JASON

Lord Jason Mallister stared dispassionately at the map in front of him and the letter lain out on top, a frown crossing his clean-shaven features. The three men before him shifted uncomfortably, and but for the steady drum of rain on the canvas tent's roof, the tent was silent until at length their liege spoke.

"Wait? Lord Frey wants us to sit here in this bloody downpour while half the men in the north and my son are feasting themselves sick at Lord Tully's wedding?"

Ser Jerym Haigh cleared his throat and stepped forward, his house's pitchfork sigil glowing softly on his surcoat as his steel plates reflected the light of the brazier burning behind Jason.

"My Lord, the Freys do not mean to spite you. You have been trusted with an important task, escorting the king's own lady mother to safety after the wedding, and I suspect that Lord Frey simply means to make this easier for you. I say we hold here as he says."

"And what do I tell my men?" Jason retorted, his frown growing deeper. He had marshaled a thousand of his best soldiers, as well as his own company of guards, to safely escort Lady Catelyn back to Seagard after the wedding as King Robb had commanded. Every man, though, was expecting that they would be able to attend the feast with Robb's other bannermen. "We brought neither rations to sit here and wait, nor enough tents to keep more than a quarter dry in this downpour. Stopping here on account of the rain was enough of an inconvenience on its own; I'll not accept this, Ser Jerym. Lord Walder will simply have to understand."

The knight opened his mouth to say something else, but then thought better of it and stepped back, his arms crossed and his thick eyebrows furrowed. Jerym Haigh was an intimidating man, taller than most, with short, tufted black hair, a beaklike nose, and coarse salt-and-pepper stubble that did little to conceal a jagged white scar running down his jawline, a souvenir from the Battle of the Trident. Jerym, only nineteen at the time, had been squire to the commander of the Targaryen's reserves, a force several thousand strong composed mainly of peasant levies at the back of the Royalist battle lines. When the tide of the battle began to turn in Robert's favor, Jerym turned traitor, stabbing the commander to death in his tent and convincing the levies to follow him in a surprise attack against the Targaryens' exposed rearguard. Suddenly trapped between two armies, Rhaegar and his van had been forced into a close-quarters melee with Robert and his, ultimately leading to the crown prince's untimely demise by means of Robert's warhammer.

Jerym was knighted after King's Landing fell for his actions at the Trident, and six years later, he fought valiantly at the Siege of Pyke, rushing through the breach alongside King Robert himself after Thoros of Myr and Jorah Mormont. After Balon Greyjoy surrendered, Jason could scarcely refuse the knight when he pledged himself to his service, appreciative of the opportunity to create ties with one of Lord Frey's vassals. Much like Robert Baratheon and Ryam Redwyne before him, however, Jerym, while a keen swordsman and cunning tactician, was ill-suited to life outside of battle, drinking heavily and often seeming cold and distant while serving as master-at-arms at Seagard. He was polite enough when he needed to be, and fought ferociously when he was asked, but as time passed, Jason became more and more certain that he had pledged himself for politics, not out of respect. Perhaps he was too hard on Jerym, but what Lord Frey was asking of them was simply maddening.

Ser Martyn Tallhart, a tall, lean knight with a thick brown facial hair and a fatherly look about him, stepped forward next, and Jason's scowl softened as the man placed a gauntleted hand on his shoulder. In the Siege of Pyke, while Thoros, Jerym Haigh, and Jorah Mormont were rushing through the tower breach at the head of Robert's van, Martyn, along with Jason, Ned Stark, and his cousins, Helman and Leobald Tallhart, had led a party that used a ram to smash through the main gate. The already renowned knight had saved Jason's life more than once as they battered the door down, taking two arrows meant for the lord of Seagard, one with his shield and one with his chestplate.

Jason repaid the favor in kind once they were inside, knocking aside a slash meant to take Martyn's head off, and pulling the knight, armor and all, back onto solid ground when Greyjoy retainers cut the ropes of a bridge he had been crossing. When the battle was done, Martyn pledged himself to the service of House Mallister before the Seastone Chair just as Jerym did. A month later, in place of his late father, Martyn asked Jason's permission to take the hand of his sister, who had been widowed in Robert's Rebellion, and so when Jason accepted the two had been bound as brothers as well as comrades.

"Jason. Stop and think. You know Walder Frey. Above all, he is a proud man. He's commanded Robb Stark, his king, to apologize to him in person for marrying that Westerling girl, and I'm honestly shocked that he didn't demand more. Do you really think that slighting him again, even if he's making a foolish request, will help? If the King in the North and his lords bannermen are both insulting him, it might be enough to make him start thinking that maybe Tywin Lannister would make a better ally."

Jason was confounded at that, and with a grunt he turned to the third man in the tent, whose face was all but obscured by an eagle-head helm of embossed steel. His armor was of a matching set to the helm; of the three men he was the only one who was armed, with a sword sheathed at his hip and a crossbow of lacquered maple and gilded silver strapped to his back over a thick purple cloak.

"Gods damn Walder Frey… Torrhen, tell the men to set up camp as best they can, and send the archers and crossbowmen out to hunt for game for dinner. But if Lady Catelyn hasn't arrived by this time tomorrow, Freys be damned, I'm riding out to the Twins myself."

It was near evenfall, and the incessant pounding of rain on the canvas had slowed to an infrequent tapping, when Jason's squire burst through the tent flaps with a red-faced and puffing crossbowman in tow. Willem Manderly was a pale, lanky boy of thirteen, with long, straight brown hair that ran down to his shoulders and a wisp of a mustache on his upper lip. The crossbowman looked more like a Manderly than Willem, however, with a wide barrel chest and thick red whiskers. He was currently bent over, wheezing and pointing in Willem's direction; the squire was even more pale-faced than usual, his eyes wide and his hand shaking as he offered Jason a wrinkled letter.

"What's this?" Jason asked to neither one in particular, his eyes shifting between the two as he took the letter in hand.

The crossbowman finally straightened and faced Jason, still panting intermittently as he spoke.

"I… I was out in the woods, milord, near the road, lookin' for game… and I shot down a big ruddy crow… or I thought it was a crow… but it was one of them ravens, and it had a letter on its leg… I took it off and checked the seal, thinkin' it would be for you, milord… but I know the Lannister lion when I see it."

That certainly caught Jason's attention. If we've intercepted enemy battle plans…He leaned forward in his chair, watching the crossbowman intently.

"Go on."

"Of course, milord. So seein' as I can't read, I ran fast as I could to your squire, Willem here, knowin' he was more of an educated sort. When he broke the seal and read it, he went pale as a White Walker, and dashed to your tent quick as he could, milord."

Glancing down at the letter in question, Jason turned it over in hand, noting the broken red lion seal of the Lannisters, and above that, written in crimson ink, Regarding the Wedding of Lord Edmure Tully and Lady Roslin Frey.Frowning as he once more opened the already folded and wrinkled paper, Jason Mallister read the letter, and forgot to breathe.

Lord Frey,

My informants report that the Starks and Tullies, along with their forces, will soon arrive as scheduled. I for one must commend you on your exemplary planning in this matter, especially with your mission being one so vital. You would do well to throw Catelyn Stark and her brother in your dungeons, but Robb Stark must be put down, along with his companions and as many of his soldiers as possible, or our agreement is meaningless. I find your terms reasonable, and will shield you from judgment. Lord Bolton has been sent a similar message- as expected, he will join you in freeing the Seven Kingdoms from war tonight. For the good of the realm, Lord Walder, I trust you to do what must be done.

Tywin Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, Warden of the West, and Hand of the King

Jason was on his feet before the discarded piece of parchment hit the floor. Keeping his face a mask as he retrieved the Mallister family longsword, Reaversbane, from a chest at the back of the tent, he turned to Willem and the crossbowman, gesturing with the point of the Valyrian steel blade.

"Soldier…"

"Lyonel, if it please milord."

"Lyonel, marshal the men. Tell them to mount up, and send the Silver Eagles to me. We ride for the Twins as soon as possible. Willem, help me with my armor and cloak. If we make it in time, I'll knight you both myself."

The Silver Eagles of Seagard were some of the best fighters in Westeros. Each man of the select fifty was chosen for their cunning, bravery, and prowess in battle from among seasoned veterans, and each man had sworn an oath of loyalty to the Mallister in Seagard. Ten years ago, when thousands of Greyjoy men-at-arms were landing beneath the castle walls, and the proud Mallister fleet was being torn apart by Ironborn longships, and the great bronze bell of the Booming Tower was thundering out its warning call for the first time in three hundred years, the Silver Eagles were the only thing that kept Jason alive long enough for him to slay Rodrik Greyjoy and send his men back into the sea. At Pyke, the Silver Eagles stormed through the smashed main gate alongside Eddard Stark and the Tallharts and their liege lord in his gleaming silver armor; they were the first to reach the throne room, the ones to whom Balon Greyjoy yielded before he bent the knee to Robert.

And so they stood before him now, all steel plates and purple cloaks and eagle helms. They were amount on strong young coursers, their swords and ornate crossbows ready; their commander, Ser Torrhen Mallister, known by his men simply as the Eagle, rode before them on a great black destrier, gazing about to make sure that all were present. Torrhen, the man Jason had sent with the order to make camp, was his younger cousin, and an accomplished warrior at that, earning his knighthood at The Battle of the Bells, where he singlehandedly held back ten and slew five of Jon Connington's retainers before the doors of the town sept. A mane of brown hair much like Jason's fell out the back of his helm, and he looked nearly identical to the lord but for his trimmed brown beard.

"Lord Cousin, my men are ready. We await your word."

Jason nodded, taking his own armored chestnut destrier to a canter, and riding around front of the elite fifty; he waited patiently as Martyn and Jerym assembled the other thousand mounted men-at-arms in formation behind Torrhen's company, calling out to those he knew by name.

"Silver Eagles!" he finally boomed when all had arrived, his eyes roving over every man. "Men of Seagard!" He drew the letter from a pouch in his flowing purple cloak, and held it high over his head. "This letter is proof of a grave truth! Walder Frey and Roose Bolton have betrayed us, and conspire with Tywin Lannister to murder our king at his lord uncle's own wedding!"

A great clamor went up among the men, with shouts of death for the Freys and Boltons, and rallying cries for the king. Torrhen, Martyn, and Jerym quickly silenced them, and nodded for Jason to continue.

"But hear me now! They do not know it yet, but these foul conspirators have already failed! We will ride to the Twins, we will bring the false lords Frey and Bolton to justice, and we will save Robb Stark!"

Jason's words had the desired effect. One thousand and fifty men raised their swords and bellowed out their assent, and somewhere towards the rear they began to chant, the shouts growing until they echoed through the forest around them.

"THE YOUNG WOLF! THE YOUNG WOLF! THE YOUNG WOLF!"

The men continued the chant as they turned and began to gallop to the Twins at a breakneck pace, shouting until their throats grew hoarse. Alongside Jason, Martyn and Torrhen had even taken up the chant, grinning. Sometime later, when the thunderous roar of the mounted company had finally died down into a determined silence broken only by the raging, swollen torrent of the Green Fork at their right, the twin castles of the Freys finally became visible in the growing darkness, two distant shadows looming over the flooded river.

"Martyn", Jason called over the sound of hooves and gushing water, "Take the men and give battle to the Boltons and Freys wherever you find them in the camps; give those traitorous dogs no quarter. Torrhen, Jerym, with me; I want the Silver Eagles at my back."

Martyn nodded, falling back towards the main company to take command. Torrhen raised a gauntleted fist in the air, and the Silver Eagles formed up behind Jason, their weapons at hand.

Few of the reveling northmen bothered to look up as they galloped into the camp beneath the West Castle, drunken as they were. The drawbridge was already lowered, and the portcullis open; Jason rode across without resistance, Torrhen and Jerym at his sides and the Silver Eagles behind him. Leaning hard into his destrier's mane as "The Rains of Castamere" began to boom from the castle, he donned his eagle-winged steel helm and drew Reaversbane. And who are you, the proud lord said, that I must bow so low? Torrhen and Jason on their great warhorses had outpaced the others, and burst into the main hall first, alone, to find utter chaos. Robb Stark had quarrels in his leg and side, Catelyn one in her back. She was screaming, but for the thundering sound of the Tywin Lannister's song, Jason could not hear what. Frey men were falling on the Young Wolf's guards as they attempted to defend their king, their steel gleaming in the torchlight; above it all, Walder Frey sat on his throne, drinking the scene in greedily, his eyes on the slaughter unfolding in front of him. Only a cat of a different coat, that's all the truth I know. Jason was the first to charge.

"SEAGARD!" He bellowed as he rode down a mob of Freys surrounding Robin Flint, the Valyrian steel flashing grey then red as limbs were parted from bodies. Edwyn Frey was the first to notice the unexpected intruders, a look of panicked shock crossing his face before Jason's destrier reared and smashed it in. In a coat of gold or a coat of red, a lion still has claws. That drew the attention of nearly everyone in the room, even Lord Walder, whose wispy brows furrowed in confusion as Torrhen put a quarrel through Ser Raymund Frey's back, and Jason sent the head of Hosteen Frey sailing through the air to land at the court fool's feet. The rest of the Silver Eagles had arrived now, filling the hall and blocking the other entrances. And mine are long and sharp my lord, as long and sharp as yours.

"Shoot them, you fools!" Black Walder Frey roared to a group of crossbowmen in the musicians' gallery, but by then it was too late. At a motion of Torrhen Mallister's hand, fifty quarrels thrummed through the air towards the gallery, and the music died as suddenly and confusedly as the balcony's occupants. Another gesture and the Silver Eagles rallied to Robb's side, cutting through any Frey men in their path before forming a moving circle around the wounded king, shooting down anyone that drew near. While Torrhen led the circle, Jason made for Lady Catelyn at the other end of the room, where she lay bleeding on the floor with a quarrel in the small of her back, feebly groping for a dagger before her. Black Walder stepped in his path, savagely thrusting towards his horse's throat with a greatsword, but Jason turned the destrier away with the facile grace that came with riding in countless melees and jousting tilts at tourneys, and swung Reaversbane hard and low, near cleaving the man in two. Catelyn Stark wordlessly took Jason's hand when he offered it to her, and with a grunt he lifted her onto the horse behind him. She clung to him with fierce, silent tenacity as he rode for safety, her small hands digging into a gap in his plates as she trembled uncontrollably in the rear of the saddle.

"My lady." Jason said gruffly, setting her down as gently as he could at the center of the ring of horses, next to young Willem Manderly, who was doing the best he could to stem the bleeding where two, no, three quarrels jutted from Robb's limp body. Dacey Mormont and Smalljon Umber crouched by him, the former cradling her king's head in her lap and the latter looking rather helpless. Robb feebly turned his head to look at his mother beside him and Jason looming above him, and opened his mouth. A trickle of blood flowed out, and if the Young Wolf said something then, Jason could not tell for the sound of crashing doors.

Ser Ryman Frey led the company of axemen that had burst into the room, but before he could give any commands, a quarrel took him in the leg, and he fell to his knees with a grunt. The Silver Eagles continued to bombard the axemen with their crossbows as they cantered around the king in the center of their formation, until finally the Frey men mounted a disorganized charge, ragged battle cries at their lips. Without a word from any one of them, the fifty horsemen broke out of their circle, formed into a wedge with Torrhen at the front, and rode hard into the midst of the enemy, swords in hand.

While the Eagle and his men made quick work of the Freys, Jason swung off his saddle to kneel at Robb's side, his mouth set in a grim line.

"Your Grace. We came as quickly as we could. How grievous are your wounds?"

The King in the North gazed up at Jason, his eyes glassy with shock, and once more attempted to speak.

"I'll be… alright… lord… You…"

Robb fell victim to a fit of coughing, and blood spattered across Dacey's dress and Jason's greaves.

"My Lord Mallister," Dacey said quickly, wiping the blood flowing from the king's mouth with the hem of her dress, "King Robb is in no fit condition to speak right now."

Of course. What am I thinking, asking a man with three quarrels in him how his wounds are? Nodding curtly, Jason stood and turned to Willem, frowning.

"Have you seen Ser Jerym?"

His question answered itself when Ser Jerym Haigh walked swiftly into the room from a door at the far end, a man in dark armor and a spotted pink cloak at his side. Bolton. Does he not know? Jason began to call out a warning, but the cry died in his throat when he saw Jerym drive his sword through a dying Stark man-at-arms. Swearing softly to himself, he stepped forward, alone, to meet them. Blood ran down the Valyrian steel's ripples in rivulets as Reaversbane slid from its sheath.

"It doesn't have to be this way." Jason knew that his words meant nothing, but they spilled from his mouth nonetheless.

"Yes," Roose Bolton replied in his soft voice, "I'm afraid it does."

Jason never knew who moved first, but before he could think to say another word, he was fighting both of them at once in a flurry of shining steel. Individually, he could best either of them, but together they were driving Jason back slowly but surely, raining blow after blow down on him as struggled to stand his ground. Then suddenly Smalljon Umber was beside him, driving Lord Bolton back and allowing Jason to focus on Ser Jerym. Now that the fight was evenly matched, Jason dealt with the man quickly, backing him against a table in a clearly one-sided duel.

"What did they promise you, traitor?" he spat, cleaving Jerym's sword in two with a ferocious blow, and grabbing him by the throat. "Glory? Gold? How much did it take to buy you from me?"

"I was never yours." Ser Jerym Haigh gritted.

Without a word, Jason threw his former sworn sword to the floor and drove Reaversbane through his heart, twisting the blade for good measure. Before he had even drawn his sword from the corpse, however, the Smalljon cried out in pain behind him; Jason turned to find him on the floor, clutching a bloodied stump where his left arm had been cleaved at the elbow. Roose Bolton abandoned his defeated foe and turned to face Jason, his pale eyes shining with torchlight even through the slit of his helm. For a time the two lords circled each other like Dornish vultures, blood dripping from the tips of their swords and tracing their paths. When they finally came together in a flash of steel, it happened too quickly to be sure who had attacked first. Their deadly dance brought them across the hall and back; one moment, Jason was pressing the attack, and the next he was struggling to block his opponent's blows. As he parried a vicious swing aimed at his neck, Jason found himself smiling; he hadn't fought a foe half as skilled as this since he dueled Rodrik Greyjoy beneath the walls of Seagard. If the Lord of the Dreadfort was disconcerted, he gave no notion of it, his eyes remaining fixed on Jason's.

Suddenly, unexpectedly, as he stepped back to dodge one of Jason's blows, Roose's foot landed in the pool of blood where Ser Wendel Manderly had fallen with a quarrel in his mouth and slid. For perhaps half a second, Roose's left side was vulnerable as he recovered, but half a second was all Jason needed. He lifted Reaversbane and swung it in a savage downward arc, tearing a gaping rend in Lord Bolton's armor from helm to midriff. Crimson blood began to leak slowly from the gash as both men regained their footing, and with a snarl Roose struck him full in his uncovered jaw with a lobstered metal gauntlet. Blinding pain shot across Jason's face like a lance, and out of the corner of his eye he glimpsed his own blood spattering across the dusty stone floor; he could taste more in his mouth. Reeling, Jason stumbled back and tripped on Ser Wendel's corpse, clutching at his bloodied face with one hand and brandishing his sword with the other as he fell hard on his arse. A dark steel boot flashed forward; before he could move to dodge it, his hand burst with pain, and Reaversbane flew from his fingers.

Swaying slightly from his wound as he pinned Jason to the floor with his boot, Lord Bolton lifted his own sword, lining up a slash to his foe's neck. He could tell that the injury was beginning to take its toll, though; blood dripped from the colossal rend onto Jason's silvery steel plates, and the Lord of the Dreadfort hesitated before he struck, panting heavily. Seizing the opportunity, Jason grabbed a knife on the floor next to him, dropped during the feast, and drove it deep into the gap between Roose's boot and greave. As he withdrew his leg, howling in pain, Jason sprung to his feet, using the momentum to propel himself shoulder-first into the gash.

The sound that Roose Bolton made as the two lords collapsed to the floor together in a jumble of steel armor was nothing human. Jason quickly clambered to his knees, only to be pulled back down by his torn and blood-soaked purple cloak when Roose rolled on top of it and aimed a brutal kick directly into his forehead. His winged helm spared Jason from the brunt of the blow, but he was thrown onto his back once more all the same, and it flew from his brow. His now bare head slammed into the stones below, and darkness rushed forward to meet him.

"…Mallister!"

"Lord Mallister!"

"Jason!"

Ser Martyn Tallhart was crouching over Jason when his eyes flew open; the man's helm was badly dented, and dried blood was caked in his thick beard from a gash that had split both of his lips.

"Martyn…" he mumbled, taking his friend's hand and slowly righting himself. "…the battle…" The main hall of the West Castle was filled to the brim with bloodied and battered soldiers. For half a moment Jason's stomach sunk with fear that they were Frey and Bolton men, that Martyn had been captured and the Eagle was slain and the battle was lost; then he saw their silver steel armor, and the purple cloth beneath it, and his heart soared in triumph. Torrhen was standing at the front of their ranks, his eagle-head helm tucked under one arm, a smile playing about his lips.

"The battle is over," Martyn finished proudly, "and the king is saved. We have won."

5/2/16: Welcome, newcomers! Just wanted to drop a friendly reminder to please leave a review at any point in the story- they're the only sustenance keeping us authors alive. Also, they're really helpful in terms of correcting mistakes and developing as writers, and I love to hear from you guys. Thanks!

-Imperium42