An Sáirsint

The NCOs had gathered around two long tables pushed together in the hall of Hayford Castle, lit by the artificial white-blue light of portable spotlights and camplights rather than the hearths. The table itself was covered with sketched maps, with a bigger one drawn on a whiteboard. The room looked dirty within the shadows to cover it.

Padraig looked the section leaders over as they waited for Duquesne. Some were off-rotation for the defence of the keep and were barely dressed, the heat of the day getting to them. Some had been pulled in from the walls or patrol and wore full combat equipment.

All of them knew what the preliminary briefing was about, they had been consulted and meetings already held individually. And he saw the hunger to do something in all of them. They had all seen the footage of the threat by the guy who had a hundred thousand men to throw around and its translations: Executions for the men, forced marriages for the women.

Woe unto King Renly Baratheon.

Duquesne walked in from the outside, the sentries closing the large doors behind him. All Westerosi had been banished from the keep, even its infant lady.

The Captain wore the same expression he had been wearing since the peace summit; no signature smirk, eyes narrower than usual, mouth a tight flat line at all times. Whatever the man was feeling wasn't identifiable, but it was doubtful it was anything positive.

"Attention!" Padraig called. The entire table immediately stood straight and followed the order.

Duquesne walked up and went to the head of the table, in front of the whiteboard, before giving a small nod. "Stand easy," Padraig commanded, though it had little effect. 'Princess' Zheng, pig-faced Nowak, baldy Schafer, mustachioed MacDonald, thick-armed Melnyk and stern Portelance… none of them relaxed an inch, save to move a little to get a better view. And none of them made a sound.

"As you're all aware," the Captain began, "We offered a compromise for peace to the kings assembled to attack the capital city of this country. We expected rejection from at least one. We were prepared to take proportionate action. What we got was instead a demand from the most powerful king that we must leave or submit."

"Complete with blood curdling threats," Padraig added, "The sort you give foreign invaders." Which isn't crazy considering we're here without permission, even if we're not here to conquer anyone.

Zheng let out a breath and shook her head. "Even the guys with the Starks and Tullys were nodding along with King Prick when he said we had no right to interfere."

Padraig restrained a pained grimace. Yeah, the lords don't like us very much.

"King Renly was attempting to unite his nobles behind him," Duquesne said flatly, "The Lannisters look like they're finished. He has no real claim to the throne by law, so he needs an issue to keep everyone under his rule once the capital is taken. He chose us 'foreigners'. We refused to obey him. He declared war."

Duquesne paused, picked up a stick to point with and indicated to a sketched map on the table.

"What some of you may not be aware of is that we have already seen the results," he continued, "Over the last five days, there have been three attempts at reconnaissance from the west and northwest by small cavalry units identified as Tyrell forces, and the skinchangers report more infantry coming up the Roseroad to join Renly's army."

That broke the icy mood of the group, though the Captain himself kept his very much intact. "What do they expect to accomplish?" Schafer asked, "They must be aware of our capabilities by now. Why did we hide them again?"

Padraig scowled. "We didn't want them to know what we could do," he explained, "And we didn't want to look like arrogant conquerors." The civvies have a bad enough opinion of us.

Duquesne nodded. "Which is a genuine problem in a country shaped by two major invasions by superior military forces," he replied, "We don't think they know for sure what we can do. Their recon groups consist of two platoons, one following the other at a safe distance. We think they're trying to provoke a hostile response so they can see what that looks like."

"Counting our guns," MacDonald mused aloud, before clarifying, "Seeing if what the Starks said about our weapons and vehicles is true."

They were trying to be smart, that's certain, Padraig thought. "Something like that," he agreed, "We've intercepted their attempts with the unicorn riders in force each time. They've backed off every time, so they still don't know shite. And we've kept it that way for a reason."

All eyes turned to Duquesne for the reason.

"They have started a war," the Captain said, "We can't afford to fight a long one and our government won't tolerate one either. So we will end it in a single action." He pointed to another map.

"Operation Bear Trap," Duquesne said, "As in, the Baratheon idiot stepped in one by declaring war."

"Ouch," Schafer joked.

Better than the original name, Padraig thought to himself, 'Operation Pizarro' would've pissed off the civvies and Ottawa crowd like mad.

Duquesne nodded, indicating the road routes on the map that went west, south and then east along it towards the city.

"Very ouch. We will execute a night march in our combat vehicles with the full strength of the Canadian military contingent and strike the enemy camp in darkness, utilising our mobility, firepower and sensor advantages. Our main objective is the capture of the Baratheon-Tyrell leadership, with a secondary objective of the seizure of money chests."

Every single person wore a predator gaze. Good, Padraig thought, They're hungry.

"Now we're talking, sir," Zheng grinned. Padraig glanced at her, knowing she wouldn't like her place in the plan. You shouldn't be so happy.

"How do we do this?" Nowak asked, hands on his hips, "I've seen the Raven photos of the camp, it's big. I doubt the King is camped out on the edge of it."

"The enemy has already helped us with that," Duquesne stated, moving to the whiteboard, "This is the layout of the camp. Or to be more accurate, camps. As you can see, it sits on the Goldroad heading west which cuts it in half."

"In more ways than one," Padraig said, picking up a book with a map of the continent to show it, "The Baratheon troops are camped in this hillside forest, the Tyrell ones in the fields across the road."

Duquesne nodded. "They don't trust or like each other, or they're not used to operating together. Either way, it gives us a great chance."

He pointed at the centre of the camp. "The Goldroad is completely open thirty yards at a minimum to either side with the exception of checkpoints at each end. For anyone else in Westeros, riding up that road at night with enough speed is impossible. For us, there's no chance in hell anyone could react before we reach the headquarters area."

"I see barricades on these photos, sir?" MacDonald said, lifting a printed sheet showing a blurry drone photo, "Our crawlers are good but they can't climb over eight foot log spikes."

"They're only on the road on the city facing side," Padraig replied, "They're to protect the camp and the siege engines they're building from an attack in that direction. The other side is protected by cavalry recon patrols, but they won't be around at night. Both have guard contingents nearby but they're small."

And they couldn't stop us or warn the enemy in time regardless.

MacDonald tilted his head, accepting that and putting down the recon photo.

"The assault group consisting of Alpha, Bravo and Charlie sections and a platoon of Free Folk volunteers under Ryk will proceed in seven crawlers. Six combat ones, one rigged as an ambulance," Duquesne said, "Once we are in our starting positions, the attack itself will be conducted in three phases."

He traced the Goldroad on the map.

"Phase One. The assault group will move along the road through the western checkpoint at full speed to the headquarters. Lights off, night-vision on."

The Captain looked around for any complaint about that. There was none to be had. Everyone else was processing the scale of the ask. I don't blame them.

Duquesne continued a second later. "We'll park up on the road itself and put up the razorwire around the crawlers. "

"The time between us being spotted by anyone and our arrival in the headquarters zone will be less than two minutes," Padraig added, "Word won't reach command and control until we're right on top of them."

"It'll be like aliens attacking," Zheng snorted.

That melted Duquesne's statue-like expression a little as he turned back to the whiteboard. He's looking forward to this.

"Phase Two, we shall seize the objectives," the Captain stated, flipping the whiteboard on its pivots. A series of images pulled from the peace summit recordings were on the other side. "Renly Baratheon, VIP one. Mace Tyrell, VIP two. Garlan Tyrell, VIP three. Loras Tyrell, VIP four. One and Four seem to be sharing the same bed, so we can scoop them up together."

Nowak gave a wolf whistle which set off laughter. Duquesne shook his head in exasperation.

"Considering Loras Tyrell is sixteen and was Renly Baratheon's squire, it's less romance and more grooming," Padriag cut in, "His father and older brother are staying in the Tyrell tent."

Duquesne pointed to the middle of the camp and looked to MacDonald and Schafer. "Alpha and Bravo sections under the command of O'Neill will advance into the headquarters area itself. We'll lay smoke out between the headquarters and the forest camps with grenades and the mortar as we assault the primary and secondary objectives. We have identified the tents in question and they will be marked by infrared strobes dropped off by our warged birds."

Padraig cleared his throat. "The smoke will obscure our actions to the men camped in the woods," he said, "Very important, as the closest campsite in the forest does have a clear line of sight. So make sure your lads don't forget it."

There were satisfyingly rapid nods from Baldy and the Moustache.

Duquesne's finger went to the road again, his attention to Nowak. "Charlie section will stay with the crawlers to operate the C6s, C16s and the 50 cals, to break up any groups of enemy combatants as they form with machine gun fire and grenades."

"Rules of engagement?" Nowak asked.

"Until we reach the objective area, no one is cleared to fire except the front crawler to unstick obstacles," the Captain replied, "Reconnaissance indicates only a token civilian presence in the AO. Once we stop the crawlers, we defend them and the egress route with absolute force. At that point, you'll be free to engage any and all hostiles."

Nowak gave a toothy smile and a thumbs up in response. Padraig glared at the man. The Charlie section sergeant was far too pleased about those orders in his opinion. You might seeing the sharp end of a court if you get too eager, eejit.

"Phase three," Duquesne continued, looking to Melnyk, "Delta and Echo sections attack the barricades from the city side to clear them for the egress of Alpha, Bravo and Charlie. You'll be mounted in the recon buggies and cruisers, with a pickup for the mortar and a single crawler to act as a second ambulance. Once the barricades are cleared, the assault force will leave first, followed by Delta and Echo."

"You want us to join an attack, sir?" Portelance asked, "Not to repeat myself, but we're MPs, not infantry."

Padraig scowled. That shite again, when are the thunderchickens going to realise they're in Hell?

"By the time Delta and Echo attack the barricades, the enemy's attention will be entirely on us in the middle of the camp. We don't anticipate any resistance, and even if there is, fuckin' spray it down with a machine gun. You'll feel better, I promise."

The Patricias in the room had a good chuckle at the expense of the cop, who bit her tongue in annoyance. The police sergeant was not amused, one corner of her lip curling back in displeasure in a face only Zheng could overmatch.

"We don't have a choice," Duquesne chipped in, "We need personnel with firearms training on site to make this work. We've even got civilian volunteers to drive some of the crawlers, so our drivers are freed up to do wetwork."

Portelance sighed with resignation and stood up a little straighter. "Understood, sir."

"What does our civilian liaison think of this plan?" Schafer said, "Or the other civilians? Are they not whining over it?"

The Captain scowled into a space for a moment. "They generally agree the situation warrants a military solution," he said, "We consulted Cloutier and the other anthropologists about the best way to make medieval lords back down. The Professor and her minions agree that fighting them is step one, but just fighting them isn't good enough."

Padraig nodded. "Which matches how the Lannisters have acted after their defeat. Lord Tywin gave us deep concessions in negotiations but didn't surrender. To force King Renly into a peace, we'd either need to take a lot of castles or capture him. And his castles are a long way away."

"And killing him?" MacDonald asked, "That's an option too."

"Would end the war with the Reach," Padraig said, "But it would escalate the wider Westerosi civil war. There'd be two kingdoms without a king and at least two contenders for that land."

The question answered, Duquesne pointed in the direction of the city. "Once we leave the camp, we drive parallel to the walls of King's Landing until the Kingsroad, passing the Stark camp to return here. Total time in the enemy headquarters area, four minutes at most. Total operation time, two and a half hours."

"Wait," Zheng said, eyes narrowed at the maps, "Where is Foxtrot in this? Where am I?"

Padraig exhaled deeply. He didn't want to do this to her, but there was no choice. "Most of the Free Folk are staying behind. We don't have enough night vision goggles for everyone to fight in darkness, or enough volunteer drivers to get them to the area of operations. Since you are the NCO commanding the Laughing Tree, you will command the defence of Hayford."

Zheng stared in outrage at him, before glancing at the Captain and finding no support. The others around the table looked away. Everyone thought they knew why she wouldn't be coming on the attack, and it wasn't only the fact the Free Folk weren't going. She had fucked up bigtime at the peace summit.

She had already been put on half-pay for two months, and she would probably never be involved in negotiations with the Westerosi again, but those two facts were private. That she had threatened King Renly hadn't been shown to anyone, the others could only guess at exactly how badly she had acted.

Padraig felt bad about her having a public reckoning nonetheless. She didn't deserve it really, not after being threatened with forced marriage.

"Sir, I need to go," Zheng reasoned, "You need everyone who can speak the languages that you can get on the mission."

Duquesne shook his head. "Sayer and O'Neill can handle that end," he said, "And I know what you're thinking, that this is a punishment for the summit. It isn't, not really."

"You'll have to explain how, sir," Zheng said bitterly, "I should be on this operation."

"Maybe so," the Captain said, "But the reality is, you now command the Laughing Tree. You'll be the only Canadian soldier in Hayford once we're gone. We'll be locking the civilians up in this keep for security and arming a few more volunteers. Their safety will be entirely in your hands."

Especially as the young men of the Laughing Tree may be tempted to try to steal a woman or two with us gone…

Zheng bit her bottom lip and looked up at the ceiling, almost in anguish. "Sergeant Portelance and her MPs should be doing that job, sir."

Padraig felt a twist in his gut at just how hurt she was over the whole thing. Seeing Portelance wasn't exactly against the idea of staying behind at Hayford, he decided to weigh in. Some things need explaining for the both of them.

"Sergeant Portelance can't speak the languages, nor does she have the respect of the Free Folk," he said, "You're the only one besides the Captain and myself that could give them orders. And if we fuck up and get trapped in the middle of an army of thirty thousand, God forbid, you'll be the one to get the civvies back to the Isle of Faces."

Zheng crossed her arms. "Sergeant Portelance can do that. I'd rather be with you all if shit hits the fan."

Padraig shook his head. "The Free Folk wouldn't agree to help do that for Portelance. They wouldn't respect her just on her word to not do shite to the civvies or supplies either. She wasn't there when we broke the Wall. She didn't put down hundreds of black brothers in Castle Black. So no, this isn't a punishment so much as the cards you were dealt when you were put in charge of the Free Folk."

Zheng's dark eyes met Padraig's own, still aggrieved but at least calmer. He felt a pressure release that he hadn't noticed before. He looked away, noticing to his displeasure the awkward attention of everyone else in the room. Almost everyone.

"Speaking of shit going wrong," the Captain said, "Like O'Neill said, it's entirely possible we find ourselves trapped or delayed in the middle of a hostile army. But we have stacked the odds against it. We will be going in during the darkest hours of the night, we have Delta and Echo in place to clear a way out if we need it, and we'll be bringing ammunition and grenades to deal with the entire enemy force."

Padraig shook with a single quiet laugh. "So while we'll have enough firepower to storm Juno Beach, they'll be stumbling out of their tents with their arses hanging out, not able to see a feckin' thing. The advantage of surprise isn't strong enough a phrase to describe it."

The NCOs had a good chuckle at that… except for a sulking Zheng, muttering about how she wanted to be there again.

"I have one question, sir," MacDonald asked, "Why are we doing this? Would it not be easier to pull up to the outside of their perimeter and and riddle their army with lead? Burn the siege weapons they're building or the barges they use to bring in supplies and reinforcements?"

Duquesne bit his lip and looked down at the table for a moment, before pushing off from it to stand again. "The purpose of war is to achieve a political objective," he said, "Ours isn't to conquer the South. We need to get these nobles to stop killing each other and start killing the ice demons waiting behind the Wall, that way Canada doesn't have to fight the damn things at home."

"So we turn King Renly and the top nobles into POWs," Padraig added, "And hold them while their subordinates do what we want. To these pricks, their men are expendable and they can build siege engines until the cows come home, but taking noble hostages is just good business."

MacDonald cocked an eyebrow, moustache moving in the same direction. "We're going to be taking the nobles hostage?" he said, "Is that legal?"

"We're not going to do anything but keep them as POWs," Padraig replied, "But if the lords want to draw their own conclusions about what we might do, even after we say no harm will come to the prisoners, that's their problem."

"Even if they do believe us," Duquesne said, "Renly can't be king if he's cooling his heels in a prisoner of war camp and if we grab his immediate lieutenants too, his supporters will be leaderless. We can dictate peace terms. That's what we want."

There was no argument with that. It was a neat and tidy way to end the war quickly. High risk, very high reward. The Captain's eyes relaxed a little, showing satisfaction at the acceptance of the reality. He turned to Padraig to deliver the last piece of news.

"One more thing," Padraig began, reaching into his pocket, "For myself and those on point in the sections taking the objective VIPs… we'll be wearing these on side mounts on our helmets." He produced an infrared helmet camera and held it up.

The entire table frowned, scowled and cursed, finally getting a smirk out of Duquesne. They all knew what it meant; plenty of ammunition for armchair quarterbacks in elected positions to shoot at them later.

The Captain took the camera and held it out in front of him. "The privilege of being in the middle of catastrophic historical events, ladies and gentlemen," he said, "No mistakes allowed."

The rest of the day and the day after were taken up by preparations.

The particular vehicles to be used in the operation were selected, maintained and placed in their ready positions.

Every magazine was filled with bullets, batteries for night-vision goggles and infrared lasers charged and changed, every piece of equipment to be carried by each soldier laid out in rows on the tables of the hall.

Further reconnaissance identified changes to the camp layout and security, though the only real difference was that the camp gained a large fence made of rough logs.

Ryk's platoon were issued and taught how to use radios, hearing protection and night vision, and squad leaders issued with a shotgun or pistol for use in close quarters.

Padraig organised every logistical preparation, while Duquesne held briefings for individual squads on their exact tasks. Just because everyone would have night vision didn't mean it would be easy to identify objectives. Just because the enemy were technologically backward didn't mean chances could be taken on the details.

At about eleven o'clock on the seventh night after the peace council, under heavy cloud cover from a gathering rain shower, Duquesne ordered the seven crawlers and six wheeled vehicles to leave Hayford.

Travelling south on the Kingsroad, Delta and Echo sections split off from the back of the column of vehicles at the first village, heading towards King's Landing. They'd eventually reach the dirt cart paths around the city itself and swing around it to their starting position east of King Renly's camp.

Alpha, Bravo and Charlie pressed on, getting off the Kingsroad when it too swung towards the city at the second village and sticking to the southern wagon roads. The little town was occupied by the Starks, and Padraig stood out of the roof of his crawler to watch it go by. There were plenty of torches lit for the sentries on guard. The faces of the men as they realised what was passing in front of them were something to see. They knew what it meant to see Canadian war machines on the move in numbers at night.

At the third village, the assault group finally turned east on the Goldroad, about fifteen clicks from the camp. This one was occupied by the Tyrells, their rose banners flapping in the sea breeze coming up the valley of the Blackwater.

The column bypassed the whole settlement by way of the nearest farmer's field, already stripped bare to stock King's Landing grain supplies. There was no way the sentries there could warn the main camp, they were left to rush out of the village houses as the alarm was raised and fling a few crossbow bolts uselessly into the dark.

When they had been on the Goldroad for ten minutes, the radio crackled to life in Padraig's ear. "Final approach," Duquesne reported from the command crawler, "Delta reports at standby."

Licking his lips, Padraig flipped down his goggles again, the world lighting up in sickly green and greys. The camp was still not visible, it took a few more minutes before he saw it; the bare field filled with tents, with two huge horse corrals in front of them, the shadow of siege towers rising behind it.

The enemy had put up some rough fencing made from logs around all of it, but there was still no barricade on the west side approach. There was almost no light coming from it, most of the campfires had long burned out for the night.

But the flashing of the infrared strobes began to spill into view, marking the location of the King's tent, invisible to anyone without night vision goggles. All according to plan.

"All sections, go to NV," Padraig commanded, before repeating the order in Common, "Ladies and gentlemen, we step off in three minutes!"

Various affirmatives in both languages responded, the coaxing of metallic noise from weapons audible in the background. Show-offs.

"Checkpoint in one mike," Nowak reported, "Contact front, company sized."

Fuck, Padraig thought, Were they warned? He craned his neck to see.

A snickering laugh came over the comms. "Road clear," Nowak continued, "The enemy unit is still sat on their asses, hanging around by the horse corrals."

Probably just the night watch then, not a welcoming committee. "Hold fire unless they get in our way," Padraig said, "No need to wake the camp up until we have to."

"Copy."

The crawlers roared forwards, racing straight for the entrance of the camp. Padraig brought the butt of the C7 he was carrying to his shoulder and flicked off the safety. He needn't have bothered.

The column of vehicles drove past more than a hundred stunned Westerosi, the sight of the assault force stopping all chatting, drinking and eating like someone had clicked a pause button on the world's controls. It was hard to tell over the sound of the engines, but Padraig didn't think any of the enemy guards said a word.

"Thirty seconds!" Nowak shouted. The crawler lurched slightly as the column began to decelerate in unison as planned. Padraig steadied himself on the rim of the hatch he was standing out of, the metal and rubber biting into his palm.

"LAMs on!" Duquesne ordered, "Cameras on! Ear protection on!"

Lasers attached to the machine guns lanced out into the dark, glowing brightly in night vision and aiming out at the camp. It was a stuffy night with the cloud cover overhead, and Padraig could see into the tents as he turned on his own LAM and helmet camera. The men inside were not stirring from the noise of the vehicles. Stay asleep, you fuckers.

"Okay everyone," Duquesne said, "You know what to do. Ten seconds. Delta, drop your smoke now."

Padraig saw the headquarters area hove into view past the tents with the Baratheon banners overhead.

In an open curve in the forest like someone had just scooped out the trees, the tents formed two sides of an open square, the far side closed off by covered wagons. In the middle of the opposite sides were two house-sized tents. One hung stag banners, the other had ones with roses.

Assembly area in front of command and control, Padraig's mind noted as the crawlers came to a stop. His hand found his radio mouthpiece. "Dismount!" he ordered over the comms, ducking back down into the cabin to exit through the door.

By the time he did, the area around the vehicles was a hive of activity.

In the distance, the muffled thump of the smoke shells hitting the forest behind the HQ area announced that Melnyk had started doing his part. It was pure luck that one of his support section had transferred in from the company mortar company months before.

Ryk's guys were busy throwing up the razorwire to chin height, using small hammers to knock in metal poles and unspooling the huge double-cross rings of the stuff with thick gloves. Anyone trying to get through it would be tangled, helpless targets.

The Laughing Tree's mix of Canadian and medieval weapons, armour and dress just didn't look right, but Padraig didn't dwell on it. The Westerosi night guards in the headquarters area were already milling about. He spotted a tall woman in a tunic and riding trousers sprinting for King Renly's tent, silhouetted by the strobe light on top of it.

Nice arse on that one, his mind said idly, before realising she was going to warn VIP One, No time to waste. He would've shot her, but it was more important to get the attack going.

The assault force was already gathered in three groups. Padraig strode the few paces over to join them. Schafer and MacDonald gave quick salutes which he didn't return. He made it to his place between the lines, and took a breath. Here we go again.

He clenched his teeth and waved his soldiers forward, stepping off into the open space through the hole left in the razor wire for that purpose. He quickly took his weapon in hand and shouldered it, laser following the direction of the barrel in the green-grey of the night vision as a near-white line.

The assault group advanced across the already trampled grass, and those with grenade launchers began shooting smoke grenades over the tops of the tents, completing the screen. That finally caught the attention of some guards with their heads screwed on. No less than thirteen men in full helms, chainmail and tabards with stags stitched onto them approached, hands on their sword hilts.

"You there!" their leader shouted, a man with an impressive beard that seemed highlighted in infrared, "Stop!" The swords came out of their sheaths as one.

Poor eejits. Padraig put the laser point of his C7 at centre mass on the leader, and squeezed the rifle's trigger. A three-round burst chattered out in three flashes and the man collapsed like a puppet with his strings cut. The others were quickly taken by shots from either side of him, efficiently and without remorse. Walked up to their firing squad.

The assault team stepped over the bodies like they were just sacks of compost and reached the place where they were to split off. More guards were gathering now, Padraig noted, and the rifles began shooting all around to break them up before they could get numbers enough to do anything useful. He didn't have to order anyone to do it.

Why do none of them have crossbows… he wondered idly, analysing the situation.

He let Schafer take his fireteams forward towards the treasury wagon first, as it was furthest. A moment later, Padraig pointed MacDonald for the Tyrell command tent, before moving on the King's tent with his own. The skinchangers had scouted them both, via a bird carrying a field mouse. The tents had wooden pre-fabricated walls inside and only one exit.

Trapped like rats in their own tents.

The machine guns and grenade launchers of Charlie began shooting as one. Padraig nearly jumped out of his skin and looked back towards the crawlers. The muzzle flashes showed repeated bursts. Padraig grimaced. What the hell is happening back there?

"Hurry," he said. Finding his words barely audible over the sound of the heavier weapons, he led the way to the King's tent at a steady jog.

Two of the Rainbow Guard in full plate armour were waiting for him, though he couldn't tell which ones as the colours were just different shades of grey in infrared. They already had their swords out and charged as soon as they understood who was coming for them.

Fuck. Padraig shot one and Teixeira shot the other, the Master Corporal showing off with a single shot to the head of his target. The first crumpled to the ground, the second recoiled and fell on his dagger at a bad angle, stabbing himself in the side where his armour met his hip. At least he didn't feel that.

The squad formed up to either side of the entrance and Padraig gave the signal to move in. The air felt suddenly heavy, like you could cut it with a knife. Come on, you're not a fresh recruit, PJ. Biting through the sense of unease, Padraig entered the tent, Corporal Teixeira and Private Reyes right behind him.

The scene inside made all three of them pause just beyond the threshold, the rest of the men bumping into their backs in confusion.

The woman that had been running in earlier was on her stomach to the side, a slashing wound running down her side. Her sword was in two pieces beside her, the place it had been cut smouldering like wood.

A teenager in a rose-patterned doublet was struggling in a pile of furniture on the other side of the tent, like he had been thrown into the chairs and tables. His hair was dishevelled and hung over his face, he had a slash across his arm and a burn on his clothes by his shoulder. A young boy dressed like a squire was helping him up.

Two figures stood in the middle of the 'room'.

One was King Renly, half-dressed, as tall as expected, an impressive man physically by anyone's judgment. He was standing mostly facing the entrance, so his face could be seen clearly, contorting in pain, his body shaking. His hand dropped a sword to the ground just as Padraig's eyes were drawn.

The other figure was a dark shadow of a man, if a shadow could be a solid thing. It was just as tall as the King, its back facing Padraig. It seemed to be a warrior of some kind, as the shape of armour over its body was distinct.

But more importantly, it held a blade of shadow too and the weapon was stabbed straight into King Renly's torso, the wound smoking and hissing.

Padraig couldn't help himself. "Fuckin' hell!"

The shadow thing seemed to flinch and pulled its blade out of King Renly with a sizzle, the scent of cooked pork wafting into the air to Padraig's disgust. It flinched away and seemed to dart out of existence, like dust being sucked away by a vacuum cleaner.

The king dropped to his knees, hands clutching the wound covered in blood. His eyes searched the room, bulging in complete terror, his hands raised to look for aid.

That snapped Padraig and the others out of their shocked stupor. He let his rifle hang and went to kneel beside the man, flipping up his night vision goggles to try and look a little more normal.

As Padraig reached for a spare wound kit, the king tried uselessly to speak, his mouth moving but no words coming out of it.

"He's slipping away," Padraig muttered, not sure if he was saying it in English or Common.

Private Reyes bolted forward to stand on the king's sword, stopping the teenager from grabbing it from the floor. The boy found himself bending over with a rifle aimed directly at his cheek. Padraig finally recognised him; it was Loras Tyrell, VIP Four. Defeated, the young man began to weep and Teixeira roughly tied his hands with zip-ties.

That answers what language I was using, Padraig's mind stated, as if trying to distract itself from the horrific way in which the king was dying. His mind raced, thinking of what he could do to help. Don't die you bastard, we need you to order around your gobshite lords!

He quickly used an XSTAT device on the stab wound, the little tube inserting absorbant disks to seal it and stem the bleeding. The king clawed at him for that, but was too weak to stop it.

But there was nothing that could be done for the breathing problem. Nothing Padraig could think of. Meanwhile, the other Canadians had entered the room and quickly grabbed the other occupants, stealing looks at the wounded man on his back as they entered.

Finally, the eyes of King Renly Baratheon stared off to the ceiling and his attempts to breath stopped. Padraig put two fingers on the man's neck, searching for a pulse. Nothing. VIP One was dead. Tears streamed down Loras Tyrell's face. The woman began crying too, and it wasn't due to the pain of her wounds.

Guilt and frustration rose in Padraig's throat like vomit. "Fuck!" he roared, throwing the empty wound treatment device across the room, before going on his comms.

"Maple, this is Assault One. VIP One is KIA by…" Padraig started, before realising he couldn't explain what had happened. No one else said a word, the sound of the machine guns shooting continuously making a massive racket even behind wood and canvas.

"Say again O'Neill?" Duquesne's raised voice replied, the cacophony of the machine guns coming over the comms too, "King Renly is KIA?"

Padraig opened his mouth to answer, to explain… but stopped himself. Who the hell would believe him? Only two men. He looked to Teixeira and Reyes. "You two saw what I fucking saw, right? Shadow thing killed him?"

Reyes nodded rapidly. Teixeira bared his teeth and growled an affirmative noise. Hopefully the camera got a good look too… But we'll leave the how to later.

"King Renly is KIA," Padraig confirmed over the comms, "But not by us. We have VIP Four and witnesses who can confirm."

There was a short pause, no doubt the Captain spending the time to reevaluate the options. "Copy, cover the other assault elements. Delta is already moving to clear the exit route."

Padraig got up again with a grunt of effort, finding his own hands covered in blood. He wiped it off on his uniform like it was just dry mud, and turned to the prisoners. "Get them out of here," he commanded, "Leave the young one. No interest in capturing a child." And we need someone to stay who can tell the story about what happened here to the enemy.

"What about the King?" Teixeira asked.

Padraig glanced down at the tall, dead shook his head. "Leave him too. Fighting outside sounds like we won't have time to bag him up or the manpower to carry him." He flipped down his night vision again, and gestured to the prisoners, seeing they were listening intently. "Out you go," he said to them in the Common tongue.

They went out of the tent first with rifles at their back, into the dark and the strobing flashes of firearms. The tall woman and the Tyrell kid were so shocked at the volume of the machine gun fire that they turned their heads north and stopped. Padraig had to shove them from the entrance to get out, the young man sending a dirty look towards him.

"Don't give me looks, you shitehawk," Padraig said to him, "You lads started this with their big fuckin' mouths. Declare war, expect war. Now take your eyeballs off me or I'll make you, with my fist."

'Ser' Loras defied the threat, glaring up at him. Padraig flexed his fingers, ready to follow up on it, but the radio interruptedh im.

"This is Alpha," MacDonald's voice reported over the comms, "We have VIP Three. VIP Two not in AO. Enemy attacking in company strength."

"Bravo here," Schafer added, "We're seeing a lot of movement in the forest just inside the smoke. Request orders."

Padraig looked across the open square to see.

Alpha were pouring bullets into armed men coming around both sides of the Tyrell tent, MacDonald coordinating it while holding two prisoners by the plasticuffs.

Bravo were in the process of getting two wheeled chests from the treasury wagon, the rest aiming southwards into the trees but they weren't shooting at anything yet.

And on the crawlers, the machine guns and the grenade launchers were shooting continuously now, both northwards into the Tyrell camp and back west along the road.

The enemy are getting their shit together, Padraig thought to himself, knuckles itching.

"Alpha, Bravo, withdraw to central position," Padraig ordered, waving his own section to move, "I want the primaries and secondaries to me, now!"

"Copy."

"Contact rear!" Reyes shouted, before shooting off a burst.

A crossbow bolt sprouted on his chest, sending him stumbling back. The rest of the section returned fire, the hail of flying metal ripping through the air.

Mouth dry, Padraig turned to follow where they were shooting, finding two dozen crossbowmen in the process of being massacred and a running Loras Tyrell getting away. He quickly brought up his rifle but by the time he had done it, the young man had darted around the side of the tent.

The crossbows were joined by dozens more with spears and swords, some of them barely dressed or lacking boots. His heart pounding, Padraig redirected his aim and emptied his rifle into the attackers. Those in front were ripped down in a wave of tracers. The survivors' bravery wavered and they ran behind the tents again to seek cover.

"Fuck, they're not waiting to get at us!" Padraig shouted, his heart still thundering in his ear. He looked quickly to Reyes, "You hurt, Private?"

"Kevlar and plate stopped it," the man reported, slapping the bolt away, "Scared the shit out of me!"

Seeing the thing had penetrated just deeply enough to stick and no more, Padraig got on the comms to Duquesne again. "Maple, this is Assault One. VIP Four just escaped under the cover of a heavy attack. Alpha have only one of their targets, Bravo has some of theirs but not all. Request permission to withdraw."

The comms crackled to life again. "All assault elements, regroup and withdraw to the crawlers," Duquesne said over the assault channel, "Smoke is clearing, thermals have a regimental sized force gathering to attack you downhill from the forest. Delta is heavily engaged at the exit. Way is clear but that might not last long."

"Time to go!" Padraig roared, balancing his rifle on his hip with one hand and pulling the tall woman prisoner along with the other. His subordinates followed his lead and together they made it to the middle of the square, where MacDonald's group was waiting. Bravo was rushing back too, two of them pulling the wheeled chests along as the rest covered them.

"Never seen the likes of this shite," the Moustache drawled, his Scottish accent heavier than usual, "This lot eat their Weetabix at midnight, didn't take 'em two seconds to get up out of their scratchers and fight."

"Professionals," Padraig agreed, "We underestimated them."

MacDonald gave a head tilt towards the tall woman. "Who's this?"

Haven't a clue. "A witness," Padraig replied, "Who's your plus-one?"

"One of the guards," MacDonald replied with a shrug.

Schafer's guys ran up, mouths wide smiles. "Got the two biggest chests!" their baldy leader declared happily, "And dumped the rest on the ground."

Padraig and MacDonald exchanged a disapproving glance, neither of them thinking dragging the money along was worth the time and effort.

"Let's get out of here," Padraig said.

"Yeah, let's!" Teixeira agreed loudly, pointing back the way Schafer & Co had come. A wall of men and spears were coming, swarming around the tents and trees out of the thinning smoke.

Regimental sized might have been a low estimate.

"Bounding withdrawal!" Padraig commanded, "Bravo, get your fucking treasure chests to the crawler now!" The men pulling the things took off as quickly as they could, as Alpha knelt and aimed.

The underslung grenade launchers went first, taking chunks out of the mass attack. The tracers followed, flying along the path of the lasers into the bodies of the attacking Westerosi, sending the runners tumbling into the dirt, scattering weapons around them.

Padraig watched the shots, before ordering Alpha back behind Schafer's waiting soldiers and running back himself. The units took turns retreating and shooting, just barely holding back the tide. They were getting close to the crawlers now.

"Grenades!" he called at the top of his voice over the sound of the machine guns directly behind. He reached for one himself. The grenades were thrown out, landing in the front ranks.

Padraig saw one get caught by a man-at-arms, but didn't have long enough to think about it before the inevitable happened. The grenades detonated with a series of crump sounds, dozens dropped and tumbled as the explosions took out their legs. The guy who had caught one had his hand and wrist disappeared in a wet explosion.

Sympathetic groans echoed from most of the Canadians, including from Padraig's own throat. But it stopped the charge almost at once, long enough for everyone to make it into the razorwire perimeter again. The tall woman was pulled through by Reyes and Teixeira into the ambulance crawler, where the Dentist was waiting for her. She was joined quickly by the other two prisoners and four of Schafer's men designated to guard them.

Hurrying through the gap in the razorwire before Ryk's men closed it behind him, Padraig almost knocked the man himself over. He found the Free Folk leader splattered with blood and gore, his eye bulging even more than usual. Fuck he looks like he's high on something.

"Not mine," Ryk said, leaning in, "The kneelers coming up the road almost got through. Until they met the Laughing Tree." A toothy, manic cackle followed.

Padraig straightened up to look westwards over the man's head. In the flashes of the machine guns, the razor wire at the rear of the column was tangled with bodies, some wearing little but the coveralls the local medieval types used as underwear. We need to get out of here. "Mount up!" he commanded, "Open the side windows, hold fire until my signal."

Alpha and Bravo quickly jumped into the crawlers, and Ryk's people got the idea too, climbing into whatever crawler was nearest. A quick glance southwards confirmed that the Baratheon forces were regrouping on that side, readying the next charge. Padraig jogged over to Duquesne's crawler quickly, ducking down as he passed by the windows in case someone decided to shoot from them regardless of orders.

"CLEAR BACKBLAST!" Duquesne roared from the top of his vehicle.

Shit! Padraig scrambled back as the Captain stood tall out of the roof of his crawler with a light SRAAW.

The small bazooka boomed its rocket forward. The backblast shook the air and dirt where Padraig had been about to run to. What the hell is he shooting at? he thought, peering between the units of the crawler over the connecting hydraulics.

On the north side of the road, the ground was littered with the dead and dying. Septons and comrades were moving to help the latter, while still more men were spread out, trying to get close to the machine gunners and grenade launchers doing the killing. It was clear to Padraig they had learned the lesson that charging in together just got them cut down. What the fuck are we waiting for?

He stepped up on the hydraulics and sat on the roof beside Duquesne. The Captain did a double-take as soon as he did. "O'Neill," he breathed, the shooting dying down for the moment, "We need to get out of here."

Padraig wanted to put his head in his hands. "No shit, what's stopping us?"

"Ryk's counting his people," Duquesne replied, "Alpha, Bravo and Charlie already sounded off. Not leaving anyone behind. And they just keep coming at us!"

Remembering the Free Folk had just bailed into whatever crawler they had been next to, Padraig looked back down the line of vehicles. Sure enough, there was Ryk, moving from one to the other, counting with his fingers in a strange way he didn't recognise. Shit, I hope that horny bastard can count.

A cheer from the north sent both men turning that way. The Baratheon men that had come from the forest hadn't learned the same lesson as the Tyrell men in the field, and waving banners, shaking swords and spears, they charged as one across the open.

These are the bravest men in the world, Padraig decided then and there, before something else struck him, And they know their king is dead.

Duquesne raised his rifle to shoot, but Padraig had already prepared. "Alpha, Bravo, cleared to engage."

Lasers aimed out into the dark, and the rifles and light machineguns they were attached to barked and ripped from the crawler windows. Tracers raked through the enemy, the Patricias making sure each target was immobile with follow up shots.

The Westerosi went down like something out of a Hollywood production, rank-by-rank. To anyone else, it would've seemed like the attack was doomed. But Padraig and Duquesne both knew the rifles would need to reload, and the enemy was too close.

"Where the hell is Ryk?" the Captain ground out loudly, leaning on his palms to look.

"Maple, this is Sanchez," the man answered by radio in English, "Everyone good!"

"All crawlers, move out!" Duquesne commanded over the radio.

The vehicle under Padraig's ass began to move, and he quickly turned on it to put his legs in the roof hatch so he wouldn't slide off. The Baratheon battalions made it to the razorwire just as he got himself situated again, too late to do anything but watch the vehicles leave. Too close.

The crawlers accelerated away towards the edge of the camp. Padraig noticed the fighting among the siege weapons for the first time. Still more tracers flew in between half finished catapults, trebuchets and siege towers as what looked to be another few thousand men huddled behind them, waiting for the opportunity to charge.

The machine guns on the crawlers opened up at once, riddling the clumps of men from an unexpected direction. They shattered and fled in any direction that was away from the shooting, Padraig just seeing them long enough to watch them throw their weapons down before the crawlers approaching the exit.

"Delta to Assault force," came the amused tones of Melnyk, relief evident in his voice too, "Just in time." His vehicles jumped to life, turning away from the fenceline they had been parked in front of. The crawlers passed the destroyed checkpoint and the corpses of another company's worth of Westerosi, leaving King Renly's camp. Padraig and Duquesne both watched rearwards as Delta's pickups and Echo's police cruisers joined the back of the column, Sayer's crawler in the middle of them.

They said and did nothing for a long while, until the camp and the shambles it had become were out of sight. As soon as it was, the Captain let out a long, loud breath, pulling off his night vision and his large noise-cancelling earmuffs.

Padraig pulled his helmet off too, NV and all, and took out his own noise cancelling earpieces. He turned off the camera on his helmet and clipped the whole thing to his belt. It seemed almost like a ritual or ceremony, a strange feeling to his mind. He hadn't felt that way since his first Holy Communion back in the last century.

They were quiet another while after that, until the headlights of every vehicle lit up at the turn to circle around the city. Padraig could smell the place distinctly as the sea air blew over it and towards him. Shit and rot and salt, enough to make him gag. He couldn't see guards or anyone else watching. The tall red walls that were little more than dark shapes to him now loomed, except where the edge of the headlights glanced them.

"Well, we won," Duquesne said out of nowhere, "Mostly."

Padraig clicked his tongue, uncertain of that. "Did we, sir?" he asked. He genuinely didn't know the answer to the question.

"We took one of our primary objectives and our secondaries," Duquesne replied with certainty, "And every single one of us made it out alive."

Padraig did feel a little better at that, but the sight of that thing stabbing Renly Baratheon, the smell of bacon as it withdrew the blade sizzling the flesh impossible to shake off. Would bullets have even stopped it? "Their king is dead, sir."

Face lit up by the glow of the lights, Duquesne looked back at him. "Do you want to explain that now or later?"

Padraig didn't think simply telling the tale would be enough, and looked down at his helmet camera. "You need to see it to believe it, sir."