Along the banks of the Blackwater Rush, the dueling camps of Lord Rolland Crakehall and Lord Randyll Tarly remain unmoved, seas of tents clustered on opposing shores. In the eastern camp, a short ways behind Lord Tarly's tent, a small lean-to has been hastily constructed out of stray boards and branches.

There, beneath its ramshackle shade, his hulking body discolored by bruises and fresh lash marks, Urrigon Hightower hangs by his arms, listing slightly from side to side as the wood creaks with his movement. His wounded leg is crudely bandaged, the torn fabric black with dried blood. His head lies slumped against his chest, face obscured by the tangled mess of his hair. Hearing the approaching steps of a knight, he does not bother to lift his eyes.

"Go ahead, take your best punch," he grunts, spitting up bile.

"I'm not here to hurt you, ser."

Urrigon immediately recognizes the familiar, soft voice of Ser Garlan Tyrell. Groaning as he turns his head up to see the knight approach, green armor freshly polished and gold embellishments sparkling. Helmless, he wears a disarming smile, his well-groomed face a harsh contrast to the broken prisoner.

"What do you want, then?"

"I want to understand what brought you here," Garlan raises a leather canteen to pour water past Urrigon's chapped lips, which he eagerly gulps down. "The lords have labeled you a spy, but will say nothing more. They're keeping secrets from me. I want to know why."

Swallowing down the last of the water, Urrigon glares down at Garlan, weighing his options. He sees no one else close enough to hear, and concludes he has nothing left to lose. "I received a warning from my daughter in the Red Keep. Renly has made plans to seize his brother's throne and make himself king. He and your father have ordered Tarly to turn our force around and occupy the capital."

Garlan's hazel eyes go wide, the canteen slipping from his fingers. He takes a step back and turns away, running one hand anxiously through his hair. "Do you have proof of this?"

"No. But by the way Tarly's been beating the piss out of me asking questions, I'd wager my squire does. Seems he made off with the orders." He can't help but laugh at the image of nervous Alyn fleeing in the dead of night. "Hell if I know where he is now, though. I hope far away from here. Either way, you'll know in the morning, when they break camp and head back south."

"Seven hells," Garlan murmurs under his breath. He paces for a moment, eyes on his feet, until finally he stops, looking back up to Urrigon's swollen face. "I am bound to serve my father in all things. But you should not have to die for his schemes. I will send men to free you at dusk. They will see you to safety."

"Thank you," Urrigon halfway chokes the words out, but Garlan has already turned away, cutting an anxious pace back from whence he came. With a heavy sigh, he goes limp once more, letting the darkness seep in to numb the pain.


The men come for him as the sun begins to disappear over the western horizon, behind the waving banners on the far side of the river. Three men in Tyrell colors, their faces shrouded, cut him down and drape a cloak over his bruised head without a word, only breaking their silence to point him towards an old oak tree on the outskirts of a camp, where they promise he will find his horse waiting with his armor and axe, ready to carry him far from Randyll Tarly's vindictive grasp.

As Urrigon limps through the camp, his tired eyes peer out from beneath the too-small cloak, praying he will not be noticed. He can feel the wound in his leg reopen, blood seeping back out through the bandage, but he carries on, fearful of doing anything that might attract unwanted attention. As he nears the small patch of woods at the crest of the hill behind the camp, he searches for his mount as the setting sun casts the landscape in darkening shadow. But sure enough, partially hidden by the brush, waits Dauntless, the loyal black draft horse that has carried him for years.

The huge horse snorts in approval seeing its rider approach. Urrigon rewards it with a pat on the head, trudging past into the brush to inspect his armor and axe, tucked into a divot in the ground behind the tree. He finally allows a sigh of relief, seeing them undamaged, as clean as when Alyn had last polished them. Fighting back a yawn, he wonders once again where his squire has disappeared to. I should have sent Garlan after him, he thinks. He would see him safe. But he knows he can't go back now. Looking back to the camp, he sees no search party, no pursuers chasing him down. With a long sigh, the burden of his wounds finally begins to sink in, weighing him down until he slips into the gully, the ferns feeling soft as a blanket, and lets his eyes close. For now, he is safe. Running can wait. And then to find some ale.


On the far side of the river, Alyn Ambrose holds a torch aloft against the night sky, squinting down towards the shore of the river. While he can scarcely make out the details, he can the picture in his mind's eye. The rafts – heavy plats of trunks from the woods behind the camp bound together by thick cords – had been hauled downstream earlier that day. There, they had been assembled, crossing the Blackwater – a precarious bridge, but enough to allow Lord Regenard Estren to lead their archers on foot across the river.

Once the archers had crossed, the bridge was unmoored, anchored to each shore by ropes, stones and mules, being pulled against the river's lazy flow step by step as darkness fell over the camps until – if all went according to plan – it would arrive here, where the seemingly docile Western army awaited the mad dash over water to face their enemy in the dead of night. It was a mad scheme, dreamed up by Ser Desmond Hawthorne, who had studied at the Citadel as a young man. Ser Erren had scoffed at the idea when Lord Crakehall had first told them of it. But now, he and Alyn watch the shadows moving on the riverbank below. The bridge is here.

Careful not to dip his torch, Alyn cranes his neck back to look up at Lord Rolland Crakehall, towering over both him and Erren as he watches approvingly. The huge knight is in full plate – his steel glistening in the torchlight, save for the parts covered by the black-and-white streaked cape draping his back. His huge braided beard drops down from beneath his helm, embellished with two huge metal boar's tusks, each sharpened to a point, ruby eyes glistening above the visor. He holds his heavy mace close to his chest, unmoving, making no sound save for the heavy breaths thudding inside his breastplate.

Urrigon will like him, Alyn thinks. If he's still alive to meet him.

And then – a flash of a torch on the shore, then another. The bridge is ready. At once, Lord Crakehall bursts into motion. Thrusting his mace up to the night sky, he lets out a deep-throated bellow.

"Let's go kill some traitors, boys!"


A snapping twig shatters Urrigon's slumber in the midst of a dream of endless ale, roast boar and heavy-breasted tavern wenches. Jolting up, he grimaces from the immediate rush of pain, hand reaching for his axe. The small wood is consumed by the black of night, only a faint moonglow bleeding through the clouds to trickle down through the canopy. Slowly sitting up, his muscles groan at the unwanted disturbance, but his ears are wide open. One hand holding the axe, the other placing a calming hand on Dauntless' side, he peers through the wood for any sign of encroaching foes. But the next sounds he hears come not from the east, but behind him – a hundred wild screams suddenly erupting from the direction of the camp.

Turning, he rushes to the edge of the ridge, peering out towards the river. Below, in the dim light, he can see fires breaking out along the shore, illuminating the dark shapes of men streaming up the bank, impossibly rising from the inky black river like invading mermen. Defiant battle-cries and panicked calls to arms mix into a single chaotic chorus rising through the night from the camp, indecipherable but unmistakable as the sound of war. In that moment, the cool air soothing his wounds, Urrigon knows it is no longer the time to flee.

Turning back into the woods, he rushes to don his armor, fumbling with the plates and straps in the dim light, but his thick hands, well-trained from years of warring, know the familiar steps by instinct. Gritting his teeth, Urrigon hoists himself up onto Dauntless, forcing his body to shun the crippling pain that surges through his every muscle as he bids the horse out from the shelter of the woods. Peering down towards the cacophony, he searches for the dark silhouette of Lord Tarly's tent in the distance.

Then, with a sudden, singular twang, the sky is alight with fire. From somewhere behind him, a field of flaming arrows fills the cloudy sky with burning stars and lights the path before him. For a moment, as death rains down on the camp, the green and orange banners of Tarly's tent are clear as day. With a flick of the reigns, Dauntless bursts forth, charging forth to battle and revenge.


"Faster, damn you!" Lord Randyll Tarly shouts, teetering on one leg, half in armor as his squires dash madly to and fro in his chambers, tripping over themselves to prepare their lord to meet the mad ruckus of war rising outside. Claude Varner shoves a quiver of javelins towards him, but he bats them away.

"Not those! Dickon, bring me Heartsbane!" Randyll commands, his son obediently rushing off before the sentence is even finished. Leaving it at that, he begins to tighten the straps of his armor when Lord Steffon Varner and Ser Garlan Tyrell rush in.

"My lord!" Varner blurts out. "The Florents have turned their cloaks! They have us flanked on the outskirts of the camp! We're surrounded!"

"Damn them!" Randyll snaps, before quickly regaining his composure. "We should have known better than to trust a Florent. Never has a family been more deserving of their sigil."

"I don't understand!," Garlan interrupts. "Why are they attacking? Why is anyone attacking? I thought we were in parlay?"

"It doesn't matter why they're attacking!" Randyll sneers. "It only matters that we kill them!"

"Father!" Dickon rushes back in, his arms stretched wide to carry a heavy, ornate cedar case. He sets it on the table. With a proud grin, Randyll snaps open the latches and opens the lid, revealing the longsword beneath – Heartsbane, the ancient Valyrian steel blade of House Tarly, its deadly gleam hidden within an ornate sheath.

"Go on, get out!" Randyll waves Garlan and Varner away as he reverently removes the sword from the case, tightening the strap over his breastplate to bind the sword and sheath tightly to his back. "Arm yourselves, boys," he commands his squires. "It is time you have your first victory."

As they hurry off, he sighs, closing his eyes as he prepares his mind for battle, slowly cracking each of his knuckles one by one, letting the shock steel his nerves. And then he hears the shouts from the rear of the tent, the tearing of cloth, the pounding of hooves… His hands reach for the hilt behind his neck as a massive black draft horse careens blindly into his chambers, its huge rider toppling off the saddle and crashing through the table with a thud.

Even before the intruder has limped to his feet, Randyll knows it can only be one man.

"Urrigon," he growls.

"Lord Tarly," the towering knight cracks his neck to one side. "I should thank the Warrior you turned out to be a traitor. I've been praying for a reason to kill you."

"Ha!" Randyll reaches once more for the sword on his back. "You should be more careful what you pray for."

Without a moment's hesitation, Urrigon lunges forward, wrapping his arms around the lord with a grunt and propelling them both backwards, tearing through the wall of the tent and into the mad battle beyond.


Alyn sprints through the camp, sword in hand, as the tents erupt into flaming chaos around him, scores of shouting voices mixing with the ringing of steel to form a deafening chorus of death. But Alyn forces himself to shut out the new and frightening noise, keeping his eyes dead ahead for the familiar path to Lord Tarly's tent.

"Lead the way, boy!" Lord Crakehall shouts behind him. "I want to kill Tarly myself!"

Alyn can see the shadowly outline of the huge tent ahead now, nimbly side-stepping holes in the ground and patches of flame as he rushes forward. But as they draw near, a crowd of knights come rushing forth to meet them, spears and swords drawn.

With a deep, devilish laugh, Crakehall and his sons come down on the enemy with a fury, but Alyn ducks aside, slipping past the skirmish. I have to find Urrigon! Silently, he slips into the tent, the thin walls only slightly muffling the terrifying clamor outside. He jumps to hear feet behind him. Whirling about, he nearly slices open the palms of Ser Erren, thrown up in defense.

"Watch yourself, boy!" Erren chuckles. "Is this your first battle?"

Embarrassed, Alyn turns away, just in time to see Claude Varner jump out from an inner chamber, javelin in hand. He leaps to the side as Claude throws, but Erren is too slow, dropping to the ground with the javelin in his chest.

"You really came back?" A cruel, chipped-tooth smile grows on Claude's face as he realizes he's claimed his first kill. Ready for another, he yanks his sword free from its sheath. "I guess you're not a coward after all. Just stupid."

Fighting back the urge to panic, Alyn snaps into action. Strike first! Claude stumbles back, parrying clumsily. Pressing his advantage, Alyn jabs again, then again, pushing Claude back into the chamber he emerged from. The bigger squire is slow, his form clumsy. But he is much stronger. With each strike of his sword, Alyn goes more frustrated, but Claude's deflections are unyielding.

"Where's Urrigon?" he demands.

"Ha! By now, Lord Tarly will have cut him to pieces!" Claude laughs.

Shocked, Alyn hesitates – just the opening Claude has waited for. The broad-shouldered squire swings his sword hard, the force of his attacks too much for Alyn's parries. He stumbles backwards, deflecting once, twice, the blows rattling his bones until the third slams down like an anvil. His hand rebels, shaking open as his sword drops. Eyes wide, terror rushing in, Alyn looks frantically to the nearest exit. Ducking his head, he tries to dash past Claude and flee, but a searing slice of pain slashes across his side. He hits the ground hard.

Rolling over, he looks up in time to see Claude filling the whole of his vision, bringing the butt of his sword down hard into the center of his face. With a sickening crunch, his nose shatters; hot, stinging blood splattering into his eyes. Blinded, Alyn desperately rolls to the side, staggering to his feet as he frantically wipes his eyes clean, his whole face feeling afire. Red-tinted vision returning, he sees his sword lying at Claude's feet. With a sneer, the stocky squire kicks it aside, his own sword pointed back at Alyn, hungry for blood.

But before he can strike, Dickon dashes into the chamber, brandishing one of his father's javelins. Caught off guard, Claude spins around, slamming the smaller boy to the ground.

"Ambrose is mine!" Claude snarls.

Before Dickon can respond, Alyn dives towards him, snatching up the javelin before he can reclaim it. He spins back just in time, holding up the heavy rod to catch the full force of Claude's attack, the sword burying itself in the wood.

"Ha!" Claude laughs through gritted teeth. He presses down harder, the javelin splintering beneath the blade. Alyn grimaces, bracing his leg, refusing to budge. "You stupid mudblood. They'll give me a medal for killing you. And you know what I'll do then? I'm going to marry your stupid Elinor. That should come as a relief to her."

Alyn wants to scream back some inhuman curse, but as every muscle in his body screams in protest as he holds Claude back, all he can manage is a string of sticky, bloody bile spat back in his foe's face. Claude recoils, but just as the pressure relents, Alyn feels the pain of a boot in the back of his knee. Dickon kicks, then kicks again and he drops to the ground. Claude, wiping the blood away, his sword free again, swings back wildly.

"Die!" he shrieks shrilly, swinging his sword down as Dickon kicks Alyn again in the back. Blindly, Alyn raises the javelin, desperately hoping to block the blade but instead he misses, thrusting up, straight past the descending sword into Claude's open, screaming mouth.

The tent goes silent, the roaring sounds of battle outside seemingly flattened into a mute void as Claude coughs up blood around the edges of the javelin. Horrified, Alyn drops the weapon, letting Claude's body drop, sword falling away as he lingers, momentarily propped up by the deadly staff. Alyn's blood goes cold as time seems to come to a standstill. He cannot look away from the dead squire – eyes wide open as his square face hardens into a deathmask, split by the spear protruding from the back of his skull. Unable to close his own eyes, Alyn instead shoves the body over, letting it fall out of sight and crumple coldly to the ground. As it hits the dirt, the world returns, the overwhelming chorus of war rushing back in to flood his ears. He turns around, refusing to look at the body, and instead sees Dickon, doubled over, wretching on the ground.

Alyn snatches up his sword, thankfully unstained by bile, and levels it at the kneeling squire's head. He tries to remember what he should say – what Urrigon would say – the words coming haltingly at first, but the mad rush of battle gives him strength, each syllable straightening a link in his spine until he is standing at his full height once more.

"In the name of King Joffrey Baratheon, First of his Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, I charge you, Dickon Tarly, with treason! Bend the knee to your rightful king or face his swift justice by the hand of my blade!"

Dickon has no answer but sobs and a fresh spew of bile, hands wrapped tightly around his knees, head leaning down into the dirt. As the blood clears from his vision, Alyn finally sees him for what he is – a scared, small boy, two full years younger than himself. For so long he had feared Dickon, but now? His sword wavers as he steps back, not knowing what to do.

A rattling of armor distracts him from the cowering squire and he turns to see a knight in shining green armor stumble into the tent, his plate no longer unblemished – dented, scratched and stained with blood. The man tears off his helm, revealing the face of Garlan Tyrell.

"Hold your weapon, boy," Garlan shakes his head. With a flourish, he undoes his swordbelt, letting it clatter uselessly to the ground as he drops to his knees beside Dickon. "The battle is over, even if they don't know it yet. I am your prisoner."

Overwhelmed, head spinning, blood still gushing from his nose, the tent begins to warp as Alyn looks down at the surrendered knight. He feels the room twisting around him, the pull of the earth growing unbearably strong as the edges of his vision grow dim. The world turns to black, and he drops, unconscious, to the ground.


The royal army is ablaze. Surrounded on all sides by the river, the Florent turncloaks and the western archers, the cries of surrender begin to grow on the outskirts of the battle, slowly reaching inward until they fall like curses upon the ears of Randyll Tarly. The surrounding fires make Heartsbane shimmer and glisten as he stares down Urrigon, unbothered by the chaos around him.

"It's over, Randyll!" Urrigon, much worse for wear, grimaces. "The battle's lost! Bend the knee and you will be shown mercy."

"Mercy?" Randyll laughs. "It would be no mercy to live under the boot of a mongrel! I will bend the knee to no bastard. And I will be fighting for King Renly long after you are in the dirt where you belong."

"I was hoping you'd say that." Shoving down the searing pain in his leg, Urrigon lunges, axe swinging out in front of him. Randyll parries, sparks flying as Heartsbane swats the axe away.

"Never felt Valyrian steel, have you?"

"Nope." Shrugging off the recoil, Urrigon swings again, harder still. He's blocked again and again, the vibration of each blow shaking back through his arms and burrowing into his tightly coiled back. Grunting, he slides to one side, axe whistling through the air at the shorter man's scalp. But Randyll dodges, and Urrigon's blade thuds into the dirt. With a laugh, Randyll kicks hard, his boot landing sharply on the big knight's pierced leg. He drops, hearing the long arm of Heartsbane whistle through the air inches above his head.

Desperate, he pulls the axe back close to his chest, looking up just in time to see Randyll swinging the sword back around in a long arc, ready for a final blow. With all his strength, Urrigon forces his axe up to meet the descending blade. An unearthly shriek of metal deafens his ear as the full force of Heartsbane comes down, like the death cry of a slain bird of iron. He opens his eyes to see the tip of the longsword hovering a breath away from his face, the ancient, mystic blade having cleaved halfway through the head of his axe, tearing a jagged line of metal splinters to stop just short of ending it all.

At the other end of the sword, Randyll looks down at him, that familiar sneer bathed in a deadly orange glow as the crackling of fire rises above the screams of dying men.

"It is only fair I offer you the same choice." Randyll pulls Heartsbane free, sliding it back out of the ruined axe like a knife through butter, making a slick metallic whistle as it dislodges. "Bend the knee. Confess your treason. Face justice like an honorable man, for once in your miserable, pathetic life. Perhaps your father will find some solace in that."

Urrigon grimaces, feeling the uneven dirt shift beneath him, his wounded leg nearly numb. Sweat and blood run in streams down his forehead, burning his eyes. But as his hands tighten around the cracked handle of the axe, he has never felt stronger.

"My father will find solace when I send him your head!"

With a defiant roar, Urrigon leaps up onto his feet, swinging out in a mad, blind attack. Jumping away, Randyll strikes back. A metallic crack shakes the night as Heartsbane fully splits the axe, two halves of the blade dropping away from each other to hit the ground. But Urrigon does not stop. Letting the ruined hilt drop, he dives for the nearest half, his huge hands snatching it back up. Off guard, Randyll swings out while he raises the broken blade, metal barbs along the shorn edge slicing his fingers as he bats the longsword away.

And then, in the same motion, he hurls himself forward with his last ounce of strength, his huge form crashing over Randyll Tarly like a tidal wave as he brings the halved axe down with the full force of his weight. With a dull crunch, it buries deep into the lord's shoulders, angled inward beneath his throat, cleaving down into the top of his breastplate.

Randyll Tarly has no final words to offer, only a final gush of blood that splatters over Urrigon's chest as he stumbles back, letting the slain lord fall to the ground in a heap. Looking down at his vanquished foe, he sees the fallen Valyrian steel reflecting his face back up at him. Absent-mindedly, he reaches down, grabbing the hilt. But the strength is sapped from his muscles, his huge arms hanging limp at his side. Yet the sword feels powerful in his hand, and he refuses to let go, dragging it behind him as he limps forward, wondering aimlessly through the ruined camp as the sounds of battle die down around him.

At last, unable to take another step, he slumps down on an overturned barrel, holding the sword in his lap. His chin flops against his chest as exhaustion begins to take hold. He lets sleep win, with a final prayer that when he wakes, he will be surrounded by victorious friends.