"In war, truth is the first casualty." – Aeschylus

The gods must have been mad. How could this possibly be right? What were the odds of the information recently acquired from ravens being true?

Lord Rickard Stark prided himself in being a just, worthy ruler that his bannermen followed loyally. He also liked to have honesty and straight forward responses in dire circumstances.

This looked like it.

According to Lord Robert Flint, marauding rebellious tribes had amassed to such a point that his own forces could not contain them from having the whole peninsula destroyed in the conflict soon to follow.

However, the tribes he could contain, after calling his banners to battle and pacifying the region with a just but firm hand. This mysterious host, though…

It was something out of a child's book.

Over thirty thousand and heavily armed, just popping out of nowhere in the coasts, ready to battle and already reinforcing their position as if knowing that conflict would arise.

What was really going on at the Flint's Finger? What this a ruse by the Greyjoys? Surely, their insane antics and ambitious acts sometimes got out of hand but would they risk this with the Targaryens?

The last dragon may have died but the dynasty had a firm hand on the throne and very well trained troops, all capable of great destruction.

Indeed, they were something he wanted out of his lands, knowing how the Targaryen Army would just lay waste to towns and cities without regard as they did not care. This was the North, after all.

Always a point of friction between the crown and the Starks, really. The North was considered harsh, unforgiving, undesirable and overall inferior to the rest of the other kingdoms.

There were no reports of direct combat between the mysterious host and Lord Flint's forces, but that would soon change, if the desperation of the lord was to be considered in his messages.

He had pleaded for help in greater numbers and had assured that his host of more than two thousand men would not be able to defeat the tribes, much less the host in the coasts.

It was time, it seemed.

Time for the Starks to take to the battlefield and show just why the North was harsh but also fierce.

"Winter is coming." The lord mumbled somberly as he placed the message to the side and moved to take some wine.

A good drink always did wonders in dire situations if someone ever voiced against it.

His wife was one to take a cup or two depending on his offspring's shenanigans, after all.

"My lord." His maester approached with a somber face. "What should we do?"

Lord Stark just looked at him, his intense grey eyes holding the maester in place. "Call the banners."

"Of course, my lord."

Less than an hour later, the lord of Winterfell saw how dozens of ravens took to the skies to deliver the call to each and every one of the houses sworn to serve him and his cause.

It was time for war.

"We should march inland and take positions." Lucius offered to Vespasian.

The more experienced military officer looked at him with a blank face. "Maybe, but information of this land is sketchy at best, not to mention their heavy cavalry."

"And we are taking care of that." Lucius nodded. "But if we stay at the coast, we could be pushed back and drown."

"True." Vespasian frowned. "Do not forget, though, that this is looking less and less than Britannia."

A sound of their tent being moved interrupted them.

"A complete clusterfuck!" Albus barked as soon as he entered his best friend's tent, not aware of Vespasian. "Where the hell are we? Gods damn us all! We should…" His words died in his throat as he had a cup of wine on his hand and noticed Vespasian looking at him with a mildly amused face.

Lucius was trying hard to contain his laughter. Even if this was a welcoming distraction, it still would be disrespectful to do so in front of their best asset in this so called campaign.

"Thirsty sir? I will go bring more wine!" Albus' eyes were wide and fearful, expecting retribution for his quirky antics. "Here, let me…"

Vespasian chuckled quietly, his blue eyes alight with amusement. "Do not pressure yourself Albus, take a seat, this discussion should also include you."

With that, Lucius laughed loudly, no longer caring for his superior in all but name and his dumb friend. "Yes, take a seat."

Blushing and stuttering a thank you, Albus took that seat offered by probably the most powerful and influential man in their camp.

"While you were explaining to us in your own way our rather precarious situation." Vespasian began. "Our thoughts were on the future of this expedition."

Albus blinked before nodding slowly. "The soldiers are confused and restless, sir."

"We all are." Lucius shook his head and frowned. "That device discovered… it is giving me bad omens about this place."

"Agreed." Vespasian looked towards the exit of their tent. "Makvar has done a marvelous job and most of our cavalry has it but… not well trained at the moment to exploit it, unlike the... locals."

"As it has always been, then. We must put our faith in the legionaries." Lucius responded.

Albus smiled weakly. "Our men are hardy, they can withstand anything."

"Tell that to Crassus." Vespasian looked at him with a blank face. "He paid the price for doing so."

Everyone in the table remembered Crassus' story clearly.

A man so rich he was rumored to actually piss molten gold on his leisure time. He was also a great politician but a somewhat lacking commander.

With Caesar and Pompey being such great military leaders and accomplished tacticians, he felt little to them, inferior even.

Looking for glory and honor, not to mention even more riches, he assembled a huge army and marched to the Parthian Empire, attempting what Alexander had done centuries earlier.

What he found was an early grave and the almost extinction of his own family name.

Heavy Roman infantry was the most disciplined force in the world and not even the great phalanxes of Alexander could have beaten it, but the fast and reliable cavalry of the Parthians did.

In a quick and resolute victory, Crassus' army was crushed, his legions' eagles captured and more than ten thousand men taken prisoner.

It was so humiliating that now the name of the richest man the world had ever seen was a joke.

Comments like 'He should have been with Caesar,' or 'if only his riches equaled in military genius' followed after his image.

Needless to say, Crassus was a great reminder that Roman military power was most certainly matched if facing cavalry with no support of its own alae or more agile skirmishers.

This was why Vespasian liked the Sarmatians. They were incredible horsemen and a hardy people. They could shoot with the bow from the horse or fight hand to hand. They wore lorica hamata, or scaled armor. They were clearly the finest asset to their cause beside the heavy infantryman of the legion.

It there was one thing any military commander dreamed of was versatility in the battlefield from all his men.

He had it in his alae as archers and shock cavalry and his legionaries as disciplined soldiers and builders.

That was the perfect symphony of an army that could topple any in the known world.

Known world, which did not include this one they were currently set upon.

"Do not fret yourself sir." Lucius spoke quietly but with conviction. "We have an experienced core of men with a good chain of command."

Albus nodded with a slight smirk. "We have the best tacticians and strategists, not to mention our dear silver-tongued superior."

The three men laughed into the night, for once not caring about their dangerous situation.

That would soon change, however.

Antoninus sighed in annoyance as his two friends chattered endlessly about their sexual exploits in the border with Germania.

"She was so voluptuous! Blonde, green eyes and an arse so fine I was wondering if my tongue had tasted dirt as soon as I saw her." Marcianus boasted with a smirk.

Their other friend snorted. "You probably had too much wine and your hand to think of something that good for a bastard like you."

"Lay off my back." Marcianus glared at him. "As I was saying, we skipped pleasantries, I think she mentioned that she was a daughter to a chieftain, but details get fuzzy after."

Their self-declared leader rolled his eyes. "What a load of shit."

"Oi!" The storyteller glared at his other friend. "It is all true, for you see-"

The conversation died as soon as a Centurion stepped into their tent, his brown eyes cold and fierce. "Get outside you lazy cunts!"

As soon as the bark came out of their superior officer, the three men leaped out of their tent and marched to the palisade in the second floor.

Their shields and swords were taken from a small table underneath the palisade.

When they got to their destination, there was an uneasy quiet. It was then followed by the sounds of drums and war. The soldiers' ears perked up at the sound.

Marcianus saw Vespasian and Lucius riding their horses sporting the recent improvements done by the barbarian mercenaries. They were standing proud with their full regalia coolly taking in their surroundings and most likely inspecting for any mistake in their defenses.

"Multiple figures, fighting sire." A sentinel informed Aulus, who was at the top of the tower in the palisade with a scowl on his face. "Mail coat armor and spears from what we can see."

"I can see that." Aulus gritted his teeth. "Inform my commanders that we shall stand guard for the remainder of the night, no exceptions!"

"At once, sire."

The so called figures were busy fighting it out with other figures. There were clashes of swords and painful cries.

Horses rammed into men while spears pierced into the war animals.

It was truly a chaotic yet entertaining sight.

Most of the legionaries were watching avidly as their possible enemies beat each other into submission. There was no distinction of who was who but the sight was all the more positive for Aulus and his men.

An enemy divided was easily beaten.

Aulus smirked, finally showing positive emotion. "Britannia will be mine."

One of the soldiers nearby rolled his eyes and muttered to his comrade. "The idiot is still delusional about this being the land of the Britons."

"Shut up, Severus!" Antoninus hissed, enraged. "You will get us flogged!"

Marcianus ignored their bickering and turned to see the figures slowly gaining more form thanks to the fire being handled by some of the horsemen that just entered the fray.

His eyes widened and he heard his friends gasp. Other legionaries around them simply let out breaths of shock or disbelief.

Thousands of bodies lingered the battlefield as the battle lost the rage it had gained.

Barbarian looking infantry soldiers, using brown and black leaves on their armor had routed the more professional looking army and were now in hot pursuit.

The shouts were strange, just as the language but the soldiers around Marcianus did not have to know the meaning to understand what was going on.

Despair.

Utter despair and fear lingered as the more civilized barbarians were being slaughtered.

A young man on his horse blew his horn and shouted animatedly, waving his left hand while he used his right to pummel a barbarian with his sword.

Within seconds, he was surrounded and thrown from his horse, subsequently being decapitated by a strong looking barbarian holding a cleaver.

"Incredible battle, I must say." Albus looked at his friend with a grin. "Finally, something fun to watch, at least."

Rolling his eyes, Lucius scoffed. "They rely too much on long swords and not on formation fighting, now we have seen how capable they are."

"And it seems their cavalry has been severely weakened. Truly, civil wars, as long as they are outside of our country, do certainly help." Vespasian mused, his cold blue eyes watching the battle scene carefully.

Aulus marched down the steps with renewed vigor, a pleased grin on his face. "Sons of Rome! Tomorrow we march to conquer what is rightfully ours!"

Shouting and cheering were all that was heard as even Lucius and Albus joined the cheering though Vesparian kept a frown on his face.

It was time to consult his barbarian friend and advisor, Makvar.

A thorough scouting was needed if they were going to win this war.

His father had always told him that information meant power, and during a war it was very crucial.

Makvar was in a happy mood. He had been hard at work with his fellow men to replicate the strange object that now was giving them so much more power.

Chargers and spears could be quite useful for shock cavalry like the ones from his own people.

It did help that he had a good friend and advisor in Vespasian.

Years back he was a lowly auxilia fighting in lower Dacia until Vespasian did his own scouting and approached him with an offer he simply could not refuse.

Within days, he had been annexed to Vespasian's personal guard and soon after was approached by Vespasian on scouting duties and questions regarding the Sarmatae.

At first, Makvar thought Vespasian was looking for a way to mock him and his culture, much like other Romans had done to his people for generations. It did not help that the man was hard to read, always keeping a composed face even when drinking.

However, he was proved wrong when Vespasian began implementing his answers into action by having a pure scout group made almost purely of Sarmatians and Getae. There were even Parthians in the ranks.

Vespasian had then approached him with yet another offer, one that puzzled yet excited him.

He was to be made head of that scouting group and advisor to him in exchange for his absolute loyalty and devotion.

Makvar was grinning to a blank faced Vespasian as he nodded. Just then, a smile appeared on the Roman, letting the Sarmatian know how happy he was of the former's decision.

And right now at this moment in the fabled land of the supposed Britannia, he was training and drilling his men when Vespasian approached.

Dressed in full military regalia and his own helmet still on, the Roman nodded respectfully. "Makvar."

"Sire." The Sarmatian nodded back. "What can I do for you?"

Cold blue eyes stared at the green ones of the Sarmatian. "I need a thorough scouting of these woods before our… esteemed general leads us unto glory."

Smirking, Makvar nodded. "Of course sire, it shall be done."

"Do try to take prisoners, we truly need to see what language they speak, our mercenaries from Britannia do not know."

Makvar frowned. "So, just as I thought, we are truly lost."

"Quite, but even then we cannot go back to Rome empty handed now can we?" Vespasian smirked. "We need to be sure of this… land and its locals before fully committing action but my decision has been overruled."

The Sarmatian looked at his superior officer and saviour with a sparkle in his green eyes. "Just for you to know, we will have your back, regardless of the circumstances."

Vespasian looked at him carefully before smiling. "If I could go back and pat myself for the wonderful decision in hiring you, I would."

Departing with a smirk, Vespasian did not miss the smile on the Sarmatian's face.

It was good to see that some people, whether Roman or not, kept their words in action and devotion. He was really going to reward Makvar after this campaign was done.

Lord Flint sobbed and drank wine as the news hit him yet again.

His son, his heir, his pride and joy had been slaughtered like an animal alongside one thousand of their best men at arms.

The man raged for a full day about the news before grabbing the nearest wine bottle and drinking it into stupor.

Perhaps in the delusion to see his son again.

How could he send him on a scouting mission? Why? How could he be so idiotic?

To his servants, it was clear he was losing his head in madness and grief. Losing his wife and twin sons was one thing but now losing his best friend and his own flesh and blood was quite another.

He was now alone.

The steward of his castle and master at arms, Ser Jon Foster, had now taken overall command of the garrison and was sending small scouting parties to see what the rebels were up to.

Some lords then refused to send their own men in fear of being at the mercy of the marauding tribes.

Lord Rickard Stark was marching with a host of twenty thousand swords and five thousand horsemen down from Winterfell.

If only he could march faster.

"My lord." Ser Jon entered his lord's premises. "The rebels are closing down on us."

A growl came from the drunk lord. "Let them!" He screamed. "Let them come and I will slaughter each and every one of them! I want their heads on a stick! I want all of their young boys killed!"

Nodding, Jon said. "Of course, my lord."

He did not have an answer to the tearful tirade the lord went through. Jon had been close to Fredik, even considered him a younger brother.

When the news came he shed tears and promised retribution to the tribes.

"A father should not bury his own son." Lord Flint muttered with tears streaming down his face. "Fredik should be doing that for this old fool."

Ser Jon then left the premises to leave his lord grieve more. He clearly knew that Lord Flint was battle tested but right now he was in no condition to lead, as he would just let out his grief and die fruitlessly.

As soon as he entered the main hall, a soldier arrived in a hurry. "M'lord! The tribes are marching back!"

Blinking in shock, the steward's eyes narrowed. "What exactly do you mean marching back?"

"They are, sire! And in a hurry too! They left some siege equipment and turned back!"

That could only mean two things, one good and the other not.

"You think a conflict between them could be going on?"

The scout shook his head. "No m'lord, they would have been fighting it out by now outside the gates."

Ser Jon's eyes widened. "The strange host, the one on the coast!"

This was problematic. They could be the ones now destroying the tribes and slaughtering anything in their path. The fact that they spoke different languages and had strange, unified banners was also problematic. He remembered the sketch of one of the scouts. It was a fierce looking eagle with strange symbols on it.

It had long been decided that they did not belong to any house of Westeros. Only possibility was a force of sellswords from the Free Cities.

"Gods help us." He muttered. Ser Jon then turned to the scout. "Get your best men and see what these… people are up to."

"At once!"

The scout left, leaving Jon alone to brood and plan what was next. He needed eyes on the forest before the tribes or the mysterious host made their move.

Lord Stark was still a month away, and the days were clearly getting longer.

Aulus frowned when the scouts came back after more than seven hours. Vespasian had convinced him to wait until they arrived to assess the situation more carefully.

Rome, however, was not patient in her endeavours. She demanded results, and very good ones at that.

When Makvar approached him, the Roman general saw a woman on his saddle. She looked frightened and confused by the situation or her surroundings.

Probably both.

"What is the meaning of this?" Aulus shouted. "You bring back a barbarian wench? Your women not good enough?"

"She had a small group of heavily armed scouts, all taken care of." Makvar calmly replied. "She must be important, not to mention that she killed two of my best men."

At that, Aulus paused. It was not rare for barbarian women to be trained in combat. Mostly, however, they were daughters of chieftains and leaders rather than common folk.

"Hmmm…" The Roman carefully watched her, his cold hazel eyes assessing her worth. "Put the wench in Vespasian's tent, after all it was his idea to send you."

Not rising to the bait, as in many occasions before, Vespasian nodded. "Give her food and wash her, she smells awful."

The legionaries around laughed and leered at her with lust.

As expected, the woman recoiled from the stares.

"Yes, sire."

Makvar then took the woman gently and led her to the tent of his officer, not before hissing at a legionary who had gotten too close.

The devotion and loyalty in his voice made Aulus uneasy and sometimes hostile towards Vespasian, but as always, Lucius approached first.

"According to the other scouts, there is an army of around a thousand or two thousand barbarians, coming at us."

Vespasian nodded. "Probably felt our pressure at their ranks."

"Or are mad that we captured one of their whores." Aulus sneered. "We shall give them a proper taste of Roman sword, then." He then departed without even saying anything to his commanding officers.

Lucius sneered at his retreating back. "I could arrange for a barbarian to get close enough to him."

"Careful, my dear Lucius, for that is the talk of rebels." Vespasian replied with slight amusement.

Chuckling, the other officer turned to him. "You should check on that woman, sir. Maybe she can bring light on this situation before Aulus leads us to oblivion."

Vespasian smiled at his friend and started walking to his tent, whereas the soldiers around were preparing to battle in the very certain future.

Before he could get close enough, the Roman general heard a shout and saw a horde of barbarians pouring out of the forest.

In a flash, Roman archers shot their arrows and rained fire on them.

Within seconds, Vespasian ran to the palisade and shouted. "Defend your land! Defend the glory of Rome!"

Just as he said that, a battering ram was seen going full speed at their gate. Legionaries pulled their shields up and had their gladius ready for killing.

Time for Rome's children to fight.

Thank you for your attention and messages, it has been a pleasure writing this.

The update was slow due to college but I promise more chapters by next week. I have no beta reader so if anyone wants to volunteer I would be delighted.

I would also like to thank the guy or gal who provided constructive criticism in the reviews. Thank you.

Comment, rate, subscribe. Who is your favorite Roman? Who would you like to die? Just kidding, I am not GRR Martin.

And no I do not own Game of Thrones/A Song of Ice and Fire but I would like to.