AN SAIRSINT

The causeway south was the only dry land for dozens of kilometres around.

The marching column had to camp in a great line along it each night they spent in 'The Neck', guarding closely against the alligator-like lizard-lions that tried to snatch a horse, a mule or a person into the muck and water between the trees. Only the unicorns were immune to this, being so large and smelling so strange to the lizards that they didn't try.

Padraig was still unhappy with the pace being set. The Laughing Tree column was moving just as quickly as it had before, even with the addition of fifty Stark riders as Jon's personal force. The LT had insisted that the man continue as liaison officer and Robb Stark had agreed.

But the small cavalry unit wouldn't be enough to punch through the warzone ahead. We need a new strategy, he thought as the countryside moved on by, Else we'll be stuck in this slog of a war forever, and I'll never see my children again. He gulped away a lump in his throat quickly.

Not liking the growing humidity or smells of the interior, Padraig had relieved the LT of the machine gun on the roof. As evening began to close in, the airflow was a godsend. It let him clear his mind and concentrate on a military task, rather than moping over his lot. Until the midges show up anyway. He spent much of his time that day watching the landscape below the causeway go by.

One thing had been bothering him the whole journey. "This is the nastiest bit of bog I've ever seen in my life," Padraig declared aloud.

It was the fifth time since the crawler had left Moat Cailin he had done so, the first time that day, and he didn't care; the truth of the matter bore repeating.

"You've said that four times," Sayer groaned from below.

"Five," Zheng corrected him, barely audible over the sound of the engine, "It's fucking five times."

The Private grumbled incoherently, clearly having been half-asleep. Padraig looked down and saw he had the warg Iola sleeping in his arms too. Not again.

Padraig couldn't get Sayer to rid himself of the girl, or indeed the other girls that hung around. The Private didn't give a toss for the regs or his military career ending over it, unlike the LT. Sayer wasn't in the Patricias anyway, he was a part-time soldier.

That of course didn't mean Iola had to ride in the crawler. Much to the chagrin of Padraig and the jealousy of the other girls chasing Sayer, Iola was also the most powerful skinchanger the Laughing Tree tribe had. Others were certain she'd soon have as many skins as Varamyr, though hopefully she wouldn't develop his manners. The little man stood out even among the crowd of Free Folk chiefs.

The LT wanted a skinchanger, so he could have his organic recon drones along in the form of Iola's large snow-eagle and whatever other birds she managed to snag along the way. So along she came. Padraig thought Duquesne had done it as much to annoy him as for the stated military purpose, a small 'fuck you' for blowing up on the Ygritte Situation.

"Okay, five," Sayer conceded after a pause for him to think, "Why though? What's so nasty about this 'bog'? Aren't all bogs nasty?"

Zheng blew out a breath so loudly, the radio caught it and amplified it enough to make Padraig feel she was blowing in his ear to annoy him. "Sayer, you mean apart from the insects, the humidity, the cawing birds all the time, the crazy lizards trying to drown us at night and the stink?"

Padraig chuckled. She's been thinking about it all the time too. "You forgot being trapped in a crawler with someone who smells vaguely of unicorn," he said, receiving a sardonic laugh for his trouble before he continued, "I'm talking about the ground itself. At the Moat, it was more like some Irish bog, a thick blanket of peat. No cover so the wind cuts through you, except if you're okay sitting in cold water for hours on end. Here, it's more like some shite you'd see near enough Fort Bragg.. Fort Liberty… Whatever it's called these days, in the US. Lots of tall trees, black swamp water up to your knees, every drop of it will make you shit your guts out, and it's getting warmer."

Various sounds of disapproval came up through the roof exit from below.

"Do you have a point, Sergeant?" Duquesne intervened, "Can't say my sanity is helped by you repeating that line all the time. Speak your mind."

"You don't get cold bog and warm bog in the same place, usually," he said, "So it's doubly nasty."

"Good thing we're not invading through it then," Zheng snorted, "One of the books on ancient history talks about the attempts to do that. Andals coming north. Didn't end well for them."

"The North was never conquered until the dragon riders came," Michael agreed, "And never rebelled against the throne until the dragons were dead. Or so say their books."

Might as well tell him. "I know, sir," Padraig agreed, "But we are invading through it, just the other way. Or to be correct, the Starks are. That's what's been bothering me. Their enemies know history just as well as anyone else. If they know the Starks are invading, why wouldn't they block the bottom of this causeway and fortify it? Make the Starks be the one that has to lose men to disease and exhaustion."

Duquesne grunted, as if he hadn't thought of that. "There are locals loyal to the Starks who could do that work, if it comes to that. Do you think it was a mistake to go first?"

Padraig considered the question. First does mean we move faster. "I wouldn't go that far," he decided, leaning down into the cabin to speak directly to the LT, "Just that any hope of avoiding a fight might be fucked if they start one on this causeway, sir."

The LT smiled. "It's not like we couldn't win."

Padraig had to concede that, and stood back up out of the roof again.

The crawler began to slow. There was only one reason it would. "Contact front!" Zheng shouted, "Just came out!"

Fearing he had suddenly become a prophet of doom, Padraig swivelled the machine gun forwards and aimed down the causeway, expecting a blocking force and an ambush. He found his target quickly.

Illuminated in the headlights was a short man in a green hooded cloak, carrying a three-pointed spear. He was wearing scale armour under the cloak, and a scraggly and short grey beard on his chin. Two younger people climbed onto the causeway, a girl dressed much the same way as the older man and a boy who lacked the bronze scales.

The three just stood in the middle of the road, even as the crawler stopped about thirty yards away, the headlights showing that the midges had arrived and there were more men hiding on both slopes of the causeway ahead to either side. Padraig could make out some canoes and kayak-like shapes too. Yet no attack came. What are the lunatics doing?

"Hold fire, Sergeant," Duquesne commanded over the comms, "Ask who they are."

"Identify yourselves!" Padraig shouted.

No answer came. The young boy seemed to say something to the older man, but was dismissed with a wave of the hand.

Padraig couldn't hear what was said, but the man didn't look like cooperating. Bleedin' dope. "Permission to fire a warning shot over the heads of his soldiers, sir?"

The Lieutenant did not get a chance to answer. A clear voice spoke out. "Are you the Lion, the Flying Serpent, the Fire Eagle and the Snowbear?"

Duquesne climbed up out onto the roof, quickly followed by a now-very awake Iola. "What did he say, Sergeant?"

"Asked if we're lions, eagles and bears or something," Padraig replied, before shoving Iola back down into the cabin, "Stay down or you'll catch a feckin' arrow." The young warg bared her teeth at him but complied.

"Our 'sigils', sir," Sayer responded from below, "He asked about our family logos."

Padraig almost took his eye off the target. "Jesus Sayer, you have great hearing."

"Thank you."

"That's enough," Duquesne intervened, "Looks like the Starks sent word ahead. Let's go talk. Sayer, you're on the pig. Sergeant, you're with me."

Scratching the back of his hand, Padraig didn't like the idea of wandering into the ambush zone, but an order was an order. He quickly handed over the grip of the machine gun to Sayer, receiving a triumphant smile from Iola as she joined the Private on the top of the crawler. Another wagon.

The wights were stirring under their fur wraps, so Padraig exited by ducking back into the crawler and out one of the doors. Duquesne followed him, and together they approached the strangers on the road, rifles in hand. They seemed a lot smaller close up, making Padraig wonder at the ages of the young two. Swamp living doesn't make you tall.

The man in the hood soon repeated his question. "Are you the Lion, the Flying Serpent, the Fire Eagle and the Snowbear?"

The LT cleared his throat of the humidity. "That's us," Duquesne confirmed, "Who are you?"

"The lizard-lions," the girl provided cheerily. The boy snorted a laugh.

Padraig shook his head. "We've been eating those things for days," he said flatly.

"Some of us, anyway," Duquesne added.

"They're good burnt to a crisp, with peas on the side, sir."

The girl and boy both laughed at that. The older man looked disapprovingly at his younger companions before introducing himself. "I am Howland Reed, lord of Greywater Watch."

"Michael Duquesne, Princess Patricia's Canadian Light Infantry," the LT replied, before thumbing beside him, "This is Sergeant O'Neill. Lord Robb sent word we were coming?"

Lord Reed's green eyes peered out blankly for a moment. "No."

"Then how do you know who we are?" Padraig asked, before correcting himself, "How do you know our coats of arms?"

"My son Jojen has the greensight," Lord Reed replied, gesturing to the young boy with him, "In his dreams, he saw the four of you."

Padraig and the LT exchanged looks.

"Great," Padraig said, "More fecking magic."

Duquesne released an amused breath. "What do you want?" he asked Lord Reed.

There was no response from Lord Reed. Just another blank stare, as if evaluating closely the men in front of him.

Padraig curled his tongue in his mouth, restraining himself from doing anything untoward. "You're in the way?" he added, gesturing with both hands to indicate both sides of the road and then pointing south, "We're heading home, thataway."

Still, Lord Reed remained quiet. What the hell is he looking at?

"The Lannisters have outriders nearby," the young girl answered, "Men in the village closest by, watching the causeway and the Freys. They would have seen your camp tonight if we didn't stop you."

Padraig grit his teeth. Everyone and their dog wants to put up a roadblock to stop us getting home. "Shit," he said in English. He turned to Duquesne. "What do you think, sir?"

Duquesne scratched his chin under his helmet strap for a moment. "Can we go around them?" he asked Lord Reed, "Camp without fires tonight, then strike out around them on another road?"

The crannogman shook his head. "There is only one road once you clear the causeway," he said, "The Kingsroad, until the spar to the Twins. The village sits astride it in a thick woodland."

Duquesne turned to Padraig. "Shit is right, Sergeant."

That meant only one thing; delay was inevitable. "Here we go again," Padraig thought aloud.

Duquesne quickly got on the comms. "Sayer, tell Iola to look at the village at the end of the causeway with her eagle. Lannisters are camped out there, I want to know what they're doing. Sunset is soon, make it quick."

"Yessir," came the reply.

"Sir?" Padraig asked in English, "Won't that give away the game, if they know we have skinchangers?"

Duquesne smacked his lips and grinned. "I'm betting they don't know or don't believe that. Everything travels a lot slower here, Sergeant, even with the ravens. And from what the northern lords say, I don't think many people have actually seen magic directly even if they think it exists. And southerners believe in it even less. It's a religious thing."

Padraig glanced down the road. "And what if they have someone with a brain up there, sir? Eagles don't typically take much notice of military positions."

Duquesne's expression soured. "I think the Lannister troops will be distracted," he said, "What usually happens when medieval soldiers show up in a village that isn't friendly?"

Padraig grimaced. "Thanks sir, really needed that image in my head."

Duquesne cocked an eyebrow. "You might be seeing it with your own eyes soon enough, Sergeant. We're going to have to talk our way past these guys or wait for the Starks to show up."

Licking his lips, Padraig shifted uncomfortably on his feet. The idea of more delays or more reliance on the Starks to get the job done didn't appeal to him. I've got kids to get back to, for feck sake. Let's get a move on.

Lord Reed cleared his throat politely, his daughter shaking her and whispering to her younger brother. Clearly the lordly crannogman didn't appreciate being left out of the conversation in English. "Shall you attack the Lannisters?"

The LT clicked his tongue and looked over the Reeds to the south. "We'll try talking to them first, I think."

"Is that wise?" Even the crannogmen seemed surprised by the LT's idea, though they had more of a right to be.

"A good question," Padraig chipped in, sticking to English.

The LT spread his hands. "It can't be helped that we're not formally at war with anyone," Duquesne replied, "We need some reason to use force. We talk to them, and take a look around. If we get a hint of any sort of crimes against the people, that's our case. It's not legal for me to order anyone to ignore that."

"They'll shoot arrows as you approach," the young Reed woman frowned, "Or they'll lure you in with a false truce and cut you down."

"They could try," Padraig replied, half agreeing.

"Then we'll have our case for war that way instead," Duquesne said, "Excuse me Lord Reed, but I'd like to speak to O'Neill alone for a moment, if that's okay?"

Lord Reed inclined his head in acceptance, and Duquesne led Padraig halfway back towards the crawler. The LT found the place where the only things that would hear were the rotting trees and the midges, and turned. "What do you think, Sergeant?"

Padraig shifted his weight uneasily again, waving the tiny swamp flies out of his face. We're so damn close. Home would only be a couple of days away if there wasn't for the army or two in the way. "Sir, I know I'm the one who made you … who reminded you about sticking to the law as much as possible," he said in English, "We're beyond that now, I think."

Duquesne cocked an eyebrow, his eyes widening with surprise. "What do you mean?"

"I mean the time for talk has ended, sir," Padraig replied, "The road in front of us is an area of active military operations. The likelihood of us negotiating our way past it without giving up something is zero. Weapons and technology these people shouldn't have, or fighting the Starks as a belligerent for a battle or two. I think that would offend our political masters a little more than fighting our way home. And we couldn't trust any of these wankers with such a deal anyway."

Duquesne's lips thinned for a second. "I have to say I'm surprised to hear you say something like that, Sergeant. After you lectured me on the regs. Besides, I don't think you're right about making a deal. We managed to make one with the Starks."

Padraig nodded rapidly, acknowledging the point before pointing out its flaw. "Yeah, but we had and still have the threats of the wildlings and the Others to hold against the Starks, sir. Not to mention we had Jon Stark backing us up."

"We still made a deal."

"Granted, but I still don't trust them. Neither do you sir, that's why you decided we should go ahead of their army. And they sent a bunch of knights along with Jon Stark, so I think the feeling is mutual."

The LT sighed and gave a nod. "Can we not show the wights to these Lannisters? I think they'll see the threat of dead men marching to kill the living."

"Maybe they will, but that'll give them even more reason to want our guns. Or more reason to believe they should keep fighting. We need to get home, sir. I need to get home."

Duquesne glared. "And what do we do about the brass throwing us in prison for shooting up the locals?"

Padraig bit his tongue, almost blurting out that he was beginning to not care. Not the way to go, keep it rational.

"Sir, there's a difference between this and you being cashiered for a relationship with Ygritte or us all going to prison for starting a war against the Night's Watch. We didn't start the war down here, and our only way home is through it. The alternatives have shit odds, frankly."

The LT held up a hand to pause the conversation. He took a paper handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose, before balling it and tossing it into the black water beyond the causeway. "Fucking swamp. Maybe you're right Sergeant, but do we have a choice other than playing the odds?"

"What if the Lannisters don't agree to let us though? How can we trust them without leverage? Those are the questions you have to ask, sir. They didn't watch us take Castle Black live on TV. They don't know our capabilities and their leaders probably won't believe we can hurt them… until we actually do that."

The LT was quiet for some time after that, scratching his chin again. "I have answers to those questions, Sergeant," Duquesne said. "But I don't like them. And I've thought of something else in favour of shooting our way past the Lannisters."

"What's that, sir?"

The LT scowled back at the crawler, for some reason Padraig couldn't determine until he opened his mouth again. "Zheng might be right. We might be stuck here, which means we can't waltz through the warzone pretending we won't fight."

No. Padraig resisted shouting, settling on flat insistence just barely."No, we're not stuck. Magic brought us here, magic can send us back."

The LT looked at Padraig with pity, making him realise that he had just argued against the thing he wanted. God, he's a slippery shit sometimes.

"I agree the probability is high," Duquesne said, "But it is not a certainty that we'll get home. If we're wrong about the Isle of Faces, then this march will be our real introduction to the Seven Kingdoms. The nobility are no different from mafia families, that's clear as crystal. We can't be seen as weak. We need to be regarded as a force to be reckoned with."

Padraig sucked in air, imagining the shit that they'd all be dragged through if there was even a scent of weakness. "Easier said than done, sir," he said, "And where'd your worries about going to prison go?"

Duquesne tilted his head in confusion. "We can be strategic about the situation, Sergeant."

Padraig's eyebrows almost migrated all the way to his hairline. "What do you mean?"

Duquesne looked out over the swamp to the side of the road, the same direction he had thrown his paper handkerchief. "Like you said, there's a symmetric war going on. The brass won't want to come here to investigate, and the fog of war would make it useless to try. Warcrimes are inevitable to the point we don't even need to see them ourselves. Not that I think we won't see that kinda thing. The southerners talk about how they're better than the Free Folk, but I've seen the way they look at Zheng."

Padraig snorted. "If that Greyjoy prick was any more obvious, you could pull his tongue and have it flap back up into his mouth like some Tom and Jerry shite."

"And his people are as famous as Vikings for dragging off people," Duquesne agreed. Without warning, he raised his rifle, aiming towards the base of the causeway's raised ground before he cracked off a round.

Padraig thought he'd gone mad for a moment, but the mud there exploded and writhed. The lizard-lion that had been hiding in it had taken the bullet in the gut, sending the creature rolling back into the black water behind. Ripples on the surface elsewhere told the tale of more of the creatures thinking better of stalking the two lone men on the road. No doubt the Reed troops nearby thought so too.

Nasty things, Padraig thought, as the corpse bobbed up from the deep, Crocodiles but worse. Only good thing about them is the meat on their bones.

Duquesne sighed before continuing. "Okay, let's think this through. The Lannisters don't know our capabilities. They won't talk seriously to a random group of four foreign soldiers until they do, if at all. The Night's Watch only talked to us because we kicked the shit out of Halfhand's platoon and sent one of them to report back. Problem is that the Watch was weak."

"We also had key information for them," Padraig pointed out, "How to fight White Walkers and wights. The word on that is out now, so we can't trade it, even if anyone else did value it."

The LT slung his rifle. "Tywin Lannister apparently commands the most well respected military force on the continent. It'll take more than ambushing one platoon to impress upon him the need to talk, from what the Stark lords say about him. To say nothing about getting him to respect our military strength and get out of our way."

Padraig breathed out with relief. He's going to do it. Whatever it takes to get home. "I agree, sir. And I'm glad to say it. So what's the plan?"

Duquesne looked south for a moment. "We show what we are capable of. Hit every single Lannister recon and raiding groups we can find. They'll not have been gentle with local people, I doubt they have real supply lines to get food to them, and the Starks already had reports of atrocities. It's all above board on the face of it."

Padraig nodded. "Can't see anyone back home complaining we killed groups of thieving rapists that were in our way. As long as we offer them a warning first." Which will only make it easier for us to kill them, because they'll take orders from us as an insult.

Duquesne hocked and spat, before muttering about the swamp's humidity again. "Starting with the group in front of us tonight, we'll attack, and then again every night until we run into Tywin's main force. And we'll announce ourselves at the first place we can find a raven going to King's Landing and that big castle they're probably using as a base, tell the Lannisters to get out of the way. Then we won't have to offer warnings."

Padraig's lips split with a grin of his own. "Yes, sir." We're going home.