The Hand

"The King wants us to invade Dorne?"

"Apparently so." Randyll Tarly studied the parchment, written in Connington's scribbled script. Perhaps the idea was Griff's, perhaps Rhaegar's, it did not matter, the two men seemed to speak as one these days.

"Is it the right course," Dickon asked. His son would still be basking in the glow of his nuptials, were it not for damned kings and queens and their wars. Not that Randyll did not expect the king's request, a part of his mind even hoped it, that Rhaegar would be taunted into sending all his armies deep into the claws of Dorne, the one kingdom which had always evaded the claws of conquest throughout its history. That Rhaegar would request the assistance of the Reach, this was not unexpected either, though it would been more preferable had the King and his Griffin chosen to pursue their invasion alone. Apparently neither were that deluded just yet.

"An invasion would be risky, split or combined," Randyll replied.

It wasn't that he did not trust his son. If anything, Randyll hoped to protect Dickon, to keep him away from such paths which threatened to lead an impressionable young man to travel the roads of spiders. That Randyll had to tread them himself, it could not be helped. As Hand to the King, he had seven kingdoms to protect, and a family name to carry down.

"You don't like it," Dickon could read him, easier and easier now. "It's foolishness, isn't it, trying to cross the passes in winter, the smaller ones no less, coming from the Reach."

"If they're defended," he began carefully, knowing that either his son's reputation lay on the line depending on how he worded his response, or his life. Or both. "If they're undefended, then we could certainly force the Queen's armies further south, besiege it in Starfall. It's not an entire kingdom we're trying to subjugate, but one woman. Capture her, or kill her, then the cause dissipates with Queen Sansa."

Well, not exactly. There was still the King's sister to deal with. Somehow the girl had been able to elude the Brax's and Baneforts by convincing old Roland Crakehall the truth of her tales, surrendering even Casterly Rock to take the Ocean Road south. Whatever witchery befell Daenerys Targaryen to start spreading such vicious lies against her own blood, he did not figure the remedy to be easy, or all that palatable to Rhaegar, no matter the King's latest delusions.

"So we march as the King orders then?"

Not to your death, son.

"The King orders us to march from Horn Hill to Blackmont," Randyll said carefully. "The King orders the Tyrells to march at Prince's Pass. We'll do so, but we cannot neglect our own defenses. This could all be trickery, a way to lure away our defenses in the Reach, in Horn Hill. We lose our guests, and we unleash all the North against us."

"We'll send the scouts then," his son asked him, eagerly awaiting further instruction.

You need to think man, for yourself. Else you'll always be a follower, never a leader.

But now was not the time to properly instruct his heir of such lessons, not when Randyll found himself ashamed of the dark path tempting him as they spoke.

"I'll tell the Tyrells to send an obligatory force too, scout the passes, test their defenses. If we're successful, then we'll rejoin with Rhaegar, as ordered. But we need caution...you must take caution, Dickon. You know the King, he is..."

"Unwell at times," Dickon agreed. He'd seen little of Rhaegar in his time at the capital, but Randyll had kept his son appraised of the mental state of this latest Targaryen monarch. After all, was it not his responsibility to his heir, after he'd seen to it himself to help bring about the return of the dragon.

You lied to me, Spider. You didn't tell him he's leagues closer to his father, than the good knight who rode beside Ser Arthur and Barristan the Bold.

"He may change his mind. He may not. But...however loyal we are, and we are loyal...we can't afford to lose our homes, our families, based on the whims of the dragon."

"Understood, father."

Did he now? The Hand pointed to the map, knowing his son needed more specifics in the matter.

"Take six hundred men and ride into the hills. If none stand in your way, send ravens, and we'll follow. If you encounter, if your scouts encounter any resistance, ride back at once to Horn Hill, do you hear? And we'll appraise what needs to be done. I'll send ravens to Highgarden instructing the same."

Sitting by the fire that night, his fingers brushing by the hilt of his ancestral sword Heartsbane, Randyll Tarly came to the full realization of just who he was more willing and fully prepared to sacrifice, between his son and his King. The realization changed nothing.


Sansa - 304 AC

Trumpets blew out just as the sun was setting. Sansa shuddered, they were the trumpets of her men, yet the sound hit her ears a half second before her mind could interpret the sound so that, in that longest and briefest of moments, the Queen despaired that all was lost, that their enemies were about to overcome her, that she'd finally run out of kingdoms to run to. As knights clad in Dornish garb rode triumphantly into the camp, dragging forth the amply armored knights of the Reach in their grasps, Sansa scolded her heart to be less frivolous, less fearful. This was war. Her mind, her constitution needed to be stronger, for surely there were more battles to come, all of them worse than this brief skirmish.

"Huzzah!"

"Hurrah!"

"Long may she reign!"

Picking up the hems of her skirt, the Queen ran towards the main path leading into the camp, craning her head to look for the silver emblazoned armor of the Lord of Starfall. Edric was amongst the last to arrive, and she fought the urge to run up to him, to embrace him, kiss him and thank some set of Gods or another that her protector was alive and safe. Instead, she stood calmly, regally, and awaited her lover to dismount, kneel, and place his lips upon her hand, held out as if bestowing her blessings upon a mere beggar in Flea Bottom.

"How fared the battle, Lord Edric?"

"It went as well as we'd hoped, Your Grace." His eyes were grim, not triumphant, despite the apparently auspicious results. "Our men fled at the sight of the first Tyrell charge, as we'd planned. The enemy pursued, long enough to fall into the very coves we set our ambush for. Most of them are dead."

"Not this one," came a bold, feminine voice belonging to Obara Sand, the eldest of the late Prince Oberyn's bastards. Dismounting her steed, she strode over to a small, pathetic pack of bound prisoners, and brought forth a man with ragged hair but clearly the sharpest armor of the bunch. A swift kick against his back, and the knight knelt before her.

"Ser Garlan Tyrell," Sansa recognized, both from the sigils emblazoned upon his armor, and the man himself, whose cheekbones matched so closely with those of her formerly beloved Loras.

"Your Grace," the older knight muttered unhappily. Enemies at they were, he had not forgotten entirely his courtesies. Lose this rebellion as she may, be condemned a traitor by all the maesters' histories as she may, none could ever honestly deny her title.

"Where is your father," the Queen commanded of her prisoner. "Where are your brothers, which lords accompanied yours from Highgarden, whose banners, how many?"

There was a struggle in the man's eyes, Sansa could tell. After all, Garlan Tyrell had once sworn fealty to her father first, and then herself, before following his father Mace into treason, all of it accumulating evidence of how everything about the House of roses was false, whether their loyalties, their professed friendships, or love for herself, her brother...

"Not here," Garlan replied with a sardonic smile, one which indicated that he was ready to die. Or was he testing her, did he not fear her enough, because he still thought of her as the timid little girl who foolishly loved his brother, who foolishly trusted his sister?

The ride had been a short one from the Tower of Joy, or felt short, at the very least, considering how frequent and strenuous were her marches now. Beric and Lady Brienne both arrived with their hosts shortly after their first camp at the site of Lyanna's death and Jon's beginning. Then they'd heard word from scouts of invaders riding in from every direction. The Unsullied knew their instructions, and they had no choice but to trust the seasoned mercenaries. Edric trusted Beric and Brienne to hold off Rhaegar by the tower, which meant his first inclination, their numbers amplified in the east, was to ride towards Nightsong, and help the Manwoody's and Fowlers ward off the banners marching from Highgarden.

Sansa could have stayed at the Tower, she would've trusted her safety with Brienne and Lord Beric. Edric told her the safest course was to stay too, rather than ride days through uncertain mountain passes where, unlike at the Tower, they did not know where or from whence the enemy would approach. But when Sansa decided she would ride west with him, she thought she saw, if not relief, a sense of joy in that she was choosing to accompany him, whether for herself, or for Edric. The decision was actually easy, not just because of all the bad memories and history the Tower brought, but because the Queen had arrived to a point in her life where she absolutely despised the helpless waiting, where she'd rather ride and do something about her own fate, even if it was to her detriment.

"He won't talk," Obara scoffed, kicking the man in the ribs once again. Her sister had stayed at the Tower, along with Arya. Sansa could only hope that her confidence in them weren't misplaced. They had the numbers, after all, and especially now that they'd fended off the advance from the Reach.

"His men did though," the Sand girl continued. "Mace Tyrell rode straight back to King's Landing after the weddings, to cower and hide in the Keep. Ser Loras remains in Highgarden to man the defenses, while his cripple brother...," Obara shrugs, "I don't know, sits and eats and fucks his new wife weakly like a woman while all the rest of us die?"

The insult was not exactly fair, Willas Tyrell could not help his ailment, and it had been Obara's father who'd crippled him anyhow, dishonorably according to some. It didn't matter though, the defense of Willas Tyrell's name wasn't exactly a priority for herself at this moment.

"We need to march back east in the morning," she said, looking at Edric, who nodded his agreement. "Should we take with us some more men?"

Edric shook his head. "They might try again. And we want them to try again," he emphasized. "Let these mountains eat up more and more of their army."

The Queen nodded, understanding, and her gaze returned to their most highborn captive.

He has Loras's eyes too. But none of his boldness, Garlan wilts, while Loras flowers.

"Then we need to taunt them into rashness, don't we?"

"Your Grace," Garlan began, "I'm not going to beg for my life, I..."

"Your Grace, have you heard of crucifixion," Obara suddenly asked, interrupting the man's refusal to beg.

"I...," Sansa stuttered, the strange word having been uttered at some point in her studies as a child. "It's...it's from Slaver's Bay, isn't it? Something painful?"

"They nail you to a post or a cross," Obara continued gleefully, cruel orbs gazing down at their prisoner as she described the gruesome ordeal. "Sometimes it takes several fortnights for the condemned to die."

They all looked at their prisoner, who shirked, yet remained too proud to protest on his own behalf towards such a cruel fate. It was tempting, but Sansa shook her head. She didn't care how Garlan Tyrell died, only that it served her purpose, so there was no need in making it painful for no good reason.

"We wage our war for the Faith of the Andals," she explained calmly, "and against the barbaric practices of the east. We will not adopt their customs." But then she allowed a light grin upon her lips to the Sand girl. "We'll not waste it, not until we have a more deserving prisoner." The bastard girls liked blood and pain, so she'd allow them one day, there were plenty enemies for them to torment as they would.

"And for Ser Garlan," Edric asked. There was no doubt in his eyes, but Sansa knew him well enough, even as he readied his sword for the execution. Edric did not want to kill the man, he would take no glee in the murder, but he would do it for her, if asked. After all, what was the execution of one prisoner, after breaking guest rights with the Martells?

But there was no need to waste his capacity for murder either. Instead, she turned back to Obara. She needed to keep her newest allies happy after all.

"Do try to make it not too slow," Sansa allowed. "And keep his face recognizable, we want them to know who he is when we send the body back to Highgarden." Though it was to the girl to whom she spoke, the Queen kept Garlan Tyrell's face within the corner of her eye, observing his reaction, resigned and, yes, fearful, upon the hearing of her final sentence.

And deep inside her soul, a small, or perhaps not so small part of herself savored the reaction, it savored the fact that she was truly the Queen, and could act as such...that she had the power, to save or condemn, that the most powerful lords and knights of the realm, who could cut her to pieces and do worse to her were she just a helpless girl with no name, would now tremble at her feet, would die or live, would suffer, were she to say but one word.


The march commenced at dawn. Of their two dozen or so prisoners, they killed the ones whose wounds were already beyond saving, and sent the rest to accompany their fallen lord back to Highgarden so as to ensure the message was received. Then, exhausted as they all were, from Queen to Lord, from Sand Snake to Sand, they rode as quickly as they could back the path they'd followed, reaching the eastern edge of Prince's Pass by dusk. A fog descended into their camp that night, settling after the sun had set, a rare occurrence, Edric said, in the Red Mountains.

"Do you ever think about us," she asked him, lying atop the young man in their shared cot. His chest made for a good pillow, she'd long ago decided. Even when they'd met again, when they saved her from Boros Blount's sword, he'd seemed too much a boy still, when she'd claimed and taken him for herself, in order to save herself. But the constant exercise since seemed to do wonders for his body, his shoulders and chest growing and widened, feeling stronger in her grasp than what Sansa remembered of Trystane...or was that just her memory failing her? Had it been but a year since their last parting, when Rhaegar and his Spider confronted them with the truth? How much of it did she still remember, Ser Lewyn marching Trystane away, did she know then, deep down within her heart that, no matter what the assurances of Rhaegar and his Spider, that she would never again gaze into the eyes of the man she loved?

"What do you mean," Edric whispered. "I think of us, yes. How we have a war to win, how to keep our skins alive until we win it." Their victory, the sight of the blood, the rush of power from ordering and watching Garlan Tyrell's execution carried out had left her absolutely ravenous by the time she'd entered their tent the previous night. But Edric was drained from the battle, Sansa could tell, so she did not push things. Tonight, it had been quick, but hardly satisfying, for her at least.

"It's funny, isn't it?" As she spoke, she watched her breath move imperceptibly the few translucent hairs upon his bare chest. "Our parents, neither one of us have them anymore."

"No, we don't." He spoke with an edge, and Sansa could tell that this was not a comfortable conversation for him.

"They say my father loved your aunt," Sansa continued, even as Edric closed his eyes, as if feigning sleep to avoid further conversing the subject with her. "They say that...she jumped from the tower, because of my father. Because of Ser Arthur. Or maybe it was because my father was already married by then, and she knew he'd remain true to his vows. But...this...history, between our families...it must have been powerful. The love. Because...only love so powerful...would have the power to destroy."

Edric was her lover, a good one, a man with whom she felt more inseparable from by the day. Trystane she'd loved, she'd truly loved, with ever fibre of her soul. Could she ever love Edric the same way, knowing how it had been love which destroyed Trystane? Was it better, that she held back her heart, enjoyed his company, his comforting presence, his armies and name, without truly giving herself to him, as she'd done for Trystane? Trystane had died for her. Edric would too, Sansa knew, but would it be for love, or for duty? She would have died for Trystane no doubt, she'd tried dying the best she could afterwards. Would she die for Edric now? Or would she let him die for her, and grieve, because her heart would grieve, Sansa knew, but then move on, just as she'd done with Trystane?

"My father said little about...the history," Edric whispered warily, reopening his eyes. Sansa continued stroking his chest and side, to beg him continue and reveal the deepest pockets of his heart to her. "All he said was that Ned...King Eddard, sorry, was a good man...that he was a man of honor, that he honored Ser Arthur's name and legacy. About my aunt Ashara...he never said a word."

"I wouldn't have dared ask about her," Sansa said shyly. "Mother would've had my head, and I would've never lived to be Queen."

She closed her eyes, and nudged her face deep into his skin. Soon there would be another battle, as early as the morning, and having lain her neck at death's door once before, Sansa knew to savor what she could about the joys in this life.

"Do you miss them?"

"I do," Sansa answered. "Do you?"

"More than anything," Edric swore, with an intensity she'd rarely heard from him.

"Maybe that's why we understand each other," she heard herself saying, "because we both understand what it means to be alone...truly alone in this world."

They lay quietly, peacefully, and Sansa would have thought herself and Edric both asleep, when she heard him whisper to her. "We have each other."

"We do." She could not help but smile, saying the words. "If they could see us now, what would they think of us? Do you think they'd be happy, that we'd found each other?"

Would we have found each other, ever? Would my father or my mother have allowed it? Would yours, not forgiving the grudges of the past wars? Could both of us have lived our lives, separately, perhaps even happily, not knowing what we could have found with each other?

Is it worth it, for us to find each other, after losing everything else?

Would Trystane be happy for me, or would he curse us both, for so many reasons?

"I think," Edric finally answered, his voice less drowsy than before, "that my father would be proud of me. For serving my Queen, for doing my duty."

He was holding back now. But again, so was she. And it was for the best.

"Rhaegar's coming," Sansa whispered. Instinctively, she clutched his body tighter between her arm and fingers. If she couldn't think pleasant thoughts, then there was nothing holding her back from her worst nightmares.

"We'll beat him," Edric whispered confidently. "We'll win."

"I trust we will," she answered, careful not to insult his pride, his faith in himself, in their cause. "But if we don't..."

"Ride to Starfall," Edric said, his voice firm and protective. "My men will remain loyal to you. Take a ship to Sunspear, the Lady Ellaria..."

"I won't run anymore," Sansa interrupted, feeling his chin turning to look at her by the roof of her head. "I won't be captured either."

"What do you mean," Edric asked cautiously, fully roused from his slumber now, and Sansa regretted that she would pull him from his rest, in what could be the last night of both their lives.

"Just that," she answered firmly. "I'll do what I have to do. If it happens...and if you live...I don't want you to bemoan me. Or think it's your fault. This is war, I know it, nothing's certain, nothing's sure. I worried about you yesterday, when you rode into battle. I'll worry about you, when the next battle comes. If the battle's lost, and you die...well, it's over for all of us anyway. But if the battle's lost, and you somehow survive...understand that whatever I choose...that it's my choice. Fight your fight, or run, or make peace...but know that, whatever I did, whatever I'd do...that it's nothing against you, that I'd go to my grave thankful for you, thankful for the time we had together. That if I die...I'll die a happy woman, because of you."

She felt his grip tighten against her in turn.

"I understand," Edric replied solemnly, more like a knight addressing his charge as a man whispering to his lover. He did not fight her further.

But did she want him to?


Rhaegar

"We've taken the hill."

It wasn't just any hill, Rhaegar thought, as they carried his wheelhouse up to join the vanguard of their army. It was funny, while he'd always felt a sense of fondness for this particular place, it had been nothing more than another landmark for him, to mark his journey during those frequent rides through Prince's Pass, in those days while his father still lived. There was always something special to the place, a power he'd sensed then, but how does one man place or measure an abstract feeling that he could not press his finger upon. Surely the vast and barren hills, the rolling landscape, the monolithic tower itself, all of these possessed their aesthetic, their own poetic qualities that his soul could imperceptibly recognize. How was he to know that by naming it, he was cursing the place, that the indiscernible feeling which gnawed at the back of his neck at the time he ought to have recognized as a harbinger of doom, rather than an understanding of beauty?

"They gave it up damned easily," Donnel Swann said, a young knight who led the men of Stonehelm after his father had agreed to rally his banners in exchange for a pardon for his disgraced whitecloak son. "I know Beric and Bryce Caron, neither are the ones to retreat so happily."

"We surprised them with our charge," Connington replied. "Though you're right, Lord Donnel, we should exercise caution. The day is early, and the battle is far from won."

Surely both sides expected battle this day. Their camp the last night had been within view of the tower, and only a blind and deaf idiot would have failed to notice their advance. Surprise was their only way at an advantage, along with a thick fog which had settled during the night, so Griff had roused the men hours before dawn, finishing the march and charging up the hill while the morning's fog still sank low upon the ground, and the dawn had yet to overpower the night behind the eerie winter mists.

"We need to press our advantage," Donnel said. "They're in disarray now. Pursue them, and we'll destroy this rebellion before midday."

He was a smaller man than his younger brother Balon, but Rhaegar thought his movements were quicker and more elegant. He'd call Donnel Swann into the Kingsguard, if the young lord was not already the last male heir of his father. Changes needed to be made, Rhaegar recognized since leaving the capital, once the war was over. He needed younger minds and more vigorous opinions on his Small Council, youths of talent who could think differently than old men such as he, and Connington, because the Great War was not a war which could be won solely by the elderly. His children still had years before they could come of age and take the grasps of the kingdom from himself, and he needed to ensure that their counsel would be wise and full of experience by then.

"Can't see damned nothing through the fog," Griff said, one weary palm held over his eyes, counselling caution for once. Indeed, though Rhaegar sat within a minute's walk on foot from the tower, he could barely see the stone escarpment through his clear eyes.

"It's lifting," the heir to Stonehelm remarked, riding his steed back and forth impatiently, and Rhaegar noticed a similar restlessness in his men. Soldiers did not like being blinded, this he knew from long experience. But the enemy was just as blinded as well.

"The Semly host is the key," Rhaegar said. "They've had the longer march through the Boneway. We need them to hit the enemy today, before they can escape back deeper into Dorne."

"We've slowed our damned march plenty for them to catch up," Connington grumbled.

"They're good soldiers," Donnel remarked. "I trust they'll be here, not even the fog can stop them..."

As if the very timing of it was divine, they heard trumpets blare from the valley below, singing the songs of Harvest Hall as the first clangs of metal and screams of panic and pain echoed up the hill. Their reinforcements had arrived, the enemy flank had been engaged, and now all they awaited was one final order for the battle to be won.

"Connington," Rhaegar ordered, looking his friend in the eye during this moment which they'd awaited all their lives, the chance to win a battle, win a war, and thus prove the favors the Gods held upon their great enterprise. "Lead the charge against the enemy center."

"Aye, Your Grace."

"And Lord Donnel?"

"Your Grace?"

The boy needed to learn many things, patience amongst them. As his King Rhaegar would guide him, and teach him.

"Stay with your men by the tower, in the reserves. Let Griff get this one under his belt, he needs it."

The boy was not happy about the order, but he obeyed it anyway, riding into the mist to inform his men while eyeing enviously the rest of their army as they readied their final, lethal charge.


Edric

The fog had grown ever thicker the next morning. They'd expected to reach the Tower of Joy by the time the sun reached its peak that day. The sun's position they could not tell, but merely hours after leaving camp they heard in the distance screaming and shouting from afar, and from the direction they were riding towards.

"The battle's begun," Sansa shouted at him, astride upon her horse, still clad in thick golden layers of Dornish robes, completely vulnerable to the poorest shot of arrows.

"Fuck," Edric swore, "we're too late."

Without another word, Edric pulled out his sword and kicked at his horse, trying to will the entire army behind him to ride as fast as they could through the blindness of the fog, with only the clamor of war guiding their senses. As the fog began to lift, he recognized a small ravine marking the path leading up the hill from the south, where their reserves should have positioned themselves during the initial retreat. But the landscape was barren, abandoned. Then came one man dressed in Dornish armor, then another, all running in their direction.

"What's happened," he screamed out, grabbing one panicked deserter by his hair, wrenching his head backwards until the coward came to a stop, and recognized whom he was standing before.

"They ambushed us, my Lord!"

"How, where? Did you not see them coming?"

"The fog," the man screamed. "They came from the east, from Vulture's Pass!"

Vulture's Pass! Fuck, how could he have not anticipated that?

"What's Vulture's Pass," Sansa asked next to him, carefully masking the growing fear in her voice.

"It's a narrow mountain road," Edric explained, trying to balance his sense of urgency with the shame in his failure, "coming from the Boneway. I wouldn't have thought Rhaegar would have led an entire army through there, but one small host..."

Their initial plan had been sound, whether or not Edric and his men returned to the Tower of Joy in time, because Beric and Brienne had enough numbers between their Stormlanders and Dornishmen who'd remained. They'd anticipated that Rhaegar would charge the hill, so a southward retreat was already premeditated, to freely give the enemy the high ground, knowing that they would shortly abandon it for the sake of pursuit, to turn a small defeat into a rout. That was why Beric hid his men behind a small knoll southwest of the tower hill, and when Rhaegar's men began their charge downhill, his old mentor would have led the charge at their right flank, breaking their momentum and, with any hope, crushing through their center while Brienne would rally the same men who'd just feinted retreat to reverse direction and complete the rout.

They had enough men to carry out such a plan, but if the enemy had penetrated and pierced their right flank from Vulture's Pass, sneaking in through in the misty morning, then both the bulk of Brienne's command as well as Beric's reserve on their left would have been forced to pivot right and face the ambush, leaving their flanks vulnerable in turn from a counterattack downhill from the tower.

"Men," Obara cried behind him, "no man is allowed to run, I'll gut you myself."

"We ride," Edric cried out, rearing his horse to give his men at least some semblance of a rallying cry before charging into battle. "We fight, we kill. The first men I order you to kill are any deserters from the battle. We will fight for our Queen, we will win, or we will die!"

This was the moment, would the men rally, and heed the orders of a boy six and ten? Or would they wilt, and run, and doom them all? He heard encouraging cries through the bitter air.

"We've already shown the Tyrells what we're made of," he continued, hearkened by his response. "We showed them what happens to enemies of Dorne, when they invade our homelands. Well, there's more invaders up there," he pointed towards the unseen hill. "Will we show them what we're made of? Will our ancestors, who braved the cries of the dragons themselves, look down at us in shame, or in pride?"

By now Sansa had turned her horse so that she stood next to him. Edric turned his head towards her, to see if the Queen wished to speak her own words before the battle, but Sansa only nodded, signaling him to finish.

"The men who are fighting now need you! The enemy has made their move! They have the advantage now, but they're vulnerable, because they don't know we're here, because they're not expecting us! Will you abandon our brothers in arms, will you abandon your Prince, your Queen? Or will you fight, and show them what mettle we're made of?"

The screams they received were raucous enough. Edric had never given a speech before. He may never give a speech again. So be it, this one would do well enough for now, he couldn't turn back time and say anything different. As he pivoted back into the direction of battle, feeling the weight of the gallops and footsteps behind him, Edric felt a slight tug upon his wrist. It was Sansa.

"Don't die, please. I need you, stay alive for me."

"You stay alive too," Edric said dumbly, nodding his acknowledgement of his duty in the coming battle and beyond, before riding off.

The cavalry led the charge, Edric at its head, and he plunged himself into the heart of the battle, slashing at any armor or sigil he didn't recognize as marcher or Dornish. Even as he struck again and again, even as his horse found itself caught in the whirlpool of mud and bodies, he craned his neck eastwards, to where his center should have been. The banners of Tarth and other Stormlords were closer than he would've hoped, and he saw Selmy banners beyond, men he knew to be the enemy, which meant their positions had been too forcibly condensed already.

Just how bad of a rout is this, Edric screamed in his mind, as more and more of his horsemen swooped into the battle. Fortunately, the once attacking enemy now found themselves caught on both sides, and hearing the screams and horns of their arrival, his own beleaguered men began to rally. In one corner of his eye he saw a flaming sword, cutting down one man after another.

"Thoros!"

"About time you came, boy," came the scream across the battlefield.

His new arrivals fully engaged in the battle, Edric pulled the reins of his horse, retreating from the densest of the fighting. If Brienne and Beric were still alive, they were in no place to survey the battle as a whole, so command was his, for the moment. Riding towards the rear, he screamed at each arriving line of reinforcements, now mostly infantry having caught up with the horsemen. Edric waved them forward, screaming his orders and pointing them towards whatever weaknesses or gaps he could see from atop his horse.

More horns echoed from atop the hill. The base of the tower was finally visible through the fog, and Edric saw yet another wave of enemy soldiers running down from the direction of the tower on foot. Just how many more men Rhaegar had in reserve, he could not tell. His men were not being used to their maximum effect, which left them helpless to counter all the numbers Rhaegar had to throw at them. One side would bleed out, or the other, and the battle would be thus decided, strategy or brilliant plans be damned. But such was war, and he had no choice but to order his men to continue fighting and dying, even if they were in fact doomed.

"Infantry," he screamed, grabbing the attentions of his arriving reserves. "To the hill, fend off the charge." His eyes scanning the field, he saw a line of about a hundred archers, whose arrows sat fresh in their bags, useless after arriving to a battle already devolved into a chaotic melee. "Archers," he ordered. "Loose as many rounds uphill as you can, before they meet our men!"

With that, he set his sights at the tower and buckled his mount up the hill to meet the newest charge, having done all he could from the rear.


Rhaegar

"Where did those reserves come from," the King swore angrily. The battle had been going so well, until a swell of men emerged seemingly from the mists itself, now pouring into the messy mud below, turning what was looking to be a victory into something closer to a stalemate. Or worse, if his men continued to be surrounded by the new arrivals, and Rhaegar could see with his own eyes the enemy right rallying and turning back on the Selmy's, now that the pressure had been relieved off of them.

He felt one frozen tooth bite against the back of his hand, raised his eyes, and saw tiny flecks of snow falling from the sky.

Snow in the south. In Dorne. What a sight.

Lyanna, is this you? Have you finally returned to me? What message do you have to tell me, from the great beyond? Is it about our past, our love, our tragedy? Or the future, the war to come, our great destiny yet faced...

His seat atop the hill felt a throne, overseeing the battle below. It was fitting. With Connington gone, he alone held the reins of the battle, a King in full control of his reign, his destiny.

"Lord Donnel," he ordered. "Commit your reserves to the battle now, charge the enemy!"

He heard the sound of a sword unsheathed, and awaited this final move which would decide the battle. Most of the Swann men were mounted upon horse. Surely they would decide the battle, now that the enemy had hopefully committed all they had.

Then he continued waiting.

Then more silence, no movement, and Rhaegar turned to look crossly into the direction of the young heir to Stonehelm. What he saw, a single blade pointed in his direction, horrified him.

"Aye, we'll finish the battle now," Donnel Swann replied, gleeful in his treason and betrayal. Immediately he spurned and ordered his men. "We fight for Queen Sansa! Go now, win the battle for our Queen!"


Sansa

It was over. It was all over. What had once been pristine prairie now stood mud, blood, and endless bodies, friends and foes alike, all who'd died for just two people...her and Rhaegar, their deaths to determine who would get the final word in calling the other an usurper.

"Your Grace!"

She recognized the bold voice of Lady Brienne, who looked as bruised and as bloodied as any man upon the field. Next to her stood a smaller woman, Arya, to her relief. She'd worried for her sister all battle. She'd worried for Edric too, but at least she'd seen where he'd ridden, forbidding sight as it was. Arya, whether she was already dead, whether she was even fighting in the battle, Sansa had been helplessly blind to, until this moment.

"Lady Brienne. Princess."

"I finally have more kills than you," Arya said, though through her nonchalance Sansa could see the fear, relief, and exhaustion in her eyes. Both women were still panting, same as the men who slowly rose and rallied and gathered themselves, realizing the battle was indeed over.

"Don't brag until you've exceeded the number of whitecloaks I've killed," Sansa said, forcing a grin at her sister through the dim scene. Craning her head to the left, she looked up the hill towards the tower, and saw to her relief a young man with golden hair riding in their direction. Another man stumbled towards them from behind Brienne and Arya, over one body and the next. When he came closer, Sansa saw that Thoros of Myr was dragging both a gigantic gleaming sword of Valyrian steel, along with the limp body of the man who'd stolen it from her father so many years ago.

"He's alive," Thoros said, before hiccuping violently, gesturing at Jon Connington as he dropped the limp form on the ground. "Got knocked up badly in the head, but I don't see no bleedin' from him."

Gods, did you fight, and survive, this battle drunk out of your mind?

"Thank you, Ser Thoros," Sansa said, feeling her blood rush at the sight of her father's sword, a rare tangible prize for her in victory. "You have brought before me a traitor and a criminal. The realm will remember your deeds upon this day." She turned, raising her voice to address all who stood within earshot. "The realm will remember you all! You stood up for not just your Queen, not just your home, but for your Faith, against a perfidious and heretical enemy."

As she spoke, Sansa watched Thoros, a former priest of the fire god, shrug and pull out his canteen of wine, both having somehow miraculously survived the battle. He had assured her when they'd first met to say what she wanted about his former religion, that he no longer gave a damn, that he hadn't believed since well before father and Robert Baratheon raised their swords in rebellion.

Cheers rang out, scattered around her, and Sansa felt flush in her face. She'd been as useless in this battle as she'd been during Viserys's siege on King's Landing, yet at the same time Sansa felt more personally accomplished in this victory. After all, though she hadn't raised a sword or shot an arrow, she'd ridden for endless moons with these men, shared their camps, their meals, their wine...even their awful ale, when the wine ran out. Not only did they raise their swords for her, they would not have gathered and swarmed together, were it not for her and Edric's planning. A loss today would have been theirs entirely. But alas, it was the sweetest of victories which now greeted their lips.

"Arya," she addressed her sister. "You know I'm not one to wield a sword. And you've learned to kill better than I now, rather quickly, I believe. Father's sword is yours."

Thoros handed it to Brienne, who handed it to her sister, but not without gazing upon the gigantic blade in wonderment at first. All who gathered watched as Arya unsheathed the massive blade, seemingly taller than her own small frame even as she held the ancient weapon delicately in her small hands. Placing the sword back inside, Sansa watched perplexed as her sister frowned, walking the blade towards her.

"It's too big for me," Arya said simply, her golden Dornish robes colored a deep maroon now from all the stained blood. "I prefer my Needle."

"Well, I'm not going to carry it." Were they going to bicker now, out of all places? In front of everyone who'd just risked their lives in battle for their name? Fortunately, Arya had the answer, so obvious in hindsight.

"Give it to your boy instead," she said with a wink.

Edric had caught up to their small circle. She'd been worried during the battle, watching him ride into an endless wave of enemies. Her breath caught, watching him disappear into the din, and Sansa wondered for a moment how far she would ride, after the battle was lost, before she'd find herself a peaceful and quiet spot in the moors, and take out the small dagger she'd been hiding in her robes. Then came the cries of the men charging downhill at her, and against Edric, she'd thought at first.

"For Queen Sansa! For Queen Sansa!"

They'd written the Swanns before leaving the Tower, so they knew of their plan to accompany Rhaegar first, then betray him in battle. But any further detailed correspondence with the lords of Stonehelm had been left to Beric and Brienne. It'd all been forgotten, in her mind at least, by the time they rode into the middle of a losing battle, and besides, Sansa knew better than most how tenuous any professions of loyalty were.

"It will be returned to House Stark one day," the Queen proclaimed, her mind easily decided, "but you may wield it in the meantime. Will you take it, Lord Edric?" He hesitated. "It's not Dawn," she pressed. "Ice is a bit bigger than Dawn, and heavier too. Mayhaps it's a bit too heavy for you, my Lord..."

"It's my pride and privilege to wield in your name," Edric replied. His words were noble, but Sansa stifled back a giggle at his indignant tone, at how his mouth snapped out the words impatiently, just as she'd predicted. Arya exchanged her a knowing grin, then handed Ice to the man who shared her bed, below the tower where her aunt had breathed her last.

First he weighed it in his hands, bouncing the heavy weapon off his palms several times, before buckling it to his belt without even bothering to unsheath the blade. Then Edric's face broke out in a wider grin than she'd ever remembered seeing on him.

"I have a prize for you my Queen, in return." Sansa's eyes widened at the sight of several of marcher knights carrying a weak and limp body down the hill, handling the King as if he were just another common bag of grain.


They'd suffered bad losses too. By the time the battle was won, Beric Dondarrion lay dead in the middle of the field. Sansa patted Edric's back gently as she washed with a small cloth the dirt and grime off his bare back, the bones of his narrow spine jutting against her fingers through the linen.

"I'm sorry. I know what it feels like...to not have a chance to say goodbye."

"He died doing his duty," Edric replied grimly. Warm water trickled down his back, wetting their cot in place of the tears which he refused to cry for the man who'd raised him to be a man. "Any of us would have been proud to do so."

"That may be true," Sansa conceded. "But I know he'd be proud of you. Not any of us, but you."

Would he though, if he knew about the Martells?

I know what my father would think of that.

"And you're not allowed to die," she saw fit to remind him with a forced laugh, "not ever, remember?"

He laughed too, though not a joyful one. "I'm afraid you'll have to send me to Starfall then, to sit out the rest of this war."

Ice stood before them, laid down in the center of their tent. That she'd taken it from their enemies in battle, Sansa felt a certain sense of pride. Had father felt the same way, wielding their ancestral sword through one battle after another, until he found himself sitting on his Iron Throne?

"We should go," Edric said, rising even though she hadn't a chance to clean him below his waist yet. But her young lover grabbed and donned a light vest, and Sansa would be lying if she claimed she didn't look forward to what was to come.

Rhaegar and Connington knelt on both knees in the center of the camp, both their hands bound behind them. The older Lord of Griffin's Roost had been roused awake now, and apparently had not said a word since his capture. Neither had Rhaegar. His legs weak, Sansa smirked at Obara, who held him aloft by only the firmest grip upon the dragon's mane, holding him as her personal beast of burden. Behind her stood her sister Nymeria, while Arya pointed her Needle at the back of Connington's neck.

Her sister yielded the formalities to Obara, seemingly the leader of the Sand Snakes, Arya included. "What's to be done with these traitors, Your Grace?"

Sansa strove to maintain her eyes firmly upon the woman, switching her gaze to her sister, everything except to deign and look upon their two captives, much less address them directly.

"You have sisters still in Starfall," Sansa asked.

"Just Tyene," Obara answered gruffly. "Everyone else returned to Sunspear to help Prince Joffrey rule."

Or more likely, decide upon the fates of any man or woman not sufficiently loyal to their brood and Ellaria, Sansa reckoned.

"I trust the two of you to handle them then, in the meantime. Bring the traitor and the usurper back to Lord Edric's keep. See to it that they get a good beating every night...but," Sansa raised one finger in the air, lest the women get too carried away in their enthusiastic performance of their duties, "try not to break their skin or make them bleed too much."

"I'm guessing you'll be wanting that pleasure for yourself," Nymeria asked, understanding her meaning completely, "Your Grace?"

"Keep them well fed too," Sansa continued, rather than answer the girl's question directly. Taking Edric's hand, she gripped it, and kissed him on the cheek, specifically so that Rhaegar could see it with his own eyes. He blinked, the Queen did not fail to notice, he winced, and hid his hideous purple orbs for several seconds. "When the day does come, I want them fat and plump for the picking."