"The fecking clever clogs… They're dismounting infantry, sir."
Sergeant O'Neill was not lying.
Under a clear blue sky and a burning late-summer sun, the host of Lord Tywin Lannister had rolled forward like a menacing red fog, the different colours of the Western houses subsumed beneath the larger crimson-and-gold banners and red painted shields of the footmen. Spearpoints and helms glittered in the daylight here and there, honed and polished for the battle to both impress and give their owners an edge.
The advance had stopped just out of range of the bows on the main defence line. It was strange, and from his position on the ground, Michael couldn't see why.
It wasn't the trees in the way; they were tall but most of their leaves were up in a high canopy, creating a nice shade but no interference to see to the river.
The log defences and the enemy horses were what stopped him seeing what he needed to; hundreds of logs, and thousands of horses. Hopefully our preparations were enough.
Wanting a better picture, Michael returned to the crawler, squelching through the damp ground. The shade kept the ground wet, but it was still warm enough to be humid as hell.
The vehicle had branches and small logs hanging down its sides and front, to disguise it as a pair of huts, the fuel trailer left behind. From the actions of the enemy, that disguise seems to have worked.
He climbed into it, finding the air smelling of fish and four seats occupied by wargs in their trances. They all sat on top of their furs, nearly damn naked. The summer heat was unlike anything they had ever experienced, or so they kept complaining. He ignored them and climbed up on top to join O'Neill, Zheng and Sayer.
Just like Michael, all of them were wearing camo nets over their helmets and shoulders, and their faces were painted browns, black and green with camo cream. The Sergeant was peering through his binoculars, and Sayer was doing the same with his rifle scope. Only Zheng looked on with her own eyes over the top of the C6.
"Still smells like damn fish down there," Michael complained, recalling he had ordered the cabin washed out before. That's what we get for using it as a cargo area.
"Sorry, sir," Zheng remarked, "Was going to clean it this morning, then Ygritte needed something."
Michael wondered what the hell the spearwife could have possibly needed from Zheng. Can't be good.
A minute later, a new block of infantry emerged, stepping in line with the rest.
"Looks like they're not going to attack the whole line," O'Neill commented, "They're merging their line up into five brigades. Three infantry, one cavalry, one mixed reserve. The big fella commands the reserve." Big fella meaning Tywin Lannister.
Michael took his word for it, and scratched his chin. "Do you think they'll just right turn and hit us?" It didn't seem likely to him, but he wasn't dealing with leaders that had gone through a military academy.
"That would fuck us," Zheng snorted, "Eventually."
The Sergeant put down his binos for a moment and scowled at her before answering. "No, sir. They're spaced too apart and too far away for that, we'd devour them piecemeal and they'd have to march for nearly two clicks under fire from the palisade."
Is it still 'fire' if it's arrows and bolts? Michael mused to himself.
"Maybe they're that stupid," Sayer remarked with a shrug.
"They're massing to hit the line," O'Neill insisted, "They're not that stupid. They've even got a cavalry screen on the far-west part of the ford to stop the Karstarks and Freys just sweeping their flank."
"Good thing Lord Umber isn't stupid either," Zheng said with a yawn, "He'll shuffle people around to make sure they're not overwhelmed."
But Lord Lannister is falling for the obvious trap. Michael caught himself scratching his chin again and stopped. "Looks like they're going to send their cavalry at full strength into a forest. Doesn't strike me as smart. Even if it isn't very dense forest and the roots aren't going to trip up their horses."
"They know that Bolton and Hornwood aren't here yet, we saw their scout crossing the river. Must think it's just us and our 'wildling' friends in here."
Confirmation came in seconds. The infantry brigades started forward first, drawing the ire of every archer and crossbowman on the defences they were advancing towards. The march became a charge with shields raised. The Lannisters much have made the calculation that it was better to quickly get to grips than to try playing turtle and moving forward carefully. Exactly what I would do.
It was impossible for Michael or anyone else to miss the whole cavalry bloc as it wheeled right and aimed right at the forest… It almost seemed they were riding directly at him.
"Fuck, there are a lot of them," Zheng breathed.
Agreeing with her, Michael felt a pang of doubt, short and sharp, before his rational brain reasserted itself. We knew there would be a lot of them.
Strangely, lighter cavalry broke ahead of the main force, five hundred or so. The riders were armoured, though not in full plate. The few exceptions were a small collection of armoured knights guarding the wings of the most recognisable man in the entire battle. He could not be mistaken, because of his size and the bright yellow of the cloth over his plate armour.
The Mountain.
"Light cavalry led by the fecking Boogeyman himself," O'Neill thought aloud, "What are they playing at?"
"Poking the bear trap with a stick instead of stepping in it," Michael said, "They probably know how many soldiers each of the northern houses can field. That just leaves us as the missing element, and their scouts might have gotten a good idea about that too."
O'Neill's lips curled back with displeasure. "We can't use our weapons on five hundred light cavalry, sir. The rest of the brigade will know what we have and not come in here."
"Probably would dismount to join the attack on the line too," Zheng threw in.
"I know," Michael looked to either side.
On the left and a little way back were the unicorns in a double line, their animals laying down and resting in the mud. They were even better protected than before, courtesy of another few hundred chainmail shirts taken as prizes in the battles of the week past. Marcach's tribe was probably the most formidable cavalry unit anywhere on the planet, by Michael's estimation. No issues on the left.
To the right were the pikes, crossbows and archers of the Laughing Tree, followed by Jon Stark and the dismounted riders, then the crannogmen where the line met the forest. Some of the crossbow troops were on lower branches in the trees, where they could shoot over the spears at their leisure.
Michael had placed the banners of House Stark of Moat Cailin and House Reed on the defence line where Cerwyn men were guarding. A little deception to spoof the numbers. It had paid off; none of the Lannister forces appeared to be going for the Cerwyn wagonfort or the fence to either side of it.
Between he and Stark, there were over a thousand men waiting in the woods. Michael had hoped to use them to attack the Lannisters from the side or follow up by seizing their camp. No chests of gold and silver for us, I guess.
"Five hundred against a thousand," Michael stated, "I like those odds. We let our friends deal with the stick poking the trap. If they run into trouble, we can use our rifles. We've got no tracers loaded, the Lannisters won't see anything. When the cavalry brigade coming stomping in, we'll blow the Lannister's feet right off."
Zheng looked back at him with the biggest shit-eating grin he'd ever seen.
"Like that, Corporal?"
"Can't wait, sir."
Michael reached for his comms. "All units, this is Maple. Prepare to receive the enemy."
The fortification in front of the forest was simple. A curved line of thick tree logs, taller than a man on a horse, placed vertically in holes among smaller earthworks. The space between them was tied off with rope where there was enough space for a man or a mounted rifer to pass by. It was a strong fence, nothing more. Overall, a pathetic barrier if one was actually looking to stop one's enemies, but pretty good for slowing them down.
And that was it was meant to look like.
Michael and the others watched Ser Gregor Clegane and his band of merry murderers from the top of the crawler in complete silence.
The enemy cut their way through the ropes and began filing into the inner killzone.
The Free Folk and Stark archers opened up on the two sections of the Lannister vanguard as soon as they were through. The air whirred with the sheer number of arrows, strange whistling and whining audible over the rustling of the leaves above in the wind.
A pile of dead and dying horses choked up each gap in the fence, feathered shafts sticking out of them. For a moment, Michael thought they might be stopped, but the horses began entering at a trot rather than a walk, quickly bolting left or right when they were through and keeping on the move. More and more arrows went wide, until Ygritte, Val and Jon ordered the archers to cease shooting to preserve ammunition.
A critical mass of riders had soon passed the tall log fence. They formed up into two units, one under the yellow banner of the Mountain and another under the red and gold banner of the Lannisters.
"CHARGE!"
Michael heard clearly the reply to the challenge from Ser Gregor Clegane over the sound of the battle beyond the trees. Big man, big lungs.
The Mountain spurred his horse and the massive animal, the Mountain of horses, rumbled forwards. His battalion followed behind, and formed a wedge with their leader at the tip. They look rough, but they're professionals. Mostly.
One more volley of arrows buzzed at the charging mass, before the archers withdrew as the spear troops then stood to. The wall of pikes formed just in front of the carpet of wooden spikes that had been laid, impossible to see from a distance.
"HUZZAH! HUZZAH HUZZAH!" the Laughing Tree shouted as one. An invitation to come get some. They won't need us at all after we leave. Michael smiled widely and looked for the other battalion.
To his surprise, he found that it had also followed the Mountain's order, but with nothing like the same discipline. The small knot of riders with the Lannister banner in front was quickly overtaken by men and women charging their horses at full pace, whooping and waving their weapons over their heads in circles. They seemed to cling towards the river, an obvious manoeuvre to avoid the spears.
Michael didn't know if they were being smart or stupid. Strangely, despite their superior armour to that of the Mountain's men, they appeared to be wearing skins and furs as much as woven clothes. Are they Free Folk too?
"Where do they think they're going?" Zheng muttered, traversing the machine gun to aim at them, "Are they trying to go around the line?"
"They can't see the unicorns yet," Michael answered, before speaking through his comms, "Jockey, you're up."
A grunt over the radio confirmed Marcach had heard the command.
Michael turned back to the right just in time to see the Mountain's cavalry meet the pikes. Ser Gregor's horse was brave, which earned it two pikes through the chest for its trouble and tossed the rider sideways off his saddle. Sticking fast in both the horse and the ground, the animal creating a grotesque bleeding arch of wood, steel and flesh.
Most of the horses refused to charge into a wall of pointed blades, but trampled the stakes and spikes in front of them anyway. Some simply ran themselves into the spear tips, unable to stop their own momentum.
The front rank of the battalion was utterly destroyed, sending riders sprawling forward to be caught on pikes themselves or finished off with daggers and longswords inside the ranks of the pikemen. Those behind tripped over those falling in front or managed to rear up and stop just in time.
Yikes. Michael hadn't expected the pikes to be so effective. On open ground with enough space, maybe they wouldn't have been. But the fence and the forest prevented a formation charge, it seemed. He doubted the attack had been at a full gallop.
What about the others?
On the left, the unicorns stood up from their pits, where the animals were keeping cooler in the wet ground and began their countercharge against the fur-wearing battalion. Even the Lannister banner had moved forward now, apparently resigned to following the riders they were supposed to be leading.
Ten seconds later and the two forces made contact. The lances of Marcach's people made short work of many of the Lannister riders. Many were lifted clear off their saddles with a few feet of broken shaft stuck in their bodies.
The unicorns themselves were brutalising the unarmoured horses of the enemy. Flicking their heads this way and that in the manner of unicorn fighting, they were goring dozens of horses in the neck, face and flank. The enemy's lack of formation let the same event happen again and again. The animals' faces and armoured shoulders were dark red and slick with blood.
They're cutting through those guys like a buzzsaw.
"Marcach has things under control," Michael said to O'Neill, "I think the pikes will hold too." The Mountain and his men, all dismounted now either by choice or by force, were withdrawing a little way to regroup. They were chased by crossbow bolts from the trees, but clearly would charge again on foot.
"Cavalry battalion has reached the fence, sir!" Sayer reported.
Michael turned his attention forward and raised his binoculars. A man in full plate armour and a flamboyant purple and silver cloak had just cleared the log obstacles, followed by a man holding a banner: a purple unicorn on white.
At three other places, men began filing through, but not as quickly as they could be. The queue beyond was still massive, and growing less orderly. Arrows from the Cerwyn wagonfort were flying into the midst of them to little effect.
Their numbers were enough that they could overwhelm the ability of Michael's fireteam and his allies to kill them. He sucked in a breath, considering what to do about it.
"Now?" O'Neill asked.
Michael paused, then shook his head. "Give it a few minutes, let them bunch up."
"Sir!" Zheng shouted, and pointed to the side, "Look!"
Her finger was aimed at a group of about a hundred riders, making their way at full pace away from the slaughter at the hands of the unicorns. Their path would take them right by the front of the crawler and straight into the side and rear of the Laughing Tree's pike line.
Fuck, they'll bypass the stakes.
And the Mountain had chosen that moment to try an attack from the front. There was no option now.
"Corporal, open fire!" Michael commanded, before getting on his comms, "Ygritte, danger left!" He had barely completed his words when Zheng began shooting at the stray enemy unit. O'Neill and Sayer joined in with their assault rifles, half-deafening him.
A reply from Ygritte came over the radio, and he asked her to say it again. "I fuckin' know!" she repeated, "Jon Stark's bringing up some kneeler knights to block them too."
On the cut trail in the interior line, some of the archers and warriors behind the pikes had turned to run to intercept. Michael spotted Ygritte herself sprinting, the combination of long red hair and a Canadian camouflaged helmet unmistakable.
Further down, Jon Stark and twenty armoured men were moving just as fast. The young man was wearing a helmet that covered a good part of his face, but he was wearing his brother's grey direwolf. His Night's Watch black cloak flapped behind him, and Ghost padded ahead of him.
"Can't chase them," Marcach's voice said, "Too close to those kneelers coming through the logs."
The enemy unit passed maybe thirty yards from the front of the crawler, losing horses every step of the way. Zheng wasn't bothering to try and snipe men out of their saddles when the horses were far larger targets. But those that lost their horses just got up and kept moving forwards. Tenacious sons of bitches.
O'Neill slapped Michael on the shoulder to get his attention."Sir, the enemy cavalry have stopped coming through!" he shouted over the chattering of the machine gun, "We've scared them! They're going to run!"
The Lannister heavy cavalry had indeed stopped coming through, their leader conferred with some of his fellow knights.
Michael glanced between the two situations. If they run or if we don't get as many as possible, we have to fight them again. If I stop Zheng shooting at the flanking attack to do her part, they'll make it to the pikes… to Ygritte. Shit.
The decision was hard but obvious. "Cease fire!" Michael shouted, "Grab the fun buttons!" Zheng stopped shooting immediately.
All four of them rummaged for the radio detonators out of their pockets.
Michael's eyes never left the remaining Lannister force. They finally began fighting Ygritte and Jon Stark's warriors, Ghost creeping near the edges of the melee and tearing a man down by the leg.
Ygritte was dodging a man with a massive longsword attempting to kill her with wide swipes of the blade. Stark was fighting a man in black and a smaller man in red-covered plate, just barely fighting them off.
The numbers were evenly matched, about fifty each, but the enemy had better armour. That might swing it.
"Sir?" O'Neill asked.
Michael tore his gaze away from that little battle and met the Sergeant's eyes.
"Detonate." Thumbs clicked down on four switches simultaneously.
A sound like thunder shook the air and the ground. Explosions rippled through the log fence and in front of it, great jets of flame bursting from their base.
The logs, along with the horses and the riders nearest them, disintegrated. Those Lannister riders that were further were tossed aside or off their saddles, or were burned by the flame fougasses, or both. Limbs detached, and hearts pumped blood through arteries like hoses onto the muddy ground. Open flames caught on the remaining wood and on the clothes of some of the bodies. The survivors at the rear of the battalion fled for their lives towards their lord, ditching their fine banners, their shields and lances in the mud to get away faster.
A blast of hot air swept through the forest, sending every leaf and shrub flailing. The fighting stopped everywhere on the Ruby Ford, and both sides ducked their heads as unpleasant bloody and burned things began falling from the sky.
The killzones were one smouldering sea of dead and dying.
Michael had known the C4 would be something no medieval commander could account for. The Night's Watch hadn't expected the Wall to be breached, after all. He also knew the extras he had ordered the collection of over the last few days made it even more deadly.
But seeing it was another thing entirely.
Thousands of men were dead or dying. Far more than he had ever killed before, and far more than any ordinary soldier would likely expect to kill. Disgust finally overcame his long and cautiously built defences against violence… but also mixed with satisfaction and joy. It was a horrendous thing to see, but it also meant he had achieved what he expected.
Now no one will screw with us on our way home again. No one would ever want a repeat of this horror. Even if we don't have the capability to do it again. The thought didn't quite clear the lump in his throat, though. The destruction his plan had given birth to was too much for a clear conscience though.
Zheng bounced and pumped her fist, grinning wildly over her shoulder. "Holy shit, we FUCKED them up!"
"Yes, we did," O'Neill said with a smile, though it seemed only half as enthusiastic as Zheng's own. The Corporal was offended at that.
"What did you expect?" Zheng growled, gesturing at the field of dead, "Flowers and champagne?"
"Hey, sorry if I don't find that a pretty sight!" came the reply, pointing out at it too, "Even if it is our enemies."
"War is hell," Michael added, finally finding himself able to speak again, "We warned them. They sowed the wind and reaped the whirlwind."
O'Neill looked back at him, eyebrow cocked. "Does that matter?"
"They didn't listen," Michael said, "They brought twenty thousand and more men to kill us. They never would have let us ride on by, not in the middle of their little war of conquest."
"We're far too fucking interesting for that," Zheng agreed, "Especially me, if you get my meaning."
The Sergeant blew a tired sigh through his teeth and lips. "All true. But I didn't say it wasn't."
The Private was quiet, too quiet. Michael found Sayer's face drained and pale, turning it a deathly grey. Looks like he's seen a ghost. He nudged him, and handed him his own water flask from his combat webbing.
"Drink." The man did as he was told, and colour began returning to his cheeks quickly. He paused mid-sip, and leaned around Michael to see something.
While most of the warriors on both sides were still in shock, one or two men had recovered more quickly.
The man in black had a dagger to Jon Stark's armpit. The short man had put himself between the pair and Ghost, shield up and what looked like Jon's sword in his hand. The direwolf was moving this way and that, trying to find a way around. More and more of the surviving Lannister riders were regrouping around Stark as he was moved away.
Michael searched for Ygritte, and found her nocking an arrow to aim at the short man. He released a breath he hadn't realised he had been holding, and scanned the rest of the battlefield.
It wasn't any better.
The fighting was beginning again too. The Mountain had retreated again, and crossbow bolts were again slamming into the shieldwall formed in the open. To the west, men were again moving and swinging weapons at each other all along the defence line. The Lannister reserve was moving slowly but directly towards the forest.
They're not running, he thought as he grit his teeth, Can they not see what has happened over here?
"Michael Duquesne!" Ygritte declared on the comms, "They're taking Jon Stark!"
Not over yet.
"Corporal, signal the wargs to begin their grenade attacks and get behind the wheel."
The crawler weaved and sped around the trees, the Corporal driving like a bat out of hell. The headlights were on for added psychological effect. Behind, the unicorn riders advanced to the treeline just in front of the field of carnage, looking as menacing as possible. The Laughing Tree, Stark men and the crannogmen under Lord Reed advanced too, over the bodies of the dead horses and raiders. Free Folk archers fanned out, putting themselves behind trees and readying arrows to shoot.
Every little bit of help would be needed.
Michael watched the Lannister reserve cross the ford out of the corner of his eye, and stop on the mud just before the field of bodies, opposite the Cerwyn wagon-fort. North of the river, the battle for the defences was just as ferocious as before the detonation of the C4. They still have the numbers to break through, he thought, Where the hell are our reinforcements?
Finally, the crawler approached the semi-circle of a hundred or so shields and men where Jon Stark was being held. Zheng turned the vehicle side-on to the enemy and stopped some distance away. The engine stopped and everyone looked to Michael for instructions.
"Sergeant, stay here on the machine gun. The reserve begins coming again, shoot at them. Head honcho first."
"Yes, sir."
"Corporal, Private, you're with me."
"Yessir." "Yes, LT."
Michael climbed off the roof and slid down to the ground. The ferrous smell of blood, rancid shit and rotting fish hit the nose together and made his eyes water. The bodies started only a few paces away, and there were burned parts here and there beyond that. Nasty combination, whale oil and C4.
Zheng and Sayer opted to leave via the doors instead, and put on brave faces when the smells hit them too. Together, the three of them advanced on the enemy. Slowly, with no sudden moves.
Ygritte and Val joined them with another two dozen archers, stepping out from behind the trees in their path.
Michael looked quickly to see how Val was doing, and found her staring at him with pleading eyes. He gave her a single nod. We'll get him back. Val's usual stoic face returned, which was as good a sign as any that she had been reassured.
He smiled at Ygritte as she stepped out, happy to see she wasn't hurt. She smiled back, but clearly was not sure why he was smiling in the first place, her eyes uncertain. There'll be time for that later.
A group of men emerged from the shieldwall.
Stark and the man in black were first, dagger to a now-exposed throat. The man had black hair, black stubble and black eyes, and his face was blank with concentration. Stark was still wearing his helmet and his radio hadn't been taken from him.
Clegane came next, his massive greatsword in his hands. He looked like a seven foot tall robot, his face completely hidden behind metal but his body's muscular shape visible in the armour.
Lastly, the short man waddled out; his helmet was missing now, revealing hair that was very blonde and different coloured eyes; one light and one dark. He was wearing a breastplate that was far too large for him, and he was carried on legs that were too short for him.
The son, Michael realised, Tywin's son. He forgot the name, but there's only one person of that statue who would be wearing armour and leading men in battle.
Michael clicked on his comms once more. "Jon, if you can hear me, make fists with your hands."
Stark made a fist with both hands.
"We're not coming to talk to them," Michael continued, "When the shooting starts, lay flat on the ground. Open your hands if you understand."
Stark's hands opened wide, fingers apart. Good.
"Sergeant, do you have a clear shot at the group?" Michael asked in English.
"Yes sir, you've moved a little further away from the edge of this fucking filthy abattoir in front of me," O'Neill replied.
"Then when the shooting starts, turn and hose down the Mountain's men. Try not to hit Jon."
O'Neill acknowledged, and the metallic sliding and clicking of the charging handle followed over the airwaves.
"Sayer, shoot the big guy. Aim for the legs. He'll go down hard, then we can do what we like with him. Zheng, start plugging the rest."
"Gotcha."
The advance continued until they reached about thirty yards away from the others.
"Greetings!" said the short man, with a crooked smile.
All of a sudden they want to talk. Contempt rising at their new found desire for diplomacy, Michael raised his fist and everyone stopped. Zheng and Sayer took aim, though the archers refrained. What the hell do I say to put them off balance?
"Are you Ser Gregor Clegane?" he shouted, before he realised the implication of such a statement. It was rather more comedic than he intended, and the whole knot of warriors laughed out loud, including the man in black and the short guy himself.
"No, I am Tyrion Lannister of Casterly Rock! Can't you tell from my rugged good looks?" More laughter. The guy had some wit at least.
Michael felt his blood rush in embarrassment. Not good. Time to wipe away the smiles. He raised his weapon to his shoulder and his eye close to the sights. "I wasn't talking to you! I was talking to the massive shitheap beside you." He gestured at the Mountain with the muzzle of his rifle.
There was no sign that the man was offended in any way. He stood there like a statue atop a plinth. "I am Ser Gregor Clegane."
The man in black said something to Tyrion Lannister, before drawing his dagger close enough to Jon's throat to shave. "Go back where you came from or I'll cut this boy's throat."
Where do you think I'm trying to go? Michael thought. His heart settled down. The moment had come.
He quickly sighted the man in black's head and squeezed the trigger of his rifle. The bullet burst from the muzzle and straight through the man's forehead. The hole leaked a little blood before he fell straight down, strength leaving his limbs at once.
The cacophony of gunfire erupted from all around, as Jon Stark clawed his way out of the grasp of the dead man and threw himself to the floor. Tyrion Lannister smartly did the same, just in time to avoid the wave of bullets and arrows.
Rifle and machine gun riddled the shield wall, thin wood and chainmail no defence at all against modern firearms at such close range. Men dropped dead onto their knees, backs and bellies with holes stitched through them on both sides.
The archers exploited the gaps, shooting from all sides. Still more men died, some foaming at the mouth from the poisoned arrowheads of the crannogmen flying in from the north.
The Mountain somehow escaped notice until he came charging, giving an incoherent battlecry.
Is Sayer asleep?! Michael quickly shifted his aim and shot one of Clegane's legs with a single round.
The Mountain stumbled, reached for the wound for a moment… and showed exactly why he was a man to be feared by lumbering forward at almost the same speed he had been charging at before. Blood began pooling out of bottom of his armoured boots, leaving red footprints behind. He didn't seem to mind.
Michael watched in morbid fascination, unable to decide whether he should just empty his rifle's magazine into the man or continue trying to disable him for capture. The guy just won't quit.
Before a decision could be made, Clegane made it most of the way. Whatever Sayer had been waiting for, he finished the job and put a bigger bullet through one of his knees, shattering it. Finally, the Mountain fell to the ground, howling with pain.
Zheng took a step forward to deliver the coup de grace.
"No," Michael said, "I want that guy alive. I want all the lords we can get to put the rest on their best behaviour." The Corporal nodded and stepped back.
Ygritte put two fingers covered in red sap in her mouth and whistled loudly, before shouting for men to bring rope to tie Ser Gregor up and to stop his bleeding. Soon, no less than twenty warriors and spearwives came running from the line to restrain the prisoner. He swung his fists and tried to grab at them, but twenty against a one-legged guy is no contest at all.
Two red stains were left from the corners of Ygritte's mouth, making her look positively vampiric.
Apt, Michael thought. He walked over to Jon Stark. The young man had gotten himself off the ground, though his nice white tabard with his brother's direwolf stitched in grey on the front of it was ruined with mud and blood now. He retrieved his Valyrian sword before Val almost knocked him over to embrace him. She didn't care a damn for how filthy he was.
Michael felt a little boost against the horrors of the day at the sight. At least I did one thing right today. "Still alive?" he asked.
Jon nodded. "I don't know how to repay you."
"You don't," Michael replied flatly, "Unless you've got a lot of gold you'd like to donate to the Sunny Island for Veterans of the Westeros War fund?"
Jon Stark looked out over the killzone. There was a lot less movement all of a sudden, except for Lord Tywin's personal brigade beyond it. "He does. You can have his."
The Lord of the West had decided to advance again, and was in the lead himself. Michael saw why; the Cerwyn troops had been redirected westwards to help the Manderlys and Lockes. It was a weakness that needed to be exploited. The Lannister infantry was pressing hard.
And after what happened to the cavalry brigade, leading himself was likely the only way Lord Tywin could get his men to move forwards.
Did he not see us shoot down the Mountain? Does he not see the crawler? Does he give a shit at all? Michael searched for a rational explanation. Perhaps it looked like the archers had done most of the work from a distance. There was still a lot of smoke in places where the log fence used to be, after all.
"What does it take to teach this man a lesson?" he complained aloud.
"Lord Tywin is stubborn and prideful, he cannot accept defeat here at the hands of so few foreigners. To say nothing of your wildling friends." The voice from behind came with a refined but slightly nasally accent Michael had yet to hear.
He turned to find Tyrion Lannister standing parallel a little way off, gazing out at the ford.
The short man's hair was bright blonde where it wasn't darkened with filth from the ground. His eyes were green and black, his nose too small for his face and his brow too big. His armour was even more splattered with dirt and ichor than Jon Stark was. His age was indeterminate, but not very young.
Changing the subject of his attention, Lord Tyrion ignored the arrow aimed at him by Ygritte in favour of examining Michael, his mismatched gaze searching every detail.
Michael frowned. Like the Old Man in Castle Black, he's coming to conclusions.
"My friend here takes offence at being called a wildling," Zheng remarked, "You really should apologise."
Lord Tyrion ignored her too.
What does he want? Nothing important, Michael decided. Seeing the skinchanger attack on the last brigade still hadn't happened, he got on the comms again. "O'Neill, open fire on the reserves," he commanded in English, "The wargs are taking their sweet time."
"Need to change the belt," the Sergeant replied, "Give me a minute."
Michael cursed under his breath. Lord Lannister loomed ever closer. Where the hell are Lord Bolton and Lord Hornwood?
"My father still outnumbers you," Lord Tyrion said, "But you have me. You can trade me for your lives. I give my word that we will let you and your wildlings go where you wish. You may even leave richer than when you came."
Michael cocked an eyebrow. That wasn't actually a bad offer, on the face of it. But he couldn't trust it. "Why were you in the first group to come through our fence?" he asked, "I don't think your father values you very highly if he lets you do that."
"I am the heir to Casterly Rock," Tyrion replied without hesitation, "I am a lord of the Seven Kingdoms. I play my part. To be in the vanguard of battle is an honour."
Michael thought the man was trying to convince himself more than anyone else. "To be in the vanguard is to be blown to little pieces," he stated.
"And how did you do that?"
Plastic explosives, some large barrels from the inn and all the whale oil in the area. "I'm sure you'd love to know that, Lord Tyrion."
The machine gun rippled out a line of tracers through the air at last, and then two more. Michael watched with trepidation, following the shots all the way. But O'Neill's aim was good. It took no time at all for them to land in amongst the banner party of Lannisters.
The bullets hit a few bodyguard, the guy holding the largest lion banner… and Lord Lannister himself. His red and gold plate armour did not protect him. Tywin reeled in the saddle and fell into the ford with a muddy splash. The remaining bodyguards jumped off their horses to see to their fallen superior, while the reserves' formations broke down in chaos. The infantry in the rear didn't hesitate, and began running back south across the river.
Zheng whistled out a long, descending note. "Holy shit, he's killed the leader."
"And more misery to come," Michael said. Finally, the skinchangers' largest birds appeared over their targets, easy to spot on account of their snowy white feathers and the grenades in their talons.
As the bodyguards were carrying Lord Tywin away, they dove on the cavalry standing around behind. The grenades released and dropped among the enemy. The birds sped away, holding onto the pins of the weapons now.
The water was too shallow to provide any protection. A half dozen explosions stuttered, felling horses in groups. O'Neill kept up the fire too, selecting the densest group of knights and giving them a burst before moving onto the next. Still they wheeled and turned, trying to get back into formations, refusing any notion of retreat.
Come on, Michael's mind urged, Run, you pieces of shit! He raised his own rifle again and let off a burst, as much out of frustration as an attempt to kill anyone.
Zheng and Sayer took that as a command in itself, and began plinking away at the bodyguard, carefully lining up each shot. Sayer had more success than Zheng considering the range, but both downed men in red plate as they moved in a bubble around Lord Lannister's body.
Still the knights stood, waiting for their liege lord to get away before they would do the same.
Michael lowered his weapon, blowing a breath out through his teeth.
"Is he dead?" Tyrion asked loudly, trying to be heard over the shooting.
The answer wasn't clear. The bodyguards seemed very concerned with stopping the body getting shot again, which probably meant their lord was still alive. Michael didn't want Tyrion to know that.
At the very western part of the battle, he could see strings of men running back across the ford. The strings turned into streams, and spread west to east. A minute later, and the rear of every Lannister infantry brigade was splashing through the river towards their camps. The grenades made them all look behind, and they saw their leader being carried off helpless.
Relief poured cold water on Michael's fiery frustration at last. "Doesn't matter. They think he's dead." He turned to Ygritte. "Have the new Lord Lannister put with the other prisoners." He won't have much company.
"But you haven't even introduced yourself," Tyrion objected in what he no doubt thought was a menacing tone, "That is considered very rude in these parts. Then again, so is killing men speaking under a truce."
And what is sending parties of riders out to rape, rob and murder considered? Michael pointed to the dead. "There's my introduction. There was no truce. And I bet you already know my name. Now shut the hell up."
Tyrion tilted his head, as if conceding an argument instead of being cowed by a threat. So that's how you're going to play it. Ygritte stood forward, reminding him that she existed and had him dead to rights with her freaky bleeding bow.
"Move, little man. Where I'm from, we don't keep your lot alive. Be grateful you lost to Canadians and don't make trouble, or I'll cut your cock off and feed it to the unicorns."
Charming. Michael shot her a disapproving glance, but she didn't see it.
Tyrion began laughing and staggered away without complaint, getting more manic as he went. He began unfastening the parts of his armour he could reach without aid and letting them drop, leaving a trail of steel behind him. Everyone watched him go, except for Zheng and Sayer who were still too busy shooting. In shock, Michael guessed.
Jon Stark made a noise, and then gestured with his sword. "Lord Bolton and Lord Hornwood are here." The Flayed Man and Bull Moose banners began to fly in the centre with the Umber's Chained Giant.
The Stark reserve had moved by way of boats to the ferry crossing at Harroway's Town, down the riverbank road to the Crossroads, then south to the ford. Now, the whole Lannister line was put to retreat. At last, the cavalry reserve turned to follow their wounded lord and withdraw.
"About time," Michael muttered. He needed to have words with Lord Bolton about keeping to a schedule.
Zheng nudged him with a shoulder and laughed. "RUN FORREST, RUN!" she said as she reloaded. Michael couldn't help a smile at that, though it seemed very inappropriate.
Lord Umber himself jumped the fence to begin the counterattack, as the Stark line stirred itself to take the south bank. The Karstarks and Freys came sweeping from far right of the defence line, almost untouched by the battle so far. A few of the wagons were rolled back, and Lord Bolton led the small cavalry force through to ride down the Lannister infantry.
The radio crackled for a moment as someone played with the microphone, until Marcach's voice came through clearly. "Maple, this is Jockey. Should we join in the attack?"
Michael looked out at the field of dead in front of him. "No. We've done enough today."
"But there's loot to be had?"
Of course that's the problem. Michael directed his gaze to the enemy camp. Already, the civilians were breaking it up, and yet another Lannister was riding about under another large lion flag, organising something resembling resistance. Discipline was reasserting itself.
It wouldn't be enough to hold the south bank; too many were being cut or shot down in the ford. But it would be enough for the enemy to get their paychests and other valuables away.
"The Lannisters are moving camp.. There won't be anything left by the time you get around the dead and fight your way through them. You want loot? Strip the dead. Deliver it all to camp. Collect the wounded out there while you're at it."
Marcach grumbled and stopped transmitting. His men and women had their unicorns lay down, and began moving to the dead. That was all it took for the other Laughing Tree contingents nearby to lay their pikes on the ground, break formation and do the same. A wave of them came marching by, all grins as they began pulling everything they could off each corpse, starting with the boots.
I suppose that was inevitable, Michael said, But at least I don't have to supply them shoes and clothes.
"Orders, sir?" O'Neill said in English over the same channel.
Michael felt fatigue creeping into his bones, the way he had discovered it always did after he'd killed. He looked up at the sky. It was still only the early afternoon, and clouds were rolling in.
"We're done for the day. We'll rest up, and see what we can do tonight."