A raven circled above them. It was silent, a black arrow against the slate grey sky. Was it waiting, did it know what was about to happen? How many were about to die?

Not many, if the previous days were something to go by.

They'd marched hard and fast, twelve thousand men, pushing south as quickly and quietly as possible, every day they could march without the Tyrell's northern army being aware, was another day he had to land a telling blow against his enemy in the south. He'd left the Blackfish behind, Robbett Glover was not as skilled a commander of outriders, but the Blackfish was the best suited to lead the Tyrells on a merry chase and keep their focus on him as Robb pushed south. There was little time to set camps, the men dismounted, set up the horse lines and slept under cloaks, resting their heads on packs. Scouts and lookouts remained, but no palisades, no firm defences. Secrecy was their best shield, and it had served its purpose, they'd made it. They had joined with the formerly besieged forces of Lords Piper, Bracken, and Bolton, adding another five thousand men to their forces. He was still outnumbered but by a thinner margin. Two days later, Robbett's riders had spotted the enemy host, already moving past them to the west. They gave chase. A day's hard marching around to the south, where a lee of hills masked their movements.

The dirt road separated the two armies like a great chasm, neither side yet daring to cross. For the last three days they had pushed west, slowly, one foot in front of the other. He sent his archers out, to pepper the enemy force with arrows, daring them to respond. They hadn't, not yet. Their great square moved on, leaving the bodies pierced with arrows behind. There weren't many. He knew that killing the footmen would do nothing. So he ordered his archers to close in and shoot at the knights behind the great mass of infantry. The knights would decide the battle, if he could elicit a response from them, he could have the battle he needed, but so long as they held, they could keep marching, and the greater the chance that the enemy from the north would double south and he would face overwhelming odds. He had to hope the plans he'd put in place today would make the difference.

"They're moving, Your Grace," Robbett said.

Sure enough, the square started to shuffle west. "Give the order, we follow them, and send out the archers."

With the tramp of a thousand boots, the army set off, matching the march of the Tyrell host. His archers went forward, flanked by cavalry to defend them against a sudden attack. With a barked command, they sent a flight of arrows soaring towards the enemy. Three arrows each, then a retreat, out of range of possible return fire. Sure enough, a line of archers moved out from behind the shield wall and sent a volley towards his retreating archers, felling a few too slow to back out of range.

They kept moving, his archers returning in waves to harass the enemy, then retreat out of range, all the while, the armies crept onwards, moment by moment, metre by metre.

Robb kept his gaze focused on the enemy host. He had to be ready. If they attacked and his response was too sluggish, they could brush his smaller army aside.

Slow. Tight. Unbreakable. How were they showing such discipline? They marched. Arrows flew. Men died. They marched.

Keep going.

Hours passed, attack, forward, backward, hold, march. They kept going. Soon, they would soon be ready. Robb's plan had to work.

"We're approaching the village, my king."

"Very good, hold back just a little longer." The order was given, the next wave halted. Waiting. Waiting. The village was getting closer. Bayonne, where the battle would be decided.

The village got closer, the indistinct shapes forming into houses. Now, he had to go now. "Archers, forward again!"

"Archers, advance!"

They swept forward, cavalry on the flanks, infantry staying behind. Bows notched. Arrows soared. Men died.

The enemy formation stopped. It took him a moment to notice it since they had been walking so slowly, but they had. His plan must have been put into action. On this flat meadow stretching either side of the road that now bent towards the village, he couldn't see, but he knew his men. He had given the command to Hellman Tallhard, with Black Walder Frey as his second, who had marched a thousand archers and two thousand footmen ahead of the army to occupy the village ahead of the enemy advance. Now they would be emerging, to add more pressure on the enemy's other flank. They couldn't keep up their march with so many attacks, surely they would have to make a choice.

They kept shooting arrows, knowing that on the other flank, yet more were shooting as well. With the leisure of time in the early afternoon, the archers fired slower, preserving their arrows and their arms for closer, far more deadly shots.

"Your Grace!" Another messenger, on whom he was relying for this battle.

"What is it?" He asked the Frey rider.

"The enemy are attacking the village, they've detached a large force to take Bayonne from Lords Tallhart and Frey."

"Are they engaged?"

"Not yet, Your Grace."

"Tell me at once when they have. My lords, ready your soldiers, prepare to deploy for battle." The orders were passed. They would have to deploy quickly, but if they deployed too soon, the Tyrells might recall their detached force. And that force would be in great peril if it left the safety of the village.

"Your Grace, message! The enemy have sent yet more soldiers to the village?"

"Are they engaged?"

"Not yet, Your Grace!"

"How many knights are attacking the village?"

"About half of the total force, two thousand at least, more with the new reinforcements."

Shit. If the enemy sent too many to the village… He didn't need to wait any longer, the enemy had committed to attacking the village, now was his moment. He stood in the saddle, raising his sword high above his head. "Deploy for battle!" He roared.

The men of his guard cheered, and the army joined in as the order was passed. With the blare of warhorns and the call of trumpets, the army moved out of the marching column and filed into battle lines. From left to right, banners from the rivers and the north pushed out. Cerwyn battleaxes and Karstark suns alongside Bracken horses and Piper maidens on the left. The centre was held by his own Stark men, together with Umber, Mormont, Manderly, Blackwood, Frey and Tully and half a hundred lesser banners. And on the right were the Hornwoods, Boltons, Mooton, Tallhart and Ryswell. All three formations were made of infantry. Every rider had been pulled to the rear, every lord and their sworn riders,spread out behind the infantry, ready to react to any order or break in the line. But with the enemy in such a tight formation, infantry would be key.

They marched towards the enemy, who were shifting from a square to a battle line to face his attack. At this rate they would connect before the enemy were fully deployed. He drew his sword. He could make sure of it. "Cavalry, with me, all riders, forward!" He trusted his scouts, there were no other reinforcements in the area, so he would risk this move.

He spurred his horse onwards, his sworn guards falling behind him in a powerful speartip. They moved around the infantry, pushing ahead of them, folding out like a paper crane, the pounding of iron shod horseshoes on the damp muddy earth overcoming the hiss of steel being drawn from scabbards and the fluttering of the silk pinions atop the lances. He kept his eyes fixed on the enemy, their army opening like a shell.

"Your Grace. The men are ready."

He nodded at Olyvar's word and held out his hand. His squire, mounted beside him, passed him his war lance. Eight feet of steel tipped ash, a force of driving death. He held it up in his hand, tall and proud, the sun glinting off the tip.

"The King in the North!"

The call was taken up by the cavalry as they went from a trot into a canter, covering the last two miles or so that covered the distance between them and the enemy.

They weren't finished deploying yet, and wouldn't be before they got to them. But he saw the riders swirling around behind them, forming into a great mass. The infantry stopped forming a line, and instead split allowing paths for the horsemen. So, cavalry would decide this first battle. The riders of the north and the veterans of the rivers against the flower of the reach. There was no stopping this now.

They spilled out like hounds from the slips, forming v shaped wedges of gleaming steel under brilliant banners.

Their trumpets called out to his, his blared back in reply and both masses of sweaty, barded warhorses broke into the charge.

They pounded onwards, the banners casting them in momentary shadow. He picked his target, a steel clad knight in green and gold with the badge of Tyrell on his shield. THey closed, blood pumping, ears throbbing. He lowered his lance. Shut his visor. One moment. Crash!

His lance punched into the shield and was ripped from his fingers. His sword was out a second later, deflecting another lance coming for his midriff, and clanging off a plumed helm. They descended into a swirling mass of steel and blood. Blood was on his sword, had he killed someone, or just wounded them. His blade rang off a helm, then a shield, then found flesh. "Yield!" The knight was dragged from his horse and taken. He raised his shield to block a longaxe coming for his face and the blade buried into the wood. They were together, locked. His opponent was strong.

With a roar that shook the heavens, Grey Wind was at his side, leaping high and tackling the knights from his horse. Robb's arm was dragged down by the axe still stuck in his shield. He sheathed his sword and ripped it out, just in time to use the haft to block another sword from his right. He jabbed the axe into the face of the knight, ringing off his helmet. Then Dacey was there, between him and the offending knight, her morningstar in his chest, in his face, ripping away blood. He pushed forward, more swarming behind him as they drove through the mass of Tyrell horsemen. They met the enemy two for one, the momentum lost, numbers began to tell, and his men were more. He disarmed one knight, hacking at his chest. "Yield!" He demanded.

"I yield!" the knight spluttered. He and Olyvar dragged him from his horse and bound him. BY the time he remounted, the clash was over. The reacher horsemen not taken or dead were fleeing back to the safety of their infantry, who parted to let them through.

"Retreat," Robb called. The enemy had formed up, he wasn't going to charge a shield wall. "Fall back!" His order was heard, the trumpets and warhorns sounded, the wounded supported and the prisoners escorted back behind the infantry line, which resumed their advance, now the melee before them was over.

Once safely behind the infantry line, many riders dismounted, eager to rest and restrain their captives.

But he couldn't. He had to keep his attention on the battle.

The infantry advanced, shields locked, spears lowered. Opposite them, the enemy did the same. Drums beat the sound of the advance, step beat step beat. Smalljon, clutching at his head, the side of it swollen black and blue, passed him a water skin. He guzzled half of it, and poured the rest over his head. His thighs ached under his armour and his arms felt like lead. "Olyvar, take my shield."

His squire took the heavy oaken boards from his arm just as the shield walls slammed together. The footmen, with weapons ranging from spears to sticks pushed against each other, their feet sliding, shoulders pressed against their shields, thrusting weapons out blindy, desperate to pierce flesh, more desperate to survive.

They pulled apart, limping back, trying to hold formation, leaving the dead and the dying behind. The sounds of their moans and the smell of their corpses. He wanted to cover his mouth, but couldn't. The attacks had to continue, they had to break their enemy while the Tyrells were divided. Helman and Walder had taken on the riskiest task, he had to achieve victory if it was to be worth it. "Press the attack!" He ordered.

The infantry reformed and advanced, clashed and pulled apart.

"Reform!" He ordered. The enemy were coming, creeping forwards. "Prepare to receive the enemy." He'd have to try and pull them apart as they advanced now.

The enemy charged the last few feet, and this time it was they who bounced off a shield wall. "Cavalry, prepare!" Next time the enemy were thrown back he would push with a cavalry charge.

They came again as his horsemen mounted, smashing into his line. But as his lords and knights reformed their columns, a messenger raced from the far right flank. "Your Grace, the line is broken, the enemy are coming through!"

Curse it all. "With me, now!" He spurred his horse, Grey Wind bounding alongside him, his personal guard falling in behind them.

The battle was degenerating, his shieldwall falling apart. More footmen and dismounted nobles charged forward to reinforce the line and throw back disparate enemy assaults. Wounded were dragged away, moaning and screaming and the dead left in the dirt. The enemy wounded were left where they fell as more and more fresh men moved in to push harder. They were using their numbers to break through in a simple, powerful push. And it was working.

The breach in the line was small, but widening, men forcing open the gap with heavy axes and brute strength, while yet more pushed onwards. A single armoured figure, in purple tinted plate, with yellow birds on his shield as he fought off three footmen at once, leading forward the men in breaking the line. Robb dismounted, his horse as likely to crush his own men as the enemy. He had to plug the gap. He drew his sword and hefted his shield, his sworn guards doing the same. "With me!" He roared and lef the men onwards. They drove into the enemy, slipping and sliding and slashing as they tried desperately to push them back, but the enemy only redoubled their efforts to force the gap, throwing more soldiers into the corpse littered breach, as the battlelines either side were barely holding. He cut down the first soldier, a big man with a bigger axe. Stepping over the body, he twisted out of the way of a spear thrust, taking an axe blow on his shield as he stabbed the spearman in the heart, then disarmed the axeman and splitting his head, spilling blood and brains onto the floor.

More of his veteran honour guard were pushing forward, driving the enemy back. "Long live the King!" The cry was taken up as he led the men forward, but now they met the enemy knights who were coming on behind the footmen. They had also dismounted, and now sought revenge for the earlier engagement. The knight with the bird shield was fighting Dacey Mormont and Owen Norrey together. His sword flashing. "No!" Robb charged over.

He was too late for Dacey. The knight disarmed her and drove his sword through her face. She spasmed, twisted, and fell. Owen roared in defiance and charged, raining blows on the knight, who fell to one knee and lashed out at Owen's armoured legs. The blows didn't break the armour, but were enough to hobble him, and when he fell to his knees, the knight struck, lunging forward, tackling Owen to the ground. He was close enough, he could save him! The knight spat a word, Owen spat back, trying to reach him with armoured fingers. The knight drew out a dagger, spat another word. He could reach them, he could. Owen didn't reply. Robb tackled the knight away just as he drove his dagger into Owen's throat.

He grappled for the knight's throat. "Bastard!" He roared, trying to get his fingers around the soft flesh. The knight held him off, red faced and panting. "Bastard!" His armoured fingers scraped at skin, closed around flesh. He squeezed. The knight gasped, eyes wide, choking out his words.

"I yield."

Robb squeezed.

"I yield!"

He saw Owen's throat, pumping blood. Dacey's face, a bloody hole in the middle. He squeezed. "You took them from me!" He yelled. Tristan. He froze. He looked up. Grey Wind stared at him. What was he doing? He relaxed his fingers. "Yield!"

The knight nodded, gasping, "I… yield…" Robb seized him and dragged him to his feet, his weapons discarded. He brought him backwards, dragging him through the dirt and the dead and securing him tightly. "What is your name?"

"Ser Parmen… Ser Parmen Crane."

Robb nodded. "Olyvary, hold Ser Parmen, I need to close the line."

"But Your Grace-" Olyvar protested.

But he'd already turned, drawing his sword again. The wall was still open, the enemy had put a line of archers that cutdown his foot as they tried to close it, while his nobles battled the enemy warriors. It had to be closed, before they massed another attack. He hefted his shield, remembering the pain in his leg. The line had to be closed. He charged forward. As he did, Grey Wind at his side. Men called his name, called for their king. Robb raced to the very centre of the breach, leaping over a fallen body and planting his feet. He slammed his visor shut, the hot air of his own breath siffling him, and held up his shield. The arrows started hammering into his shield, sending jolts up his arms as he kept the heavy wooden boards up. More arrows skimmed off his legs and arms, one danced off his scalp, his armour held. The arrows hit one after the other, they were trying to kill him. Someone was at his side, shield raised, battle ready. Then someone was on his other side, then behind him. The line was forming, soldiers filling the gap, the last enemy being driven away. "The King in the North!" The line was holding. "The King in the North!" The breach was closed. "The King in the North!"

As more footmen returned to the line, Robb was pulled out and his honour guard retreated to the rear, collecting their wounded. Not just Owen and Dacey, but Benfrey Frey was knocked senseless, moaning gibberish, and Ollander Rivers was nowhere to be found. Was he dead in the mud, captured?

He knelt by the bodies of Owen and Dacey, resting his palm on their faces for a moment, committing them to memory and honour. "Two more who died so that I may live," he whispered. He placed their hands over their chests, weapons resting in them.

But at this rate, they wouldn't be the last. The enemy continued to push all along the line, their numbers still telling. This one defeat might have delayed them, but at this rate they were going to lose. He looked to the sky. Dark. It would be night in a few hours. They had to prepare to leave under cover of darkness, this grind may bring him victory, but it would destroy his army. He couldn't do that.

"Your Grace!" A messenger raced over to him.

"What is it?" He panted.

"Your Grace, I bring news from Bayonne."

At this rate the village must have fallen, surely. He nodded. "Reinforcements have arrived my lord, the village holds firm and is even driving the enemy back!"

"Reinforcements? Who, where from?"

"Lord Umber, Your Grace."

"Lord Umber!"

The messenger nodded. "Yes lord, as soon as he heard of the battle, he raced to join us with all available strength, his army has joined the attack on the village and is pushing hard against the enemy. They have directed more forces from the main attack to continue their attacks against us."

The wheels turned in Robb's mind. Was this his chance?

"The village holds strong?"

"Aye Your Grace, thanks to Lord Umber we match them nearly man for man."

Robb nodded. This was his chance it had to be. And the enemy cavalry was weakened.

"Go tell Lord Umber to continue his efforts, keep holding! Go now!"

Robb turned to his personal guard, who looked at him, waiting, ready, eager. "I need only one more charge from you today, my brothers of the sword," he said, "are you with me?"

They were panting, worn down, exhausted and nursing wounds. "The King in the North!" Patrek Mallister called.

"The King in the North!" Jason Blackwood echoed. "The King in the North!" They called.

He gave his orders. "Gather me any rider who can be spared, any who are not needed to hold the line here, and bring me Lord Mallister, join me on the left flank!" Lord Jason was the man he needed here, a veteran commander, skilled at war and liked by the men.

His guards scattered to fulfil his orders, as he rode slowly down the line, recovering his breath and letting the men see him. "Fight on men, victory is nearly upon us!"

At the sight of him, men despondent and dispirited, raised their swords and spears and cried. "The King in the North!" before throwing themselves back into the fray. Lord Mallister had good soldiers, together they would be able to hold.

At the left flank he was rejoined by the honour guard who brought riders with them, some as few as ten, while the Smalljon brought nearly one hundred. A motley force of noble warriors with dented helms, battered shields and worn out limbs, but they would serve. Nearly a thousand riders, to deliver the blow he needed.

Lord Mallister came to him, still sat proud in his horse, his hair slicked with sweat and his sword dripping blood. "Your Grace," he bowed awkwardly in the saddle, nursing an injury to his side.

"Lord Mallister, I have need of your services," he explained the situation and what he intended to do.

Jason nodded. "That may be our only chance here, Your Grace," he agreed. "What do you need of me, am I to join you?"

"No, I need you to take command here," he said, nodding to Olyvar who held out the royal standard. "I'm leaving you with my standard, and Grey Wind, so the men don't believe I have fled the field and lose heart. I need you to keep the line secure, as soon as I have broken the enemy at the village I will bring them back to crush the enemy between us." Grey wind looked up at him, hurt and understanding.

Jason sat up straighter. "I will buy you whatever time you need."

"If darkness comes, if I am unable to bring you the reinforcements, I need you to lead the men away to safety."

Jason shook his head. "It won't be necessary, Your Grace, I know you will come for us."

Robb smiled at the confidence Lord Mallister had in him. "Very well then, you have your orders, Lord Jason."

"And I shall follow them, my king."

Lord Jason rode off, one of his attendants carrying the royal banner, Grey Wind trotting at his side.

He felt his heart pull for the loss of him, but if the men saw Grey Wind, he was more inspiring than any banner or trumpet or sword. He would keep them in the fight until the bitter end.

He nodded and his trumpeteers and warhorns sounded. He led the cavalry out.

They circled wide around the left flank, the enemy reserve forming to face off against him, prevent him from flanking their main force, with what remained of their horsemen joining. But they were not his target. He led the men on, the sounds of battle fading from behind them as they crossed the meadow. As they crossed the road they sped into a canter, the sounds of hoofbeats joined by the cries and shouts from the battle raging around the village. They formed a single large wedge, none of them had lances anymore, but their swords and axes were ready for blood.

The enemy were barely ready, so focussed on relentlessly pushing into the village that only a thin line assembled to face Robb's charge.

They struck like a thunderbolt, shattering the thin enemy rearguard and driving into their main forces with cries of "The King in the North."

Their horses pushed, kicked and bit, their blades rose and fell, rose and fell, and everytime they fell men died. They struck hard and pushed deep into the enemy's left flank trying to flank around the village and being held by Umber men. And the enemy scattered, fleeing in all directions, dropping weapons and shields to run faster. Knights who tried to fight were dragged down and bound or butchered and the terror spread. The enemy had broken their wills against the village and his sudden attack was too much for them. When the force attacking the main village was flanked, they too tried to escape, but trapped between Robb's horsemen and the footmen holding the village, they were slaughtered, bodies falling in droves. The enemy right fled, running from the field as fast as they could go. A few vengeful cavalrymen and furious footmen gave chase to cut down, but most of them escaped with their lives.

The men cheered Robb as he passed, and he raised his sword in acknowledgement, looking around for the man who had made this moment possible.

Lord Umber stood tall, his greatsword drenched in blood a wide grin under his helm. "Your Grace!" He drove his sword into the ground and raised his arms. "So glad I didn't miss this one."

Robb smiled in return and dismounted. "Lord Umber, your march here has won us this battle, I am more glad for your presence than you could ever imagine."

"I only served my king, Your Grace."

"And such service demands reward. I name you the Hero of Bayonne, my champion, and, upon our final victory, you and yours will have first pick of the spoils of." He turned to the men, gathering around them in the village square. "Lord Mallister holds the enemy at bay to the south. Let's go help him so I can give you all the rewards you deserve!"

His men cheered and formed up. They were tired but the vigour of victory renewed their strength. He led them in a march back towards the main battle.

It seemed the enemy had seen what had happened and was falling back along the road, Lord Mallister cautiously following them. "Forward, to victory!" He roared.

"The King in the North!"

When both sides of the army were engaged, the enemy retreat turned into a rout. Their infantrymen could not be rallied and the nobles were starting to follow. Robb knew his men were too tired for a general pursuit having been fighting all day, but a square of knights and men at arms in Tyrell livery held firm. They were about a thousand strong, their horses protected in the middle. Lord Mallister ordered a charge that was repulsed. Then Lord Umber's men were on top of them but were thrown back. He tried pulling his men back, let the enemy leave so that his army could rest. But the enemy did not retreat. So he ordered his archers forward, they fired arrow after arrow into the enemy square, and when every arrow had been shot, he ordered a final charge.

The square broke, too many too wounded to fight on, and they surrendered. His nobles snatched up prisoners by the dozen, valuable prizes for valuable ransoms, fortunes would be made this day. But why had they stayed when they had the chance to leave, even a fighting withdrawal could have given them a chance.

Daryn Hornwood provided the answer. "Your Grace!" He and his were pulling a prisoner over to them, a large man in gilded steel armour embossed with a giant golden rose. Despite defeat, he still held himself proud. "Your Grace, may I present you with Lord Mace Tyrell, Lord of Highgarden and Warden of the South."

"Lord Tyrell," Robb bowed his head in respect.

Lord Tyrell, jowls quivering with each heavy breath, bowed his head back. "King Robb," he replied.

"You fought on, allowed yourself to be captured," Robb noted.

Lord Tyrell bristled. "If I could save my army, I had a duty to do so," he said proudly.

So that was why he fought on, to let his men escape. "Ensure Lord Tyrell is treated with the dignity his rank deserves," he ordered Daryn.

As his men corralled the prisoners, Robb called for the numbers of dead to be brought to him, how many had died to bring him this victory. Unlike the Whispering Wood, the Camps or Oxcross, they had no advantage of surprise. This had been a brutal pushing match, thousands must have fallen. Once he knew, he would celebrate, but until then, the dead demanded his silence.