"We've made contact with the Blackwood men, milord." the outrider wore an eager, breathless expression. "We should be meeting up with the force sieging Harrenhall in a little over an hour."

Dacey could not be surprised that the outrider would be so cheerful. These last few weeks had been a dreary march filled with broken farmsteads and crow-picked corpses. The war had not been kind to the former lands of House Whent, and the prospect of their force meeting with Lord Blackwood's was a merry one.

The Blackfish remained calm. "My thanks, Melmin," he replied, "You are dismissed."

The rider bowed awkwardly and retreated, already speaking to his companion before he had gone completely out of earshot, "I only caught a glimpse of the camp through the trees," he loudly whispered, "but the Blackwood army is strong. Five thousands at least!"

This talk did not go missed by Lord Jonos Bracken. "Five thousands! Hah!" He laughed, his whiskers bristling like a sentinel in a stiff wind. Jonos Bracken was a big man, shorter than the Blackfish but stronger and stouter. "That withered old fool hasn't a third that many men, not any more. I fear our army shall be sore surprised if they expect a warm welcome from Tytos. He's had no more forage than we, and you can be sure he brought no great supply of provisions from Raventree. Mark my words, the man is more likely to beg for provisions from us than to give us any."

"We are prepared for that much," Ser Brynden replied coolly. "If Blackwood does not offer us bread, we will not starve. Steel can buy bread more cheaply than gold, and the lands around Duskendale are but a few day's ride distant, untouched and unspoiled by war thus far."

The walls of Harrenhall, made near-blue by the fog of morning, had been peeking out from behind the hills every time they turned a bend. Dacey almost laughed to look at them. Winterfell had seemed to her an impossible structure when she had first seen it, bigger than any town on Bear Island and with walls higher than the Great Hall. Harrenhall dwarfed Winterfell in turn by at least as large a margin. How could such a thing even be built? How could such a thing be taken?

But that was why they were here, was it not? The scouts had said that the Mountain held the Castle with a skeleton of a garrison, only a hundred men at most, and it was expected that they should be able to climb the walls or else build a ramp up to the side. A year ago, she might have been excited to be involved in such an action. But war had become tiresome rote long ago.

A few minutes more and the castle fully came into view, a lonely mountain rising huge above the ant-like army that surrounded it. Dacey scowled, suddenly.

"Where is the siege ramp? Where are the towers? Blackwood was supposed to be ready for an assault, but I see no preparations at all. Does he mean for us to starve the Mountain out?"

Bracken scowled. "Blackwood never had a head for figures or discipline. Like as not his men have been busier with whores and liquor than with the ramp. It is no small miracle that the Lannisters have not already pounced on him and his layabouts."

"It is no miracle at all," the Blackfish replied, his face dark with annoyance. Blackwood's failure would bring him no more joy than it brought Lord Bracken, but talk of defeat could not be tolerated. This war effort hung on only by the barest of threads. "The Lannisters and their allies are stretched between half a dozen sieges and occupations and their subjects in the Crownlands love them not. If they come to us here in force they'll lose Maidenpool, Duskendale, and half the Stormlands."

Bracken snorted with disbelief and kept riding.

"Ser Brynden," Dacey stated, "I find myself curious as to what Lord Umber can see up in the Van. Do I have your leave to ride ahead?" She asked as a sign of respect to the Blackfish, not because she imagined the absence of a daughter of a minor house would be noticed next to all the remaining Lords of the Riverlands and North. Dacey had retained some importance as a guard of King Robb, but now that he had died even the lesser knights of the host outranked her. Any respect that the Lords gave her was pure courtesy.

"Yes, Lady Dacey, of course." the Blackfish replied, "You have my leave."

She touched her heels to the flanks of her horse's sides and cantered forward until she came near even with Lord Umber. Jon Umber's horse, Rumbler, was of the same shaggy northern stock as her own horse, Prizes, but half again the size. Still, it looked too small for Jon, as he rode forward, his gaze firm on the horizon. "Bracken is craven," she announced as soon as she had her friend's ear. "You had the right of it at the feast. He sees Lannisters in every shadow."

"Cowardice, or insight?" The Smalljon replied, gesturing at the uncompleted siegeworks. "You can see for yourself that something is amiss."

"Delays happen," Dacey replied. "But it seems to me that Bracken gives us up for defeat before we even engage in battle. The talk that comes from his mouth is poison, and when Blackwood is involved I make no bets as to his loyalty. Without Lord Tully or King Stark to check him, I fear we cannot trust to his loyalty at all."

"Then we shall leave him here with a garrison, if he's half the craven he seems, He'll be sure to not lose the fortress. Blackwood is a cooler head, he will be better on campaign in any case. But that is a problem for later, when the castle is taken, and of that I am not as confident as you are."

Dacey shrugged. "If we take Harrenhal, we will have many choices to make. If we do not, we will have none, only to be driven before our enemies all the way back to Riverrun."

"If the gods smile on us, the Lannisters are not closer than a hundred miles. But we should know better than to expect favor from the gods to save us at this point."

Dacey did not reply. The Blackfish's confidence earlier had been a bluff, she knew that much. Last they had heard the Lions were busy in the Crownlands and Randyll Tarly had not moved from Maidenpool, but either could be on them within a few weeks. A siege of Harrenhall might take months. If the Mountain truly had killed all the men of the castle, there would be few mouths to feed inside those great walls and whatever stores they had would last a long time. How many did the Mountain have with him, a hundred? Five hundreds? Surely not more. His band had been fighting the whole of the war, from Riverrun to the Red Fork to Duskendale, and there had been less than a thousand of them to begin with.

Her hand touched her ax. They had ridden past too many burnt-out homesteads, heard too much of the Mountain's cruelty. Dacey had raided and reaved in the Westerlands along with her mother and the rest of the Northern lords, but they had not reaved like that. Had not butchered children and dogs and women without cause, had not left families to rot in the air for the sport of crows. Dacey had lost most of her lust for battle, but that would be one head she should like to take. Would she sleep better at night, if she killed the Mountain? Could the Mountain's blood absolve her of her wrongs?

These thoughts stopped short as Blackwood's camp came properly into view. Tents and wagons and fortifications spread out over dozens of acres. They could make out the banners properly now, but banners did not catch her interest half so much as the column of men that had assembled in front of them, armed and ready for battle. Were there only a thousand of them? It seemed at least three times that number to Dacey. Why were they formed up for battle? Riders broke free from the Blackwood ranks as soon as they came into view, bearing the banner of parley.

"Halt!" The Smalljon yelled, and the vanguard obeyed. "Jerro, get a banner of parley up and signal the Blackfish. We need to see what Lord Blackwood is about."

Dacey and the Smalljon stopped short, waiting for the Blackfish and Lord Bracken and the others to join them.

"Those are Raventree banners in front," Dacey said to Lord Umber, finally realizing what was wrong, "But behind them, I see Brune and Blount and Bywater. Crownlanders. Gods be good there must be seven thousands at least!"

"Aye," replied the Smalljon, "And there's the dog of house Clegane too. Get your armor in order men! Form up! Where're your helms? Have you forgotten we're at war?" he yelled, whirling about and abusing his men.

Dacey's mouth had gone dry. A trap, a trap, she wanted to scream. Had their outriders been so blind? They never had been before, but before they had been commanded by the Blackfish. It mattered little now. They could not run. They were tired from the march, and the enemy's men were fresh. Brynden Tully's forces would need to fight before they could be free, and she was not sure they could do that either. The men had not expected to be given battle today.

"They rallied the Crownlands," she breathed, and could scarcely believe it. The Crownlands had not been reaved, but they had starved nonetheless. Rich cities like Duskendale required trade to feed themselves, and trade had not come into the region for many months, neither by land nor sea nor river. Blackfish had assumed that the Crownlanders would rally slowly if at all to Tywin's banner.

"There are some who remember when Tywin was Hand," The Smalljon commented.

"Or mayhap they smell an easy victory in the wind," Dacey replied. A toothless, clawless wolf was nothing more than crowfood, and that described their situation well enough.

Lord Blackwood rode at the head of the riders coming out of the camp, tall and handsome, with enameled plate of bright yellow set with jet and a long black cape flowing behind. A dozen proud knights of his house rode behind him, along with one figure robed entirely in black. Once the Blackfish had come to the fore, Dacey and the Greatjon and a dozen others rode out to parley.

"What is the meaning of this?" the Blackfish shouted, drawing his charger up short. "Is this the courtesy of Raventree Hall on display? You ride out to us as though we are an invading force, when you should be welcoming us as your reinforcements!"

"Had you come a week earlier," Tytos replied, "I should have welcomed you gladly. But you are late, and others arrived here first." The hooded figure behind him threw his cloak into the wind, revealing a stocky frame armored in gilded plate. Dacey knew him only by description. Kevan Lannister, the brother of the Old Lion. He was shorter and older than she expected. She wondered how he would look if she caved his head in with a mace.

"Blackfish!" Ser Kevan called, "I will give you the same choice as I gave Lord Blackwood. Yield now and swear allegiance to King Tommen Baratheon and Lord Baelish, and you and those with you shall be spared execution. Fight, and the Mountain and his men will break your army in two. Run, and the Riverlands will fall to pieces behind you."

"Faithless blaggard!" Bracken howled, spittle flying from his mouth. "I should stick a pike up your arse and raise you high, Blackwood, so I could see which way the wind is blowing."

"I dealt with you all faithfully," Blackwood said, his voice dark and angry, "But the King I swore to is dead, my lands are stripped bare, and snow will be falling ere long. How many more widows should I make before I can surrender with honor?"

"There'll be widows and orphans aplenty soon enough, Blackwood," Bracken growled, "It seems to me that your men are in the front of Lord Kevan's little army."

"Enough," Blackfish stated, his voice cutting like an ax. "The whole world knows what terms from a Lannister are worth." He spat into the ground. "You and your brother were running from me the whole war, let me show you how war is done."

Ser Kevan Lannister frowned as if he had drunk a bitter drink. "Fine then," He said. "You won't get a chance to refuse the mercy of House Lannister a second time." He and Blackwood turned their backs to and rode back to their camp, and Dacey and the Blackfish and the others did the same.

"This was his plan all along," Bracken roared as he pulled his horse around. "He sought to make himself valuable to his new masters, and we were his blood price. I would wager he sent ravens out to rally the Crownlands even before he got to Harrenhall. He never even started constructing the siegeworks!"

"That doesn't matter," the Smalljon said with a quiet rumble. "What matters is our line of attack."

"What matters is that we manage a fighting retreat in good order," The Blackfish countered. "We can fight them here, and we might win, but it is better if we don't. If they chase us they'll have to siege every castle from Darry to Pinkmaiden and they'll be strung out over all the Riverlands. Then we can turn on them and smash them to pieces."

No, Dacey thought, that was wrong. If the Lannisters took ground here, Blackwood would be only the first of many turncoats, and Kevan Lannister's six thousands would swell to ten or fifteen. Then Tywin or Tarly could come in from behind with thrice that number. But she saw, too, what the Blackfish intended. The plan would still work if the men held and forced the Lannisters to lay siege. If Ser Brynden could make the men believe the plan to be true, it would be, and with a reputation like the Blackfish's such a thing might just be possible. She saw the Lords' heads wagging in agreement as he spoke. It was a risky play, but then, she supposed that even a victory here against Lord Blackwood would be too costly.

"...I volunteer to lead a charge," Marq Piper announced. "We won't hit their pike line, of course, just a feint, but enough to hold their cavalry back while we make our escape." Marq had been drunk as a sop when they had pulled him from the Twins, and he seemed eager to atone for his shame. Perhaps too eager.

"You?" Bracken scoffed, "No, this command is mine, if only so I can ride that prissy Blackwood bastard down myself!"

"No," the Blackfish replied, "I will lead this charge myself." Every eye went wide to hear it. The Blackfish was old and favored command at the rear. His taking the lead would be a great risk, but perhaps it should give the men the courage they sorely needed. "Lord Piper, I need you with your men organizing the retreat. They know and trust you, you'll be needed there. Get to Whitetree crossing and hold there, we'll meet you there before the day is over. Lord Bracken," a small laugh escaped him, "If I see Blackwood, you will be right by my side, but you'd best strike fast lest I beat you to it."

The gathered Lords smiled grimly at that, then split apart to do their duties. Already the line of Blackwoods and Crownlanders advanced upon them. The Blackfish gave her and the Smalljon each a nod, and they fell in behind him. Squires were still running every which way even as the enemy advanced, passing out helms and mail and shields. They had been expecting a pleasant ride, not a battle, and some had not even properly finished mounting their chargers.

The survivors of the Wedding had been armored already, at least. They saw blades in every shadow, and of late it seemed they were right as often as not. As for Dacey, her squire had only to give her a lance before she turned to face her foe.

Gods, they were so close, and there were so many of them. She breathed to calm herself. The lull before battle brought terror, that never changed. If anything, experience made it worse. A green recruit would not know what came next, but a veteran knew all too well. She steeled her heart and closed her helm as the few Mormont riders that remained closed ranks about her.

The Bracken knights would form the center of the charge as they always did, with their famous red Bracken coursers. Umber's smaller, shaggier chargers would come along the right, and as usual, the Mormont riders would follow in their wake. How many charges had they made together like this? Dacey could scarcely recall. But this charge was different. The Young Wolf had always picked his battles, never told them to charge into an army that had not half lost the battle already.

"They've seen the infantry retreating now, and they'll be sending their horse to cut them down!" The Blackfish screamed, addressing the whole host, "Piper's going to get the men out of here in good order, but we need to give him space. Kill every man that sits a horse, then pull away. They cannot defeat us if we hold fast in our minds! Think not of ransoming their men! The only ransom we have to offer is the one they offered Robb Stark! Blood and Steel!"

The roar that followed near deafened Dacey, and in spite of her terror she felt blood filling her head and her arms. She stood tall, she stood strong, she stood a loyal guard of the Young Wolf, and so would she die if she must. After the terror of anticipation, came the madness of battle, and she felt it rising in her as the host began to move forward, lances high in the air. The Blackfish himself formed the tip of the spear, with Bracken on his left and the Smalljon on his right. Heroes, every one of them. Her horse's gait quickened and soon the rising and falling motion of a slow trot turned to the smooth, powerful stride of a full gallop.

"For the North!" She screamed, "For the Riverlands and the North! For the Young Wolf!" Horns were blaring up and down the charge as nearly two thousand horses thundered and shook the earth. Her legs strained to maintain her seat as her horse pushed forward with all its might. They were an avalanche of steel and flesh.

The air filled with arrows, rushing forward to meet them as they charged. Hitting dirt or steel or sometimes flesh, but Dacey scarcely noticed them. She had only blood and steel in her mind now, and the enemy cavalry only a few short paces away, with the Mountain himself at the helm. They collided in a mad crash. Dacey's lance broke in two after sinking half its length in horseflesh and she nearly lost her seat as the force traveled up her arm. The Mountain was down, the Mountain was down! But she had other matters to consider as the man she had dismounted rose from his dying steed and came at her, arming sword held high. Her horse kicked him in the face and she wheeled about to break a man's skull with her mace. Her arm ached with the force of it.

A new opponent thrust a lance at her helm and she twisted away from the blow, even as one of her own riders rode past her and struck him down. The Lannisters and their Blackwood dogs might have more men, but the Starks had more horse, at least for the moment. She turned her head, looking for an opponent…

...and nearly had her face cleaved in two by the Mountain's greatsword. She spurred her horse to trample him but he sidestepped her and bashed his pommel into her leg as she passed. Her thigh exploded with pain and then the press of the bodies swept them apart again, pushing Dacey forward even as the Mountain was surrounded by a tide of Northern horse.

Finally she had a moment to think. They were winning. The thought surprised her, but there was no denying that the enemy cavalry was in full rout. She almost laughed to think of it. But if that was so, then why had Brynden not yet sounded the retreat? Already the Blackwood and Crownlander foot would be closing in around them. What was Ser Brynden doing?

A chill ran through her as she saw the Blackfish's squire, Mitchell Lynderly, looking about in confusion and terror. "Where is the Blackfish?" She yelled, riding over to him. The squire's mouth opened and shut three times in confusion, his eyes wide and his face white as milk.

"The M-mountain, he..." the squire blubbered, his silence saying more than enough.

Dacey cursed. The Blackfish had been wounded, captured, or killed, and Mitchell had not had the initiative to call a retreat. "Give me the horn, Mitchell! Give me the damned horn!" When his hands remained frozen to his sides she grabbed the great horn from his saddle and put it to her lips, drawing in a great breath. She pushed the air out in a great, heaving blast of sound, then drew in another and blew again. Then she did it again. Moments or hours had gone by and spots were dancing in her eyes when the cavalry finally began to slow and stop.

Lord Umber came to her, fresh from the chaos, with mud all over him and the great shaggy warbeast he called Rumbler. "Dacey!" He yelled, "Where is the Blackfish?"

"Dead or wounded!" Dacey yelled, still gasping for breath, "But we've done enough!"

The Smalljon nodded and slowly the host of Northern horse began to twist, turn, and reshape, until the Smalljon were at the front of the charge again. In the far distance she could see the retreating banners of the Northern host, marching back the way they came. If she and the others could get to them, then Brynden's strategy had worked, but at what cost? The Northern foot would retreat in order, and most of the horse would as well, but even now Blackwood arrow shafts were chasing them, playing up and down the formation and taking a terrible toll. She could only guess at how many of their horse had died in the first charge, or been trapped by the infantry. The battle fever drained out of her like the tide and she almost felt like weeping.

She had survived every battle, but for what?

A/N: Sorry for the wrong upload. Fixed now.