The End of Times Chapter 17: Blood for the Blood God, a Warhammer + A song of Ice and Fire Crossover fanfic

Chapter 17

Blood for the Blood God

Blood Priest Norbert

Norbert was no grand commander of troops, favoured son of the Gods, or powerful warrior, but he could tell well enough the battle was utterly lost for 'his' side.

The core of the heavy Ironborn infantry was intact, yes. The Greyjoy banners had struck hard and forced their Western enemies to cede ground in the centre, yes.

But the two wings of the Iron Islands' host were being pulverised.

Ordinarily, Norbert would say it was the moment to send the cavalry into the fray, simple suggestion really.

One minor problem today though: the Ironborn had no cavalry whatsoever, unless you counted the hundred or so horses they had stolen in various raids, and Norbert didn't.

The Ironborn had hurt the Lannisters, clearly. Or rather his efforts and those of the other Blood Priests had created eighty-eight berserkers with the assistance of Khorne, Lord of Blood and Skulls, Master of War, and those creations had been the vanguard of glorious slaughter visited on the Lannister and their bannersmen.

But it wasn't going to be enough by itself. The Lannisters, may their teeth bleed until they strangled in the blessed liquid, were simply too numerous compared to the Ironborn.

Balon Greyjoy and his group of imbeciles he named 'Captains' had been outnumbered twenty thousand to fifty thousand at the beginning of the battle, and though the Lannisters had lost more men all things told, it was not enough to change the outcome.

Then in the distance another army of at least ten thousand spears and swords had appeared, this one showing Crownlands and Targaryen banners.

Norbert wasn't a grand commander, but you didn't need to be one to know what was going to happen. The last reserves of Lannisport and Casterly Rock were going to be thrown into the centre, that way Balon and his best forces would be unable to get out of the trap they had knowingly rammed their heads against. The wings of Brax, Lydden, Lannister and the thousands of horses were going to trample and destroy the crippled formations of Ironborn.

And the fresh army which harboured so many dragon banners was going to rush down into their rear, therefore shutting down any possibility of escape and ensuring this defeat was a total disaster.

Balon Greyjoy was going to enter posterity as 'the Idiot' or something equally ridiculous, no doubt. The 'Iron King' would be acknowledged as the man who had squandered the strength of the Iron Islands in a single day...and for what?

If he had been patient, the Greyjoy warriors could have been supported by tens of thousands of Northerners, not to mention the full fury of a berserker host, not just eighty-eight hastily prepared subjects.

"It appears we are in an unpleasant situation, my friends," the Blood Priest gave the other Blood Priests an amused smile. "If things continue as they stand, the Ironborn army will be destroyed for no gain."

"We need to intervene, do we not?" a third man sighed, licking the blood covering his sword.

"There is always a choice," Norbert replied. "But if we do not, our tormented souls will most likely need to explain our curious inaction to Lord Stark when he drags us back from the aether to explain ourselves."

Everyone had the good sense to shudder. This wasn't a fate anyone wanted to deliberately experience. They were not the lovers of pain the Slaanesh cultists were, Khorne be praised.

"Well, we have a lot of blood." One of their numbers snarled. "Blood for the Blood God!"

"Skulls for the Skull Throne!" They answered back in a single voice.

The preparations were not long to make. As it had just been remarked mere heartbeats ago, there was a lot of blood spilled on this battlefield.

They had symbols to attract the attention of the God, as eight berserkers still lived, heralds of red fury and unending violence.

How fortunate they were to have such dedicated 'servants' committed to kill and kill the unbelievers Southrons. Praise Khorne for having sent them right in their hands such dedicated killers prompt to recognise the greatness of the Lord of War.

The Blood Priests – eight of them, it was not a coincidence, spread across the battlefield and began to kill, and kill once more in His name.

There was no sorcery. That was for the servants of Tzeentch and the two others.

At first, a young Norbert Rivers had believed it was hypocrisy, but it was not.

Khorne was their holy patron, and Khorne was the God of War, Blood, and Might. You rose to new heights by spilling blood and surpassing the strengths of others.

They didn't use sorcery, for what was gained with rituals prompt to blow up in your faces at the first wrong syllable and the wrong type of sacrifice?

There would be no strange song, or wrong incantation mustered.

They simply called Khorne to witness their deeds, and if their God was satisfied, it would answer.

"Khorne!"

"KHORNE!"

"KHORNE!"

Each strike of his axe was spilling Westerner blood, and Norbert screamed in joy with every death.

How long he had waited for this moment, like the seven other Blood Priests.

Unlike the rest of the army fighting by his side, he had been born in the Riverlands.

For what felt an eternity ago, he had been born Norbert Rivers.

He had been a bastard of House Deddings.

It had been a mediocre and unsatisfying existence, by the blessings of slaughter! Certain Lords loved to tell that bastards had all the luck since they had the luck to marry for love and choose their own fortune in life, but like a lot of things these damned arrogant 'knights' said, it was an utter lie.

Being a bastard of a noble was most often than not being the fruit of a highborn raping a smallfolk woman. Being a bastard was being unwanted in your own home and bringing strife wherever you went. The older you became, the better you realised you were not part of the farmers, merchants, artisans, or any other part of the society. You were shunned. You angered people because you existed. A bastard was the proof their precious 'holy books' were pile of lies after pile of lies. The sanctity of marriage was constantly violated by knights and those above them.

A 'noble bastard' wasn't a smallfolk, and yet he wasn't a highborn either. Unless there were no trueborn sons or they all killed themselves in battle or in tragic hunting accidents, the 'error' born on the wrong side of the bloodied sheets was going to be ignored or despised at best, slain to ease the mind of the successors at most.

This was why Norbert had spat on the false Seven and sworn he would accomplish the will of Chaos.

The 'Seven Kingdoms' were utterly corrupt, its rulers pretending to be infallible and bathing in Light when they were in reality more corrupt and sinful than the most depraved whoremonger.

Westeros needed to burn in the fires of war.

And Khorne would be the God who would bring down the lies and reveal these Southrons how wrong they had been.

"THERE ARE NO HEROES!" He shouted as the red haze heightened his senses and blood began to soak his whole world. "THERE ARE NO MIRACLES OF FALSE GODS! THERE IS ONLY BLOOD!"

"BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD!" Several Ironborn next to him answered, convinced by his deeds and the bloodlust spreading everywhere.

"BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD!"

The sky was red now, and then it split in fury, letting a massive rainfall of blessed blood fall upon their heads.

"BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD!"

Reality stepped back as the aether gained in strength, and the servants of the Gods arrived.

The Bloodletters went first, the Hounds of Khorne rushing to battle by their side.

Norbert paused an instant to admire the work they had achieved.

Eight massive cohorts of the Blood had been summoned.

The unbelievers were going to bleed far more than in their darkest nightmares.

"BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD! SKULLS FOR HIS SKULL THRONE!"

The Legions of Khorne went to war, and Norbert ran with them.

Ser Arthur Dayne 1

If Arthur knew the name of the loudmouth who had voice that the battle was as good as won, he was going to strangle him.

Strangle him very, very slowly.

Everyone skilled and experienced enough to earn his spurs knew there were things you didn't say aloud. Because it was not chivalrous. Because it reeked of arrogance and pride. Because an enemy remained an enemy as long it was still alive and breathing.

If they survived the demon-summoning of the heretics, maybe some young hot-headed knights would learn to keep their mouths shut when it counted. Maybe. Or he would shut them down himself.

In the mean time, there were demons to slay, a Lannister army to reinforce before it broke under infernal blades, and a battle to win.

"My Prince," the Sword of the Morning said to Crown Prince Aegon. "It would be better for you to go to the rear-guard."

This command was enjoyed as well as Arthur as expected, which was none at all.

"I can fight, Ser!"

"I do not doubt it, your Highness," the son of King Rhaegar was rather skilled with a blade, there was no denying it. "But this is not the dying cry of an Ironborn army. These are demons, and I have absolutely no idea how good our blades are going to be against them."

Watching several banners of lions fall one after another, and proud knights sworn to Casterly Rock being slaughtered as they were trapped under their dying horses, the Kingsguard was not ready to believe a single charge was going to be sufficient.

"My decision is made." The wielder of Dawn affirmed. "Do as I tell you, and take your sworn swords with you."

"This is going to cause problems at court and elsewhere, Ser," one of the commanders of House Gaunt informed him as the silver-haired Prince obeyed, albeit with a visible scowl on his face.

"I'm aware," Ser Arthur Dayne frostily replied. "And I think I can think about the consequences of that once this battle will be over."

A Kingsguard's duty was to defend the King and the Royal Family. Therefore fulfilling his oaths of protecting the Crown Prince took priority on this day. Arthur was the commander of this Crownlands' host, and he knew his star was not so low that he couldn't endure a little anger from an enthusiastic Prince. However, if he was so neglectful as to return with a dead Prince in his arms, nothing would save him from the fury of his liege.

"KNIGHTS OF THE CROWNLANDS!" The Sword of the Morning bellowed as his cavalry formed up under a sky raining blood and demons screamed in laughter across the battlefields. "WARRIORS OF THE SEVEN KINGDOMS! ARE YOU WITH ME?"

"WE ARE!"

"FOR THE KING AND FOR EVERYTHING HOLY IN THIS WORLD! CHARGE!"

The archers rained two volleys ahead of them as the horses began to take up speed.

The horns of the Crownlands sounded once, twice, and thrice. Sounding the ancestral call to war, and calling the fury of the loyal men to fight against evil.

"DEATH TO THE ABOMINATIONS!"

"FIRE AND BLOOD!"

The enemy had obviously noticed them. Thousands of demons were falling upon the Lannister infantry, but several hundred had not, and now they were counter-charging, which would have been ridiculous if they were mere men on foot.

Infantry was never supposed to charge cavalry on open ground. But this was no normal infantry. The arrows did break upon hitting the red-black skins of the demons.

Arthur had had his doubts when the White Crusade's call was heard the first time. That Northerners worshipped creatures of the foulest kind was too well-established to be refuted, but the Starks and their heretic friends had done it for centuries as far as he knew, and the Seven Kingdoms had learned to live with it.

Besides, the North was a frozen wasteland where horrible weather was a battle by itself. Everybody 'knew' the reason there were not as many Northerners alive than there were Reachers was that the climate killed half of the children before they had stopped suckling their mother's teats.

Invading the North in late autumn was the kind of folly which could only result in broken armies, tens of thousands of dead men, and mountains of gold and silver wasted on a futile adventure.

"BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD! TAKE THEIR SKULLS IN KHORNE'S NAME!"

Arthur had had his doubts about the Crusade.

But not anymore.

The things running to oppose Dawn and the spears of the Crownlands' chivalry were all-too-true demons. Red-black skin, horns, weird tongues, hooves, screams in heretical tongues, and most importantly, wielding without effort two-handed infernal blades.

They were the very spawn of evil and by his knightly vows, he was sworn to protect the realm against this vile demonic beasts.

"RETURN TO THE SEVEN HELLS!" The Sword of the Morning shouted as Dawn decapitated a first enemy and began to glow with a pale light, something the legendary blade had not done in centuries. "RETURN TO THE SEVEN HELLS AND STAY THERE!"

"There are no Seven Hells, knight!" A chorus of the damned laughed. "There are only the Gods! Witness their power!"

The Crownlands' host pushed forwards, slaying hundreds of the demons. But there were a lot of them, and the ground under this bloody rain seemed even more treacherous and hostile.

Something confirmed a heartbeat later as the blood pools accumulating everywhere began to shape up as more demons.

"I'm really, really beginning to hate this seventh-cursed sorcery!"

Evil laughter echoed as if to mock his very words.

Ser Kevan Lannister 5

Terrence Kenning was the first Lord of the West to die during the Battle of the Blood Rain.

At least that was what the survivors, led by Ser Kennos of Kayce, would say in the days to come.

Kevan would accept their words as true. For when the first demons appeared and attacked mercilessly the bannersmen of House Lannister, the forces of House Kenning, Lords of Kayce and Masters of the Horn of Herrock, were mere feet away from the heretical demonic summoning.

The fury shook the earth and the sky.

"TAKE THEIR SKULLS FOR KHORNE!"

"BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD!"

The first demons to crawl out of the Seven Hells were upon the Kenning armsmen before any warning could be given.

The monsters didn't offer any moment for the knights and the pikemen to reform their lines, and in a couple of heartbeats, the army went from victory to outright despair.

Except Valyrian swords, there were no blades which could shred plate armour like it never existed, but these demonic figures evidently had the weapons for it. Their two-handed swords were unnaturally long and their edge blurry, and they shone in a malevolently red light. Kevan prayed to the Warrior to give him guidance. He was not a very religious man, but he knew instinctively a wound from one of those cursed weapons would be death if you were lucky. If you weren't...

"Rally! Rally!" the brother of the Lord of Casterly Rock shouted. "Pikes! Reform the wall of pikes! The spearmen on the first rank! Halberds with them! Swordsmen after the spearmen! The archers are to go behind them! MOVE! MOVE FOR THE LOVE OF THE MOTHER!"

"There is no Mother," demonic voices laughed, and laughed. "There are no false Gods to hide behind! Look at your armies! Look at your Crusade! Your men are routed as more blood is spilled! This battlefield belongs to Khorne!"

"In the name of the Seven-Who-Are-One," Kevan screamed. "Banish these creatures back into the pits where they should have stayed!"

"HEAR US ROAR!"

Hundreds of men were busy running away from the battlefield, but the entire wing Kevan commanded had still over ten thousand into it, and more rallied to it as the Ironborn were falling into a bloody frenzy or were deserting too.

"To the death then." A parody of knight appeared in the middle of the carnage, contemplating the Lannister army arrayed in front of it. Unlike the red-skinned beasts, it looked vaguely human, or at least it was human-shaped, though an infernal armour hid everything from view save eyes burning in diabolic fire. It mounted a beasts of fire and steel, bigger than any horse and with a head shaped like an enormous wolf. "Your skulls will make excellent cups for the Feasting of Blood!"

Arrows sang as they soared in the air, and Kevan felt a flicker of hope...immediately dashed, as if the Ironborn targeted by them died satisfyingly, the red-skinned demons laughed mockingly as the projectiles failed to do more than small scarring on their malefic skin.

"Did you really thing the Blood Legions would be defeated by such paltry things?" the enemy commander hissed. "Now witness the might of our Lord Khorne! KILL AND TAKE THEIR SKULLS!"

"FOR THE WARRIOR AND THE FATHER ABOVE!"

They couldn't await the next charge. They couldn't, not with these infernal blades and the rain of blood transforming the battlefield into an unholy tapestry of hell.

Brimstone was smelled. Rivers of blood flowed, and demons laughed.

Lannister armsmen and knight kept their formation and advanced, screams of defiance on their lips. They walked on the corpses of House Kenning and the rest of the dead, be they from Kayce or other holdfasts. They fought as the tattered flags of the four sunbursts of orange and blag turned into heretical symbols and flayed skin of evil ruin.

But they advanced. The battle was not over, and Kevan was a Lannister.

In due time, all debts would be paid. Especially the ones he owed to the heretical vermin.

Lord Captain Victarion Greyjoy 4

The moment the blood rain began to fall, Victarion understood that Balon's little 'alliance' with the North had undoubtedly been the biggest mistake of his brother's reign, no matter how long or short it would end up to be.

The Lord Captain of the Iron Fleet had always felt contempt for the weak greenlanders, but there were proper methods of war, and this...this sorcery wasn't it.

It was against the Old Way. It wasn't paying the Iron Price. It was monstrous, and it went against the teachings of the Drowned God.

"RETREAT!" the axe-wielding Greyjoy bellowed as hundreds of demons arrived to join the massacre, attacking indiscriminately his men and the greenlanders.

"RETREAT!" He repeated as his sword embedded itself in the skull of one of the red abominations.

"RETREAT!" approved Jon Myre. "The battle is lost either way, we must-"

A long burning blade went through his throat, interrupting him forever.

"No retreat," the demon hissed. "Khorne will not suffer the cowards to live."

Victarion concentrated and slammed his large axe into the monster.

"RETREAT!" The Ironborn commander continued to shout as the monster broke in a shower of blood. "We go back to Fairmarket! We return to Fairmarket! Form up huscarls! We return to the Blue Fork and the longships!"

Slowly, the men of the main force obeyed his command. It helped that the battle had turned into a gigantic slaughter, with the greenlanders busy fighting in small or large groups against the red-skinned demons, and the dragon banners busy throwing themselves to the rescue of their allies.

It was, in many ways, too slow.

Wherever Victarion rushed forwards, demons fell and his axe proved it could pierce demonic skulls as well as human ones. But he was one of the few who didn't panic and had the courage to scream decent orders.

Wherever he wasn't? Proud captains lost their minds, either abandoning all reason by charging straight into the chaotic melees, or throwing down their weapons to run faster.

Many warriors who chose the latter did not live long to regret it. Not that being a stout and heroic fighter saved you. Lord Alyn Orkwood perished with most of his men trying to rally scores of sellsword. Donnel Drumm was cut down and carved apart in many bloody parts as he rescued his brother's men only to be isolated and end up in an impossible situation. Even Andrik the Unsmiling had to step back as several of the warriors of House Drumm went mad, their armours covering in bloody red runes and their eyes filled with madness.

But step after step, huscarls and spearmen, sailors and swordsmen, archers and the best sellswords who had not lost their heads began to extricate themselves from the bloodbath.

"Where is my brother?" Victarion asked to Greydon Goodbrother as the eldest son of the Lord of Hammerhorn joined the withdrawing columns.

"Do I look like I care?" the tall young man quipped back before turning more apologetic as Victarion glared at him. "Last I saw him, he was one of those lost to the madness. Maron and Rodrik are coming our way, though."

Victarion scowled before grunting and ordering Greydon to rally all the men of Hammerhorn and the other Goodbrother branches it was possible to save. He tried to notice what was happening south of his position, and failed. Blood was raining, there were demons everywhere, and the battle was a storm of violence which would please the Storm God and the blasphemous Northern deities.

"We have to leave, Lord Captain," Burton Humble finally arrived after repelling another demonic charge which left thirty more reaver dying on the battlefield. And Victarion knew deep in his heart they wouldn't be able to bury them at sea.

"Where are the men of your House?" He barked.

"Dead," the crew member of the Iron Victory admitted. "The demons took Quellon, and Will, and a Lannister horse trampled Adrack. I've seen Hotho Harlaw die too, along with many captains, including Little Lenwood Tawney."

"Let's hope they wait for us in the halls of the Drowned God."

"Yes, if the Drowned God still exists after that..."

Victarion decided to ignore the heretical words. Striking down the man would be a crushing blow to morale, and besides Burton wasn't saying anything his fears didn't whisper to him.

More demons came and this short exchange was lasting too long.

"Go with our rear-guard," he commanded. "They will need an experienced head to stop them from committing more stupidities."

"Yes, Lord Captain."

Victarion wanted to curse and scream several times, but the salvation of the army was his goal now, and insulting his men or the Gods would not be useful.

And it wasn't saving the Ironborn forces, not anymore. It was saving what was left of the host they had led to this place of damnation. At the beginning of the slaughter, there had been somewhere around twenty thousand men, though of course thousands had been Essossi sellswords and other not-Ironborn warriors rallied to the Iron King's cause.

Now?

He would be lucky if the three columns he was leading away from the demons had five thousand between them. The Drowned God only knew how many Lords and captains had fallen in half a day, and it promised to be worse.

After all, Lords you could replace. But if Balon had really went through the effort of charging with the demons – and Victarion had no reason to believe he didn't – then they may have well lost their King today.

Victarion thought again the alliance with the North had been a massive mistake. And the worst part was that, if the losses suffered today were confirmed, the Ironborn would need all the support offered by this alliance to avoid being invaded by the greenlanders...

Ser Arthur Dayne 2

If Dawn was not death incarnate for demons, the heretical beasts might have been a challenge for him, Arthur knew.

But then, it wasn't the strangest thing to happen on the battlefield where the spawns of evil were concerned.

When the fell minions of the heretics had been summoned from the Seven Hells, they could and should have the battle as panic spread through the Westerners' ranks.

The white sword of the Seven Kingdoms had no idea how many levies and soldiers from the Crownlands and Westerlands' armies had deserted in the next turn of hourglass, but it was likely over five thousand, the majority from the Lannister host which had been into the thick of the demonic newcomers and their commanders had no time to strengthen the minds and the hearts of their bannersmen and men-at-arms.

The demons should have won.

Breaking the centre of the Lannister infantry, the forces of Lord Tywin Lannister had been broken in what was roughly six miniature armies, each acting and reacting alone to the demons and the bloodthirsty Ironborn corrupted by the arch-heresy playing on the battlefield.

Arthur and the men of the Crownlands would have reached in time one or two groups of Lannister survivors, but if the heretics had adopted a half-sane strategy, they would have exterminated every warrior on this field of madness, legendary sword or no legendary sword.

Instead...well, confusion reigned everywhere, but the Sword of the Morning could largely acknowledge that past the initial onslaught, the demons were beginning to be repelled.

Ser Arthur Dayne didn't know all the reasons of this miraculous outcome, but some were at the forefront of his mind. The most important appeared to be that the Ironborn had apparently been as surprised as he and all the men of the Westerlands by the demons' attack. Some had even been slaughtered by their monstrous 'allies'. So in many ways, this battle wasn't a simple 'heretic and demons versus the Faithful' fight. It was a three-way bloodbath, and plenty of Ironborn looked like they had enough of this craziness.

The Maidenpool scouts he had left as scouts in the north were reporting to it a tall kraken banner most likely belonging to Victarion Greyjoy or one of his nephews was running northwards, a minimum of four thousand warriors with him.

Arthur would have dearly liked pursuing him and making sure the Ironborn never recovered from this battle, but the situation was still precarious here. The fewer Ironborn remained, the more vicious and enraged the demons seemed to become, with bloody consequences for the exhausted ranks of loyal soldiers of the Iron Throne.

"Lord Tywin," Arthur nodded as the Lord of Casterly Rock rode on a white horse which had somehow managed to remain pristine despite the carnage raging all around.

"Ser Arthur," the Lord Paramount of the Westerlands replied frostily. The Kingsguard grimaced, an expression hidden by his white helmet. One might think his opportune arrival would have given him a smile or at least a few congratulations, but the man was as cold-hearted and grim as in his memories. By the Warrior, how was it possible for Ser Jaime and Tyrion Lannister to laugh like they did when their genitor was so dour and unsmiling? "You should have kept a cavalry reserve to harry the Ironborn all the way to Fairmarket."

"Except, my Lord," the Sword of the Morning objected, "I don't know how many enemies wait for us at Fairmarket. The exact reason I went in your direction to seek battle was because Lord Elbert Arryn was convinced the heretics were going to march west of the Green Fork instead of fighting the fortified Vale camps before the Trident."

Since there had already been ugly reports of Ironborn raids when he reached the Trident, it was not a terribly creative intuition, but today's events had proved the Heir to the Vale had definitely been right to say so.

"I have sent a couple of hundred of light horse to make sure they continue running and to make sure no other heretics can attack us by surprise, but-"

"BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD!"

The screams shattered every conversation, and in a final tide of madness, the demons and the Ironborn left on the battlefield charged the reorganised Crown-West ranks.

They all came in a horde of heresy and nightmares. The malefic red hounds ran ahead of the horns-and-hooves devils. Ironborn baying for blood and skulls followed, their axes and armours now painted with new symbols to the glory of their monstrous masters.

"SKULLS FOR THE SKULL THRONE!"

The single line of pikemen broke. Hounds jumped higher than any normal creature should have, and evaded spears and halberd to bite throats, arms, and legs. The hell-blades of the red-skinned parodies of warriors decapitated and mangled the red and gold cloaks of the Faithful. Here and there parts of the wall held, but not in enough numbers, and too little too late.

"Lord Tywin, you should go to the rear-guard." Every instinct in Arthur screamed that the malevolent things commanding the enemy army's strategy were after the Lion and himself. They were the two highest commanders on the battlefield; the demons couldn't dream of a better way to win the battle than to lay them low.

"I have been fighting wars since the Ninepenny Kings, Sword of the Morning. Do not give me orders."

"KILL! KILL! KILL!"

The arch-demons at least revealed the face of the doom they intended for him as the final line of swordsmen broke and two Brax knights were murdered like they were nothing.

The thing had been human once...maybe. With a face akin to the unholy combination of an enraged dog and a demon, there wasn't much left of the mortal who had now become a monstrous heretic.

"Clegane..." He heard Tywin Lannister before rushing to meet this new enemy.

"DIE!"

The enormous blade of hell and blood carved a bloody trench into the men who had tried to stop him, including Lord Ferren and several Broom knights.

Arthur struck with Dawn, and notched the left arm of the fell champion.

The rain doubled in intensity, as if the demons wanted their biggest monster to have more advantages, but it was of no use. Arthur had always been the best Kingsguard when it came to footwork.

"DIE! DIE!"

It took him three blows to cut the arm, and when it fell, unnaturally the stump began to grow anew.

"DIE!"

Dawn had always been light in his hands, but this time Arthur knew it was getting heavier and heavier. He had fought plenty of duels against demons and Ironborn today without getting any rest, and though more knights tried to intervene to slay the monster, they died with each inhuman slashing delivered by the long sword.

"DIE!"

The world resumed to his sword and the monster's.

"DIE!"

It was only a question to wait for the monster's mistake.

And finally he saw it.

The demons coming from behind it were quick, and the monster itself was also inhumanly fast. The retaliation strike thus sent him flying and when Arthur smashed against the ground, he knew he was going to feel a lot of pain for the next fortnights.

But as the head was separated from the shoulders by Dawn, the monster stood immobile for a few heartbeats, like the body didn't accept its demise.

And then it fell, and the noise of its defeat rang like a mountain avalanche.

Many demons howled and shrieked...and then at least half of them began to dissipate like they were bad nightmares.

Two knights helped him to stand, as the battle resumed and thousands of men threw themselves once more into the battle.

And this time, battle-cries were howled louder, as they knew the battle was nearly won.

Ser Kevan Lannister 6

It definitely didn't feel like a victory.

The Seven forgive him, was it truly a victory?

Kevan had difficulties believing it, even within his own head, and by the shocked expressions of the survivors, he knew the men-at-arms and the other bannersmen of the Rock near him had the same problems, as they jumped at the first loud noise and watched the other survivors with shocked faces.

Kevan was no stranger to violence, but he knew of no army which had ever reacted like their one did. Despite having no enemies left in sight, the tension was still there.

This was what happened when there was a large lake of blood north of your war camp, a mirror-like surface of red liquid which refused to vanish.

The only comforting thing was that Tywin had mastered quickly his anger at their losses and hadn't ordered a pursuit on the Ironborn remnants. For all the wrath burning in his brother's heart – Tywin wasn't showing it, but Kevan knew him better than that – there was enough control to understand the Lannister army couldn't pursue or hunt down anything and anyone right now.

The men were too exhausted. The survivors were too exhausted. They had fought hell, literally. Asking for more would likely lead on the ugly path of desertion and mutiny. More mutiny, Kevan added internally. When the demons had begun massacring everything, plenty of companies had ran away.

Kevan wanted to curse them. They had enlisted for a Crusade, and certainly boasted of their future exploits around the evening bonfires. Did their word meant so little in this troubled age?

One part of him, the part still terrified at the infernal blades, the rain of blood, and the monstrous hounds of hell, was not blaming them. It was in fact wishing it had not accompanied them. A lot of courage had been burned and replaced by sheer terror today.

The ageing Lannister knight had made a lot of plans for his brother. He had studied the rumours available for any man wishing to study Northern customs. From the voice of Northerner exiles and Braavosi merchants, he had tried to gather the best sources of information in order to know the outcome of a Crusade against the North before the first sword was drawn.

It was galling to admit, but Kevan acknowledged he might very well not have bothered. It was one thing to hear about demons. It was entirely another to fight them on a battlefield, to hear their mockeries as they butchered your men as reality unravelled under their hooves, and to assist powerlessly as they massacred knights praying for the Seven to come and save them.

But he doubted Tywin wanted to hear his doubts and his fears.

"Our last outriders, those of House Estren, have reported," he said in a tired voice. "The last banners of House Greyjoy are continuing to flee towards Fairmarket. Between four and six thousand Ironborn are with them, as far as Lord Regenard could tell."

"So they have emerged from this battle in a better position than us."

The judgement tolerated no argument, and the worst part was that it wasn't easy to argue against it even inside his throat.

Balon Greyjoy had started this battle with close to twenty thousand men, and lost three-quarters of it, including himself if they could trust the word of the Lydden men. By any standard a Westerosi commander would dare using, it was a terrible defeat. The Battle of the Blood Rain – the name old soldiers had already found for this madness – had cost a lot of men to the Iron Islands. Assuredly several thousands of the dead weren't Ironborn, just unsavoury sellswords and turncloak swords who had joined them after Seagard fell, but House Greyjoy must have still lost over ten thousand men born and raised on their misty lairs of pirates, ten thousand men which would never sail, reave, plunder, or threaten the Seven Kingdoms again.

Assuming a pessimistic outlook on the war, this was one in three of the fighting men of House Greyjoy and his main bannersmen - save the Harlaw banners - who had been mustered on a single battlefield, and these forces were lying dead in the enormous lake of blood which had engulfed the battlefield as they returned to the camp.

The lake of blood. It was an unnatural thing, and if Kevan had not seen it growing wider and wider, he would not have believed such a thing was possible.

But he had, and the son of the deceased Lord Tytos Lannister would not forget it, like this awful day.

"It will depend on how many of our deserters we will be able to catch and return to fill up our losses."

With the unholy shock made by the demons, it would be very surprising if there were fewer than five thousand men who had run away.

"No." Tywin immediately answered. "They abandoned us when we needed them, they will not be trusted anymore. I will detach Daven and the Leffords to hunt them. They will hang or they will lose their heads, but they aren't going to don our colours again."

It was uttered with determination. There was no chuckle, no humour; his brother was not joking.

"Brother," Kevan struggled not to give away the dismay he was feeling. "We have only the temporary numbers, but I doubt we have more than fifteen thousand men still able to fight after today, once the fate of our wounded will be ascertained. If we add Daven and the other garrisons we have left in the Southern Riverlands, we may be able to recover three thousand more, but we won't be able to muster more than twenty thousand men in this host."

"I will send orders by raven for the second echelon to march. We must resume this march northwards quickly."

The cadet Lannister was not easily unhappy at his brother's choices, but here...the second echelon was a large amount of men, it was true: twenty to twenty-five thousand men, the result of bountiful years of summer and peace, plus the great wealth of the forges and the treasury of Casterly Rock.

But the reason these troops had been named 'second echelon' and had their camps located at Oxcross was evident: they were not ready for a mere skirmish against very mortal foes. Against demons, Kevan knew it was going to be today...or worse.

"Tywin, this is stupid. Please, I suggest you to...delay that order."

"This can't stand, Kevan." His brother mercilessly continued. "You know as well as I do that the Starks most likely sent the Greyjoys to bloody us with their demons. We can't allow them to think they have succeeded. The West must strike the blow which will cut the head of the heretics."

If the heretics didn't return the favour. If there weren't more demons ready in the pits of the Seven Hells waiting to pounce on them. If their levies didn't break at the first sign of the abominations next time.

At least the men who had stood against these horrors on the battlefield could be trusted to not throw their weapons down and flee back home, though obviously it couldn't be guaranteed. Sometimes, men broke where they shouldn't, and didn't when they should. And in the case of demons...well, maybe if they could command miracles a lot of men would flock and give heroic last stands. But he couldn't count on that.

"The Stark army won't have broken its best spears and knights against their own horrors. If we fight them with this army, we will lose and this time, I'm sure the heretics aren't going to let us emerge alive."

No one had the full picture as the sun set over this agonising victory, but the list of casualties was long and would no doubt get longer. The ranks of the Lords of the Westerlands had been savaged and brutalised more than they had been in a century. Lord Terrence Kenning, gone. So were Lord Ferren, Lord Bettley, Lord Broom, Lord Algood, Lord Kyndall, and Lord Turnberry. Many of their Heirs were impossible to find. Either they had fled southwards, or they were lying under the heretical red lake. Famous and infamous knights had seen their tales and lives end permanently. Ser Tytos Brax, Ser Merlon Crakehall, and Ser Burton Crakehall were just the first names which came to his clouded mind.

"Nonsense. Arthur Dayne killed the biggest monster they could send against us."

Yes, and soldiers of both loyal armies were whispering in awe of it. Kevan had to admit the Kingsguard deserved the praises...but he also understood how narrow the victory had been. The monster Gregor Clegane had become was tireless; the Sword of the Morning wasn't. If the enemy had had a second monster to send, Dayne and Tywin would have died.

"And do you want Mace Tyrell to win all the glory for himself and repeat the Lions were nowhere to be found when the war was won?"

"Since the goal was to conquer the North, brother, I sincerely doubt the Crusade can be won anywhere near the Riverlands. The Tyrells and the other Lords who haven't fought yet can try to kill a few Starks if they want, but given where this battle was fought, I think we have many seasons of hard fighting ahead of us..."

Lady Asha Stark 8

"My father was a great man and a better King you will ever be."

The voice of Rodrik was definitely petulant in the extreme. Asha wondered if it was sheer idiocy or arrogance to conceal his wounded pride who led him to speak to Lord Eddard Stark like this, but in the end it didn't matter too much.

After a defeat the like House Greyjoy had suffered, humility should have been the order of the day.

"King Balon Greyjoy," the 'King' word was uttered with derision, "didn't understand the first thing about how a war must be waged. In my army, he would never have risen in command of his own company. Too rash. Too prompt to run into his enemies' traps. Too quick to jump into battle when prudence and intelligence are necessary."

The grey eyes were all the more terrifying in that there was little anger in them. The voice of the Stark leader was also worthy to be listened to. There were no shouts, and save a few accents, it remained devoid of anger and emotion. And yet it was a powerful voice. When the father of her husband spoke, everyone went quiet, and this included the direwolves circling around this small council of war.

"Balon Greyjoy may have been a mildly successful reaver, but he had never the skills to lead an army of ten thousand men on a battlefield where there were no ships. His failure to recognise this does not make him a great man, Rodrik Greyjoy."

"You abandoned us," her elder brother spat.

"You have a curious definition of abandonment," Eddard Stark answered as Lord Umber barked in laughter. "You are ignoring most of my warning messages except when it suits you. Your raiding parties are gallivanting across the Riverlands, ruining many plans and stratagems my advisors and I had decided moons ago. And when I inform you my army will be ready in a fortnight or two to reach your positions, you decide the best thing to do is to seek battle on open ground against the entire Western chivalry."

Snorts and chuckles were heard in the throats of the Northern warlords.

"What did you expect to happen, I wonder?"

"We would have done far better if your demons hadn't intervened!"

The jaws of a massive grey direwolf snapped shut a few fingers away from Rodrik's throat.

"If one of my contingency plans hadn't been activated," Eddard Stark continued in his monotonous tone, "not a single man of your army would have lived to see another day. The Crownlands army would have finished its encirclement and the heavy and light horse of the Lannisters would have pursued you for leagues. 'My demons', like you so ungenerously mentioned them, saved your ungrateful life and the Ironborn soldiers from total annihilation."

"So you say," Rodrik sneered. "I happen to have a very different opinion. And since I am the King of the Iron Islands..."

A long silence was all he received, and Asha did find difficult to maintain a serious expression among the stone-like faces of the Starks and their most important captains.

When Lord Eddard Stark resumed speaking, it was not Rodrik he was addressing.

"Lord Rodrik Harlaw."

"Yes, Lord Stark," her uncle the Reader briefly nodded.

"Lord Victarion Greyjoy has demanded that over three thousand reavers and sailors be returned to him to ensure the Iron Fleet is manned adequately to defeat the naval offensive which is no doubt about to be launched against the Iron Islands. I approve this request. You are the senior Lord who wasn't involved in this contest of stupidity. This marks you above your peers. Congratulations, Lord Harlaw. You are now in command of the Ironborn armies and holdings on the mainland."

"Thank you, my Lord."

Rodrik gaped like a dead fish for several heartbeats. Asha giggled like the young girl she had been. A painting could be made, her brother's expression was that ridiculous.

Alas, he managed to recover.

"You can't do that! I am the King of the Iron Islands!"

"Really?" This time the shadow of a smile arrived on Eddard Stark's lips. "How fascinating. In that case...what are your suggestions, your Grace?"

Anyone not too stupid would have recognised it as a sign to be careful with his own words, or a clue that your interlocutor was giving you a last chance to prove you were above a fool in intelligence.

But Rodrik was a brute, and he failed to hear the obvious message.

"You are going to take all your armies south and crush decisively the Lannister host." The new 'Iron King commanded. "You will avenge the death of King Balon."

Asha felt a minuscule part of sadness hearing her father's death being confirmed again...it didn't last long, though. The man had never been a nice parent, and his first reflex when tying an alliance had been to sell her like a bag of flour.

Moreover, Balon Greyjoy had decided to act like he and his army were a horde of bulls, and the Lannisters were sheep agitating red flags. No Northern sorcery had been needed to let him walk on this path of doom.

Sometimes, Ironborn really deserved to reap the consequences of their failures.

"At the same time, I will take all the Ironborn with me, and I will crush decisively the greenlanders of the Reach and the other navies loyal to the dragonspawn!"

The answer was short, without hesitation, and devoid of any ambiguity.

"No."

"You have no power over the Ironborn!"

Untrue, Asha acknowledged. Unlike the men of House Greyjoy, House Stark was reorganising the conquered lands of House Frey and Mallister to give them supplies and equipment support for the moons and years ahead.

The Ironborn had gone into this war thinking only about thralls, gold, and plunder, and as a result were already short of many things to continue the war. The Islands certainly couldn't give everything, and they couldn't raid a city like Lannisport every fortnight.

As no Ironborn captain or commander save Maron raised his voice in support – he could thank the Gods that Theon had stayed behind and not participated in the battle – most of the warriors sworn to Pyke had realised this.

It may have lasted a big longer, but House Stark's superiority over House Greyjoy was evident even to a blind man now. House Greyjoy – what was left of it anyway – had tied its fortune of war to the North, and the kraken was now serving the direwolf now. No more equality. No more tolerance of independent 'plans' and reavers acting on their own.

"Really? Many of your men have embraced the Blood God before, during, and after this battle."

"You can have them," Maron said disdainfully, which was...stupid, since two of them were behind him. "But all the loyal reavers will go to us. Our uncle Victarion Greyjoy is our Lord Captain, not yours!"

"Be careful, Lord Stark," Rodrik mocked the Heir to Winterfell. "I am the new Iron King, and I-"

Blue lightning sparkled from Tzeentch sorcerers, and in the blink of an eye, Maron and Rodrik had their arms tied behind their back, bound by snakes of blue flames.

"You are not a King." Eddard Stark spoke, passing one of his hands into the grey fur of his direwolf while maintaining the other around the hilt of his massive sword. "A king cares for his realm and his warriors, and the dumbest sellsword alive could tell you care nothing save your own pathetic little head. Your father at least managed to please Khorne, as the lake of blood will allow His power to reach easier into the Riverlands. And he died like a warrior, fighting as he preached. No, your father was a leader of sailors and reavers and you...you aren't."

New snakes of flames appeared to bind his legs, and her two eldest brothers were forced to kneel in front of Lord Stark. Their expressions were anger, loathing, and terror shifting on their faces.

"Many men would have lost their heads for their disrespect, but since you are married to my daughter, you won't die here, Rodrik Greyjoy." Asha could feel the black wind coming for her imbeciles of brothers nonetheless. "You and your brother are going to be sent back to the Iron Islands. Saara will decide of your fate and how best your bodies and your souls can contribute to the war on the Sunset coast."

Rodrik smiled, and it wasn't hard to guess his thoughts. He was still thinking about turning to his advantage, wasn't he?

What an idiot. She had heard enough from Torrhen and Arya's mouth to know that Saara was a sorceress and one unlikely to see any charm in these two brutes.

Lord Eddard Stark had chosen to not execute them today, but it was a death sentence all the same, and it preserved an 'acceptable' North-Iron Islands alliance.

"Now let's discuss about our new plans of battle against the armies of the South..."

Author's note: Balon Greyjoy wished the Iron Islands to be independent...this dream is a bit dead now, with his army decisively crippled and the proof of his stupidity evident for all to see.

The Lannister army won the day...and they didn't enjoy it. The Black Crusade in the Riverlands can continue...with a very limited participation of the Ironborn.