Robb's face betrayed no sign of concern. "Kevan will not have left. He will not even know of this yet." He nodded at Dacey. "Where is the nearest Lannister garrison?"

"Darry," Dacey supplied, understanding what her king meant to say, "The nearest Lannister garrison is at Darry. They're sieging half a dozen castles between here and there, but the nearest ravenry they control is at Darry. The ravens don't fly to Fairmarket and Raventree Hall is under siege, so they'll have to send a horseman…. They'll not get the news for another week at least."

"And when they do, they'll move to unite with Tarly," Robb said, finishing her thought. "But they have no bridge to cross, not after we burned the bridge in Fairmarket, and they cannot go the way they came if they wish to make haste. No, they will need to build ferries for themselves, and that will take weeks."

Fairmarket. Dacey shivered despite the heat. Fairmarket had become a dark name to her, a name that she could not hear without pain. The city had passed through the war mostly untouched. Tywin had left them unmarred so that they would sell grain to his army, and Robb had been unwilling to harm a city under the Blackwood's' protection when they first came south. But now the war had shifted, and Robb sought to leave nothing in the countryside for Ser Kevan to eat. The sack of Fairmarket had been simple butchery, there was no other term for it, but better for the city to lie in ruins than for its riches to pass into Lannister hands.

"...we will need a force to ride hard and catch them on the northern bank outside Fairmarket," Robb continued, his dark-red lips twisting in a smile. "Who will lead my army to victory?" Dacey blinked, recovering herself. So Robb meant to hold the Northern shore against Ser Kevan. She could see wisdom in that. Crossings were tricky things at the best of times, but if they could set a force to contest the Lannisters as they crossed…

She opened her mouth to volunteer, but the Smalljon's voice rang first. "I will lead them, my King! Allow me this chance to die in your name!"

"And me, and me!" Piper cried, "I will lead a company alongside Lord Umber! I will do it!"

Cheers went all round, and Dacey hid her disappointment. This was better, she reminded herself. It was better to be at the side of the King. Better to be able to protect him, keep him safe from harm. The image of the King falling into the river flashed through her mind's eye and she released a breath.

The Smalljon joined her as she walked from the dais, a tight smile etched into his features. "Gods, it feels good to be winning again."

"We haven't won yet," Dacey reminded him.

"We have faced worse enemies than Kevan Lanister's Crownslanders. I should give us even odds of carrying the day if I only considered numbers and training and equipment. But the hearts of the enemy are weak. They are Crownslander men, forced into this war at knifepoint, men who have heard tales of the Young Wolf for years, who have lived in fear of him for years. Now that he is returned, they will see it as a sign from the gods, a sign of their doom. You have heard the words the men of the Brotherhood say, how they call him the Red King, or King Robb the Returned, or..."

"I have heard such titles," Dacey sighed. For her part, she wished the Brotherhood would stop calling him the Red King. That reminded her too much of Bolton. But she knew that the Smalljon was right. You could not win a battle with bravery alone, but you could never win without it. Perhaps the gods did favor them now, too, though that scarce seemed possible, with all the butchery they had done. But who knew what the gods might find to be pleasing?

The Smalljon frowned. "Something is bothering you."

"We don't have the Blackfish."

The Smalljon rubbed his chin thoughtfully, "You think that without his leadership of the scouts, we might never have managed Oxcross or the Whispering Woods."

"The Young Wolf never lost, but he did not win because of bravery alone. Ser Brynden was as much a part of those victories as anyone." She paused, "And I still remember what happened at Harrenhal when he did not command the scouts."

"The Brotherhood should be able to do better than that, at least," the Smalljon said. "They know these lands better than anyone."

"The Brotherhood are little better than brigands," Dacey replied, but without venom. After all, she was not much more than a brigand herself.

Her greatest fear she did not dare to say aloud. Most of all she feared victory. She feared that they would win battle after battle after battle and never find peace, never find rest. What did victory on the battlefield mean if the enemy advanced on every other front? Not for the first time she wondered if the ironborn had made conquest of Bear Island yet. It had been a month since they had last heard from the North, and any number of things could have happened. She knew that the Smalljon had told the King of Jon Snow, but she did not know what the thoughts of the King were on the matter. They had sent a raven north to Last Hearth, but it would not arrive for weeks. Would they return home to a North already set to rights, or would Jon fight to keep his brother out? She did not think it so unlikely.

The rest of the army did not seem to share her dark thoughts, and the week passed swiftly by without issue. For them, their symbol of victory had miraculously returned, and they saw it as a sign of the gods' favor. Who was she to tell them they were wrong? The King is dead, long live the king. The Smalljon left with a thousand men of the North to circle around and fortify the northern shore of the Blue Fork, and Dacey missed him sorely. She had come to depend on the big man's presence, as constant and thick as a castle wall. But he was not dead, she reminded herself, not yet. The host had turned into a bustle of activity, with wagons carving ruts in the soft Riverlander clay and long days full of swift marching.

The King himself led the horse, and Dacey never left his side. She knew all the others of the guard by their first names now. The guards of the king had been close-knit before the wedding, before the losses, but now they were practically blood, family in all but name. Of all of them, the only mystery was Thoros of Myr, the fat red priest who had pulled the King from the waters. He did not match the description Jorah and Lynesse had made of him ten years ago. Loud and vibrant, they had called him, but the Thoros that rode with them now was dull and pensive, full of regret and caution.

But they had all changed in the last few years, the King more than most. He had become quieter, and he became quieter still when they were not at feast or in battle. He would ride for hours in total silence, glassy blue eyes on the horizon as though he would will it to come nearer. Dacey reminded herself that she was not to judge her king, that King Robb's condescension to her and the others had never been something she had any right to expect.

"Your Grace," she said when the silence could be born no longer. "After this battle is won, there will be a time for respite. You could send for the Queen."

He turned and regarded her with a raised eyebrow, as though he had never heard of any Queen before, as though he thought she was speaking of Queen Cersei.

Dacey almost blushed despite herself. Had she been impertinent? She knew she had been. It was not the place of a sworn sword to remind their king of something so trivial. "My apologies, Your Grace, I had assumed. I had assumed that… well, that you might have had concern bringing Queen Jeyne to camp, in the company of so many men of war, but I thought that I might offer myself as a guard to..." Dacey closed her mouth. She had an ax for a tongue, and her apology had been worse than the first offense. To suggest herself for such a role! It was too much. She bowed her head, wilting under the weight of his blazing blue eyes. "I beg your forgiveness for my impertinence," she finished numbly.

The King said nothing in reply, and Dacey spent the rest of the ride deep in mortification. It had been such a simple thing, such an obvious thing to her. Of course the young King would want his bride. Of course the king would want to get an heir on her. The affection they had born for each other had been clear from the Crag onward, and neither had shown any shyness or lack of joy about fulfilling their marital duties. That he would want her, that he would want someone to guard her, and that Dacey would be best suited to the role… This had been something she had never thought to question.

Do not assume you know the King, she thought to herself. The King had died, and though the new King wore the same face, he was not the same boy, not the same man. Dacey steeled herself and rode straight. The King had not reprimanded her, not openly. What could that mean but that her apology had been accepted? She would make use of this chance to prove herself.

The vanguard came upon a band of Lannister foragers the next day and ran them down before any could away. Dacey took one of them alive for questioning and determined that Ser Kevan's host remained unaware of their approach. The King nodded at that, and Dacey had smiled at his acknowledgment. She would make herself useful to this new king.

The day after, the ruins of Fairmarket came into view, and Dacey was surprised to find that it looked even worse than they had left it. When they had first come to Fairmarket, the buildings had been whitewashed and clean, but the army had left them marred by soot and blood. Now, whole buildings had been taken to pieces, no doubt to be used for building the boats the Lannisters needed to cross. In places, the Lannisters had pulled timber from the structures, no doubt to build the boats they would need to cross the river. Or perhaps they had used the wood to erect the fortifications that stood around the city: Ditches and mounds of earth with wooden stakes forming a line at the top.

"I do not much like the looks of those walls," Lord Bracken stated, and Dacey had to agree. "These Lannisters haven't been idle."

The King seemed hardly to notice them. "A wall or a mound of earth is only as good as the men that hold it," he replied coolly "They are hungry, divided on either side of a river, and ripe with fear." Then he smiled. "All we have to do is bring in the harvest."

Defenders were scrambling to take position atop the wall even as the army of the North drew near. Dacey could read terror in their movements. Would that spell victory or defeat? A cornered rat was the most dangerous, after all.

Without a word, the King spurred his horse forward and Dacey and the guard hurried to follow him. For a brief moment, she wondered if he meant to assault the battlements alone but he stopped short of the fortifications, just out of bowshot.

"Every rumor you have heard is true!" the King shouted, "You heard first that I died, and then that I lived, and I have done both. I have returned now, and I bring wrath and ruin to all you who wear the red of House Lannister. I will offer mercy to you only this once. Lay down your arms! Come to me! I will spare you! But know that if you throw your lot in with oathbreakers and guestslayers, I will feed your entrails to the birds and water the fields with your blood! You have one hour, and then I will have my vengeance! By my blade, I swear it!"

Without a word more he turned on his horse and rode back. Few would heed his call, she knew. The Lannisters still had the numbers and soldiers to fight them, especially with such a well-fortified position. Some would wish to desert, and if they besieged the town perhaps some would. But desertion was a dangerous business and the King had not given any man time to leave.

"You never intended to show mercy to anyone," she said, the words spilling out of her mouth before she realized her impertinence.

The King's smile from earlier had not faded. A week ago she might have lamented that the king never smiled as he once had, but seeing his dark red lips twist as they did now filled her nothing but dread.

"They are all Lannister dogs," he stated. "They deserve death, but first I will have them know fear."

Idly, Dacey wondered if any of the town's original inhabitants had returned after the initial sack. Some would have, and would be acting now as shopkeepers and washerwomen and whores for the Lannister army. When the King's army got into the city, there would be little difference between them, she supposed. She emptied her mind of such thoughts. They would be no use in the coming battle.

An hour was how long it took for the army to collect itself in good order. They were a wall of mud and blood and rust, a mongrel force that had been growing since the return of the King, bolstered by deserters and survivors of the Red Wedding who had finally found their way to the host. They had armor, they had steel, they had uniforms, but every piece of their equipage bore the signs of hard campaigning When they had marched south, it had been in neat blocks of blue and green and red, each colored according to the House they served, but now such lines had been blurred and muddied until the entirety of the King's army seemed almost to be one massive brown line of men in dirtied motley. These men were not beholden to Umber or Mormont or Bracken or Cerwyn, but only to Stark, only to Robb the Returned.

The King himself hung back from the frontlines, showing no hint of his true intention, even as arrows from the fortifications began to fall amongst his formation. The fighting began in earnest in the front. The enemy lines held for the moment, but Dacey could see that the King's prediction had come true. The army of the North surrounded them and pushed in on all sides. The left flank had already been pushed back a step, and Dacey wondered if the King would commit them there in hopes of breaking the enemy outright, but still, the King waited.

At last, as though some invisible signal had been read, the King nodded and trotted slowly forward. Dacey and the guard followed uneasily, uncertain of his purpose.

"The Lannister horse is finally committed," the King said, drawing his sword. "We will catch them out and push them into their own moat. Thoros."

The Red Priest rode forward, reaching into his saddlebags and producing a small earthen pot. "Careful, your Grace, careful. The Substance, it..."

Robb took the vessel from the Red Priest and dashed it upon his naked steel. Almost instantly the blade exploded into green-white flames and Dacey had to strain to keep her horse from bucking.

The King smiled, and raised his flaming blade alight, his dark smile wider than ever. "This is our hour," he said, "Let us see if these Lannister dogs know death when they see it."

The Northern horse surged forward as one, the King forming the tip of the spear, his flaming sword held aloft. It was a wild, reckless charge, where Dacey's horse had to strain to keep up. The Lannister horse was near now, she could make out their faces. The Mountain! The Mountain was leading them, as big and as strong as a house. She spurred her horse harder, determined to outpace the King, determined to keep him alive, but her horse could go no faster, and then they were almost upon the Lannisters and there was no time.

The crash of the cavalry charge shook Dacey so hard she could feel it in her teeth. She broke lances with her opponent, a knight of Marbrand, and her whole body twisted and screamed in exertion, but in the end, he fell into the dirt and she did not. Dacey yelled and spat and cursed as she drew her mace and tried to bring order out of the chaos. They were winning, they were winning, but where was the King? She could not see him, but then, she could see little enough through the narrow the eyeslits of her helmet. Then a man was upon her and she had to fight to save her life. He slammed her shield with a hammer and she nearly fell. He hit her again and she could not block. His hammer rose a third time, and... She was saved. Thoros of Myr speared her opponent through with his long-bladed estoc, forcing him to spill his blood into the dirt.

But where was her King? Where was Robb? She saw him just as he thrust his burning blade into the joint under the Mountain's arm. The big man roared in rage and swiped down with a greatsword, but the King was faster. He twisted in his saddle and cut deep into the horse's flank. The Mountain fell, and fell hard, but he rose again with a scream of rage...

….Only for the King's destrier to kick him in his face and bear him to the earth again. The big man lay there on the ground, wheezing, somehow still alive for the moment, but it did not last. The King twisted his reins and forced his horse to shift its footing, right on top of the Mountain's chest. The Mountain stuttered and gasped, weakly grabbing at the horse's leg with his one good arm, but soon his coughs of air turned to coughs of blood and he lay still entirely. Dacey did not attempt to hide her smile.

Horns called. Two short blasts then one long. The agreed-upon signal for victory over the enemy horse! Dacey shook her head in disbelief. The Northern horse had been their greatest remaining asset after the Red Wedding, but the months since had seen them take grievous losses. How had they prevailed yet again? Was this the favor of the gods? No, Dacey thought. It was the sword, it had to be. The burning sword of the king. It still burned even now, held aloft by his Grace as he rode slowly forward. Wildfire. She had heard of the substance before, from Lynesse and her maester, but she had never imagined it would be so… so painfully bright, so terrifying and untamable.

"Your Grace," she said with some uncertainty. "That flame upon your blade, is it… safe?" She would not care to hold such a firebrand herself. The heat alone made her fear for her King.

"No," her King said, "It is not safe, not for our enemies, and not for me. But I do not fear the flames. Why should I?"

Dacey was grateful that the needs of battle prevented further conversation between them. The Lannister infantry had been driven back from their fortifications and the cavalry was needed for running the enemy down where they could. Simple slaughter it was, but for Dacey, such things had become routine. Some made for the half-built ferries on the river's edge… only to be greeted by the Smalljon and his men, who loosed arrows into them even before they fully landed on the far side of the river. By the time the slaughter was done the sun was sinking low into the west and Dacey felt tired as she had not felt since the King had returned.

But there was still one more matter to which the King must attend. And where the King went, Dacey went also.

"Ser Kevan is up in there, your Grace," the fresh-faced archer said with a grimace, "I've seen him, sure as I've got two eyes in my head. Would have shot him dead then and there but I supposed that you would like to pass judgment personally, so I set guards around the place and I've not let anyone come or leave."

Dacey made a note to remember the archer's face. He was one of the Brotherhood, the irregular army that claimed loyalty to the dead king Robert until they and Thoros had brought the King back and agreed to follow him. Anguy, that had been his name. He had commanded the scouts, and in truth, Dacey supposed they owed the greater part of their victory to him and the other men of the Brotherhood.

And now he had cornered Ser Kevan himself. The building had once been the mayor's house, a wide old stone building built for comfort rather than defense, but the Lannisters had made it into a fortress. The windows had been filled with bricks and the garden had been turned into a moat. It seemed as fine a place as any to make a last stand.

"Burn it," the King ordered. "The walls may be stone, but the roof is thatch."

Dacey's mouth opened. She would gladly watch Kevan Lannister burn, but there were other men in the castle, men who could be ransomed or exchanged for hostages. There were women and children there only as servants, who may have been little better than prisoners.

But it was not the place of a sword to challenge its owner, so she ordered the men to gather bundles of dried sticks and fill the moats with them. Ser Kevan appeared at an upper window and attempted to speak, but he retreated quickly after the King had Anguy loose an arrow into his arm. Dacey dropped the firebrand into the piles herself and stepped back to watch the flames climb up to lick the edge of the roof, but when the screaming started, she found that she could not help but look away.