. . .

(17) Pinkmaiden

Dickon I

. . .

The men had captured a giant.

Or so they boasted. "Behold, the northman giant!" "The Stark giant is here!" Dickon Tarly was a mere squire, but even he laughed in a mixture of relief and scorn when the "giant" was brought into the camp in chains. It was a gangly and half-finished thing, made of wood and straw and leather links, old rags to give it the likeness of skin and clothes, replete with a face of plaster. Wheels attached to a cart and scaffold on the bottom allowed it to be cleverly manipulated, either by rolling and propping it into position, or folding it up at the waist for transport.

The scouts had found it in the latest skirmish with the Blackfish's outriders, after a short battle at a half-abandoned camp. Some supplies had been taken, but nothing more impressive than the two giants, one of which had been burned by the Blackfish. The remaining false-giant had been festooned with some makeshift chains and brought back to the vanguard with aplomb and trumpets.

Naturally, Dickon's father was less than amused.

"Make sure every man has a good look at it," Randyll Tarly ordered his captains, "let them see the cheap mummery for what it is. Then burn it and be done with it. We have a war to win."

They rode hard that day, same as every day, giving chase to the Young Wolf across the southern Riverlands. Robb Stark moved fast but so did Randyll Tarly, and the Riverlands were their cyvasse board. The Blackwater Rush ran parallel to the Gold Road and much of it flowed out of the Westerland hills and mountains through the southernmost Riverlands. North of it, the Red Fork roared and tumbled with rapids. The land here was frequently waterlogged, with thick copses of trees and small woods dominating more elevated hills and thick grasses shrouding longer stretches of open terrain.

They'd nearly cornered the King in the North near Tumbler's Falls, but he stole a march on them and his outriders led them on a bloody chase. That day Dickon's father had worked the men twice as hard, driving them onward. They grumbled, Dickon knew, but none broke ranks, deserted or complained loud enough for their captains to hear. Lord Tarly never hesitated to make examples of those who broke discipline, ranks, or curfew. As his only remaining son – with Sam in the Night's Watch – Dickon tried his best to be an exemplar of virtue for all the other squires to follow. He marched hard, took pride in the equipment and horses entrusted to his care, and used what spare time he had to learn from his father or to practice with sword, shield, lance and mace. He'd have tried for the bow, too, but his father disdained it. It was ironic, given the banner of their house was a Huntsman.

"Pinkmaiden," Randyll said that night, as they set camp. "He's headed to Pinkmaiden."

His captains were around him, as they were every night, having reported in on the status of the army. Randyll Tarly was no Renly Baratheon or Mace Tyrell. He had no interest in games or niceties. He did not hold melees or tournaments. His tent did not have fine pillows or silver lace or a harp. When he called the army to order and asked for reports, the lords who answered to him spoke in alphabetical order.

That was how Randyll Tarly waged war.

"Pinkmaiden?" Titus Peake considered, stroking his chin. "I see. I've heard there are prisoners there."

Titus was the Lord of Starpike and head of House Peake, whose men bore a standard of three black castles on orange. They only held one of those ancestral castles these days, though. He was well muscled man with a short beard and a longer mustache, and his squire, Leo, was from one of the Lannister branches, a relative of Titus' wife Margot, herself a Lannister cousin.

"Westermen prisoners," Arwyn Oakheart said, the only woman at the table.

Dickon knew his father would rather not have any women at all in his vanguard, neither lordly nor common, but the men needed wenches and womanfolk to mind them, and Lady Oakheart was the head of House Oakheart and the noble Lady of Old Oak. She could not be denied. Her youngest son was a Kingsguard, yet she had only grandchildren to inherit and none were fit for war, so she rode to war by herself. Dickon had heard there were terrifying Mormont women fighting for the Young Wolf, but Lady Arwyn was a small and delicate woman, with green eyes and light brown hair that had only begun to fade. Her family arms were three green oak leaves on gold, and her banners were second in number only to the Tarly men in the field. She was always kind to young squires, Dickon knew.

"I thought Pinkmaiden was a ruin?" Lord Branston Cuy was the Lord of Sunflower Hall, a short fellow built like a barrel with a brown-almost-red goatee and a widow's peak. The Cuys were a proud family of the Reach, though Dickon had never met one before riding to join His Former Grace Renly Baratheon's host. Six flowers on blue were stitched to the breast of his white doublet and his squire was a mild-mannered teenager by the name of Robert.

"It must surely be. The Mountain burned it to get at the Pipers," Lord Arthur Ambrose scoffed, disgusted. "We've seen his handiwork with our own eyes. I'm amazed there's anything left, even enough to cage a dog, much less a pampered Westerman."

Lord Arthur Ambrose was the head of House Ambrose, and his influence was intimately tied to the mother of his children, namely Lady Alysanne Hightower. Alysanne was the daughter of Lord Leyton Hightower, perhaps the second most powerful man in the Reach after Lord Mace. Given that the Redwynes, Tyrells, Fossoways and Hightowers were all entwined by marriage, anyone getting a toe in benefited a great deal. Without his lady wife, neither Lord Ambrose nor his squire, his son Alyn, would likely be present in this war council. His house was represented by a yellow field strewn with fiery red ants like you find in Dornish border.

"Pinkmaiden protects the only way across the Red Fork for miles," Randyll told them, pointing to a small castle on the map splayed out before them, part of it dangling off the edge of the table. "All this will be for naught if he crosses."

"We can corner him there, if we're quick," Lord Cuy suggested. "The terrain ahead is hilly, but clear. The foot won't like it much, but we can make good time and it will take a few days to get an army across in skiffs."

"We have an advantage in knightly arms and armor. We could always ride ahead…" Lord Peake considered.

"No," Randyll said, firmly. "I won't ride, unsupported, into a trap. We tried this near Tumbler's Falls and lost a hundred men to an ambush."

"Pinkmaiden, then," Lady Oakheart agreed, leaning forward and resting her small hands on the table. "We shall settle this then and there."

. . .

Pinkmaiden

Olyvar I

. . .

Pinkmaiden.

Thank the Old Gods and the New for Pinkmaiden.

The army reached the castle and town soon after the sun set and the moon and the red comet lit up the sky, dyeing the former the color of dry blood. The men were tired but in good spirits, all things considered, and they whooped and cheered at the sight of signal fires and a fully prepared camp waiting for them. They would not have to crowd into pitched tents and eat cold rations tonight. There were barrels of wine and water and ale, and the smell of hearty stew in the wind as they approached. The other third of the army was waiting for them and had everything ready. Northmen and Riverlanders mingled and ate and drank. More than a few were encouraged to see the quartermaster or the launderers to replace patched or damaged armor or dirty linens.

Olyvar saw a contingent of Frey banners as he rode by, close behind Robb Stark. The King of the North and Trident was two years Olyvar's junior, and not even a knight himself, technically, but the Young Wolf seemed larger than life and far older than his actual years. He rode harder than any man Olyvar knew, disdaining niceties and eating and mingling with the men. Grey Wind stalked alongside his master, too, eyes and ears keen for anything out of the ordinary. Usually, Grey Wind traveled with the scouts, but when there was a fight he was almost always near the King, fighting in tandem with him or the other companions.

The huge direwolf feared no man or beast, it was said. Men spoke of the wolf with equal parts fear and reverence. One night in the Westerlands it returned to camp dragging a partly eaten lion, dropping it unceremoniously on a fire to cook. Like a man returning from the bush with a fresh-caught hare. In the Riverlands, there were rumors that Grey Wind sometimes met with the giant wolf pack of the Gods' Eye and the great Black Bitch that commanded them, or that she was his mate… but Olyvar considered that unlikely.

Not only had they never been close to the Gods' Eye, in all his time squiring for the King, he had never seen another wolf, dire or otherwise, in his presence, and Grey Wind did not seem very sociable towards other canines. Only people. Only the King's Companions. The King himself encouraged this and told them that Grey Wind was trained to understand much of human language. Sometimes it seemed like an exaggeration… Grey Wind was just a wolf after all, but… other times…

Well, this war was already a strange one.

A pair of giants stomped by in long strides, one of them carrying one of the dummies they had made days ago. He seemed to be attached to it. Olyvar secretly wondered if it resembled a female giant. That would certainly put an entertaining twist on why that one fellow carried it around with him long after they'd packed up or abandoned the rest of the dummies.

"Lucas," King Robb said, as they met up with another rider. It was Lucas Blackwood, the second son of Lord Tytos. He was dark of hair and eye, like most Blackwoods, but amiable and cheerful off the field. Olyvar considered him competent with a lance, but better with a sword, but this also meant he tended to discard his lance a little prematurely. But he wasn't dead yet, so maybe the older knight was onto something, or at least he knew his strengths.

"Everything's ready here," Lucas said, and shrugged. "Almost. The ditches and pits are on schedule, and we have the stakes made, we just need to lash them together into stars. We had trouble with the streams, though. No rain so no luck, the river's lower than normal. The engineers are working all night to try and fix it."

Robb nodded thoughtfully. "That's fine. And the others?"

"Glover, Tallhart, Umber and the Karstark clan are all here, along with my father and the Pipers. Ser Brynden is with his riders but now that you're back, he should be here shortly. You may not have heard, but Ser Karyl Vance arrived yesterday with an advance of eight hundred men and he brought some sellswords with him, the Iron Shields. The Stormbreakers are here as well, at your blessing."

"And what are your impressions of them?" Robb asked, as another of his companions rode up to join them: the still wounded Torrhen Karstark. He had barely survived his encounter with the Kingslayer in the Whispering Wood, but Lady Talisa couldn't keep him abed any longer. He'd demanded a horse and a blade when Robb returned from the Westerlands.

"He means the sellswords?" Torrhen asked, and Vance nodded.

"A man who sells his sword isn't like to swing it for any cause but his own," the youngest Karstark heir literally spat, the phlegm arcing through the air. He was bedecked in mail and boiled leather, as if expecting a fight at any moment. Unlike the King, who inherited from his Tully mother, the Karstark brothers all had a very hard-bitten look to them, like the stereotype of Northmen that Olyvar had grown up hearing about. Torrhen's beard was generous and his eyes flint-like.

"The Stormbreakers have a good reputation, and they were founded by a Tully," Lucas answered the actual question. "Their Captain, Ser Gyles, keeps good order with his men from what I've seen. They've kept out of the town and to the camps. Two hundred good horse, two hundred very light, horse archers, a hundred armored foot with bows from a dozen countries."

"And the Iron Shields?" Robb asked. "I don't know that group."

"They came following the smell of Lannister gold." Lucas frowned at that, but then cracked a smile. "Well, your gold now, Your Grace. Their officers and about forty other men are a-horse, but all the rest are foot. They've about two hundred men at arms, a little less than two times that in crossbowmen with those big myrish shields you stick in the ground. There's no way they made good speed upriver, even with barges. Not with that many foot."

"Blackwood has the right of it," Torrhen seconded. "I'd wager they came upriver a week or two ago, looking for a nice blonde fellow to work for. Must've been mighty disappointed to find them all indisposed… or in cages."

"I can use them, regardless. Their Captain?" Robb asked, riding and overlooking Pinkmaiden itself in the faint moonlight. The castle was ruined and burned but still mostly functional. No stores for Winter, though. The Mountain's men had seen to that, not even stealing the food, just setting it alight.

"Their Captain's a myrman by the name of Torreo."

"Torreo," Robb repeated, committing it to memory. "I'll meet with them both. Olyvar. Torrhen. You two ride with me. Lucas, get everyone together and meet me in the old solar." The Young Wolf grimaced and turned his horse around to look out over the dark fields below. His read of the situation was plain and to the point. "Tomorrow, Randyll Tarly will be here with thirty thousand men. If the weather permits, we fight."

. . .

That night, the King met with his lords and captains over cups and roasted quail. Olyvar was present as well, in cleaned attire, though it was not his place to speak. He was the King's cupbearer as well as his squire, though he only served the King in this capacity. The group of Northerners, Riverlanders, and two sellsword captains ate quickly and then huddled over a map of the castle environs to plan the battle for tomorrow.

Chief among them after the King was Ser Brynden Tully, the Blackfish of Riverrun and the Bloody Gate. He was a grizzled man and a hero of the Ninepenny Kings and the Stepstones, his hair gone grey but his sword-arm still strong. His face was lined and weathered like it had been exposed to a Dornish sandstorm and he wore his outrider armor of mail and studded leather. He glared down at the map and the advancing pieces on it representing the Tyrell Vanguard under Tarly.

Next to him, Ser Marq Piper was present representing his father Lord Clement. Ser Marq was tall and dashing, looking very much like a picture of a knight, despite his less than knightly pastimes among the ladies and wine-sinks of the Riverlands. Battle had hardened him and left him with a scar across his cheek and brow, but he still seemed to be eagerly looking forward to the battle. He pointed to another band of enemy riders far to the northeast and the others nodded.

Old Rickard Karstark and Greatjon Umber were standing side by side, the former deep in thought and the latter boasting and resting his hand on the hilt of the greatsword slung over his shoulder. They were the two largest and meanest looking men in the room, bar none, though Olyvar doubted any man more dangerous than the Blackfish. It was typical for one man to command the van, one the center, and one each the flanks. Robb instead had three men commanding regiments of foot, one man the light riders, and himself the heavy cavalry. Karstark and Umber took it for granted that they would have commands, and indeed they did.

Last but certainly not least of the lords was Tytos Blackwood, lord of Raventree Hall. In the Riverlands, he was well known as a skilled warrior and strategist, with a history not so different from the Blackfish, having done his time in the Stepstones fighting the Golden Company and other cutthroats. Lord Tytos was a tall man with long black hair, a salt-and-pepper beard, and an elaborate raven-feather cloak that suited well a lord of Raventree. He'd kept quiet and pensive during most of the talk thus far.

The new arrivals were also here, to formalize their places in the order of battle.

Robett Glover and Lord Helman Tallhart had ridden hard from their positions near Harrenhall under Roose Bolton, who had vacated the east under pressure from the Lannisters. Helman was the lord of Torrhen's Square in the North and had most recently taken Darry before being ordered west with three hundred horse. He was a fierce looking northman with blue chips of ice for eyes and a strong clean jaw. His companion, Robett, was younger brother to Lord Galbart, but he looked older, with a beard of red and gray and a hard, deeply lined face.

Captain Torreo of the Iron Shields and Ser Gyles of the Stormbreakers were new faces to Olyvar. Gyles had a Westerosi look, but his skin was browned from time in the south and the Disputed Lands, and his cheeks were pockmarked from a brush with plague. He was otherwise a lean and lanky man in worn but functional riveted brigandine. Velvet faulds covered his hips, where he sported a Braavosi sword and twin daggers. Captain Torreo wore a fine blue doublet rather than armor, dressed more for a stately dinner with a King than a war. A myrman, he had short dark hair and brown eyes and a cleanly cut, neat beard that ran like a narrow strip over his chin.

"The final lines are all in place," the King said, quieting the lords and captains. "The only change I'm making is here, in the rear. Karstark will have the right flank-"

Olyvar saw a stone marker with the Karstark sunburst put down parallel to the road running by Pinkmaiden and into the town. Beside it were other flat rectangular stone pieces with numbers. Pinkmaiden castle held their actual right flank, along with the town, which was behind a small moat fed by the river. The King's lines stretched from the castle and town in an arc over the road and up to the bend in the river, at the other flank.

"The center will be held by the Umbers," Robb continued, placing a chained giant piece over the road, in the rough center of the army's line. "The left will be under the Pipers. Lord Tytos will have the special reserve, which I am moving here. Glover, Tallhart… you and your men will be with me."

"My lords," he added, looking around at them with cold blue eyes. "There will be hard fighting for all of us, tomorrow. Blood and glory aplenty, I promise you. But this the final disposition of forces. Remember your roles and your oaths and tomorrow night, Gods willing, we will have victory. Aye?"

"Aye!" The men cheered and growled and cursed and raised their cups.

They were committed.

Tomorrow, there would be blood.

. . .

Pinkmaiden

Dickon II

. . .

The came upon Pinkmaiden early in the afternoon with ample light left in the day, even as autumn settled on the land and the days shrunk. Dickon followed his father as he took to a hill and surveyed the terrain around the burned castle and town. The Red Fork was virtually unfordable except at a crossing guarded by the castle and the Young Wolf had settled into lines, one anchor up against the river and the other by the castle's moat and the gates of the town.

"Are those earthworks?" Dickon asked, and his father merely grumbled.

"Come," he ordered, and rode down to the camp they had made nearby. It had been thrown up in the span of an hour or so, a place to pitch their tents and store their supplies and train.

As they rode to the camp, Dickon passed by ranks of men unrolling pikes and marching with them like a forest of spears. Banners waved in the cool breeze among the pikes: Peake castles, Footly caltrops, Oakheart leaves, Cuy flowers, Risley knights, Caswell centaurs from Bitterbridge, Graceford mothers, Ambrose ants and many more besides, and in a place of honor above them, the mighty Tarly huntsman and Tyrell rose. They were King Joffrey's army now, but you wouldn't know it from the banners and pageantry.

Father and son passed by men preparing for battle: men eating a last meal or having a last drink, men checking arms and armor, men joking with friends who could be dead by day's end, men sitting quietly and lost in their own thoughts, and men listening to holy septons as they blessed and consoled them about the fighting to come. Some few had fought at the Blackwater, cavalry mostly, but most had not made it there in time and were facing battle for the first time. Dickon Tarly was one of them. But they had the advantage of numbers, equipment, chivalry and the blessings of the Seven, so Dickon didn't let worry or anxiety unman him. He wasn't like poor Sam.

No man ruled by fear could wear the huntsman on his breast.

"They're putting up obstacles," Lady Oakheart observed. They met not in a tent, but in the open air, over the same table and map as before, held in place with tacks.

"We have the advantage in knightly horse," Lord Ambrose reasoned. "A knight at charge is worth a dozen men-at-arms, and the knights of the Reach are without peer." He frowned. "We can't give them time to dig in."

"Most of the field is dry enough but the stream to the north has been swelled somehow," Lady Oakheart added, pointing down at the map. "My scouts report that parts are muddy, but they couldn't get closer. The Pipers and Blackwoods have some sort of slingers… I lost thirty-two men trying to get the lay of the land."

"You take unnecessary risks, my Lady," Lord Peake chided her. "You have ridden with us to the battlefield and proven your bravery and commitment to your men. The Mother herself could do no more. Leave matters to us from here on."

"So long as Oakheart men are in the field, risking their lives, I shall represent them as best I can," the noble Lady replied, unbending. "I am not so deluded as to imagine I can fight, but…"

"Enough of this," Randyll Tarly snapped, and the others quieted. He looked over the map with a grim, calculating expression. "I saw them setting up Ibbish horses-" meaning, Dickon knew, wooden spikes set into thick logs and rolled into place as obstacles. "and other obstructions, but only a few."

"Those star-shaped things," Lord Cuy spoke up. "They're too high to jump. I've never seen one before, but I'd bet they're enough to spook a horse."

"I saw them setting up more of those giants of theirs, too." Lord Ambrose rolled his eyes. "I'm amazed this trick worked on those fool Westermen."

"War is won in men's minds," Dickon's father reminded them. "Taking advantage of their superstition is no different than making good use of men's faith."

"The ever-pious Lord Tarly," Lady Oakheart jested. Randyll simply glared at her. He was not one for jests, especially at his expense.

"Look here. They've only had a day to prepare," Lord Peake said, and pointed down at the wooden wolf's head pieces arrayed before them. "I say we charge one of the flanks. East would be best, to avoid fire from the castle. The Rivermen will buckle if we hit them hard… I'd bet on it. Tywin's men have already beaten them and burned their lands. I'd wager most just want to go home."

"I'd wager most that remain want revenge for those burned homes, raped daughters and dead friends," Lady Oakheart countered. "We mustn't underestimate them, just because they've been set to flight once before."

"I want a better feel for the terrain, as well," Tarly considered. "We'll send in the bowmen."

Horns blew and the order went out as the noble lords returned to their banners. Dickon carried the huntsman proudly as he followed his father's destrier, feeling the weight of his armor and arms and the history of House Tarly on his shoulders. They rendezvoused with the vanguard's cavalry and ascended a small hill to get a slightly better look as men advanced towards the rebel lines.

Past the sea of raised pikes and men numbering in the tens of thousands advanced a more motley assembly of bowmen and crossbowmen. They weaved through the friendly ranks and entered the rougher terrain hastily prepared by the Northmen and their Riverlander allies. They were not a single uniform body of men, but a multitude of different units raised by different houses, standard-bearers sporting the colors and sigils of a dozen castles and keeps that raised them. All across the line they inched forward through the ranks, Dickon could see it all the way up to the flank that nearly abutted the river.

From the tighter Northern ranks came men as well to skirmish. Some were sellswords, with big myrish shields, and others rolled forward with cruder wooden posts. They were gathered up into three large blocks, one for the center and one for each flank. Dickon saw them take up positions and begin to fire. There were distance markers set up on the field that their own scouts could do nothing about and the defenders knew just when to unleash hell.

Against knights, they may have waited… at a hundred yards, few arrows would pierce plate.

Against other bowmen, they fired at range and filled the air with a mix of bolts and arrows. Randyll made a scoffing noise, Dickon heard, when the first volley landed among their own bowmen. Hundreds of men fell screaming. Hundreds died. Dickon saw one man, made a pincushion, still moving and thrashing. Others clung to the legs of their allies and friends, begging not to be left behind. Yet left behind they were, all the same.

The survivors unleashed scattered fire as they advanced a little closer. The men with longbows used them, arcing shots high and into the rebels. Men with weaker bows had to scramble closer. Those few who misjudged had their arrows fall short. The rebels seemed undaunted, though, and unleashed another practiced volley in time to a booming drum.

Their own crossbowmen soon began to return effective fire, kneeling and working the cranks of their bows. Dickon could just barely hear as their officers tried to volley and concentrate their own fire, but they were more spread out and disorganized than the three large units of mixed rebel bowmen. The rebel bowmen and crossbowmen alternated fire, since the archers could nock and loose more quickly, while all kept behind shields, myrish or otherwise.

More bolts and arrows filled the air, back and forth, and the King's men began to dwindle. One by one, the rebels concentrated their volleys on individual levies and bowmen. Dickon saw banners falling from the hands of dead standard-bearers: Ambrose, Oakheart, Beesbury, Peake, even Tarly. The huntsman fell no less than three times, only to rise again as a man rushed to hoist it out of the dirt and mud, and then to have him shot out from under it again. When the next volley came, the men left the huntsman in the bloodstained grass and fled in disarray.

The rebels, meanwhile, had already moved on and started pelting the pikemen and men-at-arms behind the skirmishers. Some sort of signal was raised behind their lines, and when a horn blew, bolts began to rain down on waiting men to both left and right. Upright pikes provided some limited ability to deflect arrows and the like but mostly to the front. Men began to shift about, unwilling to just be pelted. More importantly, knights began to curse and cry out among the van.

"Bloody cowards!"

"Northern dogs!"

"Sellsword filth!"

Dickon shifted uncomfortably as well and spotted another knight's squire also looking anxious. More than a few knights were hot-headed – honestly, many squires were, too, but didn't have the authority or power to do much with it – and Dickon turned to his father to restore order. Randyll barked at them to be silent, which they did, though whether it was out of fear or respect (or both) Dickon wasn't sure. It worked, though, and the knights kept their anger and impetuousness to themselves. The waving Stark banners were tempting them sorely.

"Order the advance!" Randyll commanded, and one of their horns blew now.

All across the line, men began to march, pikes glittering like the scales of a giant fish as they advanced. The rebel skirmishers continued to reap a bloody toll, firing into the front ranks or into the sides of exposed formations. Men screamed and fell and blocks of pikemen and men-at-arms and levies left trails of bloody bodies in their wake. Some tried to keep order and advance under shields, mostly the men-at-arms, and the pikemen who were drilled not to ruin their formation, but some and more began to run to get to the enemy and drive away the bowmen.

They were nearly to the rebel lines.

Some of the men who ran hunkered down and waited for their slower fellows to try and keep order. Officers yelled. The Northern ranks were seemingly content to wait for them with locked shields here and pike-walls there. The bowmen had fallen back to the castle, except for a few that found gaps to fire through or over.

Closer. Closer. Closer.

Dickon held his breath at the men made contact, and the crash of steel and flesh could be heard even where the Tarly van waited and watched. The young squire turned to his father and saw him completely engrossed in the battle. He was looking for the moment, the opportunity, the perfect place, to charge into the disorganized enemy and drive them before the spurs of Reach chivalry. One hand holding up the huntsman standard, Dickon's heart beat like a painful drum in his chest and his hands grew slick with sweat just waiting.

Seven-willing, today would see the end of the war in Westeros.

One battle… take the King in the North, and all this would be done.

The entire line was committed and cutting into the rebels when ballista began to fire, arcing over the foot and across the field. Dickon watched one with terror as it flew through the air towards them, some five or even six feet of wood and iron moving faster than a hawk could dive. It seemed too heavy to fly like it was, too large to even have proper fletching. The man-sized arrow passed harmlessly overhead – thank the Seven – but a clamor and tumult erupted as a second one, by ill luck, managed to hit someone or something. Dickon got one look at what seemed to be a cored warhorse, tumbling from the impact, and the broken body of a knight knocked off his saddle and rolling in the grass like a broken puppet.

"What the hells was that?" a man cried.

"Ballista!" another yelled.

"The castle must've had them!"

"We should move out of range!"

"You would quit the field, Ser?!"

"Silence!" Randyll roared over the din. He reared his horse and circled in front of the knightly men. "Keep order!"

But soon a horn blew from one of the other commands, and Dickon turned to see the Peakes were advancing in drips and drabs. The more impetuous were clearly eager to get into the melee and once some left, the others had to follow or be left shamefully behind. The Peake standard waved back and forth, indicating they were charging. A few seconds later, and another horn, and the Ambrose banner did the same. More of those ballista bolts flew and the knights of the Reach would neither flee from them nor remain stoically immobile as they were picked off.

"Keep order!" Dickon's father raged again. He turned to the melee. There was no time now. "We make for the center and join with the Peakes! Seven-willing, Cuy will have the brains the Father gave a horse and will join us there. Keep pace with me!"

Randyll turned his armored destrier about in a circle, lance in the air to rally around him those who hadn't heard his commands. They would follow others who had heard. They all knew what this signal meant. They all knew the time for the decisive clash had come. None could stand against the chivalry of the Reach. Dickon cried out with them, roaring approval at the order being given, and soon they were making a fast trot towards the battle.

Closer. Closer.

Dickon could see the bodies of men fallen by the skirmishers earlier. There were fallen men and fallen banners, the latter pristine, the former covered in blood. The smell hit him, then, too: the stick of bowels and piss, mixed with the moaning of the dying left behind. He directed his horse around a man who was somehow still alive, with a crossbow bolt in his eye, screaming for his mother… or maybe The Mother herself… to save him and wake him up and that his face hurt.

Dickon tried not to think on it.

"Now!" his father barked, and a horseman raised a horn to his lips and blew, long and loud. It was a deep, triumphant bellow that emerged from the red-banded horn, and it was the signal to break into a gallop.

"Ya. Ya!" Dickon quietly urged his horse onward, and just as they had trained for years, rider and horse broke into a gallop across the broken ground. Around him, knights yelled and bellowed and readied their lances. Reins cracked and horses whinnied. Grass and dirt kicked up and so much of the battlefield became a blur.

The roar was deafening, not just for the men at foot but the men on horse, too.

The ground sped by, but it was full of obstacles that the footmen had already traversed. Star-shaped objects made of sharpened spikes forced men and especially rushing horses to avoid them. In places the ground had been dug up and made uneven. There were traps that the footmen had been told to fill in when they found them, but predictably hadn't, that could catch a horse's hoof and break it, sending it and the man riding it tumbling.

None of this could or would stop a mounted charge, but it did break it up badly. Some men pulled ahead of others. Some men lagged behind. Horses were not mindless beasts and, if faced with something sharp or frightening, would try and avoid it or sometimes even stop and rear. Warhorses were trained to not be as easily spooked as normal horses, to be used to sharp metal and frightful sights and smells, but training could only do so much. Ranks broke up as they crossed the broken battlefield. Men fell. Horses cried in shock and pain. Good knights died. Dickon saw a squire he had eaten dinner with two nights ago fall with his horse.

The horn blew again, and lances were couched.

Randyll's father directed them, and they saw the dust and clods kicked up by the charging Peake and Cuy cavalry. They were all converging on the center: on the wavering chained giant of the Umbers. The weight of four thousand horse roared, their power concentrated into the tips of their lances. The horns were a warning, too, for their men to make way or be trampled. Dickon saw some try and extract themselves from the melee and hoped more would obey their serjeants and captains. There was little stopping the charge now.

He saw one of the northern wicker giants push forward and initially paid it no mind. Then he heard men cry out in fear. Something waded into the ranks of the Peake spearmen and a man – a full grown man in mail – flew through the air like a ball that had been kicked. Dickon thought, for some reason, back to one time he had kicked his sister Talla's doll because it was left in the hall. He hadn't intended any cruelty in it. It was just in the way and he didn't want to pick it up, so he kicked it into a corner. He remembered the arms and legs limply flailing in the air.

The man was just like the doll… except he screamed.

There was another kick, and this time two men howled as they flew through the air, their bodies broken. What looked like a huge hammer lifted up high and then swept down like a scythe out of the Seven hells, splattering a rank of men. Dickon watched, still charging, as something small that could only be a head was literally knocked clean off a footman's shoulders.

"Charge!" Dickon heard his father roar. "Sound the horn! Charge! CHARGE!"

Dickon wanted to cry. What were they charging into?

Giants.

Not wicker giants, not straw giants on wooden sleds… real giants, armored like knights… that was what emerged from the Umber lines. The Northmen seemed little bothered by it and rushed forwards with spears to meet the still charging knights of the Reach. Around Dickon men called out in shock and fear, but they were committed. Some tried to veer or to turn, but there was no room. One knight slammed into another not more than fifty paces away, and both crashed. There was only forward. Forward. Forward!

Into the bloody affray.

. . .

Pinkmaiden

Olyvar II

. . .

It was madness.

Robb Stark had committed their cavalry to countering the charge on the left flank by the Red Fork while the reserves and the giants under Tytos Blackwood shored up the center. The Riverlander ranks parted for them, and many hundreds of dismounted knights – for many had fought dismounted all across the Northern lines – were given spare horses. Even without the actual giants present, the confusion and terror of the center was spreading, like a plague of fear.

Yet men still fought for King Joffrey, or more specifically, for House Tyrell and their lords' ambitions. Olyvar rode his horse hard and, just as he had practiced, brought his lance down on a man in green and gold jack. The speartip took him in the face and he dropped his own spear to clutch at the wound. Olyvar nimbly used his remaining momentum to knock the man over and then jab at a second reachman. A lance was typically not a great weapon for very long into a melee, but many knights liked to use them until they broke or bent. That latter was the most common point of failure. That, or the tip being too deeply lodged in something, like a ribcage.

The King in the North was a consummate lancer, far better than Olyvar himself or even most of his companions. He rode with two lances to take advantage of that fact, and as he finished off the second reachman and returned to guarding the King's back, the Frey squire saw the Young Wolf unhorse an Oakheart knight in plate. The man fell to the dirt with a curse and a cry, already reaching for a mace.

He never got the chance, as Robb directed his warhorse forward and about in a tight circle, not an easy bit of horsemanship given the melee around them. The knight was brutally trampled underhoof and Olyvar winced when he saw one heavy horseshoe stamp the man's head into the dirt with a sickening crunch. The King was already engaged with another foe, even as he killed the man, using his lance to slash a horseman across the neck. An arcing plume of crimson fountained from the wound.

"Ya!" Olyvar urged his horse on, covering the King as he picked up speed and headed to another target. He barreled by a man-at-arms fighting a Piper man, knocking him aside, and matched lances with another Oakheart knight. This would be the third the King took on, not counting the one Grey Wind still had in his jaws, shaking by the neck like a dog would a rabbit or a rat.

With a cry and a lunge, Olyvar lost his lance in the stomach of a foeman in boiled leather.

He switched to his steelbow, then, and fired a shot into a horseman wearing yellow. The force of the impact, and the shock of it, knocked the armored man off his horse. Olyvar left him to the footmen and took aim at a lighter armed man a-horse in the colors of House Ambrose. He nimbly tilted the steelbow and reloaded the chamber with his side of his glove's thumb. The little hammer cocked and with a second burst of pressurized air, a second shot fired, catching a man by the arm.

"Don't let up!" Robin Flint cried, raising a blood-stained hammer overhead. "Follow the King!"

"This way!" Donnel Locke yelled, charging alongside Owen Norry and Dacey Mormont.

The two horsemen and one horsewoman were soon in a melee with four Reach knights, and Olyvar saw one brained by a mace but still riding his horse, even with his neck broken. Lady Dacey's mace seemed to arc slowly through the air, spraying red like an artist's paint brush. Behind her, Norry's lance was buried into the neck of a man knocked clean off his horse. Strapped into his saddle, a dead man in green and gold rode by on a terrified horse, his body lurching sickeningly forward and backward as his horse flew into a confused panic.

A horn blew – not one of theirs – and men started to turn to try and retreat and reform. The Young Wolf's companions didn't even need a signal to know what that meant or what their kind intended. Robb fought like a hungry wolf, some said, and once he smelled blood he did not retreat or relent. He attacked, attacked, and attacked again, wherever and whenever he smelled weakness. So, his friends and companions knew that when the enemy tried to reform, they formed up, formed pairs, and chased them down. Many used their steelbows, getting off at least a single shot before closing the distance.

Olyvar saw the King break his second lance on an Oakheart knight in the resulting charge, the tip splintering as he drove it into and across the chest of a mounted man. Plates of armor were ripped free and the man screamed like a babe as he fell of his horse, which whinnied, reared, and fell over. There was a crunch of horseflesh landing on man, and Olyvar rushed onward behind his King. Steel was in Robb's hand, now, and he caught up to and slashed the horse of a man in armor. It spun around in pain and surprise, and the rider yelped as he was thrown, but landed safely with a roll. Unfortunately for him, Smalljon Umber saw it all and came down on him with a warhammer that old King Robert himself would have approved of. A red slurry leaked from the visor of the man's crumpled, ruined helm as he fell to his knees.

Shield and hammer, mace, axe and sword, the King's Companions barreled into the knights of the Reach as they tried to reform for another charge. Behind them, enraged Riverlanders and a horde of heavy horse broke the enemy lines apart and pounced on any of the fallen. Many were given quarter, but others were executed outright.

Olyvar soon found himself facing another squire a-horse, trading blows with an older man in his twenties with less armor but more experience. The blue towers of Frey on Olyvar's shield rang as it deflected a hard hammer blow. The two circled on their horses, trading blows and looking for an opening. Olyvar found it before his foeman, lunging and then running the blade of his sword across the inner arm of the man. Blood pooled up instantly under the metal-studded jack on the inside of the elbow. Still, the bastard held onto his mace.

"Yield!" Olyvar yelled over the din of battle. "Yield!"

"To a boy?" The other man yelled back. "Never!"

They went back at it, and a blow prompted Olyvar's arm to tremble painfully. His narrow arming sword lacked the impact of a mace, but even on horseback, it was nimbler and more flexible. Taking another blow to his straining shield, Olyvar finally found an opening and trust his sword into the man's throat. The tip punched just a little bit out the back, and when it withdrew, the gurgling reachman fell forward and slumped, bleeding to death in the saddle.

"About! About!" Ser Perwyn Frey yelled as he rode by, blood across the left side of his face. "Wheel about!"

"With me!" The King bellowed, sword held high. Fat Wendel Manderly was alongside him, his spear coated in blood, his mermaid shield splintered. "With me!"

Gods, they were charging again.

This time, their victim was the embattled center, where huntsmen, sunflowers and castles were clashing with chained giants, clenched fists, battle axes and green and black trees. Horns blew loud, theirs and the enemy's, and men screamed and howled to the heavens as steel met steel, flesh parted, and blood flowed. Grey Wind howled louder than any man, though, and within minutes Robb Stark and his Companions, together with at least eight hundred hard bitten horse took the huge mass of men by the rear, the thunder of their hooves, the roar in the air, the clatter of their steel drowning out the world.

. . .

Pinkmaiden

Dickon III

. . .

The giants were wading through them, wreaking bedlam left and right. They wore armor, like a man, and it resisted any but the most forceful thrust of lances and swords, freeing them to kick and swipe and crush and kill. Dickon whirled about on his horse as one armored colossus kicked a mounted knight, horse and all, over and through the air. The beast cried in pain and terror as it tumbled overhead, forcing Dickon to duck in the saddle. It dawned on him, only once it was gone, that maybe a hundred and thirty stone of man and beast and steel had just flown by over his head.

'Mother! Father! Stranger! What have we gotten into!?'

Deflecting a speartip with his shield, Dickon brought his sword down on the helmet of a man in Umber livery, sending him sprawling. What order and ranks they may once have had on both sides were completely lost, now, and there were men in all colors around him in a grand mad melee, like a rainbow turned insane, worming itself into the dirt. What colors were left had long since lost their vibrance, stained by mud and blood until half the men, friend and foe alike, were just shades of brown and black. No tourney had ever been like this. There was no pageantry or gallantry, no shining knights under summer sun, only a press of bodies and death in every direction, coming from every angle.

A knight in Cuy yellow yowled like a dying cat as a giant stomped by, spearing him with the sharpened tip of his war-hammer. Dickon gasped in terror as the screaming man was lifted high into the air atop the hammer, higher and higher, ten feet and then twenty. For what seemed like an eternity, the giant just stood there above the affray, holding the impaled man up like a trophy. Dickon could see the giant's face behind and beneath its frightful helm, but not its eyes. It just stood there, like a statue, curiously examining the man it had surely just slain like a maester studying an insect stuck on a pin.

'Have we all gone insane?' the young squire thought, and surely… he at least had lost his mind, because Dickon Tarly suddenly realized he was urging his horse forward instead of away.

Lowering the huntsman standard like a lance, he charged the giant with a high-pitched scream. His horse leaping over a pile of dead men and for all that he yelled to the Seven heavens and hells he could barely hear his own voice over the pounding of his heartbeat.

'I will not shame my house! I will not. Kill me! Crush me! But you will not SHAME ME!'

In that moment, all the Kings and the Kingdoms fell away. Joffrey Baratheon? Who was that? No one Dickon Tarly had ever met or cared about. Mace Tyrell? Who was that? No man Dickon truly cared about. It was not for any great cause or Kingdom that he charged.

He heard his mother's sweet voice, he remembered Talla's stupid doll, Alara holding onto his leg when his father took him to meet Renly's host, Dorna's tears when she waved goodbye. He thought of his father, watching him. He hoped Randyll Tarly was watching him now, so he knew that even if he was afraid, he didn't let it shame him. He thought of his brother Sam, last of all, and wondered where he was now, but glad that it wasn't here. This was no place for foolish, gentle Sam.

And then the huntsman, standard and spearhead both, shattered against the giant's torso.

A huge foot shifted, Dickon saw, and he knew in a man what that change in stance meant. Thinking and moving more quickly than he ever imagined, Dickon snapped out of his saddle and jumped. The giant's hammer made nary a sound as he whooshed by, right up until it connected with his horse. The poor beast cried in agony as it was struck with a force like a thunderbolt. Dickon landed in a tumble, leaping away on instinct alone when the giant's armored boot came down, mere inches from crushing him flat.

Scrambling for his life, Dickon took advantage of his small size and rolled towards the stomping giant, hugging the creature's right leg and then spinning away when it reversed grip on its hammer and slammed it down into the ground. Lunging with his sword, he aimed for a gap in the giant's gauntlet and felt it punch into mail. It didn't draw any blood he could see, but the giant did roar in frustration. It tried to back away to get a clean shot at the insect fluttering around its legs, darting and cutting, but Dickon never let it.

Picking a discarded lance up off the ground, he made one last desperate gamble: to spear the giant in the thigh or crotch. Either were mortal wounds in a man due to bleeding. The problem was that the giants seemed even more heavily armored around their legs than their upper bodies. A mail skirt protected this giant, and the tip of the spear only scraped across it as he tried desperately to find a gap. It was also a hell of a lot harder to thrust upward than it was downward.

"Dickon! You mad fool boy!"

That was father.

"The battle is lost! Find a horse!" Randyll yelled, a bloody Heartsbane in hand. "Find a horse and flee, damn you!"

"NO HORSE!" the giant bellowed, then, to the shock of both Tarlys. "HUNTSMAN." It whirled on the elder Tarly. "HUNTSMAN!"

"Father! Get out of here!" Dickon yelled, straining his lungs. "Go!"

The giant ignored the boy and started towards the man. "Crush the huntsman," it said to itself, flipping its huge hammer back around into a normal grip. "Beware the blade."

By the Seven… did it know about Heartsbane?

Another horn sounded, a rebel horn, and Dickon turned to see the direwolf banners heading towards them. He looked around frantically for a horse, but there were none nearby. He heard the horns of the Reach, though, and they were calling for retreat. Maybe if there had been no giants… maybe then they could've punched through the center and the Umbers. Gods. Gods! Those dummies. Those fake giants. It was all a trap! All of it! Right from the start!

"Go!" Dickon yelled, his young voice cracking. "Go, father! I'll find a horse! I'll be fine!"

The giant still advancing on him, Randyll gave a roar, pulled back on his reins, and turned about. He rode away with the giant close behind, ignoring bolts and spears from lesser men. It was not the only giant, either. The Northmen had a baker's dozen at least, and they all seemed to hear when this one yelled 'Huntsman!' One immediately dropped what he was doing, stepped right over a knight, and started towards Randyll Tarly. Another threw his head back and roared. And through it all the charge began to smash through their men, lines broken, everything in chaos.

'Too late to worry about that. I need a horse!'

Still holding his lance, Dickon met the oncoming companions of the Young Wolf.

. . .

Pinkmaiden

Olyvar III

. . .

OIyvar lost his original horse soon after the fourth charge, ripped out from under him by a Tarly knight whose own lance, used on foot like a pike, had opened the poor beast from belly to tail. The ground was not much of a cushion, though it was softer now than it had been, churned up by horses and men and giants. Ripping a clod of dirt and grass away from his helmet, Olyvar grabbed a nearby shield, saw it bore the colors of House Umber, and signed in relief. The last thing he needed was to be speared in the back for using an enemy shield. The second to last thing he needed was to be speared from the front because he had no shield at all.

He looked about for the King and saw him dismounted, though with his mount was alive nearby, snorting and stamping in agitation. He and two others were cutting through the enemy spearmen to reach someone. Olyvar saw a wavering banner overhead, a white tree on a black field, and didn't recognize it.

King Robb's sword parted an armored man from his left leg with an inside cut while Smalljon Umber body-checked another fellow, a sharp estoc in his left hand to finish him off. A head fell from the crippled man-at-arms Robb had taken off his feet just as Grey Wind pounced on a knight circling behind the King. He had been stealthy about it, too, but with Grey Wind nearby the Young Wolf may as well have had eyes in the back of his head.

The sight of the wolf reinvigorated the men who took up the cry: "Young Wolf! Young Wolf!"

The enemy, meanwhile, moaned in despair.

Far more fled than fought, but that was to be expected. Olyvar had known that even before marching off to war. The true battle wasn't to annihilate the enemy but to drive them into flight and to unman them. Olyvar had read as much in his youth, but he had only seen it himself with King Robb. The King did not easily enter into pitched fights, not if it could be avoided. He preferred surprise and the shattering of enemy morale. It was how they won at Oxcross, at the Camps, at Casterly Rock, and now… surely… at Pinkmaiden. That was how they won, even though they'd been outnumbered in every single battle.

Yet not all men fled.

Some dug in their heels and fought even harder.

Some few charged the King, eager to end the war then and there. Olyvar rushed to Robb's aid, only to come face to face with a bloody young squire with a ripped huntsman over his surcoat. He didn't seem very big, but he had survived the melee thus far and his spear wasn't to be ignored. Olyvar drew his arming sword.

He lunged, quick, and Olyvar blocked with his shield and closed the distance. A knight trained in the spear wouldn't rely entirely on a lunge, the Frey squire knew. When the smaller squire changed his grip and tried to strike with the weighted back and shaft of the spear, Olyvar was ready and parried with his sword. The momentum lost, there was little force behind the spear when the other squire tried to reverse it again and put spear-tip to gorget. Even if he hadn't blocked it, too, Olyvar was sure his armor would've deflected it.

He lunged, his estoc aiming for a gap between the cuirass and shoulder. It was deflected by the spear as the other squire backtracked, tossing the spear in favor of his own sword. It was a fine-looking blade, not too dissimilar to Olyvar's own, and as the King's squire and son of a rich (albeit full) house, he was well equipped. The other squire had no shield, though. Instead, he pulled a dirk out and held it in his left hand.

Olyvar smirked.

The King himself was fond of using a rondel in close quarters, and Olyvar sparred with him often enough. He had seen the King put a good steel dirk right through a mail coif and into a man's ear, once. It was easy, but foolish, to imagine the sword to be the more dangerous weapon of the two. If this squire had skill, he could parry effectively with it, too.

Drumming the side of his loaner shield with his sword, Olyvar advanced on the huntsman. Their blades met first, flashing briefly as each tried for an overhand blow to break the footwork of the other. The smaller squire was quick, or maybe it was his lack of a shield, and he balanced easily on his feet as he thrust with sword and defended with rondel. Olyvar preferred the shield, finding comfort in the weight and more than once nearly bludgeoning his opponent with it. He had size and strength on his side and used it.

Men fought on around them, leaving the pair to their duel. Swords clashed, again and again, until Olyvar lost his shield when the other squire got inside his guard, seized his elbow, and tried to bury his rondel into an exposed armpit. Olyvar had needed to twist his shield and strike the smaller squire in the face to force him back. He went half-and-a-half after that, and the next exchange went better, as the smaller squire was forced back and beaten around the head with Olyvar reversed the sword and struck him with the crossguard. It didn't penetrate, but it did ring the little shit's bell a bit.

Horns blew, but the squires ignored them, crossing swords again. The rondel came up again, but this time Olyvar was ready, and grabbed the other squire by the upper arm. He twisted hard and the Tarly man yelped in pain, losing grip on his dirk. Olyvar slipped his foot forward through the mud and torn grass, bent at the waist and threw the Reach squire onto his back. Reversing grip on his sword, he tried to bring it down in one smooth motion, only to be checked when the squire stopped his downward motion with his right arm. Steel flashed in front of Olyvar's face as the man's blade came uncomfortably close to his eyes.

"Yield!" Olyvar snarled. "Yield, damnit!"

The smaller squire cursed and tried again to get Olyvar in the face with his sword, but it was impossible. Olyvar had leaned in closer and the blade's own length meant it was impossible to hit anything but the side of his helm. Meanwhile, he kept leaning into his own blade, trying to force it down.

"Fine! I yield!" the squire yelled, as the tip of the arming sword started to press on his chest. He released the grip on his sword but didn't stop trying to push away Olyvar's blade. "I yield!"

"About damn time," Olyvar replied, let out a deep breath, and stood. He removed his sword from the younger man's chest. Getting a look at him now, he almost looked like a boy. Like little Osmund Frey, his nephew.

"Who are you?" Olyvar asked, keeping an eye on the battle around them.

"Dickon. Dickon Tarly," the boy answered, slowly rising to his feet, and removing his belt and scabbard. He sheathed his sword and held it out in submission. "My father will pay ransom for me… probably."

"Olyvar Frey," Olyvar introduced himself, taking the boy's sword and scabbard. "So, to be certain, your father is Randyll Tarly?" The boy nodded. "That explains how… wait… were you that idiot I saw fighting Wun Weg?!"

Dickon looked confused. "Wun-what?"

. . .

Pinkmaiden

Talisa I

. . .

Talisa Maegyr watched though the eyes of a surveillance drone as the Blackfish and his riders spread out across the hills and plains east of the castle, chasing down the routed. The knights of the Tyrell vanguard had been lured in, made to overcommit, and promptly shattered, but Robb's little trick with the giants and penchant for maskirovka in general wouldn't work a second time, especially if Tarly escaped. They couldn't stop every man from disappearing into the hills and the brush and word would get out.

But…

That wasn't necessarily a bad thing.

It would make Robb's job more difficult, but it would make the Commonwealth's easier. Intel knew there were wargs in southern Westeros, but they took great pains to hide themselves, even among the noble families. Hopefully realizing or rediscovering their utility in a war would help to bring them, and others, out of the shadows. Either way, Robb's secret weapons were never going to remain a secret forever. Now the whole realm would know.

For the Commonwealth's investment, they also had some superb footage of the giants in combat to run analysis on, which was part of the point of putting them in the field in the first place. Their mental responses to pitched battle, physical hardship, and above all, to casualties and to combat, all needed some real-world testing. Their reproductive cycles were laboriously long, true, but that could be circumvented with cloning.

"Separate the highborn prisoners for triage," Talisa ordered, blinking her left eye and focusing on her more immediate concerns. "Make sure you get their names! Remember, red ties for only the most critical patients!"

It was time to get bloody, herself.

There were thousands of dead and dying and the looters were already having at the bodies, often killing the wounded while robbing them. The death was one thing, but the looting was another. It was completely normal behavior here, but it stunk of a lack of discipline and self-control. All the valuables and equipment in the field should be pooled, sorted, and accessed by the quartermasters and their men.

Talisa knew Robb agreed in principle, but in practice it was almost impossible to prevent people here from looting the dead and dying. How could they even deny the villagers and people of Pinkmaiden such a bounty when they had been victimized by Lannister men so recently, the town sacked, and their food stores burned? It hadn't been the reachmen who did that, but the Reach was sleeping in the same bed with men who had.

Her men and women started bringing in the wounded, and sorting friendlies from hostiles, treatable injuries from terminal ones. The small coterie of maesters Robb's army had conscripted helped with that, though some still chafed at following orders from the King's "foreign mistress."

Robb's Companions were among the last to return to the camps outside the castle.

They got the best care, by Talisa's own hand. It was simply pragmatic. Virtually all of them were the sons (or one daughter) of important Northern and Riverlands houses. Only an actual lord would warrant a higher priority. Talisa suspected her old tutors back in the Commonwealth would have a word or two of criticism about it, what with holding onto the ancient Hippocratic Oath, but there was no helping it.

Robb rode at the head of them, looking physically and emotionally exhausted, his eyes downcast and introspective, as he often was after a battle. Grey Wind trotted alongside his master, half-warged. Robb had become quite proficient at this aspect of warging, which was something Talisa was glad for and proud of.

It wasn't like she had any experience training a skinchanger and Robb didn't appear to have the tremendous depth of power and talent that Bran did, or the range of Arya, who could warg into her wolf from orbit, nor did he have the Targaryen bloodline of Jon that – it was hoped – could pair him with one of Daenerys' little lizards or allow for other feats. What Robb seemed to excel at was multi-tasking. Reports from wilding wargs was that it was difficult to have one foot in an animal and another in one's own body. Robb and Grey Wind were able to coordinate on both a conscious and unconscious level.

It was a rare skill that shined and refined itself in battle and bloodshed.

"Hey there, boy," Talisa said softly, holding out her hands as Grey Wind padded over and nestled his huge snout first in her hands and then in her cleavage, nuzzling with a cold wet nose. "Hey. Hey now. Robb."

He cracked a smile atop his horse, and Grey Wind sat down, licking his bloody chops. Talisa ruffled his fur and scratched behind his ear like she knew he liked. It was easy, sometimes, to imagine the wolves were just giant dogs, like huskies or collies or German shepherds. But then you'd wonder why you never heard one bark, or you'd look into their eyes, and you'd remember the difference. Still, Grey Wind did like to be scratched behind his ear, and his tail wagged a little bit as he leaned his bear-sized head into her hand. His mood and Robb's moods were inextricably linked.

"Productive day?" she asked.

"A red day. A bloody day," Robb replied, his smile smoothing out into a neutral expression. He turned to the Smalljon, who had ridden up to his side. "I want the prisoners treated with the honor that is their due. It will make them less resistive when we move them."

"Your Grace," the huge Smalljon agreed, and rode ahead.

Behind him, Dacey Mormont and Donnel Locke were herding captured men forward, all noble summer knights of the Reach. They would be processed, recorded, and tallied. Occasionally, Robb's army did have some problems with respecting prisoners, but those were westermen. The reachmen did not provoke the same sort of animosity, not by a long shot. Most were seen as walking bags of gold given the wealth and prosperity of the Reach, and captives could either be traded to the King on the spot for a gold bounty or held for those who preferred to negotiate their ransom personally. Either way, the Crown got a small cut of it all. It was all very mercantile, though Talisa knew calling it such would offend the noble Sers.

"Anyone I need to look at?" Talisa asked, casting an eye over the man's companions. "Olyvar? Are you alright?"

The Frey squire had a young man walking alongside his horse (given the colors on this one, he must've lost his original), and both young men looked beaten up but clearly well enough to stand and walk.

"Just a few scratches," Olyvar grumbled. "I'll be fine, my Lady."

"That's Randyll Tarly's only heir," Robb commented, a ghost of a grin returning. "Dickon. A few of us saw him fight Wun Weg to a standstill. Not many boys his age would try and geld an angry giant."

The Tarly boy was frowning and had a bloody lip and a dash across his scalp. He looked like he'd be fine, but he was also young… very young, maybe his very early teens. Talisa tried to remember when her three brothers were that age. They fought, yes, all boys did, but never like here on Westeros. The people here were a special breed. She only hoped they proved as hearty when the time came to march to war for the Commonwealth. Not that the Commonwealth would be sending children to fight, but their… resilience… was actually quite admirable.

"Who is this?" the young teen growled. He coughed and bowed his head a little. "My lady, forgive me, may I ask your name?"

"Talisa," she answered, looking him over briefly. "Nice to meet you, Dickon."

"Talisa?" the boy gasped and looked at her with wide eyes. "The Essosi Witch!?"

"Uh. Yeah. That Talisa." She cocked her head and gave the boy a stare. "Why? What have you heard about me?"

"N-nothing," Dickon lied.

"Let me guess." Talisa crossed her arms and tried to imagine the sort of tall tales these people would tell about her in the rest of Westeros. "Do I poison wells? Raise the dead? Dance naked under the moonlight? Eat men's hearts?"

Dickon muttered something, and her eyes widened. She'd only caught it because of the ear implants.

"What was that?"

"Forgive me, my lady," Dickon stammered.

"What was it?" Robb asked, suddenly rather curious. "What was it?" he asked again.

Talisa frowned up at him. "Apparently, I enjoy the company of Kings and Wolves, quite literally."

Robb stared at her, a little lost. "Meaning…?"

"Meaning I let Grey Wind hump more than my leg."

"Oh. OH." Robb's surprise turned dark, and he turned to Dickon. "Is that so?"

"It isn't like this kid is the one spreading the rumors," Talisa argued and scoffed. "Not that it matters anyway. A bunch of primitives with wagging tongues."

Yet it did irk her, rather obviously. Even if it was just iron age savages saying nonsense.

"I am no goat, my lady," Dickon suddenly said.

"What did I say?" Talisa asked.

"You called him a 'kid,' my lady," Olyvar answered.

"A bit of slang from Volantis, that's all!" Talisa insisted with a forced smile. "But I guess this means the older Tarly escaped?"

"Unless Brynden brings him in," Robb replied, and gestured back. "There's someone else you can look at. We captured Lady Oakheart in the camps. She had an encounter with one of the giants and fainted."

"Not a fighter like the Mormonts?"

Robb shook his head. "A noble lady, known even in the North."

"I'll look her over," Talisa promised, knowing a soft spot in Robb's heart when she saw one. "What about you? Any nicks or scratches?"

Robb smirked at the opening she gave him. "I have one you can look at later."

"Such sweet talk!" She walked forward and patted his horse on the rump. "Get out of here and wash off all that blood, Your Grace. I'll catch up with you later."

"Aye," Robb said, and rode on.

"My lady," Olyvar muttered, blushing a bit, as he likewise went on his way.

"So… she is the King's mistress?" Dickon asked, and she overheard. Olyvar just prodded him along to keep moving.

Covering her left eye with her hand, Talisa quickly connected with the drone from before. The tracker on Ser Byrnden highlighted his position easily enough, and he had captives, but none that looked like Randyll Tarly. If such an important man had been captured, then the Blackfish would've probably taken him back to Pinkmaiden personally. There was still time, but every hour that passed widened the search area.

Talisa was about to sever the connection… when she saw another force approaching. There was a skirmish some distance to the north. Stopping in place and concentrating, she ordered the drone closer and tried to get a look at the banners involved. She saw… black dogs on a yellow field. That had to be the elder Clegane, a monster called the Mountain who probably suffered from some form of gigantism. No way to know for sure until she had him on an operating table, which hopefully would be sooner or later. The other banners…

Flayed men. Boltons.

And those foreign mercs, too, the ones called the Mummers.

"Hmm." She frowned. "That's going to be a problem."