Harrenhal was gigantic. It was like some architect's fever dream, or something built by giants and never intended for human use. It rose against the horizon like an ancient ruin, its five towers shattered and tilted. It wasn't until we got closer that we could see tiny banners flapping on the walls and men coming and going from the yawning gateway.

"Bet that's a bitch to storm." Keelstone observed. We were stretched out in the grass beside the road, our feet in the ditch. The Lannisters had gotten here first, outriders spotted us coming up the road so the Lieutenant had ridden ahead to present our credentials. We took the opportunity to rest our feet.

"Bet its a bitch to defend too." Kip countered.

Mayson just stared at it. "Never seen a castle so big, not in all my life."

"Sure," Silkfingers drawled, "its big – but its not the biggest." He yawned elaborately, shut his eyes.

The sun was warm, the grass was soft, and I was too comfortable to take the hint.

Mayson rose to the bait. "Crap. Says who?"

Silkfingers grinned lazily. "Just some talk I heard. About the North."

"Yeah? And what did your tavern gossip say about the North?"

"Oh, not much. But they said there was a wall up there. Said it was three times as tall as this one."

"Bullsh-"

"Not a ch-"

"And made of ice."

Chorus of disbelief. Silkfingers' grin grew wider.

"That's complete horseshit! You can't build a wall out of fucking ice!" Kip sputtered.

"You can...with magic." Silkfingers said.

"That's even more unbelievable!"

"This man who told you this, he was drunk, yeah? Or caging for a drink?" Keelstone said. "Because he clearly made that up."

Silkfingers shrugged. "Magic."

"Yeah, that's not the answer to everything." Kip said.

"There's no magic in this world." I mumbled. "We haven't caught even a sniff of it."

"Maybe not here..."

"Or anywhere, most like. Come on, Silk, you know what kind of raving megalomaniac it would take to build a wall that high? And then to build it out of something that doesn't exactly stack well? If there was a wizard who could do that he'd have to be stark raving. It'd be an ego project, something to be a nice big middle finger to his rivals. Why build that way the hells up in the north? And what kind of enemy would justify a wall that high, birds?"

"There used to be dragons around here." Mayson pointed out.

"Now those I buy. Good hard evidence for those right there." I pointed at the towers of Harrenhal. "Place gets shit on by dragons and you damn well know it. But an ice wall? To fend off dragons that breathe fire? Yeah, that's going to work out real well."

"I still don't believe it exists." Kip said. "Someone was just spinning a tale."

"Believe it or don't." Silkfingers said. "I don't give a shit."

"Once we set up camp here I'm asking around." Keelstone said, nodding towards Harrenhal. "I want to know if that's true or not."

"Its not." Kip insisted. "Someone was having a laugh at y-"

"Ho, look!" Mayson exclaimed, sitting up and pointing. I looked. A lone rider was pounding up the road towards us at a full gallop.

I squinted. "Think that's the Lieutenant."

Silkfingers closed his eyes and sighed resignedly. "Probably bad news then."

We watched the rider gallop up to the head of the column and leap off their horse in a cloud of dust. Not twenty seconds later the trumpets sounded for the march.

"That better just be because they're in a hurry to get us to our quarters." Silkfingers said, levering himself upright.

We trudged back onto the road and formed up. Through the rising dust we saw the Company banner unfurl and swing north.

"Hells." Silkfingers muttered.

Then the trumpets blew for quick-march and a chorus of grumbling went up as we jogged away from Harrenhal.

After a few miles I spotted the Lieutenant riding back down the column. "Lieutenant!" I called as she approached. "Why are we heading north?"

"Lannister army left Harrenhal a week ago headed north for the ruby ford!" she shouted as she cantered past. "The northmen are pushing south down the kingsroad!"

"Lieutenant!" Keelstone called after her. "I've already done a day's march, can I be excused?"

Lilt cuffed him on the back of the head. "Shut the fuck up and march."

XXX

We marched fast and we marched long, usually not halting to make camp until the lower edge of the sun had touched the horizon. It was a dangerous gamble for the Captain to make: push the men too hard and arrive too exhausted and worn out to fight, or not march fast enough and perhaps be too late for the battle. We all grumbled about it, but we also kept marching. We were professionals, grumbling was our right. I knew these men just as I knew myself. We'd bitch and whine and moan, but in the end we'd get it done.

We knew we were going the right way because we were following in the footsteps of the Lannister army, following the trail of churned roads and empty camps. We weren't so stupid as to actually camp in the same spots of course, an army fouls its resting places worse than a man with the runs in a featherbed. Judging by the state of the road, the Lannisters had plenty of cavalry too. I was sure we'd all be properly grateful for that once we were done wading through their shit.

The Black Company doesn't generally go in for cavalry. We use horses for scouting, raiding, and skirmishing, we don't line up knee to knee and charge. Doubtless that was different in the past and doubtless that will be different again in the future. In the present we are who we are: heavy infantry. We're tough, line-smashing foot sloggers who can crack a shield wall or stop a cavalry charge dead in its tracks. Heavy armor, heavy shields, polearms. Longswords are a privilege, not a right. I rarely carry one myself. Short swords are better for tight infantry formations, maces or war hammers better at pulping a knight inside his armor. Its the same reason we carry crossbows instead of composite or longbows; they're a bitch to carry but they're dead easy to learn and they can put bolts through breastplates at a hundred paces. A scared recruit with two weeks training under his belt can drop a knight with twenty years under his. That's good enough for the Company. We leave the fancy bow work for the artists, men like Jahdai and Haqqo No-Eyes who can shoot down a sparrow in flight. Might as well ask me to work a spell as do something like that. We all have our talents. I write, others cook or hammer or stitch flesh or sew cloth, but we all fight. Every man fights. Only in battle are we all truly brothers. Only in battle does the Company truly live.

We caught up to the Lannister army at some no-name little town just north of the Trident. The army was camped in the fields around the town while their commanders claimed the town's only inn. We edged around the outskirts of the Lannister camp while the Captain rode in to report to our employers. He was back before we had finished unloading.

We appropriated a section of Lannister defenses, dug them out and strengthened them. The Lannister camp was a sprawling thing, organized around the great tents of the various lords. We kept our distance and posted a heavy guard. Lords tended to get pissy when forced to herd with sellswords.

Night fell. Our camp was dark and quiet compared to the fires and feasting in the Lannister camp. Brothers talented in the larcenous arts began to slip away, sensing a bounty of opportunities. Our sentries had orders to keep men out, not in. Any brother caught stealing would be punished. But only if they were caught.

I enjoyed my first full meal since Harrenhal, courtesy of our employer's cookfires. Except for the sentries, most of our camp curled up and slept after the evening meal. I claimed a spot near a campfire near the rest of my squad. Keelstone picked at a battered lute nearby, drawing the wrath of drowsy soldiers.

The Lieutenant appeared out of the darkness just as I was drifting off. "Enjoy it while you can, Spatter." she said, looking down at me. "We have orders to stand ready tomorrow. The northerners are less than a day's march away."

"Always so comforting." I mumbled from the warmth of my bedroll.

Her white teeth flashed in the firelight. "Its the first clash for both these armies. Going to be bloody as all hells. Sleep well, Annalist." She disappeared back into the darkness.

I grumbled, turned over, and slept.

XXX

The trumpets sounded in the gray before dawn.

"Gods, not even a decent night's sleep!" Mayson spoke for all of us as he dragged himself from his blankets. I crawled from my own bedroll and poked at the ashes of the campfire, hunting coals. If I was lucky I'd fight with a hot meal in my belly. All around us men emerged from tents and blankets, coughing, cursing, shaking off sleep and last night's wine. I hunched my shoulders against the chill and stirred up the fire.

Word spread through the camp as scouts jogged in. The northerners had stolen a march on our employers: instead of a comfortable half day's march away, they were a bare mile and closing.

No matter what the stories say, no man can sleep in full armor and expect to wake rested and ready. Even with battle looming I only slept in linen and leather. I was buckling on my greaves and shouting at Kip to stop fucking around and do likewise when a heavy hand fell on my shoulder and a voice boomed in my ear.

"Annalist! You seem in rare good humor for such a bloody dawn!"

It was Chains, the cheerful half of the Company's sorcerous talent.

"I'd say the same, Chains, but that's pretty much how you always are." It was true. Chains was like every child's favorite uncle: jolly and rotund, with twinkling eyes and a booming voice. Except your uncle probably couldn't throw around enough sorcerous talent to cripple entire army battalions single-handedly. Or maybe he could, I'm not judging.

"You will be standing with me today, I think." he rumbled, leaning in conspiratorially. "The Captain wishes my colleague and I to remain a secret for now, unless the battle goes badly."

"Fair enough. If you do decide to cut lose, just give me a chance to duck, aye?"

"Ha! I'll do just that! But come, I must attend to the Captain before before we take the field."

The Company marched out of camp and assembled in ranks on the open field in front of the camp. To our right, the Lannister army poured out of their encampments behind the banners of their lords. To our front, Standardbearer Quith rode out with our banner, followed by the Captain and the Lieutenant in their witch plate. Before the eyes of the Company they drew their swords and saluted the banner. Our wizards flexed their power and ancient sorceries woven into the armor awoke and turned them into terrifying figures out of ancient myth. Eye slits glowed like a red-hot furnace, plates blackened as eldritch sigils squirmed across the metal. Wisps of tar-black smoke oozed from joints and crevices. Their swords thrummed and moaned with unholy energies. Most of it was just for show, to keep the enemy nervous and focused on the big bad warlocks and what they were doing and not on the line of spearmen about to cave their faces in. Then again, only a fool sets himself up as a target and doesn't wrap a few protections around his armor. Over the centuries this pair had acquired quite a few. Swords slid away from them or rebounded on their wielders. Arrows fired dead on somehow got lost halfway. The protection wasn't foolproof – I had personally helped to dig the splintered remains of Widowmaker out of the bottom of a corpse-filled crater – but it was a damn sight better than what I was wearing.

The battle was a perfect example of why amateurs shouldn't be allowed near wars. We were placed in the center with most of the Lannister infantry. Their cavalry was on the right, a mixed force of cut-rate sellswords and what looked like fur-clad barbarians on the left. They were led by a pair of armored figures straight out of a mummer's farce: a giant and a dwarf. Lord Lannister himself commanded the reserve. Judging by the almost even ratio of men to banners behind him, it was composed of his high nobles.

The northerners came over the low hills to our front, long low lines of pikemen leading. Archers on both sides opened up as they found the range. We held formation and tramped forward. All to the good so far. And then some fool on the left flank sounded the charge. I stood next to Chains and watched our entire left wing break rank and surge forward. Somewhere behind me I could hear Widowmaker cursing while our sergeants shuffled us to the left to brace against the inevitable counterattack. The left wing hit the northerners' pikes at full tilt. A quarter of them probably died right then and there. After that it was a confused mass of men climbing over mounds of dead horses and dying soldiers to grapple with the pikemen while archers fired into the mix. Complete chaos. At least they kept the northerners' right occupied. The trumpets blew for a general advance so maybe Lord Lannister thought the same. We marched forward until we were close enough to count noses, then our bowmen unlimbered and started cranking out volleys. I hung back with Chains while our halberdiers waded in and started mulching northerners. We were only at it for maybe five or ten minutes before the trumpets sounded behind us and the Lannister reserve of heavy cavalry crunched into the northern lines. They broke then although they fell back slowly at first. Our front ranks sat back on their heels and panted while our reserves jogged off to harry the enemy. Lifetaker galloped off after them. She could be a bloodthirsty bitch when the mood took her. There would be a few dozen fewer northmen to escape into the hills.

After it was done I tracked down the Captain. He was watching our medics comb through the windrows of fallen men, sorting through the injured, the dead, and the dying. Those of our brothers who might be expected to live were carried back to our camp, while the bodies of the enemy and ally dead and dying were unceremoniously searched, stripped, and tossed onto a growing mound of corpses. He was still in full armor but he had taken the helmet off and the enchantments had died away, Widowmaker was gone and he was the Captain again.

"-following the Northerners until sunset. Our employer's scouts have proved themselves incompetent and I do not wish to make the same mistake twice." The Company scout saluted the Captain and galloped off.

"Annalist." the Captain said without turning around. He regarded a line of prisoners being herded back towards the camps. "Have your expectations been fulfilled?"

I shrugged. "I think this'll be a short war if that's the best they've got."

"It never is."

"Honestly," I said. "I expected them to show more fight. I guess their little night march took more out of them than they thought."

The Captain rumbled in subterranean agreement. "Our employer is no fool at least. He wields his army as a lance, not a bludgeon."

"You mean he was quick to act when that hare-brained idiot on the left made an unsupported charge? Maybe, but that commander still ought to be flogged."

"You don't know? The commander of the left wing was his son."

"The giant?"

"The dwarf."

"Damn."

We stood together in silence while we watched the activity on the battlefield. The orderly ranks of men were gone or dead. Scavengers picked over their corpses in ones and twos. I made a mental note to visit the market later and see what they had recovered. I had been hearing some intriguing things about "Valyrian steel" swords.

"Do you think we have reason to celebrate?" The Captain seemed to be talking to himself.

"It is a victory." I ventured. "Tactically, strategically, logistically..."

"One victory does not a war win." the Captain grumbled. "They will be feasting and shouting in their tents tonight because they got their precious victory, all while their enemy slips away to lick their wounds."

"The Lieutenant and our rangers might hit them again tonight."

"Not even the full Company could shatter the northerners' army in open battle, and I have neither the authority nor the inclination to order a general pursuit. No, the Lieutenant and her men will come in this evening and we'll not march north except as part of our employer's army."

"You don't think that'll happen though." I guessed.

"This isn't the Free Cities, Annalist. Nobles savor their victories like lesser men savor fine wine." He turned his horse towards camp. "Although I must confess I prefer the latter. Less chance of it turning sour in your belly."

I grinned and trotted after him.

"By the way, Annalist," he said over his shoulder. "I want you to assist Shambles with his tally. Bring me the report tonight."

"So soon?" I threw some whine into my voice. "But Captain, I have the Annals to attend to. Surely such a heavy workload is enough?"

"Somehow I'm sure you will find the time."

I threw him a salute that turned into a raised middle finger as soon as his back was turned.

XXX

"Alright, what've you got?" I grumbled, slouching up to the quartermaster's tent. Shambles and Tremm had the day's catch spread out on the ground around them and were fussing over each piece as they counted and stacked them.

"Look a' this beauty!" Shambles grinned, holding up a massive black steel breastplate emblazoned with a white sunburst. "Damn near a full suit too, except the fuckin' leg's crushed."

"So get the smiths to hammer it back out." I said. "Who was it?"

"Dunno. Stark something."

"Karstark." A sullen boy in a spotted tunic spoke up from where he squatted at the edge of the canvas.

I cocked an eyebrow. "Who's the brat?"

"Squire on loan from the Presters." Shambles said, setting the breastplate back on top of its backplate with a clank. "Fuck knows none o' us can keep all these fuckin' badges straight."

I sighed, pulled out paper and quill. "I'm afraid that's just what I'll have to do. Captain wants me to catalog all these. Start at the top here." I pointed to the near side of the canvas where the surcoats were stacked. "I want the badges and houses too, boy."

The squire glowered at me but obeyed.

It was a good haul for a short battle. Most of the armor came from the northerners. It was good quality – mostly chainmail and boiled leather with some plate here and there. The northerners didn't go in for ornamentation, thank the gods. Our smiths would pitch a fit if they had to scrape gilt and enamel off of every piece they got. The salvageable pieces would be stripped, cleaned, painted black, and doled out to brothers with lost or damaged armor. The silks and satins and gilt would be sold off to camp followers, and the badges and heraldry would be discreetly stored away. In this business you never knew when it might be handy to impersonate the enemy. Or join them.

After I had finished cataloging the sigils I joined Shambles and Tremm in picking over the armor for 'non-essential accessories', or 'fripperies that would be paying for our drinks'. Call it executive privilege. I swapped Tremm a silver inlaid belt and a horsehair crest mount for a bearskin cloak longer than he was tall. I was betting that some southerner would pay good coin for it. If not, I'd wear it north.

"No wolves." Tremm sighed, polishing a bent cloak pin shaped like crossed battleaxes on his sleeve. "I was gonna get me a wolf banner."

"Well, I want a Valyrian sword so it looks like neither of us is sleeping happy tonight." I said.

"Banners are the best." Tremm went on. "Light and easy to carry, but knights'll pay good coin to hang 'em in their hall."

"Me, I'll fuckin' settle for Robb Stark's head." Shambles grinned. "Wonder how much our employer would pay for that. Spatter, go find out how much the fuckin' head's worth."

"Go fuck yourself, Shambles. I'm not going anywhere near lord-high-and-mighty. Probably as soon hang me as look at me."

"Not if you had Stark's head."

"Point. For that they'd probably knight me. Titles and trumpets and golden spurs and all that shit."

As if summoned, a horn sounded from the Lannister camp.

"What's this now?" Tremm wondered.

I sighed and sat back against a pile of mail shirts. "Bad news. Always is."