The Blackfish

Day and night for three weeks Ser Brynden and his outriders did battle with their Lannister counterparts commanded by the mad dog Ser Gregor Clegane and the goat Vargo Hoat. Though Brynden sensed a more intelligent mind behind to movements of the two brutes. In those weeks there were no great battles. No glorious charges of shining knights. No great formations of infantry and archers. It was day after day of endless ambush and counter-ambush, raid and counter-raid, skirmishes of all sorts. It was exhausting Brynden's outriders were dropping from exhaustion and the Lannisters were near as badly strained. Brynden had never felt more alive. This was what he lived for, fighting where guile and speed counted just as much as raw strength and numbers.

The Lannister host fled south, out of the Riverlands and towards the Reach, and Robb's army followed, with Brynden leading them. They chased the lions through the forests and fields and rivers of the southern Riverlands, the domains of Vance, Piper, Smallwood, and Bracken. They liberated Stoney Sept from the rule of Lord Beric Dondarrion, who had turned bandit and attacked Lannister and Stark men alike as they foraged. King Robb left five hundred men under Lady Maege Mormont of Bear Island to garrison the town after it was fruitfully foraged by Brynden and the Greatjon at their king's command.

From Stoney Sept they continued south over the hills and far away from the Riverlands. They crossed the upper reaches of the Blackwater and swept through the last lands that knelt to Riverrun and into the Reach where the fires of war had not yet touched the land. Brynden took a savage pleasure in fanning the flames of war far and wide throughout the Reach. His outriders burned houses and fields and sent hundreds of cattle, sheep, and goats into the cookpots and stomachs of the army. While thousands more were sent north to feed ravaged the Riverlands.

The thousand hills and little rivers of the Riverlands gave way to the broad stretches of flat land that gave the Reach it's name. It seemed that farms and villages formed a never ending patchwork that reached far beyond the horizon. With the lack of larger forests and hills and hidden places to launch ambushes the endless skirmish between Brynden and his counterparts entered a new phase. The bands grew larger from several dozen to several hundred and the skirmishes between them grew more intense as the Lannisters put up a guard of men and steel to guard their rear and Brynden put all his efforts into breaking the cordon. Despite his efforts the Lannister guards were more attentive than those at Riverrun or at Oxcross and Brynden's men were unable to get a grip on the bulk of the Lannister host.

Where two bands or outriders met the clash would attract other outriders like flies to a corpse, until there would be a thousand, sometimes thousands of men, wheeling and riding and fighting in the fading heat of Summer.

In the aftermath of one of these little battles, as the men were calling them, Brynden washed the blood from his sword with a stained rag, they had won this battle, or at least it seemed they had, the Lannisters, led by the Mountain, had fled the field when three hundred men under Lord Rickard Karstark had arrived. But they had fled in good order, and despite the Lord of Karhold's demands that the Lannisters be followed and slaughtered, Brynden let his men stay behind to rest and take some well deserved loot.

"Ser," one of his riders said. "I think you should look at this."

With a groan Brynden rose from his sore arse to stand on his sore knees, he limped a few steps till the muscles in his legs were properly stretched and loosened. "Aye. What is it?"

The rider nudged a dead man with his foot. "These aren't Lannister colours."

The man in question wore a surcoat which, prior to getting covered in all his life's blood, bore golden cranes on pale blue. The banners of House Crane, sworn to the Tyrells. Fuck. He shook his head. "Go round and gather one of every banner or surcoat you don't recognize and bring them back to camp."

"Aye Ser."

The light was fading with the setting sun as Brynden returned to the camp. He nodded as he passed by Smalljon Umber and Ser Ryam Frey, who would command the scouts for the night, leading their riders out of the camp. Robb had put tonight's camp atop a small plateau that might as well have been a mountain compared to the surrounding lands. Without ceremony Brynden made his way straight through the camp passing by the tents and fires of men exhausted by three weeks of battle and forced marches, by long days and short nights. Most seemed to have already stripped themselves of their armour and gone to sleep. Brynden dismounted and led his horse to where his own tent was set. He unbuckled the saddle and with a grunt he pulled the saddle off the black beast. He set out feed and water for the horse and then moved on to meet the king and his court. Collecting the sack filled with enemy banners as he walked toward the royal pavilion.

The pavilion was quiet, save for the eternal arguing of lords and knights, there was no feasting in the king's presence. Robb demanded that he eat only what his men ate and he expected the same of his lords, in his own presence at the very least. In place of wine and roasting pig on a spit, there was bread, salted meat, and maps. So many maps. Maps of the North, the Riverlands, the Westerlands, the Crownlands, and the Reach. With ink and chalk and wooden pieces Robb marked out the locations of his enemies. Brynden made his place to his king's right side opposite the Greatjon on Robb's left. The others were arrayed in a broad arc of tables and chairs and stools, illuminated by the fire pit in the center and a plethora of candles on the tables.

"Your Grace, forgive my lateness."

Robb stood and pulled Brynden's chair out. "There is nothing to forgive uncle," he waited for Brynden to seat and then seated himself. "What news do you bring for today?"

He tossed the sack onto the table. "Reachmen. Let's see," he began to pull out bloodied surcoats and dirtied banners. "Crane, Merryweather, Blackbar, Osgrey, Rowan. And half a dozen more lesser houses. No Tyrells though nor Florents or Hightowers."

Silence reigned in King Robb's pavilion it was broken by Greatjon Umber. "What of it," the Lord of Last Hearth boasted. "So a few more flowery fools came to the slaughter. It only means more spoils for us to share!"

A thumping of fists on tables and hoarse shouts greeted the Greatjon as the northern lords announced their agreement. But Brynden noticed that some of the lords present seemed more hesitant. Particularly the Freys. But what else can one expect from the spawn of the Late Lord Walder.

"Quiet!" Commanded the king. "Do you know how many men have joined Tywin?"

Brynden shook his head. "I can't say for sure. There are more Lannister outriders than there are flowers in Highgarden. I haven't been able to get close enough for a good look." He sighed. "That being said each of these houses could gather a couple thousands men each at the best of times."

"But these are hardly the best of times," said Lord Blackwood. "The Reach has lost men at Storm's End and at Bitterbridge. These are likely the dregs of the Reach, farmers and herdsmen, not proper warriors."

"Aye!" Shouted the northerners the Greatjon loudest of them all.

"One northerner is worth ten southrons!" The giant Lord of Last Hearth boasted.

"Aye!"

"The Young Wolf will send these lions and flowers running for the hills!" The Greatjon raised a drinking horn to salute Robb before downing it.

"Aye!"

These are men used to the taste of victory. He frowned silently, perhaps to used to it's taste.

Robb was still silent eyeing his maps, tracing the lines of rivers and forests, looking for avenues of attack or defence.

Brynden forced down an urge to shout down these lords and call them all fools. To do so would embarrass Robb and wound his pride. And what was a king without his pride? Rather than speak he settled for looking as grumpy as could be as he watched to council of war devolve into an endless series of toasts and boasts,

"My lords." Robb broke his silence at last. "My lords! We must not be overconfident lest we blind ourselves to the truth." To Lord Blackwood he said. "Mayhaps you're right my lord mayhaps there are only a few thousand more shepherds for us to shear." A chuckle rose at that. Robb turned to face the Greatjon. "Or mayhaps there are ten thousand more men-at-arms awaiting us. In any case we cannot wait to be attacked we must either strike hard and fast as we did at the Whispering Wood, at Riverrun, or at Oxcross. Or else we must retreat and lure Lord Tywin into a trap where his greater numbers will mean nothing."

"Aye, Your Grace," echoed the lords, Brynden among them.

"But that decision cannot be made in haste or in ignorance, it must wait for the light of day. Go my lords and take your rest for tomorrow we will be a long day." The lords rose as one bowing and paying their respects. Brynden rose to join them but felt a hand on his arm. "Uncle stay awhile."

Brynden looked down at his niece's son. He nodded. "As you will, Your Grace."

Once they were alone Robb took crown from head and placed it on the table. "How many men do you think Lord Tywin has?"

"He had near twenty thousand when he left Harrenhal. Less than that now but still more than us. Not much more grant you, but… even a few hundred men can make a difference. If their in the right place."

"And the Reachmen? How many of them?"

"I don't know, five thousand at leat?" He shrugged. "More or less I cannot say. But I know for sure that the men I fought today weren't farmers or shepherds. They were knights and sworn swords trained with horse and lance and sword."

Robb nodded. "And they'll be fresh and eager to fight." He shook his head. "The Greatjon would urge me to attack."

"The Greatjon thinks with his balls not his brain. He'd urge you to attack Casterly Rock with a herd of pigs. Better to ignore him when it comes to strategy."

"What would you do?"

"A raid. Take the cavalry and break through Tywin's outriders, find out how many men he has. Then pull back and discuss further. If the numbers a equal enough fight a battle if not retreat to better ground."

"You make it sound simple."

"Fighting a war is simple, winning one is hard."

Robb was silent for a long time afterwards his gaze slid across the map seeking out and flickering between two points. Storm's End and King's Landing.

"You worry about what your mother said about Stannis."

"...Yes," Robb admitted. He has taken King's Landing. His army is larger than mine and near as large as Tywin's. And these new weapons, these..." He shook his head. "Dragons. They frighten me. What they can do, what Stannis will use them for." Robb clutched his head. "I feel as if I'm being torn in three. I must defeat the Lannisters. I must fight Stannis. I must drive Theon and his Ironmen from Winterfell. But I don't have enough men to do it all." Unbidden tears welled at Robb's eyes.

Brynden took a hold of his great-nephew. "Be still those tears lad, you're worse than your mother. Look not to the future, fight one battle at a time. Defeat the Lannisters here and let them and Stannis bleed each other. Go north, kill Greyjoy, and line the western coast with Ironscum heads. Force Stannis or Tywin or whoever wins in the south to accept your crown."

Robb shuddered as he forced his tear back down. "Thank you uncle. I'll send a messenger at dawn. I'll do as you said a raid to see what Tywin has then make a battle plan. Go now. You'll need to be rested tomorrow."

Brynden chuckled. "As Your Grace commands," as he left he gave a low and only slightly mocking bow. He made his way to his tent, walking through the silent camp. In all the camps I've seen in all these years this has got to be the quietest. Instead of feasting and raucous drinking there was only sleeping men and low burning fires. Not that I blame them a month of hard riding and hard fighting would exhaust anyone. Brynden's squire released him of his armour allowing the old night to crawl into his tent and and let sleep take him moments later.

It seem that it was only moments later that Brynden was startled awake as horns and trumpets filled the air.

He crawled out of the tent. "What the fuck is happening?" He kicked his squire awake. "Get my armour on!" Brynden eschewed his plate armour in favour of the faster to don mail coat and quickly made his way to Robb's pavilion. He pushed his way into the tent past a small horde of startled messengers, half a dozen lordlings, and ruffled looking Grey Wind.

"Your Grace!" He cried upon sighting Cat's son, patting the direwolf on his massive head. "What is this?"

"Lord Tywin has stolen a march on us."

Robb's harried voice carried a note of concern Brynden hadn't heard before. "How many of them?" He asked, putting his hand on the table.

"Ser Ryam has not returned, but the scouts are saying every number between ten thousand and a hundred thousand."

"And the Smalljon?"

"There's been no word. I've sent messengers to rally the host on the southern side of the camp. But some of them aren't getting through I think there's raiders in the camp," he shook his head. "Everything is so confused I've no idea where the fighting is happening."

"Damn. Have you-"

Before Brynden could finish his question an arrow pinned his right hand, his sword hand, to the table.

"GAH! FUCK! SEVEN FUCKS!" He broke the arrow and pulled his hand free. "Fuck the gods this hurts!" With care he drew his sword as the sounds of battle began to rage outside the pavilion. Once outside his attention was immediately drawn to the massive yellow surcoat and armoured bulk of the Mountain. Of course Tywin would send him.

The Mountain's men had the pavilion surrounded and Robb's beleaguered guards would not be able to hold out for long. Robb was already in the thick of it fighting, with Grey Wind at his side, as he always was. The Mountain, atop his equally immense horse, was pushing his way to the king.

I'll not let you take him. Brynden snarled and began his own drive toward the Mountain. But only a few yards from the pavilion an arrow sprouted from his throat, he saw the Mountain crash through a row of northmen and set upon the king and then all the Blackfish saw was darkness.

The She-Bear

"Protect the king!" Dacey shouted as she swung her mace around and brought it into the face of the screaming red cloak trying to pull her from the saddle. He fell bonelessly to the ground. "Protect the king!" She screamed again as her small band of Northmen and Rivermen fought against those who had attacked their king.

Everything had happened so suddenly, the silence of night transforming into the chaos of battle in only moments. Lord Tywin's men had wasted no time before storming the camp. Charging forward in a vast horde of foot and horse, giving the defenders only a few minutes of warning, as the survivors of the Smalljon's and Ser Ryam's command fled into the camp. There had been no proper battlelines to counter the enemy charge. And too much confusion for any kind of retaliation. The battle was now a confused melee where the tired, surprised, and often unarmoured men of the North and the Trident were getting the worst of it. Dacey knew not what was happening beyond her own band of a barely a hundred Mormont sworn swords. She knew only that a her king was likely in danger, and so she had gathered much the men of Bear Island, which she commanded in her mother's stead, and moved to protect him.

It was well that she had, for either by coincidence or design, near a hundred mounted men lead by the Mountain That Rides himself had cut through the lines, and surrounded the Royal Pavilion where they were engaged against the outnumbered royal guards. With a cheer Dacey had led her men into the the rear of the enemy.

Dacey turned her shield to block a spear thrust that would have gutted her, she countered with a swipe of her mace that broke the man's arm. A kick from her war horse, a great white beast named Weirwood, sent him sprawling. But before the could follow up with a killing blow another foe, this one with a black goat on his shield and a long braid of black hair, charged her with a queer curved sword. A Mormont man beside her countered with a spear thrust into his gut. She bashed another helmeted head in and squeezed hard with her legs as Weirwood reared to avoid a swing from a poleaxe. A great roar got her attention as the line to her left gave way. The Mountain cut a Mormont man clean in half with a single swing of his greatsword as his charge smashed through the Mormont line.

Dacey pulled back to gain room to turn Weirwood into position for a charge of her own. "For the Young Wolf!" She cried and put spurs to her horse leading her personal guard back into the fray. Rather than charge the Mountain himself she instead rode past him, and struck his horse in the head with her mace, swinging with all her strength. The shock of the blow sent shiver up her arm. She idly heard the Mountain cough and curse as his horse collapsed and a dozen blows were rained down upon him sounding like hammers on an anvil.

She pulled Weirwood around and gasped as the Mountain pulled a man off his horse and threw him ten feet into a second man, all the while cutting down the warriors of Bear Island with his greatsword. He was like some demon from the Seven Hells. On instinct she blocked the blow of a curved sword, being swung by a copper skinned man, a Dothraki, with a long braid flying behind him. He raised his sword for another blow, but Dacey was faster pushing Weirwood around the the Dothraki's side and swinging her mace into his unarmoured back, crushing his bow and his spine with one blow.

A roar returned her attention to the Mountain who, struggling with the weight of attackers, was wildly swinging his sword around screaming mindlessly as he did. Despite the efforts, and axes, of the her Bear Island men, and the Stark guardsmen, the Mountain seemed uninjured and undeterred, even as his own allies fled from Dacey's mounted charge to their rear. But even as she rounded on him the Mountain fell to his knees, the mad screams turning into choking gasps, and moments later silence as he dropped to the ground. Not willing to take chances a Mormont man rushed forward and put a dagger through the Mountains visor.

The King. "Where is the king?" Dacey asked of a Winterfell man.

"This way m'lady."

The man led her through the growing crowd of warriors, Stark, Mormont, Tully, Frey, Umber, Bracken, and the warriors of half a dozen more houses had gathered around the Royal Pavilion. The crowd parted as she advanced, and the sight caused her heart to skip a beat. A maester knelt over the king tending to a great cut high on the king's right arm, Grey Wind paced and whined nearby.

"Your Grace!" she cried and rushed over to his side. The Young Wolf did not respond. Dacey turned to the maester. "Is he..." She couldn't bring herself to finish the question.

But the maester answered it all the same. "His Grace yet lives, though he is gravely injured, both on his arm and," the maester pushed aside a scrap of King Robb's auburn hair. "His head. It's likely that he will not awaken for some hours yet, or mayhaps even days."

Dacey heard Black Walder Frey grumble behind her. "We don't have days, let alone hours." Then more loudly. "We should go take the king and flee before we and His Grace alike are in Lord Tywin's claws."

"Craven!" Bellowed the Greatjon, marching up to and towering over Black Walder and all the other Freys. "You'd let the lions steal a victory in the night after running away through half of the Seven Kingdoms!"

True to his name Black Walder did not back down from a challenge, instead he bristled with anger. "Listen around my lords this isn't a battle it's a disaster! The night is lost and I don't intend to let my king be lost with it!"

"Seven Hells Frey! The Mountain is dead along with his men, we're winning this battle!"

Whatever Black Walder roared back was overwhelmed by the cries and shouts of a dozen other lords. Some in support of Black Walder others for the Greatjon. All of them wasting time. Blackhearted as he is Frey has the right of it, we cannot win and we cannot stay, the Mountain was only the first of many attackers.

Without a word Dacey gathered up her king in her arms and pulled herself to her feet. She eyed the other lords, so busy arguing they hadn't noticed her. With aid she pushed King Robb atop a horse rode by Donnel, the best rider on Bear Island. Someone coughed behind her, she turned and saw Black Walder Frey, Galbart Glover, and Jonos Bracken.

"My lords," she peered over Lord Bracken's shoulder. "I take it the Greatjon and Lord Rickard have deigned not to join us."

Black Walder snorted. "One is a fool the other is maddened by a thirst for vengeance, but mayhaps they will buy us time."

Dacey watched the others nod in agreement, but found herself struggling to find the good in the deaths of her fellow Northerners, without a word she mounted Weirwood. "Then let us be off. We have no time to waste." She pulled herself atop Weirwood and rode for the northern edge of the camp. By the time they reached the border of the camp the cries of battle from the south masked the sound of their hoofbeats on the ground as they made it to the safety of the trees.

And from amongst the trees rose a chorus of horns and trumpets as the woods came alive with the enemy.

"Ambush!" she cried looking out towards where she had last seen the king.

Weirwood screamed as a sword cut through his foreleg. With the skill only a lifetime of training brought, Dacey leapt from the saddle, only narrowly avoiding Weirwood's kicking rear legs. She fell into a roll and rose to her feet in a single movement turning to face an enemy who likely thought her to be out of mind from the fall, and who as a result would be unready himself for her attack. Instead she found herself narrowly dodging a viper swift thrust aimed at calf where mail coat and armoured boot just didn't quite meet. She had yet to regain her balance before her opponent turned the thrust into and upward slash that caught her in the ribs. The impact hurt even through mail and padding but it wasn't threatening.

Dacey screamed as she took advantage of her opponent's own unbalanced state with a step and a full body swing of her mace aimed and his hip. She should have hit him, but the man nimbly backstepped bringing the tip of his sword around as he did to leave a cut along the bottom of her jaw, only inches from her throat. A tingle of fear shivered up Dacey's spine. As they both paused for a moment to regain their footing Dacey got her first good look at her opponent, he was dark haired, lean, and wolfish, he bore an ugly sword and was armoured in a coat of mail and boiled leather.

"Yield," he said, speaking for the first time.

Dacey drew herself to her full height and bashed her mace and shield together. "Here I Stand." The meaning of the words was lost on the southron who simply shrugged and moved to the attack. She blocked the first blow with her shield, barely managed to parry the second, but the third struck her in the waist, the point of his sword breaking the links of her mail as the tip pierced her side.

"Yield," he said again.

"Here I Stand."

Dacey struck first swinging her mace in a swift arc, feeling pain flare in her side. The lean man almost lazily leaned away, bringing his sword around to trap her mace, and plunging his dagger into her upper arm.

"Yield," he said again, twisting the dagger as he pushed it into her arm.

She grimaced in pain and spat in his face proclaiming. "Here I Stand." She tried to knee him in the crotch but only caught his hip as the lean man pulled away. Another swing of her mace, another miss. Dacey beat a thrust aside with her shield and pushed forward.

Dacey moved bring her shield low to cover her legs while holding her mace in a high guard. The lean man kept his sword low as he moved to her right, trying to get around her shield. Dacey sidestepped into his path and jumped forward to push him down with her shield, while swing her mace around and up from underneath to catch him in the belly. But the lean man twisted away to his right letting Dacey's shield and mace strike nothing but air, the, he did something with his feet sending Dacey to the ground with a crash. From the corner of her eye she saw his sword rising, she felt his knee on her back and his hand on her shoulders. So this how it ends, she thought, but the gods had other plans.

With a curse the lean man jumped aside and for a moment the morning sky turned grey. Free of his boot and the threat of his steel Dacey rose to meet her rescuer and face her would be killer. Grey Wind growled at the lean man who faced the direwolf with a trepidation he had spurned for Dacey. She spat and moved from Grey Wind's side to flank the lean man. Most would think Grey Wind a simple beast, but Dacey had fought alongside the direwolf enough to know that he possessed a fierce kind of intellect in battle. As she had expected Grey Wind moved the opposite way forcing the lean man to split his focus.

Dacey let a growl rumble out of her chest as the lean man backed away from the wolf and the she-bear like the craven southron he was. Grey Wind lunged leaping over the space of grass in an instant, neatly dodging the panicked sword cut, and lunging at the lean man's leg. Only the be met with a dagger to the face as the lean man moved faster than Dacey had ever seen. Grey Wind yelped in pain and flinched back, taking the dagger with him.

Dacey, who was already moving, let loose a roar that would have made the bear of her house proud and charge the already turning man. She blocked a blow with her shield and countered with a overhand swing of her mace that met only air. A kick to her exposed knee sent her stumbling into a charging Grey Wind making the direwolf stumble and fall before the lean man. Quick as a shadowcat the man thrust his sword into Grey Wind's neck sending spurting blood high into the air. The lean man stepped away from the dying direwolf and calmly advanced upon Dacey, drawing another dagger as he did.

Dacey charged again shield up and mace at the ready. The lean man nimbly dodged the mace and made a strike of his own. but Dacey kicked his leg out from under him sending him to the ground. She kicked him again and swung her mace at his head. The lean man twisted at the last minute letting the mace thud harmlessly against the ground. Just as quick he swung a leg over Dacey's back a pulled her to the ground beside him. Dacey saw only a glint of morning sunlight on steel as his dagger buried itself in her eye and her brain.

Mathis

Mathis rode his war horse amidst the lines of over ten thousand infantry and three thousand mounted knights. The followed in the wake of the two thousand horse under Ser Gregor Clegane and Vargo Hoat, who had been sent to overrun the Stark outriders. From what Mathis had heard from his messengers and scouts it seemed that half the Stark outriders had run away, while the other half had charged into the fray and had been slaughtered. Jon Umber had been captured leading the mad charge. Clegane and Hoat had been so successful that they had outrun Mathis own force that would have hit the Starks only minutes after Cleganes riders, instead they were now near half and hour behind the Mountain.

"Damn Clegane," Mathis said to Ser Leo Blackbar. "The Mountain was supposed to wait for us after he smashed their outriders and then attack the camp just before us," he snorted. "Instead the madman just charged right in and has probably gotten half his command killed. At least half!"

"At least we still have the advantage of numbers," noted Ser Leo.

"Aye that we do and the advantage of not having chased Lord Tywin through half the Riverlands." Mathis gazed upon the sight of his men marching over the fields toward the Stark camp. "Our lads are rested and eager for blood."

Movement in the northern camp caught his eye. Mathis leaned forward in the saddle as he watched ranks of Northern and Riverlands troops march forth.

"Well I'll be damned they're coming to face us." His eyes scanned the banners. "Ser Leo, have my eyes failed me or are there to few banners.?"

"I was about to ask the same my lord. The giant of Umber, the Karstark starburst, the Blackwood tree, the Piper maiden, but not a sight of the Mormont bear, the Bracken horse, or the twin towers of Frey."

"Some dispute mayhaps?"

"Or is the Mountain more clever than we thought and is keeping the rest distracted as we speak."

"How many me do you reckon?"

Ser Leo squinted. "Eight thousand mayhaps ten, though there are more coming from the camp. So by the time we start to fight in earnest I think mayhaps ten or twelve thousand at least."

"I think the same, and with the advantage of the hill… They don't have much horse near their center. It seems that most of them are on the flanks," Mathis squinted again and then turned to his messengers. "Have Ser Marcus Meadows' and Lord Osgrey's pikemen form up on the flanks, with the crossbowmen in the center and swordsmen behind them our knights in reserve."

"Pelt them with bolts and pin them if they counter attack?" Asked Ser Leo.

"Exactly Ser, simple but effective when one has the advantage of numbers and time."

In the predawn gloom Mathis watched his commands come to fruition as his host of foot formed a broad line of swordsmen and crossbowmen, stoppered on both ends by great blocks of pikemen. In the east the sky gradually lightened but already the crows and ravens circled the field waiting for the coming feast.

Mathis raised his fist and swung it forward. "Advance!" He ordered, and the cry was taken up and down the line by trumpet and drum. Truly there was no sound as sweet as the barrage of stamping of hoof and foot, the beat of the drum, and the cry of the trumpet.

It seemed the enemy was eager for a fight as the centermost part of the line, which was lead the a banner bearing the giant of Umber, bulged outwards to flow down the hillslope to meet Mathis' own host. As his own crossbowmen began to loose their bolts, the enemy archers let loose with arrows of their own. Some of the enemy shafts found a home in Reachman flesh but most wasted themselves on the broad shields and strong armour of the infantry, or else on the great pavise shields of the crossbowmen.

Meanwhile the the more powerful bolts from the crossbows reaped a bloody harvest amongst the more poorly armoured Northmen and Riverlanders. Despite this the forces beneath the Umber banner pushed forward advancing down the hill into the hail of bolts and farther from their friends. In the east, on the left of the Stark line, a troop of cavalry beneath the Karstark starburst dashed off into the light of the rising sun, where Mathis could now see the gold and crimson banners of House Lannister being raised over a host of Westermen marching north, curving around the Stark camp. Mathis turned and saw the burning tree of Ser Addam Marbrand rising in the west over yet thousands more Westermen who mirrored their compatriots to the east in marching to surround the enemy camp. As he watched Ser Adam's knights detached from the infantry and began their own battle charge aimed at the far right of the Stark line.

Mathis grinned and turned to Ser Leo. "Let's see if they still have the stomach to fight when they have enemies on three sides."

As if from a prophecy Mathis saw the enemy's right, who marched under the Piper banners, begin to fall back into the camp leaving the Umber and Blackwood men exposed to Ser Addam's charge. The center of Mathis' host, commanded by Lord Arthur Ambrose, began to advance against the buckling Blackwoods and Umbers, the later of which were still advancing downhill even as the former began to pull back or turn to face the cavalry of the west. Ser Marcus and Lord Osgrey began to follow Lord Arthur's example and began advancing on the Northerners

Mathis turned to his trumpeters to give a belated order to his own mounted reserve. "Signal an advance."

From the safety of the reserve Mathis watched the battle quickly unravel in his, and Lord Tywin's, favour. A tide of Reachmen poured up the slope and smashed into the northern host, while a charge of mounted knights, led by Ser Addam Marbrand himself crushed the Blackwood's under their hooves sending the survivors fleeing into the camp. On the right Lord Karstarks mad charge against the Lannister might to the east ended in disaster opening the Stark left to a mounted charge to match their right. But the Stark center held, kept in place by the bellowing roars of the Greatjon. They formed a strong schiltron on the slopes beneath the camp, holding strong even as the men the the Reach and the West surrounded them and cut off all hope of retreat.

Mathis pushed his horse forward close enough to the front lines to be within shouting distance of the Greatjon. "My Lord Umber! My Lord Umber! Look around you. You're surrounded, you're outnumbered, you have no chance of victory, surrender now and spare you're men death."

The Greatjon seemed to grow even larger as he swelled with rage. "I'll not banter words with a southron pansy like yourself! LORD FLOWERS! I'LL CUT YOUR HEAD OFF AND SHIT DOWN YOUR NECK!"

Call me a bastard will you? Mathis drew his weapon from the sheath fixed to his saddle. "Well then," muttered Mathis. "Fuck you." Mathis brought the dragon to his shoulder and fired, sending a lead ball into Lord Umber's chest, splattering his lifesblood over half a dozen nearby men. "Does anyone else want to follow Lord Jon's example?" He only half jested to the northerners.

As it turned out they did not and they quickly surrendered to Mathis himself. Not much of a haul a score of minor lordlings and a thousand or so infantry, but their ransoms would help pay for dowries his daughters required at the very least. With the majority of the northern host dead or put to flight all that remained was to loot the camp and defeat any hold outs.

Mathis and Leo rode side by side through the enemy camp, accompanied only by their own guards. "I expected the Young Wolf to be a more difficult opponent," Mathis remarked to Ser Leo.

The knight jerked in surprise. "You haven't heard my lord?"

"Heard what?"

"Robb Stark was injured during Clegane's charge, his personal guard took him and fled the field."

"Was he captured?"

"I haven't heard anything, but I imagine if he had been we'd all know by now."

"Alas our victory is not so utterly crushing as one could hope." Mathis then brightened. "And yet a victory is still a victory, and all the sweeter for coming without the need for great sacrifice on the part of our men. It is truly refreshing to once again savour this sweet taste after the bitterness of Storm's end and Bitterbridge. Have you any thoughts as to what we might call this battle Ser Leo?"

"I couldn't say my lord. I couldn't say."

Mathis stretched and leaned back in his saddle to watch the crows descend to feast upon the slain northmen. "I'm sure the singers will think of something."