Sorry for the little wait but here we are. Now things are getting rather serious and some others have begun to notice the turmoil up north. Well, the game has begun to move on its wheel (Daenerys is not here to try and break it, of course) so here we go. Enjoy.

"Roma Invicta!" A centurion shouted as he cut down a mail coated warrior.

The legionaries immediately returned the shout, charging back at the attacking army and cutting down any unlucky fellow to be in their path. The battering ram was stopped short through a hail of pila and arrows. Ladders were then pressured to climb into the fort, but were easily pushed down by the legion soldiers, all the while the cavalry was prepped for an attack on the enemy flanks.

Military might was a very well-known concept to Vespasian. He was acutely aware of the legion's supreme prowess in close combat and their training. However, the enemy's blades were very sturdy against their own.

It was like some material that was better than iron.

Problematic, indeed.

Some gladius even broke, and legionaries were forced to take other swords from fallen comrades or the enemy's themselves.

Vespasian had a frown on his face but soon his cold eyes fell upon the enemy trying to break and flee.

Clearly, they underestimated the legion's discipline and were now attempting to fall back into the woods.

"No mercy! Cut them down!" Lucius shouted to the Sarmatian alae and the Roman heavy cavalry, which immediately took to pursue their enemy.

Horses whined and riders shouted their approval at the order. The barbarian army warriors screamed and shouted at each other.

The gate was opened and from there in patches of little to no time, a massacre occurred.

A few were brave enough to form a shield wall but were easily cut down by the legionary cavalry. Within mere moments, it was all over.

Roman soldiers then marched to the front of the fort and established a long line of over five thousand blades, a barracuda if one could describe its terrible prowess, awaiting the order to march forward if stragglers remained loyal to their cause.

Aulus sneered at the enemy. "I want prisoners. Get me that one protected by that force of cavalry." He pointed at a warrior that was being escorted out of the battle.

The Sarmatian warrior, Makvar, simply nodded and went forward with his best companions. They shot arrows and spears at enemies that were luckless or foolish enough to stand near them.

All the while, the legionaries and other officers shouted their victory. "Roma Victor! Roma Eterna!"

Vespasian simply rode back to his camp and see if the barbarian woman was in good shape.

What he did not expect was her smirking into nothing, as if celebrating.

Eyes widening slightly, Vespasian them schooled his face into complete neutrality.

Entering the tent silently, the woman immediately looked at him and her face retracted into one of fear or terror.

"I will bring you food." He then made a few mannerisms of the action, gaining a brief smile from the woman. "I am also keeping an eye on you, wench."

She only smiled and made the same mannerisms, then grabbed a hand and patted her belly.

Vespasian smiled back, though his eyes darkened in anger and distrust. "We will talk later."

Departing the tent, the woman chuckled slightly into the wind while Vespasian smirked.

Things were getting rather interesting in this dour land.

Lord Jason Lannister was shaking his head in disbelief and surprise. Since when did the Finger ever get mysterious visitors? And by a huge host, no less, already carving a path into the peninsula.

Rumor had it that Robin the Saddle, a member of the Flint family and disgraced lord, was captured along with his daughter. Their army was also completely decimated within a battle along with coasts.

According to his spies and certain merchants that dared to venture into the North, the host consisted of more than forty thousand blades, counting their heavy cavalry.

Their standard was a yellow and fierce looking eagle, usually with the background having a red kind of tint.

The Lannister lord thought of a couple of things. Who the hell were these upstarts? What did they want? Where was Lord Rickard Stark?

Nodding to himself, Lord Jason began writing a raven to the Warden of the North and acquire as much information as he could from the man.

Both had met at a tourney and struck an odd kind of camaraderie that had them exchange correspondence from time to time.

Even if he was interfering into territory that was not his responsibility, the Neck and the sea, a short one at that, were the only things stopping the host from invading the Westerlands and wreaking havoc at their pleasure.

The recent pretenders to the throne had depleted the south of men, coin and morale. Truly, an invasion by a host of that number could prove problematic.

His spies had also supplied terrible news. As if he needed any more.

These upstarts also had catapults and other strange devices in their arsenal. Who was to say they were not effective in battle?

Who could say the rest of Westeros was safe? Just where did they come from?

It would only take a word from his icy and sour friend for Lord Jason to call the banners and join the fight through his own fleet at Lannisport.

The Targaryens were much too busy trying to quell rebellions and pretenders to care for now.

Later on, maybe but not at the moment.

Of course, the quirky and dangerous Greyjoys needed to be watched at all times.

He would also send a raven to the Tyrells and the Redwynes to continue their usual patrols and even extend the limits on his sea just this one time.

Sighing, Lord Jason retreated to his chambers and smirked when he saw his wife already bare and awaiting his presence.

Ironically acting like his own house sigil, he pounced on her and laughed when she giggled.

"What do we know of this host?" Lady Jocelyn Mormont asked, her attractive features narrowing in concentration at the missives from Lord Flint.

The most powerful and important lords from the North were seated at Lord Rickard Stark's tent, all pale and wary.

"Large and well organized." The smooth voice of Lord Aldamar Bolton answered. "Impressive."

Lord Umber growled. "We will strike them so hard they will be thrown all the way to Essos."

An uneasy silence followed when Lord Rickard cleared his throat, so as to get the table to quiet before the lords continued their exchanges.

"I have received another missive. Very troubling, my lords." He began, his voice icy yet strong. "This host has smashed the rebels led by Robin the Saddle and is now marching towards Ironhove."

Lord Amos Karstark shook his head. "He will not stand a chance, my lord. The enemy is too many for his ruined and forsaken village he calls a castle."

The comment got a few chuckles and even a slight smile from Lord Stark. "Lord Flint has surprised us from time to time, I am sure he can."

"Not at his state, my lord." Lord Brynden Glover announced, his grey eyes sad. "His son died and from what Ser Jon reports, he has been drinking into stupor ever since."

Everyone in the table knew of the lord's late wife untimely death and his subsequent rage. He refused to clear his head for a full year, grief and rage overtaking him.

He even attempted to destroy the godswood in a cold rage and cursed all gods, both old and new, day and night.

It was his son, who was now dead, that took him out of his depression and brought forward a just, albeit cankerous, ruler.

Lord Stark sighed sadly. "The host has also sent riders and small detachments of their army to raid and take over small villages and castles. So far, six have fallen."

"We do know how they fight, though!" Lord Umber announced, his eyes darkening in rage. "They fight in close formation, have short stabbing swords and are hard as nails."

Lord Bolton nodded along. "Very impressive, if I may be able to say. The scouts of Lord Flint have reported that they prefer to fight in close combat though have been known to feint retreat, then strike hard."

"A very well organized enemy and they march fast, my lord." Lady Mormont shook her head. "How many men do we have available in Moat Caillin?"

"A thousand, all well trained or so I am told." Lord Stark's features then contorted into confusion and wariness. "My lords, what are your thoughts on asking for help from the South?"

Lords Umber and Glover immediately reddened in rage while Lady Mormont sneered. Lord Bolton, however, was silent. His eyes were alight with curiosity at the prospect.

One of the other lords, Wyman Manderly, was also curious of the prospect. He had been silent the whole time but right now he was ready to stand for his lord and prove his loyalty should it was needed.

"All of you are aware of my friendship with Lord Jason Lannister." They nodded. "We have exchanged correspondence through the years since then. He has proven to be a sharp ally and full of wise counsel. He has mentioned that, in case of the most of dire circumstances, he is prepared to call his banners and join our fight."

"For what? Gain the Finger?" Lord Umber bellowed. "Those bastards have always looked down upon us! Always feeling so mighty and superior."

"Not to mention that they are rather exhausted from the Targaryens always shortening their garrisons due to their little hissy fights."

The last comment from Lord Glover struck the table to laughter, with the exception of Lords Stark and Bolton. Both looked at each other and nodded.

"I am sure my fellow lords cannot think of any other contingency plans should the need arise to call for help elsewhere?" Lord Bolton stated. "If so, please we are all waiting for them."

Silence followed.

"If I may be of assistance, my lords." Lord Wyman stood up and stamped his hands on the table. "I am sure that Lord Stark has thought of other contingency plans, and all are rather precarious to take. Who should be put our trust on should the need arise, hm? Could it be the Greyjoys? Those backstabbing cunts would use the opportunity to sack some of our cities if they even agree to help us."

"Now, we know our enemy is extremely disciplined, very well organized and from the looks, led. Should we then start recruiting Wildlings? Sure, they are fierce fighters. Would you put your trust in their battle prowess, albeit breaking centuries of tradition? The Night's Watch would be most displeased."

Lord Bolton smirked while Rickard smiled at one of his dearest friends. The other lords had been paling at the prospects of trusting other sources of help, should the North be unable to contend the horde of newly arrived warriors in the Finger.

"The Targaryens? As Lord Glover promptly stated, they are rather busy having a hissy fit for that gods damned iron chair. The Reach is too far and the Riverlands too damn weak. House Tully could be of assistance, provided we accept raw recruits and shit faced knights that cannot even wield a sword at the dawn of day."

Finally, the table erupted into laughter. Lord Bolton was holding his chest as he probably laughed for the first time in years.

The lord of White Harbor smiled at them. "While House Lannister is of dubious nature, we have all trusted our Warden many a time, so I say we put our trust into him once again."

He then got up and, to the amazement of the others, put a fist to his chest. "Not a step back."

Lord Bolton stood up as well and did the same thing. "Our blades are sharp."

"Winter is coming."

The rest of the lords continued with their own house mottos, all issuing faces of determination and bravery.

The Warden of the North smiled warmly for the first time since he heard of Lord Flint's situation.

His bannermen were rather odd, but he would never change them for anyone else.

"Fall back! Fall back!" A knight shouted in terror as their men were cut down to pieces by the red cloaked, nightmarish demon men.

Not too far from Flint's Finger, Irondove, House Tremon stood with a garrison of three hundred warriors, all seasoned veterans.

They had fought bandits and pirates when Lord Flint had called the banners. However, most of their men had gone to fight Robin the Saddle.

Days had passed with no news until a raven announced the death of Fredrik Flint, and the subsequent destruction of over a thousand of their soldiers.

To make matters worse, other lords and villages began refusing orders from their overlord and made preparations in case of the war actually reaching them.

Out of nowhere, these strange soldiers then appeared and wreaked havoc upon anyone near them.

Lord Elmer, his stubborn neighbor, had died in battle mere days before his murderers reached House Tremon's gates.

A cavalry detachment under his master at arms was then sent to delay them, in a brave attempt to let people enter the small yet sturdy castle from the surrounding villages and farms of Lord Abel Tremon.

It was all for naught.

Their cavalry perished almost instantly and the strange enemy soldiers marched with fierceness and brutality entailed in their steps. None of the knights in the castle survived the onslaught.

Those who resisted, that is.

However, and strangely enough, their supposed leader was giving orders and the women, along with the children, were left unharmed.

The soldiers that surrendered were then knocked down but spared of any further punishment.

Lord Abel thought then that this enemy perhaps had some honor in them that he could appeal to.

Sadly, the enemy spoke a different language that sounded a little like the fabled Valyrian.

The enemy soldiers were busy acquiring weapons, pushing people away and studying his small castle structures.

Just as he was about to put down his sword, the strangest of individuals approached him.

He wore some kind of helmet that had a… broom? Feathers closely packed together in color red.

The eyes of this individual were steely blue, with a hint of grey. He wore armor that was segmented into several layers of perhaps steel? Maybe iron? However, the design was brilliant, provided he wanted to run and not be protected fully in battle.

"Tu es dux?" The words sounded fairly classical, as if spoken by a noble. The man also stood with haughtiness truly only compared to a Lannister cunt.

The young lord pointed at himself and said loudly. "Lord Abel Tremon."

"Tu Lord Abel Tremon?"

Shaking his head almost in annoyance, he referred to himself again. "Abel Tremon, me."

The strange man nodded, his eyes twinkling mischievously. "Eusurient?" He hesitated but then his eyes sparkled. "Hunngri?"

"Hungry?" Abel chuckled bitterly. Here he was, almost groveling to an outsider that had him and his castle in chains. "Yes." He nodded to emphasize his point.

Gesturing with a hand, the soldier took the lord to his own premises and ordered to his men something in their foul yet noble like sounding language.

"Kill me now." He muttered while the supposed enemy leader looked at him with a superior, smug smirk.

His father was probably rolling in his grave.

Lord Robert Flint was snarling in rage as he saw the banners of the enemy flowing with might outside his castle.

The host had arrived less than a day before. Reduced in number yet with enough men to take his castle in a heartbeat. Of course, they did not know that.

Ser Jon was preparing what remained of the garrison, less than a thousand men. All were busy preparing what remained of the gates and guarding the walls.

He knew this was to be his last battle. He also knew he would reunite with his wife, his children and his ancestors.

Most likely.

Maybe.

Lord Flint sighed and shook his head. Robin the Saddle may have been dead at the hands of these arseholes but now his castle was set to be his own tomb.

"My lord?" Ser Jon entered the main hall, if one could it that. It had lost its prestige and power years earlier. "We have made our best to prepare for the incoming assault."

"Good."

"I would like to advise for you to leave while you can, there is a secret passage underneath the stables that you can take. Maybe House Tremon will surely take you in. Lord Stark will march by and then you can join his forces."

The lord looked at his master at arms. "And you?"

"Stay and fight until my last breathe." The younger man answered honestly. "Get you time to flee while we take as many of those bastards as we can with us."

Lord Robert gave him a glare. "That is the thing. My son did not flee, neither will I. Much rather stand proud and fight until my bones break and vision goes dark. I am prepared to join my family in whatever afterlife there is with honor."

"This is my family's ancestral home, long before the Starks ever got here or the Greyjoy cunts became rulers of their shit islands."

He unsheathed his sword. "I will die avenging my son and staying true to my family."

The speech brought a smile of admiration to Ser Jon. "Shall we, my lord?"

"Lead the way, my faithful steward. Today we take some red cloaks with us."

"If only they were Lannisters." Ser Jon japed.

Lord Flint laughed. "If only!"

Those were the last words between the two as soon after, the marauding army assaulted the walls and laid waste to the poorly armed defenders.

"The walls have been breached." Vespasian told Aulus. "Our men are already taking the main structure surrounding the villages."

General Aulus nodded. "Fascinating, really. A structure made out of stone and walls protecting villages from an overlord who looks over them. Some kind of king or ruler?"

"Most likely sir, though I can honestly say that this fort has not seem much of repair for ages."

The other Roman waved him off. "We will repair this ancient monstrosity with our own techniques as soon as we communicate with Rome."

Vespasian almost sneered at the bravado of his superior. "You think we can still communicate with Rome? The twenty ships we sent have not been back for a month now."

"Do not concern yourself with diplomacy, leave that to me." Aulus answered coldly. "You are here to provide military counsel, nothing more."

Vespasian nodded, albeit his mind was plagued with wishes to throttle the man. "Of course."

"How is Lucius doing?"

"He has captured a few towns and structures such as this one, but smaller from what he says. Some two thousand prisoners and gold."

Aulus nodded. "At least someone is doing their job."

"He has sent scouts north and south. There is a structure that has impressed him. The biggest fort he has ever seen outside Roman territory."

"And he wants to take it?"

"He has sent scouts to see more of it, but other than that he has taken over a castle of some little chieftain called Tremon, more than a hundred leagues away from here."

Aulus sneered but said, "Tell him to stay there unless the site is ripe for the taking. I do not want unnecessary casualties…"

"Why?"

"We could be here for months, perhaps a year or more until Rome replies."

Vespasian rolled his eyes discreetly. "Of course, sir."

"Tell Makvar to continue with his raids, we will need slaves to make this castle look half decent. It looks like absolute shit."

Departing his superior's tent, Vespasian thought of one thing.

If there was one thing about him was that he was cunning. He also had the support of the vast majority of the army.

If things came to the absolute worst, he was prepared for it.

He was now hungry for knowledge. This place's language was one of them and that woman was going to help him achieve it, whether she liked it or not.

Entering his tent as his friend led the charge into the poorly defended structure, he saw the female sitting on a rock, looking at her bare feet.

Quiet as a shadow, he walked and sat next to her, a plate in his hands. "Hungry?"

"Si." She replied, her thick accent making him sneer almost.

Almost.

He then mimicked someone talking with his hand. "Tongue?"

"… Language?" She then began to speak and looked at him for confirmation.

Nodding with a slight smile, he pointed at his head. "I want to learn it."

And from there, the most powerful man in the Roman Army began to learn the common tongue while his silver tongued superior struggled with communicating with Rome and his men.

No army is perfect, far from it. Every single one struggles with problems within, none more than the Roman Army itself, often plagued with jealousy and contempt. Of course when working towards a common goal, they ignored them and fought together. When not in danger, they fought themselves and ruined chances.

Now you see some of the game moving, changing, advancing. For the hardcore book readers, you may be somewhat familiar or have heard the names mentioned here. They are very old by the time Ned begins to learn his first words as a child.

Thank you for reading and remember, comment, rate and subscribe. Hope you enjoyed the chapter.