Most of Westeros had expected little of Robb Stark. He had factored little in the calculations of southern powerbrokers until Riverrun. After the Battle near the Gods Eye, the Young Wolf had the whole land's attention from Dorne to the Wall.

KEVAN

They were only a few days march to the Trident, he mused. Only a generation ago tens of thousands of men had slogged it out in the mud of the Riverlands with the fate of the realm at stake. Now they were all ready to do it again.

The players had changed, as they always did, but the stakes were no less great. Kevan had not seen the Battle of the Trident with his own eyes, Tywin's machinations had made sure of that. Still, he could not help but wonder how many greybeards across the field had fought there all those years ago.

He would admit, if only to himself, to feeling some trepidation. He had known war, of course. Even from his youth. He'd been only a teenager when he'd joined Tywin to crush those grasping Reynes and their Tarbeck stooges. Still, that had been no true contest. Only a slaughter. The same for the end of Robert's Rebellion, when they'd sacked the capital through trickery. And for this invasion, if truth be told.

This coming battle promised to be a very different beast. A pitched battle between two massive armies, both with everything to prove and everything to lose.

Tywin, at least, appeared ready. This had hardly been his plan, he knew. The Stark boy had forced his hand.

The second, and for the time being only, Lannister army had retreated to Harrenhal after the disaster at Riverrun, sans Ser Gregor's raiders and various garrison forces. There they'd hoped to wait for Cousin Stafford to raise a new army or for some new circumstance to move events in their favour.

It wasn't to be. Only a month on from Riverrun, Stark had consolidated his strength and set off east along the river road. Good news, they had thought. The Westerlands would be spared, and Harrenhal was well-positioned to interdict them. If the boy were fool enough to try to storm the castle itself, then it would show for sure that Riverrun was a fluke.

Alas, the boy had gainsaid their hopes once more. Half way down the river road, the enemy had turned sharply south. Either Stark meant to bypass them and reach the gold road, or he meant them to think he would. It was clever. They could hardly remain at Harrenhal while the Northmen menaced the capital, or their whole position would collapse.

This whole region was flat and green. Perhaps the only part of the Riverlands with no convenient river on which to anchor their defence. Their command position scarcely qualified as a hill, but at least gave them a view of the likely battlefield.

There had been a few skirmishes already. The two armies had been skirting around one another for two days now. Small groups of horsemen had clashed, probing for weaknesses. This morning, 500 Northern cavalry had tested the attention of their sentries and sowed some mayhem before beating a hasty retreat.

This time they'd duke it out for real. Both armies were formed up across the flat grassy field.

Tywin harrumphed. He gave him a look, quizzical. His brother handed him the Myrish eye. A lone horseman galloping the length of the Northern army. The Young Wolf bestirring his men, no doubt. What he initially thought to be another grey horse had to be his monstrous pet.

Tywin had always despised such antics. He had never been a man for inspiring speeches, preferring to command a different kind of obedience.

The Northmen looked wild, he thought. Long beards and large shields that they were wont to smash against their swords in a great intimidating racket. Kevan had travelled much of Westeros at Tywin's side, but the Northmen were something different. More foreign and savage. He despaired to think of his boys, held captive by these folk. Not an hour went by that he did not think of them.

He felt a pang of unease as he observed the breadth of the enemy force. There did appear to be rather a lot of them. If the scouts had underestimated their number, things could become quite troublesome. He made to say something, but held his tongue. Their course was set now, and this was no time for doubts or indecision.

AHooooooooooooooooooooooo. An ear-splitting sound startled him, nearly causing him to drop the glass. The Northmen had unleashed their small army of horns. Kevan had heard some of them before as the two armies had danced their dance in the preceding days, and had come to hate them.

The Northmen began their advance across the field, their flanks leading. Their infantry line curved midways in a kind of loose half-moon.

He looked at Tywin. His brother eyes were glinted. "Command the drummers to beat the infantry advance. Reserve all of the horse."

He nodded, bellowing out the orders. Subordinates scrambled to obey. Tywin grunted, pointing to the enemy flanks. He saw it immediately. "Horse to the right flank!" he cried. The enemy cavalry was following the curve of their own men to guard their own approach. Their own horsemen were already positioning to head them off, but only a fool would feel no trepidation. The Westerlands were famed for many things, but they were hardly the land's greatest cavalry. The Northmen held the advantage in that domain.

Their own lines were loosing arrows now, the enemy had broken into full charge. The left flank made contact first, the Northmen rapidly closer their ground. Rivermen, in actuality, judging by their banners.

His fists clenched and unclenched in nervous anticipation, but the line held. The other flank and centre had met now, too. The enemy line had straightened out, and a great cavalry duel was occurring off to the right. He felt gladdened to see their numbers were fairly even.

The battle became a slog of give and gain. Thousands of men screaming in the mud. Banners met from holdfasts a thousand miles apart. Umbers traded blows with Crakehall men. Leffords duelled with Boltons, beneath their chilling flayed man sigil.

Their centre had withdrawn somewhat, he fretted. Their reserves were already beginning to move up. He hadn't even heard Tywin give the order. He took a deep breath, trying to calm his nerves.

He knew not how much time had elapsed. His heart was still hammering in his chest. He took another breath.

The Northmen were pushing hard. Their centre had begun to curve back. About a third from the left, too, the tide seemed to be going against them.

He looked to Tywin. His brother's eyes were glued to the right. What he saw gladdened him. The Northern cavalry, though still fairly large in number, was appearing to lose heart. They were starting to disengage.

There is hope, he thought. If they could drive off the Northern horse and bring their own to bear quickly enough, they could push back their foes and reinvigorate the spirit of their men.

Everything began to happen very quickly. In the centre, the enemy made a breakthrough. A great hairy man had led the Northmen through. His compatriots began to spill through the breech, coming around behind their lines. The Westermen either side were panicking.

Another great blast came from the accursed Northern horns. Kevan looked up, and he felt his stomach drop to the ground. A great mass of horse and men had appeared on the field, left dismounted and concealed miles behind the line. There was another blast, and the enemy horse on the right ceased their feigned retreat. They turned straight about and charged.

Their centre was in terror now. The breach had widened and the Northmen were piling forward. The new cavalry was coming around the left, and there was no force at hand to stop them.

It would not take a woodswitch to see their fortunes now. "My lord, we must retreat. The day has gone against us." he said.

His brother seemed paralysed. Not with fear, as such. He appeared sincerely confused, like a man who saw his darkest nightmare come real before him and assumed he would wake up soon. "TYWIN!" he screamed.

His brother met his eyes now, his stupor broken. He looked at their dying army, and then back at him again. He opened his mouth, but no words came out. For the first time in his life, Kevan took charge.

"Sound the retreat. The whole army will fall back to the south." he commanded.

Their guardsmen complied, seeming relieved to have some task but to stand and watch their approaching doom. Their silence was either a testament to their discipline, or to their stupidity. He knew not which.

Kevan looked across the field. His heart sank. He wasn't sure how many men they could salvage from this disaster. They had no reserve besides their own personal guard of 500 men, and already their line had given way.

The new Northern horse had come straight around the unprotected left and was wreaking havoc. The centre was practically gone by now, and the right was not much better.

This could be no orderly retreat, he knew. They had no rearguard, for one. It was only a matter of saving as many men as the Gods would allow.

The retreat began to sound. They were not so fond of horns in the West. Their sounding meant only one thing, withdraw.

Alas, the retreat now could only unleash chaos. Wavering men grasped their chance to flee. The pride of the West came apart before the men of the North and Trident. Kevan knew that the world of tomorrow would be very different from the one they all woke to today.

THE BLACKFISH

The Blackfish had lost count of how many scenes like this he had witnessed in his long life. The aftermath of any battle was gruesome, a feast only for the crows. Though he was not heartless, he had grown almost used to it, and was able to affect indifference.

His King and nephew rode beside him. He did not yet have the same mastery, it was clear, but did his best to retain a suitably dignified bearing.

The rest of the new Kingsguard trailed behind them. The King had opted to form a guard not bound to celibacy, and bound for seven year rather than life. He'd gathered some capable warriors on those terms. Lord Blackwood's second son was a capable fighter and loyal man. Some Bracken cousin too, lest the Lord of Stone Hedge take offence at that. One of the late Lord Frey's bastard sons, who had somehow gained royal favour. One of the Karstark boys. A fierce looking soldier from the Umber troops, with no family name and an abundance of courage.

He himself was Lord Commander. Likely because he was one of the few men alive capable of forming some kind of durable institution from such an eclectic group of warriors.

It could hardly be more difficult than serving Lysa in her madness, after all. The Vale was in chaos now, they'd heard. Lysa had truly lost her mind, slaying Lord Royce under guest right. They'd heard rumours of Gulltown aflame, and of banners called across the Vale. The Gods alone knew what would come of all that.

He suppressed a sense of sadness.. He had loved her as a daughter, it was true. He'd served her in the Vale for that affection, but the sweet girl he knew was gone. His duty was here now, with his King.

"I fear a great many of these dead are down to me, Uncle."

He frowned at that. "There are always casualties in war, Your Grace. Take advice from an old man, if you would. To look back is only to invite despair. Look only to the future. Think of those your victory has saved."

Robb nodded. "I shall try to heed your words. Still, the fact of the matter is that I chose this course for reasons many would see as spurious. Perhaps yourself among them. There were other ways, less bloody ways. We certainly took our share of casualties here.

But we have so many foes, Uncle. Far more than you imagine, truth be told. Time is our enemy, too. Unless we act quickly, we may find ourselves buried beneath a tide of forces we cannot control."

"Your Grace, you cannot give way to such thoughts. You have won two great victories. United two disparate kingdoms, and won the respect and loyalty of men and lords thrice your age. Now you must press forward."

His nephew smiled wanly. "Worry not, Uncle. My course is set now. I know what I must do, and the consequences of failure. Forwards is the only way I mean to go."

He spurred his horse forwards. Right then he looked every inch a King. The Blackfish spurred to follow, ready to meet whatever would come their way.