The Battle of the Red Plains, Part 1.

"Wake up you dumb oaf of a child." Sam blinked his eyes open as he found his cot tilting to the side, and his brain was a tad to slow to process what was going on before he hit the ground.

"Ugh…" he groaned, staggering up onto his feet. 'Father must be back then, drat.' He rad rather enjoyed the rare respite he had found in his sire's absence.

"You know I loathe you being a scholar boy, but I'll be damned before I let you be a lazy one. On your feet, the camp is moving to battle."

Now that, that had him wide awake in a second easily, as he began scrabbling for his clothes, his gear, well, just about everything.

"Aye, that's more like it, now keep moving that pace, I have brave men to lead to victory. Men who actually deserve their rest, but won't have it."

He made an attempt to give a response but hardly has the chance as his father departed, no doubt to rally those selfsame men he thought more worthy than his son.

And so Sam crawled up onto his feet, packing his bag. If the campaign had done anything for him other than taking the pounds off, it was teaching him to travel lightly and quickly.

By the time he had his tent and gear packed, most of the camp was already moving, a steady baggage train relocating south by the looks of it.

He wondered how it looked at the front, where all the soldiers and such were, probably as real regimented marching men, lots of even lines and such, they had certainly worm a trail into the tall-grass with their passing.

But, that wasn't where he moved, his tendency to sleep in meant that he was normally near the middle back of the baggage train, walking along with the disorganized mess of chefs and butchers and their carts of supplies and assistants. They didn't let him ride with them, and while that had bothered him at first it really didn't anymore. He was fitter for walking now than he thought he'd ever been in his life, only a bit of fat desperately clinging to his sides after almost seven months on campaign.

He could even carry his pack on his own, though he hadn't been able to at first. It was quite odd honestly.

Still, he did think his chronicle of the war would probably differ greatly from the standard. For one everyone seemed to think this was a host of thirty-thousand men. A gross underestimation. There were at least forty-thousand men at camp usually, and around ten thousand women, and that had been before a quarter of the population of Norvos has arrived, bringing with them their own baggage train bigger than the army's. Even after a fair number of them had scattered the host had at least doubled in size.

Sam couldn't complain too much, the Essosi, in general, seemed friendlier to scholars than the Westerosi, though that view might be skewed by his father a bit.

Anyhow, with the Norvosi added in the host had initially been at least one hundred and twenty thousand people altogether, and it had only lost about a fifth of that mass as the Norvosi refugees started to bleed off.

Then they had started picking up more again when they hit the disputed lands, though thankfully this time it included some actual fighting men and a few who even contributed supplies they had managed to save from the slavers.

Anyhow, he would have to make sure to note that the camp size when they approached the battle nearby was at least one hundred thousand people, even if most were non-combatants. Indeed, a good portion seemed to be prostitutes.

He wondered if other campaigns looked like this, or if this was just the result of the mess the Volantenes had wrought on the countryside of Essos. They never mentioned such large camps in the histories he had read. It was quite an interesting divergence from his book-learned knowledge.

Indeed, it was so interesting, that he hardly noticed when the train came to a stop on a hill about seven miles south of where the camp had previously been, overlooking a wide valley. The whole area had clearly been farms until fairly recently, the torched remains of several buildings visible down the slope, and low stone walls crisscrossed the landscape, charting field edges and marking the borders of paths. Further south in the valley there was what appeared to be a small palm forest, perhaps two or three miles across.

It had probably been quite Idyllic before the slavers came through. With the streams at the center of the valley, it might even be able to support a small village.

It always struck him that there wasn't a castle. Castles were everywhere in Westeros, but not so in Essos, only the occasional small fortress at a strategic point or fortified palace in a city.

He would wager that you couldn't find a single valley like this south of the Neck without at least a Bastard-Keep set up for the local landed knight or yeoman-master to keep an eye on things.

'Well, maybe in Dorne…'

But then, Dorne was always odd about such things.

Regardless, his eyes were soon drawn away from the scenery to the opposite ridgeline, and his ears brought his attention to the sound of horns and drums echoing from its top, as streams of red smoke began to emerge from carts carried by an advancing force of red-robed cultists, who had just begun to pour over the opposite hill like a stream of blood from a pricked thumb, spreading out over the grass, even as their own camp hurried to finish preparations and start getting stakes and the like up.

Sam tapped his fingers against his face as he noticed that the King's own battle lines were starting to form and move into position.

Somewhere over on that opposite hill, the last of the Targaryens were supposed to be hiding.

'I wonder what they're up to?'

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"The stag chose good ground." His master said, astride his horse. How he rode with his hands burned as they were was a mystery to the man, but King Viserys did so nonetheless, though a feat of will or sheer desensitization to pain, nothing seemed to stop him.

"I am no expert on such matters my lord." Baelin said, shaking his head, "but I will accompany you should you will it."

The dragon turned his gaze towards him, and he felt sore afraid under that burning stare.

"No. My plan has a need for haste. You may remain here at camp."

"Yes your grace."

The Azor Ahai nodded, slapping his visor down over his face, before raising his burning sword into the air.

"Drive these traitorous scum from the valley." He shouted, and for the cultists that seemed to be all that needed saying. The great mass of them, many new and forcible conversions, were driven down towards the Westerosi lines. Women were in the mix as well as men, many who had been taken as slaves by the Lord's of the Slaver's Bay had been freed by the cult, still more had been converted from those trying to flee Myr overland. Still they were all now inducted to the cult and now donned it's red robes, wielding crude weaponry and torches, Baelin doubted they would serve as much more than destruction for the armies of Westeros.

But then from what his lord had said, that was their purpose, and at the very least they outnumbered their foe. A mass of fervor and fear, spurred on by the priests and true cultists amongst them, more capable warriors, though far outnumbered by the teaming horde.

He watched in no small amount of awe as the mass moved, like a sea of red and fire descending from the hillside around them.

The King raised his lance, letting his banner stream from its tip, a three-headed dragon ensconced in yellow fire. The signal was clear to the men behind him, but Baelin was surprised when the cavalry turned, falling back behind the camp, to the reverse slope of the hill.

But then, he was never any good at tactics.

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Robert Baratheon narrowed his eyes spiteful at the horde of cultists charging down the mountain. It provoked a certain heat in his gut, that old fire of anger spreading through his veins.

'THIS, is Viserys plan?' He felt his grip on his lance tighten. "I expected better." He sneered, lifting his lance high above his head, Justin raising his banner beside him as he moved across the front of the cavalry. He took the time to rattle the lances of the front ranks, to share his anger with the brave men who would follow him into battle.

"Men, I won't lie to you, I had expected better of this Dragon Prince, having slain his brother at the trident. Rhaegar was a slime, the son of madmen and mad himself, but at the very least, he had the dignity to fight as true men do and not this base cowardice we see before us." The words came easy, they always had, especially when the feelings behind them were true. "I see it now as you feel it in yourselves, the flaring of the nostrils, the stiffening of the spine. You see the host of a man who seeks to rule over you, a man who seeks to claim MY rightful throne as king, and what does he do when Battle calls? Does he charge headlong like the noble stag? Roar like a proud lion? Does he out-flank like a wolf, Dive like an eagle, coil like a snake or grapple like even a worthless Kraken? No, he does not even sit tall and proud like his draconian ancestry, for this man is no dragon, but a worm, as they say, he hides in the dirt while his base heathen subjects send women and children to die in his stead!"

There was roaring at that, the base thunderous roaring of Westerosi men in their anger, it was the same one he felt in his gut. These were men he could lead into battle.

He took a moment to glance down at the field, the horde seemed to be leaning towards his center-right. Good, Ned could break that mass with no issues… except… yes, with those numbers they would wrap around and envelope his flank. That then was where the cavalry would charge, presuming at least that the cowardly prince still failed to show himself.

He turned back to his men, raising his lance once more.

"Do not fear their numbers men, for they are weak and untrained, a mess more befitting of savage wildling hordes than any proper army. They will fall like wheat before the sickle. And fear their fanaticism neither, for on each of you I see the face of a thunderous rage, the spirit of the warrior himself overtaking you. They have their heathen fire-god, but do not forget that the seven have smashed such demons asunder before, and will do it again." He turned, keeping an eye out for the timing… he wanted to finish his speech at just the moment to lead them, to take the moment when the charge would most easily shatter the enemy ranks, just as the blob met against Ned's and…

'Now.' His mind screamed, and he turned back towards his men.

"Follow me and do it again today!" He raised his lance a final time, this time turning his steed beneath him, and starting into a trot, keeping pace with the sounds of ten thousand hoofbeats behind him as they set into their charge, feeling his anger, and that old vigor of bloodless shooting back into his body like a good goblet of ale.

Once Viserys damned army was dead he'd have nowhere left to hide.

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Bronze Yohn rested against a palm, leaning up against it by his elbow as he watched the fighting further down the field, it seemed that the Volantenes were trying to break the Westerosi infantry with sheer mass alone, pushing into them, but even from here he could tell it wasn't working. The shield wall barely budged at the impact, and he took a moment to turn back towards his own forces.

The archers of the Seven Kingdoms had been sent ahead into the palm forest, covered from observation by the thick canopy above the spare trees, now they sat arrayed to the flank of the enemy horde, safe behind small trenches, dug through with wooden stakes and the like, a fitting device to prevent the enemy cavalry from striking back against them.

He raised his bow, knocking an arrow as he bellowed out over the mass. "DRAW," He shouted, though he needn't since his lieutenants would echo it anyway. "LOOSE."

Like a shuddering gasp of wind, thousands of bowstrings twanged, and a vast cloud of arrows surged out of the assembled host of archers. Against a normal foe, it would be a dangerous volley, especially in succession. Against a great unarmed foe such as this? It was devastating, and not only that, but it was followed up almost immediately by another wave of arrows, the trained bow and longbowmen of Westeros raining death into the right flank of the Volantenes forces, a truly murderous position.

It was easy to fall into the routine, even when the enemy attempted response, their unshielded infantry was cut down by arrow fire, bloody corpses stuck like pigs all that was left when they were done.

As his arm started to ache, the old reached men stopped to pause for a moment, surveying the almost broken right flank of the enemy even as more arrows whistled by. Why he could smell their blood on the air, even here and he could…

'Wait, is that...' Yohn turned around to face the rear, his eye twitching as he saw the danger quick approaching his forces. Black clouds rising up from the other side of the palm forest. Even as the call went up.

"FIRE."