50 Battle of the God's Eye

"This is… impressive," Jon remarked, running his hand along the painted canvas. "The figures, the background, it is as if I am witnessing the scene first hand."

Beaming from the praise of Vhrysa, the artist shrugged. "I wouldn't go that far, your Majesty, but thank you." He spoke the Common Tongue well enough, indicating he had been a master rather than a freedman - but Mossador said he was loyal, or else he would never have gotten a private audience with the Emperor. "It is a style I… and my mentor before me and his mentor before him… have been trying to perfect for decades now. Thus, when Lord Mossador seeked to commission a depiction of the freeing of the slaves of Yunkai, who was I to deny Mhysa a chance to express my technique in her honor?"

Barristan had told Jon before of his father. Rhaegar Targaryen, the man of many contradictions. A strong and powerful fighter, he had also been a man of the arts - of culture. One who hoped to use his reign to turn a nation of wood and straw into one of brick and marble. To reclaim the spirit of Old Valyria out of the squalor that centuries of torpid kings, scheming bastards, and narrowly ambitious lords had left on Westeros. Admiring the hidden brush strokes, the throes of emotion in the freedmen brilliantly captured by the artist, the ethereal beauty of his Daenerys that captured her essence in a way the stylized monstrosities of statues back home couldn't, Jon felt the same passion of his father course through him. "I have not seen such detail since the mosaics at Dragonstone. No form of art in Westeros truly captures it."

A flash of disgust crossed the artist's eyes, but he kept a deferential facade. "Don't think too much of the artists and sculptors in Westeros, sire. They are too traditional for their own good. Every sculpture looks the same, and never looks like the person they are seeking to represent - something members of my guild are trying to correct. We call it 'Neovalyrian,' as the Valyrian style of mosaics and frescoes largely died out with the Doom."

Hearing about sculpture, Jon felt his heart soar. The memory of the highly stylized statue of Ned Stark, his father in all but name, in the crypts of Winterfell came to mind. "When Empress Daenerys and I retake the Red Keep, I will need enough of these paintings to fill the walls. Can I count on you to create more?"

"Oh yes, sire. I am honored." He bowed low.

"I would also like to commission a specific work of my own. Would it be possible to make an accurate - as can be - sculpture of my father. Both my fathers actually. Rhaegar Targaryen and Eddard Stark?"

The artist pondered it. "Hmmm, both are not among the living… I could draw a sketch based on recollections, and my colleague can work from that if that is up to your satisfaction, sire?"

'I still remember father, and Barristan remembers Rhaegar.' Jon nodded. "That can be arranged. Thank you for your gift to the Realm, and I am eager to see what you will show me next." The artist bowed once more and left the room, guards closing the door behind him.

Looking back at the magnificent work of art, Jon ran his thumb across the painted image of his wife - then his long lost love, building her empire in Essos while he was with the wildlings north of the Wall. Captured just as she was being raised atop the exultant crowd of newly freed slaves, the expression of joy and happiness shown on the canvas made him smile. With all that was going on, the stress of the trials of captured Harpies and sympathizers, not to mention the anger from the nobles and the counter rage from the freedmen, the image of his love brought warmth to him. "I love you, Daenerys," he whispered to no one in particular, hoping that she could hear him even from across the globe.

"I knew you had changed the moment you arrived home with father." Turns out, someone had heard him. Jon turned around to find Bran, the guard that wheeled him in bowing and leaving them be. "Didn't think it was a girl, though." A weak and emotionless chuckle left his thin, pale lips. "Once I saw Daenerys in this very place, I knew."

Jon smirked, crossing his arms. "I wouldn't expect any less from a warlock." The carefree, adventurous boy he had watched grow up was gone - on the outside rested a weak, frail cripple, but from demonstrations and the sudden arrival of a fully talking Hodor… or Willis rather, Jon knew there was an immense power underneath the unassuming exterior. "Didn't expect such a change from my brother," he mused.

"And I did not expect to find a Targaryen in the family, cousin," Bran replied, the ghost of a grin on his face. Such was the extent of his emotion these days.

Nodding, Jon reached over and clasped Bran on the back. "Seems we have that in common, then." He took a seat across from Bran. "Changing into persons we've never expected to be. Or with people we never expected to ever know." He smirked at his younger brother. "At least with the woman who fell for my little brother, it wasn't a total shock - circumstances… unexpected, but a Stark with a Reed isn't."

Bran offered a small smile, remembering the moment he realized his true feelings for Meera. He couldn't grant her the deep affection he had seen Jon give his love - it brought him satisfaction after his shade of the evening visions to see Jon finally have true happiness after being denied his true heritage for so long - but he did as much as he could in his own way. "No person can help who they fall in love with, Jon. Not you, nor your parents."

"No… I suppose not." Jon's smile fell, as he regarded Bran with different, more searching eyes. "Brother, does your magic give you the ability to greensee?"

Image of the old man - the Three-Eyed Raven - came to Bran's mind. "Sometimes. I… I get better every day." If he told Jon what it would take to improve his gift, he'd lock him in the cellar to keep him safe. "Why?"

"Do you… see into my future. Do you see anything about the battles to come?"

Bran closed his eyes. Remembered the vision of the warrior and his wife, of the ultimate sacrifice. "Keep Daenerys close, brother. Keep her close."

… have found close to fuck all, pardon my Valyrian. Used to be that bands of a dozen wildlings would make it to Castle Black, but since that brood of five giant pups that Marg and Wun found two weeks ago, nothing. Methinks the Night King has taken everything north of the Wall. Not a living soul still exists up there.

Still no sign of the dead. Sea patrols found Hardhome deserted. Raiding it has added to our food stocks, so we'll be fine, but for the sake of all of us, fucking finish the war so our backs aren't caught in a fucking vice, my Lady.

Eddison Tollett

Lord Commander

Paper falling from her hand to atop the desk, Sansa let out a deep sigh. It was beyond hope that they could find another large cache of Free Folk hiding somewhere north of the Wall. Too many had been sent south, leaving only young boys, old men, women, and the Night's Watch to guard the north. Not enough men at all.

"We can write Daenerys and mother for more," Rickon said, hopefully. Despite having essentially run the entire North with Lyanna Mormont - with whom he was growing rather close, Sansa observed - since court had left for Riverrun, he was still rather brash and unrefined. As acting Lady until Margaery was officially part of the pack, Sansa took over much of the Lord's duties in Robb's stead once she arrived.

Nevertheless, she included him in many decisions. "The dead aren't at the Wall yet, and I don't see them getting through without something… big. There is nothing I can think of yet. Joffrey," she shuddered in disgust. "Is the pressing threat."

Rickon eyed her ruefully. "What…" He gulped. "What was he like? Joffrey that is?" Having never left the North, he was curious as to the young King that had caused his entire life and family to be uprooted.

Sansa searched her mind to think of the best way to describe him to her youngest brother. "Take Ramsay Bolton," she said finally, watching him flince involuntarily. "Take him and make him an idiot, plus a madness that consumes a person until nothing is left but the savagery and cruelty." Ramsay's intelligence made him the greater adversary, but at least he had some impulse control - tortured but let live. With Joffrey, her very life was in the balance to whatever whims he had that day. 'To think I found him was my golden prince.'

"Oh." The youngest Stark looked to the floor, shifting his feet.

Images of the young boy struggling to keep up with Bran and Arya coming to mind, Sansa smiled at him. The world was going to hells around all, but children like her niece and nephew and growing men like Rickon needed a sense of normalcy in their lives. Despite their mistakes and allowing Jon to grow up a bastard, Eddard and Catelyn Stark gave their kids such normalcy as long as they could. "Rickon, why don't you start your training early. I'm sure Robb and Jon would love to see your skills improve."

It did the trick, Rickon lightening up from his earlier melancholy. He kissed Sansa's head and left the study.

Frowning once more, Sansa looked at the stacks of grainery reports that had arrived that day. Months of Bolton mismanagement on top of all the deaths in the wars had left supplies on a knife's edge. Not having to supply Castle Black and Mole's Town would help somewhat, but the lack of southern imports meant there would have to be further belt tightening. It didn't sit well with her, but the lessons of her parents resolved Sansa of the need to make such decisions if need be.

A knock disturbed her thoughts. "Enter," Sansa stated flatly, knowing the guards wouldn't let anyone come close that could be a threat.

As expected, Maester Wolkan emerged through the now open doorway. "My Lady, two dispatches have arrived for you. One from the South and one from… farther away."

Sansa nodded. "Thank you, Maester. Please leave them on the table." Returning to her furious transcribing, she heard a soft plop and the closing of the door. Transfer orders and ration cutting became official upon the stroke of a quill pen, as did the orders to send the Manderly fishing and whaling fleet far out to sea to harvest needed seafood - even if they had to go all the way to Ibben.

Picking up the first dispatch, a warm smile formed on Sansa's face as she recognized Podrick's seal. His communications were far and few between in the last months, but each successive one received were growing to be a treasure for her. The feeling… was alien, but not unwelcome. Unfurling the tiny scroll, Sansa began to read.

Dearest Sansa,

Tensions are boiling over within Meereen. His Majesty is set to execute the captured Sons of the Harpy and many influential nobles are seething at this. The masters gather at Yunkai, and we do not know when they will strike. The Emperor wishes to get home to the Empress as quickly as possible, and I am worried he may unleash the dragon unwisely. Brandon, Ser Barristan, and myself seek to calm him.

"Oh Jon," Sansa said to herself. Such brash behavior wasn't just of the dragon. The direwolf had it in spades, if Arya and Robb were any indication.

If I were honest with myself, and it is easier to write this on paper than to say out loud, I so to wish to come home… to you. I understand the hardship you have suffered, and am willing to wait if need be, but I would hope you give me the honor of courting you, Lady Sansa.

Ser Podrick Payne

Knight of the Realm

Staring at the script in front of her until they blurred into unreadable squibbles in the paper, Sansa felt her heart begin to beat in her chest. Did she read it right? Was he truly expressing interest in her… in that way? Certainly the innuendo and subtle glances of before were put into perspective - part of her knew this was logical, but did she truly realize the likelihood of this development?

Perhaps not. She set down the paper, thoughts too jumbled to deal with the situation at the moment. Hands trembling with apprehension… and delight?... she took the second dispatch. Blood ran cold at the sigil of House Baelish.

Most beloved Sansa,

Just remember, you have a devoted and committed ally in the Lion's Den.

Petyr Baelish

Your loving servant.

What happiness Podrick's letter brought her had froze in the ice that was the north. Try as she might, Sansa couldn't get the spark of joy to banish the disgust Lord Baelish brought her. She let her head fall on the table, balling her fists in frustration. This was not going to be simple for her.

"Impressive, isn't it?" Sun glinting off the vast expanse of the God's Eye in the distance, light shimmering on the rippling, placid waves in the light breeze, Jaime and the other Lords and officers of the Army of the Holy Chimera stared at the formations of their enemy. "Robb Stark hasn't lost his edge for tactics," Tywin remarked with his trademark deadpan tone. No one could tell his emotions - not even his own son.

Horses shifted underneath the Lords, animals somehow sensing the death and destruction that would befall the as yet placid morning. "Tight formations with their pikemen positioned to deal with our heavy cavalry, bowmen and cavalry ready to counterattack," observed Randyll Tarly, face even more sour and unapproachable than normal. 'Still smarting over Riverrun,' Jaime suspected.

"They have the best position. No need to do anything but let us impale ourselves on them," added Lord Roland Crakehall, chafing on his saddle. Crafty, but a bit on the portly side.

Jaime nodded. "Overall a tough nut to crack, father." He thanked the Seven that there were no dragons this time - if their intelligence was to be believed. A campaign veteran as he was, Jaime knew military intelligence was a misnomer, often only worthy to wipe your ass with.

Snorting, Tywin peered at the marching formations of his own army as they formed their assault positions below the small ridgeface on which they themselves stood. "The hardest nut always cracks if enough pressure is applied. Any proper Lannister should know this, my son." He glanced dismissively at Jaime. No matter how Tywin tried to break him, the kind streak that dwelt within his son wouldn't go away. What a disappointment. "Are the men ready?"

"The front ranks are, my Lord, but the ground is too wet." Randyll had the urge to lead a full assault on the ranks of the foreign invaders and traitors - a supporter of Rhaegar Targaryen though he was - but held off. "We scouted the land beforehand, and the only paths through the marsh are a direct, narrow route or a wide flanking move on either side."

"If I wanted an explanation, I would ask for it, Lord Tarly." Whereas Joffrey would have demanded a full assault, Tywin seemed… calculating - but equally bullheaded. "Full attack, but do not commit all the men just yet."

A chorus of nods. "Yes, my Lord."

Deep bellows of horns resonating across the landscape. In the van were the columns of House Maraband. Many of their fellow countrymen lost to dragonfire and Unsullied spears, they drew their swords gladly at the order to charge. Led by Lord Maraband and backed up by other Westerlands houses and the bulk of the Tarly men, they aimed for the center of the marsh and surged forward.

As the cavalry positioned in a wedge formation to flank around the marsh, Lord Enos Ferren - Kevan Lannister's second in command - ordered a quick trot to cover the ground but conserve energy before a charge. Allow the archers time to soften up the spear wall and for the infantry attack in the center to engage in significant numbers. But his knights were impatient, anxious to avenge their fallen comrades and launch an immediate attack. After furious arguments he finally gave in, the knights charging towards the edge of the marsh in a disorganised pell-mell of galloping hooves and sharpened lances.

Arranged in a tight semicircle north of the cold marshland, the Imperial forces watched the charge as it grew closer. The ground below was soggy, muddy in certain places but had enough time to mostly dry out from the previous day's rains. Large pikes embedded in the dirt, the front line of Free Folk and Northerners formed the supposedly impenetrable spear wall used so successfully at Riverrun - a 'porcupine' as Olenna Tyrell referred to it, though with profane words attached. Nestled within were the cannon and longbowmen, awaiting their orders.

Peering out, Robb watched as the Lannister footsoldiers entered the patch of dry ground bisecting the marsh. To his left, the heavy cavalry wheeled around the marsh, moving to hit Caryn's Essosi auxiliaries on his flank. "Archers! Nock!" Reaching down, the bowmen plucked an arrow out of the soil and drew back. Artillerymen brought their torches to position, waiting for the order.

"My Lord, should we send in the cavalry?" Brienne asked, pointing back to where the Second Sons and House Hunter's knights waited on the hill behind the formation.

Robb shook his head. "Not yet. Take a third of the reserves to General Caryn. He'll need it against their knights." Brienne nodded and headed for her horse. "Loose!"

In a wave of black the arrows ascended to the heavens, long seconds passing before they arced downward into the mass of men below. The cannons boomed successively, sailing over the heads of the pikemen and men at arms for a more direct path towards the Lannister formation. Blood spurted as the projectiles hit home. Men shrieked in pain from arrows embedding in their limbs and torsos, some falling into the icy waters of the marsh. Cannon shot barrelled ahead with unstoppable momentum, hacking off arms and legs when they didn't punch through armor, imploding heads and tearing gory chunks off the bodies of men and horse alike.

But the cannon were slow to reload, and raised shields headed off the arrows for the most part. Bloodied but not stopped, the oncoming forces fanned out as the Lannister archers joined the fray from beyond the marsh. Ferren's knights lowered their lances and made the final dash toward the awaiting Essosi. The battle began in earnest.

Flinging his bulky form between two spears, the armored redcloak embedded his sword in a

Stormlander's back before Robb Stark hacked his head clean off. To his left, Gendry saved a pikeman by slamming his warhammer into a redcloak's skull. Blood and sweat soaking his cloak, Robb raised Ice in the air with a wolf howl. "Spears and shields boys! Hold the line!"

"Arrows!" screamed a random bannerman. Seeing the cloud of dark forms rapidly approaching, Robb grabbed the shield of a dead Manderly and covered himself just as the projectiles fell all around him. The boom of a cannon failed to mask the screams of men they did hit. Gritting his teeth, Robb shared a look with Gendry - his future brother in law was forced to improvise, a dead redcloak corpse acting as his shield.

"Creative," Robb yelled, finding the amusement he felt quite out of place.

Gendry grinned sheepishly. "We make due in Flea Bottom."

Robb laughed harder, the hiss of arrows and the snap of them hitting his shield all around him. "I'll make sure the armorers make more next time!"

"You're talkin' to 'im!" came the reply, causing more hysterics.

The latest barrage of archers was only the latest act in the half an hour of carnage. Already the floodplains south of the God's Eye were soaked with blood and bodies - or twisted, broken pieces of bodies decapitated with swords or blown apart by cannon. Crossbows and the more numerous Tarly longbowmen had made their strength in numbers known, swarms of bolts and arrows dueling heavy counterbattery fire with the Imperials and allowing Lord Maraband to fully commit his forces all along the line with the Reach legions advancing nearly unmolested.

But the Porcupine held firm. On the Imperial right and center where Lord Glover and Robb withstood heavy attack by the Westerlands heavy infantry, and on the left where Theodosius Caryn rallied his auxiliaries under heavy pressure from the mounted forces. The proud knights making little impression on the dense forest of long spears, and a small number of riders being killed under their horses - one of them being Lord Ferren, what organization left nearly disintegrating. Luckily for the Lannisters, General Kevan arrived in time to witness the discomfiture of his cavalry, quickly restored discipline and ordering a general retreat to regroup.

Ice tasted blood yet again, another flash of crimson joining the darker red hues marring the Valyrian steel, as Robb sliced the sword arm off a bull of a man in Maraband colors. A sharp kick sent the shrieking man away from the line. Grunts and curses to his left found a cluster of Stark men falling. "Reverse!" he yelled. "Line to the rear! Five Paces!" The orders carried out from officer to officer, the formation staggering back several yards, contracting inward to fill in gaps. "Tormund!" he screamed at his final reserve. "Fill the ranks!"

"Took ya long enough!" Tormund grinned, blood lust high. "With me ya cunts! Dip ya' peckers in!" With the howling screech that haunted many a Lannister knight from Riverrun, the Free Folk advanced to the main line.

"My Lord!" Robb fell behind the line, finding Brienne returned from the left flank. Her left shoulder plate had been sheared off, a shallow gash running a line along her upper arm. A dark red bruise covered her forehead. "Caryn's in a bad way. Two cannon lost in the mud, and Tywin's brought fucking crossbows to hit him from a distance!"

Peeking over the Free Folk reinforcements adding their stubborn hides to the frontal spear wall, Robb could just about spot several Tarly banners joining Houses Maraband and Crakehall - forming up for another assault on the line. They could hold, but it would be a close run thing. Bloody in every conceivable way.

He made his decision. Time to spring the hammer. "Get me the fucking signal!" he yelled at his colorguard. Grabbing the blood red direwolf emblazoned over a checkered black/grey landscape, Robb waved it high atop him. 'Come on, come on!'

Sunlight glinting off their armor, Lord Hunter spotted the frantic signalling of his commander. The cold bit at his nose, though he barely noticed. Nothing compared to the mountain gales of the Vale, Crownlanders the pompous shits just like their weather - he found this applied to the North and its people as well. Sellswords too, the good nobleman finding treating with the foreign rabble to his left beneath him. And yet, they were formed on the same side in this engagement.

"Shall I give the order, my Lord?" his chief knight asked. "Lord Stark has given the signal."

Looking out at his men, clutching their lances tight in anticipation. A smirk crossed Lord Hunter's lips as he looked once more at Robb. The desperation on his face. "Yes."

"Come on you bastards!" Robb seethed through gritted teeth, eyes shifting between Hunter's Vale knights and the light cavalry of the Second Sons. "Fucking move!" And move they did… with a jerk of the hand, the mass of horsemen banked around… away from the fight. Gut sinking, Robb watched with wide eyes and tight lips. He could spot the haughty smirk on Lord Hunter's face, the Lieutenant of the Second Sons laughing as he sent an obscene gesture his way.

It suddenly became clear. They had been betrayed.

Lowering his spyglass, Lord Tarly glanced at Tywin quizzically. "Hunter? Naharis?"

Tywin looked at the waves of cavalry, armored Vale knights and leather-clad sellswords, leaving the field of battle in droves for the Kingsroad. Heading northeast, to the ruins of Harrenhal. His expression was flat as always. "I granted Gilwood Hunter the Eyrie and all the Arryn lands to add to his own, plus matching estates in the northern Riverlands. What use do the Freys have with them, they're dead. Naharis…" A ghost of a smirk formed on his lips. "Turned for… much less."

A low laugh left the various lords, squires, and officers clustered around the two commanders. Even Lord Tarly cracked a grin, chuckling. "I wonder what Queen Daenerys will say when she finds out her lover turned on her," Jaime remarked, sarcasm dripping. Whatever he had been before, the new Jaime Lannister despised such dirty tricks.

"Well, she shall tell him herself - if Euron Greyjoy managed to take Dragonstone as I asked him too." Tywin didn't even look at his son, too concentrated on the Imperial line being gradually forced back under the weight of his legions. "With any luck, I shall be able to present her, and the Bastard king and Young Wolf to our King by week's end." He shrugged. "Or their heads… just as good." Several ragged cheers broke out from the Lords, Jaime muttering a curse. "Lord Tarly, is that the first banners of our western army that I see?"

Randyll pointed the spyglass towards the woodland that lined the southern shore. "Aye. The colors of House Dayne, if I recall correctly." He did.

"Good. Signal them to charge." Tywin turned to Lord Crakehall. "Fire rockets on the Imperial forward line."

Lord Crakehall raised an eyebrow. "Wouldn't that hit our own men, my Lord?"

"Most likely." Tywin was nonplussed. "We have reserves, plus plenty more conscripts from King's Landing or Lannisport if we need them." He laughed. "Smallfolk breed like rabbits."

It was Jaime who responded, for none of the others seemed to disagree with Tywin. "Are you mad, father?" He closed his fingers in a tight grip of Tywin's shoulder. "Those are our men! We have a noble's duty towards them."

Tywin shrugged off his son's grip. "Be careful, Jaime. You do not want to have the smiths of the Red Keep to forge another golden hand for you." He ignored the narrowed eyes from his only son - at least in his eyes - as the hidden batteries behind them opened up one after the other.

Demonic shrieks overpowering his system, Robb felt the Earth shake beneath him. Nearly half a dozen more of the divine fire bolts screamed in, one crashing into the ground not seven yards away. The resulting blast wave threw Robb around like one of Sansa's childhood rag dolls, chunks of sod tossed around. A stabbing pain perforated from his side as whiteness clouded his vision.

The very next thing Robb registered was a loud ringing in his ears. He slowly rose to his feet, swaying slightly as his body throbbed. 'Fucking hell…' He focused, the ringing slowly fading.

"Robb…" a voice softly yelled, from a long ways away. Everything was so surreal, the Lord of Winterfell feeling like he was swimming underwater with Gendry's face appearing right in front of his. "Robb!"

He blinked. "Huh?"

"What the bleedin' fuck was that!" screamed Brienne, the normally idefatigable warrior near hysterics.

"MOTHERFUCKER!" Tormund bellowed, ruddy face pale. "MOTHERFUCKER!"

Robb continued to blink his eyes as his senses returned. "Shit," he hissed. The numbness had dissipated and he was suddenly aware of the aches and scrapes perforating his body. 'What the hell happened…' Pieces of bodies, burned and twisted into unrecognizable shapes, were strewn everywhere. The smell of burnt flesh permeated the air – harsher than the normal stank of battle.

"They're charging!" Gendry yelled, pointing at the surging Lannister second line.

Despite redcloaks mixed in with the fallen Imperials, rockets indiscriminately targeting any living being within their target radius, it was the Imperial line that suffered the worst. Any unit cohesion in the Porcupine was rattled at best - nonexistent in places. Readied outside the blast radius were the Tarly levies, Lannister knights, and the arriving Dornish forces of the reinforcement. All were exhausted from the morning's excursions and fast marches, but they advanced in good spirits anyway. A crashing wave of men and steel upon the broken army of the Young Wolf.

It felt all so satisfying for Tywin, watching scores of Imperial men fall to Dornish blades and the waves of rockets. Battle after battle, fight after fight, only through trickery and treason was the Patriarch of House Lannister ever able to outsmart the Young Wolf. And yet now it had happened. 'Perhaps I could dine in Winterfell at the end of this campaign?' he mused.

The resonating roar of hoofbeats growing ever louder put to rest his grandiosity.

"Keep formation!" Robb yanked up a fallen lad - no more than eight and ten - pushing him back into the fight. "For Gods' sake, men. Hold!" A furious slash of his sword sent a mounted cavalryman flying to the ground." Two separate assaults and the insane barrage of enemy weaponry had seen them hold, but this third push might see them collapse. He could see it firsthand, the haunting strain even in the indefatigable Free Folk. The cannon were helping, but there weren't nearly enough.

Suddenly, Robb felt someone shove him in the shoulder. He turned to scream at the bastard that did so, only to find nothing… nothing but the shaft of a crossbow bolt sticking out right below the bony bulk of the joint. The pain hadn't registered yet with his blood up in battle, but Robb knew it would. 'At least it isn't my sword arm…' he began to think.

"My Lord!" Quickly leaping off a horse - a sturdy Essosi mare by the looks of it - Lady Tyene rushed to where the Young Wolf stood. Easing him on the ground, she frowned at the scope of the battle. "Looks like I got here just in time."

Robb looked at her suspiciously. "Where the fuck did you come from."

"Doesn't matter. You need to order a retreat now!"

"And how would I do that without being pursued?" The Dornish Princess smirked as the distant hoofbeats and guttural cries began to overwhelm the floodplain.

The hooting war cries echoed all over the battlefield. "Fucking hells!" Tywin snarled, spyglass trained on the horde as it rapidly reached their lines. "Signal Prince Trystane, holding force on the Young Wolf and engage the Dothraki. Commit all reserves in blocking formation!" He clenched his fists. "Fucking hells."

"Father, it is still a victory."

Tywin seethed at his son. "But the Young Wolf still lives to fight another day."

"It may not be a slaughter, but we have taken the field…" Jaime was silenced by a backhand to the cheek.

"Enough from you boy. We only deal in utter victories here!" Angry as he was, Tywin knew his son had a point - they did secure a victory, one that was likely to secure the Crownlands and retake the majority of the southern Riverlands. But not the stunning blow he had engineered. The War would go on.

A single raven, passing overhead, witnessed the whole thing. A mass of Dothraki riders slamming into the hastily erected Lannister flank guard. Fresh troops - but so were the horsemen they were up against. Bowmen joining the fray, a breakthrough wasn't achieved… but Tyene and the Horde had done what they needed to do. Under the cover of their respite, the ravaged Porcupine withdrew into the forest. In relatively good order, all things considered, Gendry Baratheon reinforcing Theodosius Caryn and engaging in a fighting withdrawal with Kevan Lannister's knights. A defeat. A crushing one, but not total disaster.

Milky white eyes blinking, the warg silently transferred information to the host thousands of miles away.