough, got shot and died. Trystane counted another four dead and another man wounded. Once behind a stack of crates, Manwoody got to his knees. At first he wondered where the bandits had gotten hold of a machine gun, but then he answered his own question.
"Stole it from the Stormlands Army arsenal over at Orys' Hill, I reckon" he muttered, he had heard the nearby arsenal had been raided. Several rifles opened up on the Dornishmen, barking out of windows or doorways. Trystane thought about how to go about taking the building.

By storm he decided after a little while. It would be a costly charge, but it was required. He had gotten a deadline of a week to retake the town, and if they would besiege town hall he was sure it would take longer than that. He resolved to at least be among the first to charge the building, not wanting his men to do what he wouldn't. He gave the orders and his men obeyed. They streamed forth firing their rifles and howling. Suddenly the machine gun picked up again, mowing down the front line of Dornish troops, but in doing so, the machine gunner made a fatal mistake, he stuck out his head to scream:
"Die you goddamned, oppressin' brownies! Die you filthy shithea…" he didn't get to finish, because Trystane had squeezed off a round with his Oldtown 15 that caught him in the forehead. The man crumpled and hung with his limp arms out of the window, his chin resting on the windowsill. The machine gun he'd fired fell to the ground with a loud rattle. The battlefield fell quiet for just a moment. Suddenly a bandit rifle broke the silence by firing at and killing a trooper. Then it was on again. Trystane broke cover and charged ahead of everyone else. He kicked in the door to town hall, stabbed the bandit inside in the belly with his bayonet and rushed forward. Several of his men followed him inside. They shot the bandit sentry posted in the stairwell and rushed up the stairs. When they got to the second floor of the five-storied building that was Stormsand Creek's administrative center, four or five bandits opened up on them. Trystane slid into cover behind a bookshelf and fired at the enemy. They were taken care of in short order, though not before wounding a Dornish soldier. Trystane assigned two men to carry the hurt man outside before continuing on with the rest of his men. They kicked in the doors of a large banquet hall on the third floor, to find it housing almost twenty bandits. He was surprised at the amount of bandits there were. The fight in the banquet hall did not last very long either and cost the Dornishmen two lives. He assigned a squad to do with them what their fellows had done to the wounded man. The squad rejoined them shortly after the two first men had returned. They continued to clear out the third floor as more and more Dornish soldiers streamed into town hall from outside. When they got to the fifth and final floor (not counting the tower) rifles fired through the doors to the mayor's office. Trystane led a section in kicking in the doors. They gutted the bandits inside like fish. In the comfortable chair, a gag in his mouth and his hands bound behind his back, sat the Mayor of Stormsand Creek. He was a short, fat man, with pale skin that suggested he was of Stormlandish blood and a little mop of thin grey hair. Trystane removed the bayonet from his rifle and cut the ropes binding the man's hands behind his back. The mayor removed the gag himself and spluttered:
"Oh thank you, so, so very much… Captain" he said after looking at Trystane's badge.
"It is no matter, just doing my duty, no bunch of bandits should be able to take a town of Dorne" Manwoody replied.
"No, these were no mere bandits…" said the Mayor, whose name, Trystane had to remember, was Ravean.
"Deserters from the Stormlands Army" Trystane conceded.
"No, they were more than that, they kept going on about being men from the 'Army of the Socialist Republic of the Marches' and went on and on about the 'oppression of the proletariat' and all that other red drivel"
Red revolutionaries… Trystane thought, dismayed. He assumed the same "Army of the Socialist Republic of the Marches" had taken over Redwall. That brought an end to his hopes of a quick bandit sweeping, and he knew he would fight a war in the Dornish Marches.
"Captain Manwoody, sir!" a private shouted from outside.
Trystane Manwoody went outside to where the private held a bandit-no a red revolutionary-by the collar. Manwoody saw the man had been shot in his upper left arm. Trystane resolved to question him. He began with asking questions to which he thought he knew the answer:
"Who are you?" he asked.
"Fuck you" the man spat back. Trystane punched him in the stomach.
"Who are you?" he repeated.
"Me, I'm a nobody… we though…" the man made a sweeping gesture,
"We're the People's Revolutionary Army, the Army of the Socialist Republic of the Marches"
"There is no Socialist Republic of the Marches, this is part of the Principality of Dorne"
"Oh we'll see about that" replied the man. Trystane continued to question him.
"Where did you get these weapons?" he asked.
"Got some when we left the army of the aristocracy called the Stormlands, got most when we raided the arsenal over at Orys' Hill" the man replied.
"Did you take over the town of Redwall?"

"The town of Redwall is part of the sovereign territory of the Socialist Republic of the Marches, yes"
Trystane thought about repeating the part about how there wasn't any such thing, but decided against it. After he'd finished questioning the man he commanded his men to hang him at dawn. Then he ordered another casualty count. By the end of the count, the amount of dead soldiers had risen to twenty-three and the amount of wounded to thirty-five. Almost two platoons' worth of casualties was quite a feat to inflict upon a company of well-armed and well-trained Dornish soldiers. Then he remembered most if not all the reds had been deserters from the equally well-trained Stormlands Army. He commanded the dead to be buried not too far outside of town, white, wooden seven-pointed stars to be put up to mark their graves. The wounded he sent to the town hospital. He looked out from the balcony of the Mayor's office, out over Stormsand Creek and the red hills beyond and again, knew he would be fighting a war here soon.