Fandom ~Ashes of Winter~[Closed]

[peritwinkle]

Maege could feel the tendrils of cold bite her cheeks as they brushed over the hills and through the masses that overlooked the moonlit valley. It was colder in the South than she had imagined before setting foot outside the barriers of the North; she had expected nothing more than tepid rain to fall from the sky, perhaps light gushes of wind when they neared spring water. Yet those that came from the North knew better - Winter was indeed coming, not only for those living in the lands already covered by its frozen alabaster shroud, but those residing in the once more forgiving climates as well.

Most of all, she knew, it was coming for Jaime Lannister and his plenty.

It was a quiet night. One that would make their heist more difficult, as the sound of their footsteps would travel easily through the air. The thought of it, however, did not seem to bother Dacey, as her eyes scoured the horizon with pride and kindling, like a child who was eager to play. ‘This is not a game,’ she had told her daughter many times. ‘We are fighting a war, not playing at one.’ And she had understood, for her years of training as a woman from Bear Island had proven to harden her, perhaps more than they had her younger sisters.

She missed her home. She missed her room back in Mormont Keep that overlooked the Bay of Ice, with the ever foggy windows and the lambent fire ever ardent in the hearth. The food was always warm and drowning in spiced sauce, for jolly times despite the cold, nothing like the dried ham they were served each morning on the run, or the occasional grits and sausages. She missed her daughters, and she knew Dacey did, too, for she often heard her whisper their names in her sleep when she was too tired to take watching post at night.

Yet despite the pain and suffering that came with such somber times, she had kept her head high and her heart afire. There was no hint of the old Dacey that she had lost, not a touch of her passion and drive she had let slip through her fingers. One could not say the same about the boy that they followed, now a man and nothing less.

Robb Stark was no longer Catelyn’s pup. No, he was a man of his people, a true Warden of the North as his father before him had been. Fate had urged him to mature quickly, when Lord Eddard could no longer teach him the ways of a Lord, of a King in the North, and he had been forced to make the transition rather hastily and harshly. She could see it in his eyes, as a mother, just like Catelyn did and fretted over his frail heart. It was only women that were left to suffer when their children ought to remain strong, and the two of them chose to do so in silence.

“When are we moving?” the young bear jolted over to her mother’s side, a soft simper touching upon her lips. She rested her hand on the hilt of her sword, as though one minute or the other, the Kingslayer himself would hurtle out of the bushes.

‘You are always prepared, aren’t you?’ Maege smiled back, but only offered a slight shake of her head. “Soon, soon. We have to wait for the call.” The Lions were close, she knew. She could smell their scent from a mile away - they were many, and they did not put in any additional efforts to conceal themselves during their travels. Lead by Jaime Lannister, his conceitedness would never allow him to admit that he was vulnerable, despite his numbers.

So, soon enough, he would learn that eight thousand men was not such a weak number, after all.

There was a tension in Robb Stark’s camp that everyone seemed to feel to the bone, but the sparkle in Dacey’s eyes let Maege know it had not reached her just yet. She was too young to realise a battle did not name them victors of the war, that there was much more ahead of them, that death was inevitable and never waning in chances, be it that the Land had begun to doubt the pristinity of the King’s blood following Ned’s death.

Her gaze eventually jumped back over to her mother, as she shifted her weight to the other foot impatiently. “We will win this battle,” she spoke then, her tone lowering to a gave point. “We have planned this well, and made sure that our conversations were left for select ears. Lord Robb... I do not know whether he has made the right choice to start this war. But I know that the Gods know our purpose is pure, whilst the Kingslayer only fights to defend his sin.”

“So you think we have the upper hand because our purpose is honourable?” Maege let out a breath through the nose and pursed her lips. “Many men have died despite their honour - one of them, even the man we are fighting to avenge. Ned was a good man, and so is Robb. The Gods knew that, and yet that did not stop Joffrey from beheading him unjustly.” Had the Gods been just, no evil would ever have befallen the world, and yet there they were fighting said evil.

Dacey simply shook her head and turned back to watch over the empty valley. Even in the darkness, she could read her contoured features clearly - the roundness of her eyes that subdued the traces of childish disbelief, the florid cheeks as dulcet as those of a Lady, not a warrior, her gently swaying frame that somehow managed to hold the weight of a full body of armour on its shoulders. She could easily pass as a damsel, as well as a night if need be, yet one detail remained constant - she was still naught but a naïve child of Summer.

“Not only that,” she continued, “but the Kingslayer would never expect us to strike from the South. He knows us to be in the North, and he will never dare to look back.”

That, at most, was true. They had all fallen to the same conclusion in the small council, and even Lord Robb himself had admitted that he did not fear an ambush from their side. Their scouts had ensured their safety and concealment for days before Jaime’s troops were close enough to cause any trouble. Now, they were only a turn of the clock away, perhaps less. They all knew it, and they ought to move.

A whistle reverberated through the silence of the night, one that resembled the trill of a bird of the woods, but louder, more vibrant against the soft rustling of the wind. It was then that the mother bear turned, her eyes falling on the silhouettes traced in the faint light of the moon. “It is time,” she called, loud enough to be heard by those in her near vicinity, but not more. The call would travel, she knew, through the rest of the camp, and only then would they begin to move.

She and Dacey would man the archers in the forest. She would want to fight, and she would, after the element of surprise faded and the fighting commenced. A brave bear in all her glory - only a Mormont would want to fight in the vanguard in her first real battle, for no reason other than to protect her much beloved King. ‘If only the King loved her as much as she does.’ But war was not a time for love, and not for a King, whose name many ladies wished to claim, and for a better deal than old and cold Bear Island.

That, if the Gods truly kept their enemy’s blade away from their throats.

 

[Remus117]

Robb felt a rush of emotions swirling through him, a mixture of feelings he had been expecting, and yet quite a few he had not seen coming at all. He felt exhilaration, the rush his father had described before battle in the stories he had shared with Jon and himself. He was proud to say he was a man now, ready to fight a war for his people. Not just a man... a Lord now, the Lord of Winterfell, and... Gods be good, King in the North. He had wanted the titles since he was babe... but they came to him through dark circumstance. Yes, he was forced to admit, other thoughts were racing through his mind as well.

Rage and tears. That was all he had felt, when they brought him the news, and before he knew what was happening, he seemed to have lost his control. His father, the man who had seemed so wise, so untouchable, so strong, was dead? Who had taken his quiet pride watching Robb grow, keeping the demeanor required for a lord, but clearly happy in his sons progression. Lord Stark, his father, who had read him stories as a child, who had taught him so many lessons in life and as a leader, had been murdered. That filled him with fear, as well. If the Lannisters had killed his father, what chance did he have? He had no choice now, but he was not a man, in truth, not yet. He would have to learn quickly, or he would share his father's fate.

That, too, bothered him. He strapped on his leather armour tighter, knowing it could make the difference between life and death. His father had not lied about what war meant. When he had gone south, in Robert's Rebellion, he had taken friends with him, many of whom never returned. Lord Dustin, Ethan Glover, Martyn Cassel, Jory's father, Theo Wull, and Ser Ryswell. Eddard had never forgotten those names, and so neither had Robb. He wondered how many of his companions could share that fate. Dacey? Maege? the Greatjon? Gods forbid, Theon, who was like a brother to him? And of course, his own life, so short so far, would be risked as well.

He tried to put those thoughts to the side, as he armoured in the orange glow of the brazier kept in his tent.
It was time soon for them to march, and he could not let anyone know of his doubts. He could not turn back now, and to spread doubt amongst the ones who followed him would be the greatest betrayal. Now, he thought, he would follow his father's memory. That was the way to avenenge him. That was the way to survive, when Winter was coming.

He lifted his sword, sliding it into its scabbard. Before the day ended, it would be blooded. He only prayed he would have a chance to bloody it again, another day. There would be much blood shed before his war was over, and before the North was free. As he stepped into the bustle of the camp, he felt an uneasy energy seem to pulse through the air. The first King in the North for almost three-hundred years. The title gave awe, but it meant he would need to live up to it. He rose to his full height, not a short man, and tried to wear the Lord's Face he'd seen his father put on a hundred times before. He had some of it, the Stark blood that gave him the solemn look, yet he was a Tully, too, with a head of fiery hair. He nodded as he passed by, acknowledging the men who followed him, before he came to another tent. The one belonging to his mother.

He was unsure before he stepped inside, yet he forced himself to do so anyway. He would have to see her before he left, even if it would fill his heart with fear that he would have to leave her. She was waiting by the fire, already dressed, and with a fur draped over her. Robb knew she was certain not to sleep tonight, while the battle raged, although he thought already to urge her to do so. "It is time." He spoke solemnly, speaking as he thought a king would.

His mother simply nodded, and as Robb stood awkwardly, she rose, and rushed over to him, embracing him tightly, though she was shorter by a head than he was. He returned her grip, and soon he was worried he would not be able to leave. He forced himself to pull away. "You must get some sleep. I will be guarded, and I've trained all my life for battle." She looked at him as if he had gone mad, and had spoken of talking ravens. "I will not sleep while you are gone." She said, simply. "Not until you return."

He knew she spoke the truth, and so he simply nodded back to her. "I promise, I will come back. I'll come back with the Kingslayer's head." Brave words, he thought to himself. Yet he hoped speaking them would give him courage, and perhaps would allow him to fulfill that promise. His father had never broken a promise, he remembered, and he would not allow himself to do so either. As he stepped out, he saw a group of men, wearing dashed together armor, most looking afraid, yet seeming to gather there courage...
"Tonight, we will make the Lannisters pay." He spoke. "For my Father. For your families. For their crimes. Tonight, we will remind them, The North Remembers." He said, louder this time. "Make ready! We're coming for their blood."

Too low to hear, a slight laugh seemed to ring out, meant for his own amusement more than anyone else. A man looking more professionally armored, a true soldier, with a blade as sharp as a razor. He watched the boy King-in-the-North, as he sharpened his blade to a razor's edge. He wasn't sure about their cause, but he had been paid, he was certain of one thing. Blood would be shed.

 

[peritwinkle]

It was all that Dacey needed to hear. It had been far too long since she had last heard her King’s words, so much that she had almost come to think he feared the outcome of such a daring plan. They would be separated, scattered around the valley to surround the Lannister army, yet each of the Houses had enough men to survive each of the enemy’s guards. They would split, as well, and it was then that they could finally reunite and piece the battlefield together.

Perhaps she should have feared defeat as well. Her mother had been right - the Gods did not care whether a man’s intentions were pure or not. And how would one know that they were, for a villain was always a hero in his own mind? Her mother had seen many battles in comparison to the boy that fought one right then. In comparison to her, who was only getting a taste of war, barely touching it with the tip of her tongue.

A shiver trembled through her spine as the King in the North called for blood. It would be spilled that night, and there was a chance she would be counted amongst the casualties. ‘But I am a good warrior,’ she reminded herself. ‘I will defend myself. But first, my own kin.’ Her mother had been harsh whilst training her, yet her feedback had always been sincere. Lying in such circumstances was as terrible as digging her own grave. She would never have been allowed to join Lady Mormont and Lord Stark had she been a dimwit with the sword.

“You heard your King, then,” Lady Maege shouted from behind her daughter. Dacey remained stiff for a moment, before turning back to her mother. “Make sure the Lannisters know our names.”

A breath escaped her lips before turning on her heels to find the path that lead down into the woods rimming the valley. The ground was enlighted by the moon, enough for them to find their steps and assume their positions where they belonged, hidden in the shadows. The air was thick and already smelled of blood; soon, it would be imbued by the stifling scent of death.

~*~

The North was getting closer. Addam could feel it in the air, as the wind blew frigid in his face. It was been a silent ride ever since Harrenhall; many had asked him if he had seen a ghost, yet such things remained fantasy to him. Frankly, he had never been much of a talker, and although Ser Jaime had been the only one to ever get him to enjoy a conversation, not even he could erase the tension that had slowly begun to build up in his gut.

They were on enemy territory. The Riverlands were a great deal away from the den of wolves, yet he still could not call it home. Not when he could almost smell the Young Wolf’s scent in the air. They had sieged Riverrun, but they were still strange lions in a field of fish and wrathful dogs. The Starks and Tullys knew their battlefields better than any, no matter the numbers - the enemy had the advantage of knowledge, whilst they merely had the men and blades.

In the light of the moon, he could make out the road that followed the path of the Trident. Stars glimmered across the sky, marching with them as they bruised their way through the field. Woods surrounded them on every side, and the path only seemed to be getting smaller, as though nature had begun to eat at the emptiness of the valley. It had been, perhaps, more than two years since he had last traveled through those parts of the kingdom, on his way up North, and only to escort his wife and daughter, little Laila - now no longer little - to see her uncle up at the Wall.

“A dreaded place,” the Lord of Ashemark muttered, giving his steed a kick with the shins to urge it ahead. It was as though not even it wished to pass through. “Silent nights bring silent terrors.” He still remembered vividly the letter he had received from the Lord Commander at Castle Black on the dreaded day Jaremy had passed. ‘...His life, taken by a Wight.’ He knew Jeor Mormont was old, but never had he proven to be any less than vigilant of mind. As much as he refused to believe in the existence of enormous spiders and giants, he had not dared to question the reason behind the death of Violet’s brother.

Yet the silence did not last for long. The trill of feathered night creatures, once playing gently, faded with that of a horn echoing through the vast emptiness of the valley. Then, an arrow whisteled by his ear, and another, and yet another, until, as the sound of the horn died in the night, a rain of steel washed over them from the East, faster than half the soldiers managed to lift their shields to stop whatever had been hurled at them.

“Shields up!” Addam managed, turning his head to seek for Jaime as their men moved frantically about them. “Shields up! Guards up!” he shouted louder to cover the grunts of those pierced by arrows. Deepened within the middle of the crowd, barely any feathers fired by him. His eyes widened to seek the archers, but the darkness in which the woods basked was enough to keep them hidden.

It was then that he understood - they had been lured into a trap, ever since the Tullies had chased them out of Riverrun. They were surrounded, an army of thousands of armed lions, scouring for shelter as the enemy hid in the shadows. It was only the first wave, he knew, and by then, he hoped that Jaime had understood as well. The rest were coming, and they could only await to be engulfed by steel and death - and fight to cut towards the surface.

 

[Remus117]

Robb felt time seem to slow, as he waited for the moment to strike. In the East, he knew the Lady Mormont and her daughters were readying their archers, in perfect position to ambush the Lannister column. It was late, the Lannisters had not formed ranks, and they were likely tired by the long march. Everything was in the favor of the North. Robb was reinforced with Frey soldiers, and this was one of the rare times he would have numbers on his side. The foe expected nothing...

Then why did Robb feel so uncertain? He knew the plan was good, and he understood, logically, they should take victory, but something within him whispered something was wrong. He pulled back on the reins of his horse, which knickered gently, and he slowly stroke its mane, trying to comfort both the animal and himself. To his side, Grey Wind stood, proud and ready for the hunt, although tonight they would not be taking a doe or stag, but armored men. There was even the chance Robb and Grey Wind might come upon the Kingslayer himself, golden Jaime Lannister.

Not so long ago, I thought he was a true model of a knight. Not so long ago, we feasted him in our own hall, at Winterfell. Now, one of might die before this battle is over. I only hope it will be him, rather than me. Robb tore himself from his thoughts, as he turned to his new squire, Olyvar Frey. While he bristled at taking a betrothal from the old man, he could find no fault at all in Olyvar. In his eagerness, and his idealism, Robb found the younger man reminded him much of his little brother, Bran.

"Is it almost time, your Grace?" Olyvar asked, shivering slightly as the wind bit at him. His courser seemed as anxious as him, whinnying slightly.

"Not just yet." Robb spoke, his voice full of steel. "At the sound of the Horn, the Mormonts will loose their arrows. Then, when they're scattered, we ride and cut down what remains of their cavalry." He spoke not just to Olyvar, but to the rest of his men too, hoping to harden their hearts and fill them with courage. "The Kingslayer is at the head of this army. If any man can bring him to me, they'll be greatly rewarded- that is, if I do not get the chance to cut out his heart first."

A horn rang through the air, and a rain of arrows followed. Robb drew his sword, raising it high where all could see. "Ride now! Ride now!"

Grey Wind raced forward as Robb rode, his squire following shortly after. "For the Young Wolf! For the King in the North!" Olyvar shouted.

"The King in the North!" The cry was taken up as they rode into the clash of steel and the spilling of blood.

"The King in the North!"

`*`
Jaime let out a curse as he slew another rider, one of the Northern men on horse, not armored like a knight, yet a dangerous fighter nevertheless.
Have I forgotten everything my father taught me? He asked himself, ashamed of his own mistake. Taken unaware like this, falling for such a simple ambush...
He briefly wondered what Tyrion would say, before trying to push the thought out of his mind, focusing on the next foe, and the next, and the next.

Steel flashed everywhere, but Jaime flashed quicker and most often. If he found this damned boy, Ned Stark's pup, he swore to himself, he'd cut his throat and become a Kingslayer twice over. He'd lose this battle, but he could end the rebellion with a single stroke. Surely, if he did so, he would die... but that had never been a thought of great consequence to Jaime. He would die when he would die, and until then he would live. He'd do as he wished. He'd fuck his sister, he'd push children out of towers, and he'd kill without regret. He was a Lion. He did not care what others said about the Lion.

 

[peritwinkle]

Through the darkness of the woods peeked shivering strokes of moonlight, gracing over the autumn leaves and touching upon the focused eyes of the archers hidden behind the bushes. As the horn blew, arrows whistled by their heads, either hitting their marks on the unsuspecting enemy, or digging into the ground with a blurred tremble. Many passed by Dacey’s ears; she heard so many that she lost count, for her attention had been engulfed by the effort to find the golden-haired Kingslayer - a needle in the hay.

As the last arrows collided with their targets, Northmen sprung from their hiding spots and gathered around the lion’s army with their blades drawn. Dacey turned her head to face her mother, seeking permission to leave her own nest and join the warriors. No nod followed; instead, Lady Mormont herself jolted up and followed her men into battle, a hand hanging behind to keep her daughter close by in her near vicinity. Swift as a breeze, they both trotted out of the woods to face the open field.

Screams lifted into the air like birds as blade drew the death out of the lions, wolves and bears alike. The masses slowly turned into a tangled amalgam, capes of red, gold, black and silver mingling and flowing past one another as their swords crashed and clinked into the night air. The first blade came rushing towards her, yet Dacey ducked it easily, swirling on her heels and cutting the belly of him who dared to engage. Another arrow whistled past her head, but missed its target and stuck into a lion’s throat, and the man quickly fell to the ground with blood spurting out of his mouth.

It was so that she cut her way through the crowd; no longer did she care whom she killed. It had been long ago that she had made her first kill, and yet the frenzy of the war was not brought by death, but by the desperate fight to survive and turn out victorious. She could feel and hear her heart thump loudly against her breastbone, almost rising to her neck and the base of her tongue. She could feel the blood rushing through her veins and was thankful for it. At least for so long, she was alive, and if the hectic movement of blades and men had not managed to dig her grave, there was a chance she might duel the Kingslayer herself.

Someone called her name in the distance. It was, likely, her mother, in the fear she had lost her daughter on the battlefield. Yet Dacey did not answer, her breath already taken by the movements she made to escape blow after blow. Slowly, the crowd began to separate into smaller bundles, allowing for space to pass and seek the man she had desired to take the head of for so long. For the pride of her mother, her House. Her King.

She heard the whirl of a blade cut the air as it came towards her, yet managed to avoid it with a hastened duck that almost hurled her off of her feet. Turning around, she saw the man who wielded it - one not much older than the Kingslayer himself, with his hair of a dark copper and his eyes glistening ablaze in the light of the moon. A burning tree was etched on his breastplate, the sigil of House Marbrand, and the embellishments on his shoulders gave away his name.

The Lions did not have a single legendary warrior fighting the North for them, it seemed. But one golden-arsed old man was better than none.

~*~

In battle, Addam knew no fear; he did not know the faces of the men whom he ought to cut, and so he did not care for their lives, for their mothers and sisters waiting for them at home. It was Jaime Lannister that he ought to save first, and then himself, for if they lost the Queen’s brother, the legendary Kingslayer, the battle with the North was as good as lost.

Quick, shaky breaths escaped his nose as he fought his way through the stifling crowd. More and more Northerners came from the East, the North, the South and the West alike, neverending, one more barbaric than the other before him. Women fought men and men fought women, careless of eachother’s weaknesses; it was a strange sight to see a woman in armour, yet he was no stranger to the customs of the North. He knew women were taught to fight, for up there in seclusion and solitude, any healthy human that could hold a weapon was essential.

And so, he had come to turn a blind eye to whom he killed. The tension and adrenaline of the surprise had already taken over him, and he could feel the muscles of his limbs tighten and his fingers stiffen about his sword. He could not see the Kingslayer near his side, yet he could only hope that he had not found himself surrounded. There was no time or room to move and seek him out. ‘He is better than me in every way,’ Addam thought then, as if that could soothe his worries. If Jaime was dead, he would quickly join him.

As the crowd started to dissipate into smaller clusters of flesh and steel, Addam began to seek out his way out of the very middle and towards the rearguard, cutting through warriors like one cut through a slice of soft cheese. Yet as soon as his blade reached the vicinity of a bear, it shifted from beneath him, as though in the loud shouts and clinks it had heard him, and swirled in the air away from the target of his blow.

Brown locks flew out as the warrior’s helmet fell onto the ground, and the bear turned to face him, her sword up and glistening, ready to fend his own. The girl was not older that his own Laila, with her skin as pale as milk and her hair of an umber brown, robust and steady in her small tailored armour. Another heavy breath escaped his nose, and before he could make a move himself, the girl lifted her sword and aimed at his own neck.

It took far longer for him to process the direction before he could ward it off with his own. He kept the blade steady against hers; it was not an easy task - the girl was stronger than most men, yet had the advantage of size. Unable to reach his vitals, she shifted and attempted to jump behind his back and reach for the back of his knees, yet with a movement of his own heel, the young bear bit the ground, her sword almost spurting out of her hand and crashing against the mud.

In that moment, she looked like nothing more than a child, unable to defend herself from a stranger, and he could not help but see his gentle Laila in her, the Laila who had learnt to shoot with a bow and arrow yet never dared to harm a living creature. His Laila who wished to fight, yet that a man could so quickly crush beneath his boot. Pursing his lips, he kicked her blade towards her and strengthtened the grip around his own, before finding his way through the waves of men to seek out the one whose back he had promised himself to watch.

 

[Remus117]

Thought had left Jaime long ago, and now he moved purely on instinct, by the training that had been drilled into him after countless, numberless years of practice. He was golden death; everywhere he went, shining in his gilded armor, his blade slashed out, moving faster and stronger than any man had a right to be. He was in the midst of the drunkenness he had spoken to his brother of, the intoxication of blood, sweat, and adrenaline. His heart was racing, his muscles burning, but he felt none of it. All he could feel, all he knew, his entire world, was parry, riposte, thrust, slash. The Northern men and women fought fiercely, but no amount of ferocity compels someone to survive a sword through their heart.

Everything around him had descended into chaos. His men had desperately tried to form ranks, men with Lions, men with unicorns, men of seashells. Banefort men, Marbrand men, men wearing little more than rags. They fought desperately, but they were surrounded, pelted with arrows, assailed by blades and axes on every side, and panic was starting to go through them. He turned towards a sergeant only to seem him take an arrow to the neck, at a spot uncovered by his armour. He returned to the fight, his blade a whirlwind.

He was one man, still. The greatest warrior alive in the Seven Kingdoms, maybe in the world, but one man only in a battle with of thousands. He could have had all the skill of Arthur Dayne himself, and yet he would not be able to win this battle alone. Not after the error he had made. He wondered if they would have made the same mistake, his heroes, the Sword of the Morning or Ser Barristan the Bold. He thought not. Was Ser Arthur looking down on him even know? Cursing his false "brother," who had betrayed the king he had sworn to defend?

Where was Marbrand? A stupid thought to have in the midst of this; likely he was off somewhere, killing or being killed, but it discomforted Jaime still. He would have preferred to have the man at his back. Not all was lost; likely he would have been taken hostage, too valuable to kill, unless the damned fool insisted on dying honorably.

It did not matter. Jaime would do as he had done, the only thing he knew how to do. He'd kill until he was killed, as many as it took, and if he was lucky he'd bring down the Young Wolf with him. He remembered his sister, Cersei, begging him before for another one of Lord Stark's pups to die. A different wolf, but he thought either pelt would do nicely.

As the Northern horse crashed into his column, Jaime turned and saw him, with the monstrous grey direwolf at his side. "If only I had pushed that one out the tower." Jaime thought darkly, as he cut his way through another large Northman, cutting his way to this King In the North.


~*~

The night had been going well.
He would have preferred to have used his bow, certainly, and stayed on the Eastern flank, far away from the main source of danger, but with the higher risk came a higher reward, as well. As far as they knew, he was a knight, and he had been given a knight's place, mounted in the vanguard. They hadn't asked too many questions, and so he had been allowed to sign on only as the Green Knight to the paymaster. He had weapons, armour, and a horse, and that was enough to enlist. He bristled at the lowering of rank, but he knew there was nothing that could help it. Long ago, his family had lost the right to call themselves lords, and now he was lucky to receive even his knighthood.

He had brought a long, ashen lance, but it had shattered in the first charge, piercing all the way through the armour of one of the Lannister men. After that, he had drawn his sword, as a quick-witted soldier grabbed the reins of his horse, trying to hold him steady. Quick witted, but slow moving. Before he could capitalize on his advantage, the knight in green had drawn his sword and slit the man's throat. His horse, well trained and well bred for war, lashed out with it's hoofs, kicking in another of the Westerman's faces. Since then, he had taken two captives, men who he hoped would bring him handsome ransoms, and had killed others, although he had not kept count of how many.

He imagined he must have been a queer sight, to his allies, the Northmen. Most had likely not seen a knight in full plate before, let alone one in forest green plate. His cloak flowed behind him, as he moved through his foe, cutting down one after another. The poor bastards had been expecting to sleep soon, likely, and while his reflexes had always been faster than a common man’s, now his enemies seemed positively sluggish as he cut through their ranks.

He saw another finely armored man, shouting orders, bearing the heraldry of a burning tree. A lord, and a fine hostage, for a certainty. Under his helmet, the Green Knight smiled. Tonight would prove to be most profitable, indeed.

 

[peritwinkle]

The true battle for Addam was not on the moonlit valley inbetween the woods, but in his mind. It had taken him too much to decide whether he should put his blade through the Mormont girl or not, and he despised himself for considering both options. How could he murder a woman who seemed not much younger or older than his own babe? And yet how could he let an enemy survive, knowing that she would come to kill more of his brothers as soon as she was allowed to run?

He considered himself lucky he did not have to make the choice twice, for the young bear did not come after him; instead, she ran off into the distance and got herself lost into the waves of steel and flesh. It was what he did, as well - a coward and nothing less. The least he could do then, to reclaim at least a fragment of his valor, was to find Jaime and join him in battle before Robb Stark found him first.

In the sea of armour, he expected to only see silver that day, but the sight that captured his attention was something he could not pin on the name of a noble House. Steel glistened in green reflexes, with a sigil on the breastplate Addam could not read in the dimly lit darkness. The emerald warrior dashed about the field, slicing whatever living being came in his way without even caring to offer a glance to the face of the man whose life he had just taken. His brutality resembled the Northerners’, but not the way he carried himself, not his mannerisms and certainly not his attire.

Something white and glistening peeked from underneath his helmet, and it was then that Addam knew the man had seen him. Pursing his lips, he locked his fingers around the handle of his own sword and prepared himself for the fight. It was as though no-one else in that field had noticed or cared for him until then, but the Mormont girl, or perhaps they feared the flag of the burning tree. ‘They fear me, for they know me to be older than the Kingslayer... Old, to them, is wiser and stronger.’

It was a lie he wished to believe as well, yet could not lower himself enough to lose all selflessness. Jaime was younger, faster, nimble. He was, indeed, older, and had the advantage of experience, so did the old Maesters and healers who took care of the wounded and watched every battle - from afar. Experience was nothing compared to strength. It did not win one battles.

Pechance the man knew, for although Addam could not see his eyes from beneath the helmet, he knew they glistened with wrath and famine for blood. He fought for the North, and he could see it in the way his allies fought - recklessly, mindlessly, hurling upon whatever moved and slicing at everything wearing the colour red. But now, at least, the green warrior did not have the upper hand of surprise. He had seen him coming.

A breath escaped his nose before he pulled himself together and, taking a few jolted steps forward, proceeded to engage. His first blow was nothing but a mocking, as he only lifted his sword and then lowered it, twisting himself to avoid the man’s fending. There was not much he could expect, but he was ready for whatever came.

He could only pray that it would end quickly. If the Gods were good, he would find Jaime again before it was too late. Though, judging by the lack of movements in the waves of crowd, he could not have gone too far North.

~*~

One breath followed another. Dacey could feel her heartbeat against the ground and knew she ought to rise up. She had fallen against something hard and pointed, and her sword had darted to her left, now trodden by the feet of men fighting for their lives. With a harrowing push, the young bear pulled herself back on her feet and slithered her way down to where her blade had landed.

She still could not believe the Lord of Ashemark had allowed her to escape. ‘He has a daughter,’ she thought then, but half the men there did, and none had bothered to think of it as they tried to slice her back. A true knight would not harm a woman, but such rules did not apply in that context. They were at war. He was allowed to kill as he was ordered - man or woman alike. If Lady Sansa - poor Lady Sansa - were there, they would have slaughtered her just like they slaughtered eachother then.

“Dacey!” a voice called again, and she knew this time that it belonged to her mothered. Her bushy hair peeked from behind steel, and as soon as her umber orbs landed on her, she seemed to leap through the air towards the small circle screened from the rest by the backs of fighting Northmen. “Dacey,” she repeated, as though to make sure it was she whom she was looking at, and her daughter hurtled to her side.

“I am alright,” Dacey nodded with a heavy breath. “The ranks...”

“They have moved, and you did not move with them! There is no time, we ought to...”

An arrow whistled past their ears and landed into the eye of a Glover right behind their backs. Dacey gasped, and Maege pulled her to the side by her pauldron.

“We ought to find the Kingslayer. Stay with your family.”

Behind them, bears unveiled themselves in the light of the moon, slicing their way through her crowd and, likely, the way the King in the North had taken. He had called for blood - she remembered; it only meant that he had gone off to find the Kingslayer himself, and Dacey knew she should have been at his side.

‘I have lost my chance,’ she thought then. ‘I cannot lose my mother as well.’