The Princesses War

I own nothing but my OC's

AN: Before we begin, I ask you all to look up Shadiversity on Youtube who has made a 3D model of Winterfell loyal to the books and it is fantastic. Seriously, I wish that is what they used for the show.

Also, I appreciate all feedback but I must ask that if anyone has any info regarding the lore of ASOIAF that takes up a lot of space, please send it in a private message. The last chapter received two reviews which were just that, all of which I knew already. I appreciate the fact that we enjoy sharing knowledge of a world we all love, but please keep the reviews focused on the content of this fanfic unless you feel that I have made a major lore mistake. Thank you.

Chapter Seventeen

The Battle of Watsend Part One

The fortifications were ready, they had been ready for two days but Hassan didn't care. Right now all his attention was on the game of Dignity he and the rest of the squad were playing. Fives was the most popular game played by the Farosi army, it was simple and quick. There was a deck of cards, each of which was marked by a weapon and a number. The weapon was worth a certain number of points plus whatever number was also on the card. In Hassan's hand he had two spears, each spear worth five points, one also had the number three and the other number one, a cannon, worth ten points plus the extra two points, and a revolver, worth six points plus the extra ten on the card, giving him forty two points, a good hand but one which could be must better. In this game, winning directly was not always the most important factor, though the winner would take the lions share of the money, anyone who humbly backed out with dignity, hence the name, would get a cut of the prize depending on how high their total was. The officers encouraged the men to play this game to teach them humility, although it was just the easiest game for men, many of whom were borderline illiterate, to play while on the march.

Hassan looked at his opponents, three of them had already backed out leaving him and two others still playing. One was Corporal Taff and the other was Private Walking. Goonlin was one of the men who had already backed out. The final turn was about to begin, the fifth turn where he would get his fifth card, the card which would decide if he would win or lose, and this was his last chance to back out. You could not give up when the fifth card was drawn. He shook his head and placed his cards face down on the low table set up on the grass below the walls of Watsend amidst their camp.

'I'm out.'

'Fair enough,' said Walking. 'What about you Corporal? Are you still in?'

'Bloody well am Walking.'

'Let's do it then sir.'

Both men drew their last card and then displayed their cards face up, Goonlin letting out a slow whistle when he saw the results. Taff had three cannons, one marked nine, another eight and a third four. He also had a Lance, worth five plus the nine in its corner, and the final card was a revolver worth six plus the 3 in its corner giving him seventy four points. Walking let out a low curse, his cards came to seventy three.

After that everyone who had given up revealed their own cards and Private Harp had been the one who had the highest of them so he got a tenth of the winnings.

'Gambling, gentlemen?'

They all looked to the source of the voice and stood up in respect when they saw it was Priestess Carla, the head Priestess of the 87th Regiment.

'Oh erm, just passing the time,' Corporal Taff explained.

'It's alright. I was thinking about joining you good men.'

'You were?' asked Hassan, surprised.

'I was thinking about it, Private. I only became a priestess on a dare. I don't think I will join you though. I do expect to see you all at my service in the morning.'

'Of course,' Taff responded and bowed slightly as she began to walk away.

…

The next morning, as they agreed, most of the men in the brigade had made their way down to the little stream which, in all reality, marked the furthest point of expansion for Farsos so far. All temples dedicated to the True Queen had water in them, be it a small pool or fountain to the great mountain lake of the Highest Temple. When outdoors a Priestess had to make do by setting up near a source of water, be that a well or in this case the stream. Someone had borrowed a cart from one of the local farmers and, with a bit of work, it had been made into a pulpit for Priestess Carla which she stood on with enough dignity that it almost resembled a throne. Her robes were light blue and on her head was a cloth crown of the same blue as her robes. Behind her, on its hill far on the other side of the stream, was a castle and she seemed like a giant against it.

'As our True Queen has told us,' she said as Hassan found a comfortable place to sit in the field, he was near the back, almost sitting next to the tall hedge there, with Goonlin and Walking next to him, 'we must show respect to all of our friends in this land. Never has it been said that she is the only divine power in this world, though she is the divine ruler of Farsos and all Farosi. We must live in harmony with those who follow the Seven, if any of them wish to worship the True Queen as well, I am happy for them. But I say this to the fanatic, to the zealot, that any who is forced to worship Her, is no true believer and the one who forces the innocent to worship is worst, the lowest, the foulest of sinner! Last night I talked to Septon Howal, who resides in the Sept of Watsend, and he told me that no Westerosi would live under a King or Queen who does not worship the Seven. That is the problem with this land, the problem we are here to fix, to bring about understanding between all the peoples of this world and who is more understanding, more tolerant, than us? The ones who choose to worship the True Queen?'

At that there was a round of applause from the men, Hassan included.

'Lovely words,' Walking whispered to Hassan.

'I know, beautiful.'

'As for the question of does our Queen approve of this war,' she continued, 'well, why wouldn't she approve of this war? The people of Westeros have lived under the heel of tyrants for millennia and now we set out on a glorious crusade of mercy to liberate them! Naturally, we have proof of this,' she then paused, allowing the tension to build up. 'The proof of this, it is the fact that we have far more guns!'

That won a round of applause and laughter from the men, the other priestesses around the cart also laughing.

The laughter was stopped though by a distant gunshot, sounding like it was coming from far away. The men looked at each other confused, no one was supposed to be shooting for another hour and the officers weren't going out hunting that day.

'What's that?' Hassan asked Corporal Taff who was sitting in front of him.

'Not sure,' he answered, his hand reaching for his rifle on the ground next to him.

'A misfire,' Walking suggested.

'No,' said Goonlin. 'It came from north of here.'

As he said it there came another gunshot, and then an entire volley of them.

'That's no bloody misfire,' Taff said and stood up, rifle in hand, as did the other NCO's.

Just then it came. The sudden, quick blasts of the bugle declaring that it was time to stand to arms.

'Stand to!' Taff shouted as did everyone else over the rank of corporal.

'Come on boys get up!' someone else shouted.

Hassan was on his feet in a flash, helping Goonlin as he did so and in every direction there was chaos as men in blue uniforms rushed about forming into their platoons while officers tried to keep order. Eventually they managed to form up, Hassan holding his rifle at slope arms while Lieutenant Snowhill, his officer, inspected them briefly. He didn't look like he knew what was going on though.

As they were doing this the gunshots kept coming.

And then came Brigadier Prensk, usually the Colonel of the 87th but now in command of the operations around Watsend. He was on his horse and he rode past the ranks of his men, passing Hassan but not looking at him.

'Attention men!' he declared. 'Our scouts have encountered a Westerosi army marching on us as we speak.'

At that there was a low murmur of excitement.

'The Light Horse are slowing them down but we may have less than an hour to be ready. Our reinforcements will not be here for hours and we don't have enough men to man all the defences so we will scatter along the stream and fight a skirmish action when they arrive. Your captains have been briefed, they know what to do. Now men, fight for the Crown, the Senate and the People of Farsos!'

'Crown! Senate! People!'

Hassan, and everyone else, let out a short, sharp cheer while he felt excitement at the idea of another battle, a chance for revenge. No one spoke though as their officers led them at a jog to where they would skirmish against the enemy. For Hassan's platoon it was by Stone Bridge, an unimaginative name for sure, but one which fit it. It was a large bridge for the small stream and was part of the main road running north to south, past Watsend and then down to Old Town. On either side of the road by the bridge were drystone walls and hedges, the same alone the whole stream. Hassan was crouching behind a wall by the road, right next to the bridge, his rifle in hand. Looking around him the others were just the same and, behind him, along the stream front, were other soldiers, scattered every six feet or so. More were clustered around key areas though.

'Steady boys,' said Snowhill, revolver in hand as he moved behind the men at a crouch.

As he spoke, there was another volley of shots, this time much closer.

Hassan looked up the hill towards Watsend, the walls around the town looking much taller on the hill and Farosi banners were flying atop them. The fortifications made outside of the town however looked feeble and lonely, meant to be held by thousands of men, only a few hundred of the garrison occupied them, moving along at a steady pace.

The town of Watsend sat on top of a flat hill, about two thirds of it by the town itself, the remaining third, the eastern part, was flat and open, used for town fairs and the like. East of that, connected to the flat hill, was a taller hill topped by a windmill, they called it Millers Hill for that reason. In the windmill he saw the flash of a telescope. To the west of Watsend was a wood of small, evergreen trees, cut in half by a stream which went north to loin the main stream, and est of the woods was another hill topped by another windmill, this one called Little Millers Hill, again, very imaginative. While on the walls of Watsend a few days earlier he had noticed that the stream, while shallow, had steep banks which could make a crossing slow, and the three bridges across it, Skinny Bridge in the west just north of Little Millers Hill, Stone Bride, which Hassan was at in the centre of the battlefield, and low bridge on the eastern side.

The fortifications had been built to form one long defensive line reaching from Little Millers Hill, across the front of the wood, to the walls of Watsend which served at the centre of the line, and then onto the flat hill and then onto Millers Hill. Their four guns were positioned evenly, half on each hill on the flanks. There was also a sunken lane between Watsend and Stone Bridge but they hadn't done anything to fortify it, and, if he remembered right, Skinny Bridge also had a walled farmhouse next to it which he saw some men going into when the order to prepare for battle had been given.

'You alright lad?' asked Corporal Taff.

'I'll live, I hope.'

'You better. We can't afford another loss.'

'Silence in the ranks,' hissed Sergeant Dommel.

'Sorry sir.'

At that they were silent again until there came another volley, this one much closer and it was followed by a rumbling noise as horse hooves thundered across the bridge and then onto the road on the other side of the wall.

'They're right behind us!' shouted one of the riders in an accent from Farsos.

'Prepare,' said Snowhill.

Hassan gripped his rifle tighter as the riders passed and then there came another rumble, drawing closer and closer. They were on the bridge, then on the bridge, then on the otherside of the wall. For almost a full minute they went by until Snowhill rose up from behind the wall, revolver in hand.

'FIRE!' he boomed and Hassan stood up, pulled his rifle back into his shoulder and found himself looking at maybe a hundred or so Westerosi cavalry in full armour, all stunned by being suddenly surrounded.

Hassan pulled the trigger and fired a shot straight at the breastplate of a knight, the bullet smashed through the steel and the rider was thrown from his horse, alone with dozens of his peers as the Farosi on both sides of the road tore them apart in moments.

'Hands up!' Snowhill shouted to the few survivors who were in the midst of drawing their swords, maces and other weapons. 'Surrender and you won't be harmed!'

'Death to foreign bastards!' one of the knights shouted and raised his sword, only to be cut down by a shot from Snowhill.

Hassan had reloaded his rifle and aimed again at one of the survivors, fired and killed him. The others were doing the same and in less than a minute dozens of knights were dead, one or two had surrendered while their horses were running amok along the road or back over the bridge.

'Well done boys,' Snowhill complimented his men. 'They won't be taken unawares again. Form a line in front of the bridge.'

'You heard the officer, move it you little bastards!' the Sergeant roared.

Hassan did as he was told and he found himself before the bridge, in the middle of the road, shoulder to shoulder with the rest of the platoon. It was then that he heard the cannons starting to fire and he looked in front of him. Over the bridge and on the other side of the stream he could see one of the low lying hills and, advancing over them, he could see the long columns of Renly's forces moving into position. By now they must have realised that they were about to fight a full battle and were obviously preparing to attack.

'How many of them are there?' asked Walking.

'Thousands,' Hassan whispered. 'Thousands of them.'

'We've got guns,' Waling reminded himself.

'Our ammunition run out,' Hassan said grimly and then looked at his rifle, then at his cartridge case. 'Their bloody swords don't.'

'Silence in the ranks,' Snowhill ordered them. 'Need I remind why you were issued with a bayonet, private?'

'No sir. Sorry sir.'

'Good. Now,' he said and addressed the whole platoon, standing three ranks deep across the road before the bridge, 'this will be the centre of the enemy attack! They will cross here and we will stand against them!' he then drew his sword. 'Remember your training! Remember the True Queen. Now, let's sit here and kill those ugly barbarians when they come close!'

'Hurrah!' everyone responded, Hassan as well though at that moment he'd have preferred to be anywhere else, not in the centre of their defence.

There was movement before them, enemy soldiers were amassing beyond the bridge, forming into large blocks and then, with the blowing of a horn, they began the advance.

'Looks like we have an entire regiment worth coming at us,' said Snowhill. 'Plenty of targets to go around boys.'

It didn't comfort Hassan, busy trying to remember that he needed to keep up a steady rate of fire. The enemy formation disappeared behind a slight rise in the land for a minute but then re appeared over it before vanishing again behind a row of hedges. Finally they appeared again as if from nowhere, massing on the main road.

'First rank!' declared Sergeant Dommel. 'Kneel!'

Hassan, being in the first rank, kneeled.

'All ranks! Prepare to fire!'

Hassan pulled back the hammer on his rifle and planted a firing cap into the fitting. He was ready.

'First rank! Take aim!'

As he shouted it he saw the Westerosi in front of them stop their march and break into a full on charge. They were about three hundred yards away and closing with every second.

'First rank!' he shouted, rolling the "r". 'FIRE!'

Hassan pulled the trigger and he was surrounded by smoke in less then a second so he couldn't see if he hit his target. Instantly he reached for his cartridge case and began to reload as Dommel gave the orders for the second and then the third rank to fire. Hassan had just fitted his firing cap in when Dommel roared.

'First Rank! Take aim! Fire!'

He fired again, this time the enemy was much closer and, through the thick smoke, he saw the first rank fall only to be trampled by the men behind. Hassan reloaded, pulled out a paper cartridge, bit the bullet, tore the paper with his teeth, poured the powder down the barrel, spat in the bullet, forced it down with his ramrod, pulled a firing cap from the side pocket of the cartridge case, fitted it in to place and pulled the hammer all the way back, and the order came again.

'First rank! Take aim! FIRE!'

Hassan fired again, now the enemy were almost at the bridge. It was a mechanical movement, following the basic drill of firing which had been hammered into him since his training began. The enemy shouting grew louder and louder though, even as the rate of fire remained constant.

'Cease fire!' shouted Dommel. 'Fix bayonets!'

Hassan stood up and clicked his bayonet into place on his rifle.

'Prepare to charge!' Snowhill ordered and came to stand at the head of the platoon, sword in right hand, revolver in left hand, and Dommel next to him, rifle and bayonet ready. Ahead of them the enemy had reached the bridge and were charging over it. 'Charge.'

'CHARGE!' Dommel boomed and Hassan, Walking and all the others let out a cheer, lowered their bayonets, and ran full pace towards the enemy.

Hassan felt the adrenaline pumping through him, dulling his feelings, he could hardly sense the ground under his boots, the wind on his face. All he could feel was the rifle in his hand and the enemy before him. The two sides crashed and Hassan lunged his bayonet at a man armed with a billhook, shield strapped to his back and nasal helm on his head, all that protected his body was a cream gambeson. The man knocked the bayonet tip of out the way with his weapons shaft and then he tried to cut down But Hassan dodged backwards, drew back his bayonet and plunged it into his opponents belly. The gambeson tore apart under Farosi steel and the cream cloth turned crimson. Hassan kicked the man out of the way and then plunged the bayonet into the throat of a man armed with a felling axe.

Then, suddenly, there was no one in front of him. The enemy had started running away and Hassan felt the adrenaline abandoning him, moving onto greener pastures. Before him was a road covered with corpses. Some were still moving, trying to push themselves off the ground or trying to crawl away but many were motionless. None of these men wore the shining suits of armour they had seen in books or paintings, only a fifth by Hassan's guess over wore mail, and some didn't even have helmets of gambesons.

'Reform!' Snowhill ordered and Hassan looked away from the carnage and back towards the bridge where he found himself standing exactly where he had been at the start of this engagement.

Now though there was no smoke and he could see his handiwork while the trickle of water below the bridge slowly began to turn red.

…

General Morsey was a good general, and he knew it. He had fought well in the war against Gwaithol and now he was leading the invasion of Westeros. His carriage rolled along, pulled by a pair of sturdy horses bred on his brothers estate back home. The carriage itself was built to his own design, basically a study and bedroom on wheels, with the bed at one end and a desk in the middle. At the end by the door were a few armchairs, one of which he was relaxed in looking through reports on the expected strength of the enemy. He had read them before but there wasn't much else to do. The Military Police kept the troops in line, the logistics boys kept the men supplied and the medical corps kept them healthy.

Feeling bored he looked out of the window and smiled at the sight all around him. A massive column of wagons pulled by large cart horses, mules weighed down with boxes of ammunition being guided in long lines by Westerosi labourers, squadrons of Heavy Horse riding at a relaxed pace, their armour on the wagons, Light Horsemen flanking the column and cannons being pulled by some of the strongest horses. Of course though, the largest group, were the infantry, marching at a good pace, their rifles in hand and all of them making a vast sea of men in blue coats.

It wasn't easy covering ground, in the Gwaitholi War the islands had a well built system of roads but here in the Reach there were very few large roads and a vast maze of sunken lanes and dirt tracks. Moving sixty thousand men up them was a nightmare and had slowed him down but the Engineers had done a good job and knocking down hedges and trees on the roadside and, thanks to the good weather, they had been able to keep most of the men along the roadside, the mules could go off road but the wagons and cannons had to stay on the road itself otherwise it would be a repeat of the Flight of the Six Thousand.

'Sir,' a voice called and he looked out of the opposite window to see General Tammon of the 22nd Infantry Corps, mounted on his small but swift horse.

'General, how's the advance going?'

'At the current rate we'll be at Watsend in another six hours. There's one other matter though,' he said as he matched the pace of the carriage.

'And what would that be?'

'All my men have lost their gaiters.'

'All of them? There Corps?'

'Yes sir.'

'I don't blame to be honest old boy. They're a waste of cloth to be honest.'

'I know, I just thought you ought to be told.'

'Thank you anyway. Naturally I can never endorse the loss of equipment, but it would be a waste of time looking for them.'

'Indeed.'

'Anyway, six hours. We'll be there in time for a spot of supper wouldn't we?'

'I think so sir.'

'Good, I shot a few pheasants earlier, have someone tell the other officers that we'll have a gaming supper.'

'Just the generals sir?'

'Yes. I appreciate the company of the other officers but I'll always prefer supper with my equals.'

'Good words sir. I'll send my batsman to let them know.'

'Excellent. If that's all I'll see you for supper.'

'Indeed sir,' he agreed and galloped off back towards his own men.

Morsey watched him ride off and then looked at the other men, thousands of them all marching in the same direction with one goal, reaching Watsend and joining with what was left of the Eighth Corps.

The Eighth Corps, his men, the first men to arrive in Westeros, those brave men who captured the Arbor in a day and then stormed the beaches of Oldtown, who had been slaughtered in an ambush. So many of the men had been killed, almost all of them there had been killed, but those who were not present at the ambush were at Watsend. They were his men, he was the commander of the Eighth Corp but he was also in command of the whole invasion. Still, in six hours he would see his men again and then it would be time to hold the position and wait for Renly to come and be slaughtered.

Then the rider came.

He was a cavalryman, Light Horse by the look of him, and his uniform was dusty, the signs of a hard ride. He raced past the carriage before pulling his horse to a stop and then wheeled around to face General Morsey and approached the carriage, keeping at a fast trot to stay at pace with the carriage.

'General Morsey?' he asked.

'I am,' he nodded and looked down at the mans cuffs to see the number twenty four sewn in. 'Twenty Fourth Regiment of Light Horse. You're meant to be at Watsend.'

'I know sir. Brigadier Prensk sent me with this.'

He held out a folded sheet of paper and Morsey took it in hand, the rider keeping up with his carriage as it went along.

The handwriting was bad, clearly written in a hurry, and judging by its content, that was no surprise.

General Morsey, my scouts have located the army of Renly Baratheon. They are advancing on Watsend as we speak, we require urgent reinforcements. Will try to hold as long as possible. Please send help at once.

Brigadier Prensk, 8th Corps.

'By the Throne,' he said and looked over to the nearby bugler, mounted on a horse. 'BUGLER! SOUND THE HALT!'

At once the young man raised his bugle to his lips and blasted out the signals for the army to stop the advance. In moments the other buglers heard it and repeated along the column and in about thirty seconds the army had come to a stop. Then there was movement as the infantry rushed to the sides of the wagon and artillery line, forming skirmish lines in case of enemy attack while the cavalry retreated to amongst the wagons, ready to counter charge an enemy, while this was going on his generals began to arrive. Fancy of the 6th, Robertson of the 7th, Tammon of the 27th, Gekon of the 23rd, Rickmarr of the 33rd, Tips of the 34th, Wago of the 41st, Henn of the 42nd, Roth of the 43rd and Topin of the 44th.

'I just received a message from Brigadier Prensk. Renly's forces have already arrived at Watsend,' as he expected there was an exchange of worried glances from his officers at the news. 'At the moment we are six hours away at the current rate but Prensk's forces will not be able to last that long.'

'Watsend is lost then,' said Fancy. 'We dig in here and prepare for battle.'

'We can't abandon Prensk,' said Gekon. 'The mans my cousin and I won't allow him to butchered by those savages.'

'Besides,' said a new arrival, General Tarr of the Artillery, 'we can't let Renly take the guns we've positioned at Watsend or they'll be turned on us.'

'You honestly expect those primitives to be able to use artillery?' Topin scoffed.

'Three of my artillery officers are from the Foreign Officers Programme, born in this very country, and Renly probably seized manuals and books at the ambush. They can and will use our guns against us you bloody old fool.'

'Don't you dare to speak out of turn to me, artilleryman!' Topin snapped.

'Shut up the pair of you,' Morsey shut them up. 'Tarr is right, we can't let the enemy capture our guns, or the ammunition and rifles at Watsend. General Fancy and the 6th will remain with the wagons and guard them. Everyone else will advance as fast as they can to Watsend. Without those bloody carts slowing us down our infantry can be there in four hours, the Heavy Horse in three and the Light Horse in two and a half.'

'We'll need an hour to unload our supplies,' said Topin, his Corps was made up entirely of Heavy Horse. 'Out armour and lances are still on the wagons. We need the hour.'

'You have half an hour.'

'The Light Horse can be ready to go once we have our extra ammunition,' Rickmar announced. 'Give us twenty minutes.'

'The Light Horse will go first, followed the by the Heavy Horse. Once they go the infantry will follow. When the cavalry arrives at Watsend,' he said and looked at the cavalry officers, Rickmar, Tips, Wago, Henn, Roth and Topin, 'command shall be held by General Tips until I arrive with the infantry.'

'Thank you sir,' Tips said with some pride.

'Then let's get going,' he said and looked at the rider who brought the message. 'Can you make another ride?'

'My horse is exhausted sir.'

'You can have a fresh one. Ride ahead of us all and tell Prensk our plans.'

'Yes sir,' he agreed and a fresh horse was brought for him and he raced away.

At this point Morsey abandoned his carriage and his war horse, Prance, was brought forth. He mounted it after donning his long dark blue cloak and adjusted his hat, by then the Light Horse were galloping towards Watsend and the Heavy Horse were putting on their breast plates and taking their lances. He turned his gaze north and, though he knew it was impossible, he was sure he could hear the fighting already.

…

'Steady lads! Steady!' Snowhill ordered as he fired again, Hassan keeping his head down behind the barricade they had made across their end of the bridge.

It was always harder to reload a Type Four Donley Rifle when laying down behind a barricade, but he had no choice. A volley of shots tore at the stones they had taken from the nearby walls, shards of stone blasting into the air. Hassan peered over the top of the barricade, aimed his weapon at the enemy rifleman at the other side of the bridge and fired. He saw the man go down before Hassan ducked to avoid the return fire.

After the first attack ended in failure, he guessed that King Renly decided to probe their defences by sending in skirmishers armed with bows, crossbows and stolen rifles.

'Good shot,' Walking said with a grin as he finished reloading and aimed over the top of the barricade, fired and cheered. 'Got the bastard!'

A crossbow bolt tore through the front of Walking's throat, blood splattered everywhere and the man fell backwards, hitting the ground with a loud thump.

'Walking!' Hassan shouted and crouched over his friend, still barely alive and gripping the bolt in his neck.

He tried to speak but blood gushed out of his mouth, dribbling over his cheeks before, finally, he went still.

'Back in the fight boy!' Dommel ordered him.

Hassan wanted to protest but he couldn't, he looked at his friends corpse one last time, and then fired at the enemy, hoping he killed the bastard who shot Walking.

'For the Crown!' he yelled as he fired and struck an enemy armed with a crossbow.

As the last echo of his battle cry was consumed by the other sounds, the blasts, the shouting and the sobbing, the enemy began to retreat.

'Situation?' Snowhill asked and Dommel responded.

'Six dead, five wounded. I've sent them back to Watsend already.'

'Good. Alright men,' he addressed the platoon. 'Look through the dead men's packs, find their ammunition and keep it. Not a cartridge can go to waste.'

Hassan turned to look at Walking, and opened his cartridge case, taking out the paper rolls and putting them in his own bag.

'Prepare!' Dommel shouted and Hassan looked up to see another enemy column preparing for an attack over the bridge.

Hassan once again found himself in the front rank, kneeling, and rifle loaded. They came on just as they did before, but this time there was something different. The men in front were carrying strange banners or standards, a long pole with another at the top hanging about a dozen or so bags or something like that. Maybe they were signalling devices or something? It didn't matter, Hassan would shoot them as well. It was his job.

'First rank! Take aim!'

Before Dommel could finish the order the men carrying the strange standards lowered them and began running, the sacks on them blocking the view of the men behind completely.

'FIRE!'

Hassan fired and, thanks to the smoke, he couldn't see a thing, instead he reloaded his rifle in time for the next order to fire. When it came, through the brief gap in the smoke which existed for a moment, he could see the standards were still there, still blocking the view of the enemy.

'Hold fire!' Snowhill ordered. 'They're blocking our bullets. Hold fire!'

Hassan kept his eyes on the enemy, the standards creating a wall of cloth over the bridge and then, just before the Farosi side of the bridge, the standards were raised and a wave of Westerosi, all in half plate armour and armed with swords, maces and war axes, stormed over the bridge, ready for the fight.

'FIRE AT WILL!' ordered Dommel.

Hassan fired, not even sure if he found a target.

'Retreat!' Snowhill ordered, the gap between them was too small for effective volley fire and the enemy hadn't had their morale damaged by fire to break before the push of bayonets.

'Run for it!' Hassan shouted and was on his feet in a flash, running as fast as he could up the road, hedges and drystone walls on either side of him.

He didn't know how log he'd been running when he was gripped from behind and yanked to a stop. He turned to see it was Corporal Taff.

'Get in line soldier!' he shouted and threw Hassan into a line, three deep, spanning the width of the road.

Hassan found himself in the third line this time, and ahead of him he saw the onrush of Westerosi troops. The road was wider here, and the standards couldn't cover all of the men.

'Prepare to fire!' Dommel ordered.

As usual, the same orders were repeated, and Hassan was waiting for the order to fire.

'Third rank!' Dommel shouted at last. 'FIRE!'

He did so and began to reload, easier standing up than it was on one knee, when there came a blast and suddenly the air above the enemy was filled with a black cloud and a snap of fire. Dozens of the enemy, including the standard bearers, were shredded by the air bursting shell.

'True Queen bless the artillery!' Snowhill declared. 'Now keep firing boys! The True Queen is with us! You're the best of the 87th now let those heathens know it!'

'First rank! Take aim! Fire!'

The order came again and as Hassan and the third rank fired there came another air bursting shell, killing even more of the enemy.

'Let's give them the cold steel boys!' Snowhill ordered and pointed his sword at the enemy. 'Charge!'

'Charge!'

Hassan cheered as the order came and he rushed forwards as fast as he could, bayonet aimed at the enemy. He rushed one of them and his blade went through the unprotected neck of one man, he then swung his rifle butt into the face of another man in a kettle helmet, cracking the nose and jaw before the man was run through by Snowhill's sword. Blood splattered onto Hassan's face as he fought madly in this bizarre miasma of violence.

When it ended Hassan sank to his knees and looked to his hand, expecting to see his rifle but instead he realised he was holding a glaive, the blade coated in blood. Where his firearm went, he had no idea so he dropped his newly found weapon and picked a rifle up front the hands of his now dead comrade who was still gripping it even in death.

'Lad,' Snowhill said to him, 'remind me to never piss you off.'

'Sir?' he asked.

'You were fighting like a demon there.'

'I'm sorry sir. I just lost control of myself.'

'No lad, no, it was a compliment. Keep it up.'

'Thank you, sir,' he said with a smile.

'Now form up lad. They'll be back.'

Hassan staggered towards the rest of the platoon who had formed across the road, noticing that they had formed up by a fork in the road, one, he knew, would lead up hill towards Watsend itself and the other to the hill and was a part of the main road. From where they were they had a good view of most of the battlefield and Hassan didn't like what he could see. It looked like they had all been pushed off the stream and the Westerosi were crossing it at the bridges and over the stream itself. Worse, he could see cavalry crossing the bridges.

'This is bad,' Taff muttered.

'I know, sir.'

'If we don't get our reinforcements soon, we'll lose the battle.'

There came a marching noise from behind them and they turned around to see two more platoons of men, all missing some men and looking like they had been fighting just as hard, were joining them.

'Who's in command,' asked Snowhill and a brief discussion followed where they tried to work out who had seniority.

One of them, Lieutenant Rockson, graduated a year before Snowhill so he took command.

'Our new mission is to hold this fork from whatever comes at us. It looks like we'll be in for a fight any minute now.'

He pointed down towards the stream where they could see a large force of cavalry crossing the bridge.

'Understood,' Lieutenant Sonwell, the other commander, said and soon ordered the men into a long line, four ranks deep, just behind the fork in the road on a slight rise in the ground. Unlike down by the river, this area of the battlefield was mostly open with only a few hedges, mostly wide fields of recently cut barley.

At the other end of the fields the enemy cavalry were quickly forming up, preparing for a charge. Afterall, they were just a thin line of men, how could they ever stand up against the might of Westeorsi armoured knights?

Just as the cavalry began their charge another air burst shell detonated just above the cavalry, many of the knights were shredded by the shell but the charge went on.

'First Rank!' a Sergeant from another platoon who, he guessed, had seniority over the other NCOs. 'Take aim!'

Hassan wasn't in the front rank this time, he was in the second.

'Fire!'

The first rank let loose with their rifles and Hassan readied himself, Corporal Taff was next to him and Goonlin was there as well.

'Second rank! Take aim!'

'Get the leader,' Hassan whispered to Goonlin.

'Fire!'

Hassan fired and wasn't sure if he hit his mark, the smoke made it difficult to see, and Goonlin was silent, focused purely on his duty in the firing line, as was everyone.

…

Sam was just managing to keep up with Renly as they walked along the walls of White Hill, the castle close to Watsend and, from whose battlements, they could see the Farosi positions. The fighting had started earlier in the day, Renly had expected the enemy to have been defeated by the time he arrived with the main force of the enemy while Lord Tarly commanded the vanguard. When they arrived an hour ago they saw that the battle was still going on.

Was Sam surprised over this? No, he wasn't. He expected the Farosi garrison to put up strong resistance, but at least they had been driven off the bridges and stream. However, across the rest of the fields, from what he could see, the Farosi were using skirmish lines to slow down the advance. On the western side of the battlefield though the enemy were still fighting a hard battle over a walled farmhouse or compound right by the bridge.

Sam pulled his binoculars up to his eyes and looked at the farmhouse, Farosi troops were on the walls and firing out of the windows down at the Westerosi who were using some sort of log as an improvised battering ram.

'We need to move ladders up to the farmhouse,' he told Renly.

'Agreed,' he responded and sent one of his hangers on to organise it.

'And we need to press the attack, now. For all we know the rest of the Farosi army could be minutes or days away for all we know.'

'I am aware of that, Ser Samwell. Most of our men are still tired from the march, I'll give them half an hour and then we attack. Now, where can we put our artillery?'

'Nowhere,' he answered.

'That's not what I want to hear.'

'Our gunners have had less than a month to train, their artillery crews have trained for years. The moment they see our guns they will target them and we cannot hope to match them in an artillery duel.'

'So what should we do with our guns?'

'Keep them hidden, deploy the skirmishers to engage the Farosi and keep our infantry out of the fight until their skirmish lines have been weakened.'

'I see.'

'And for the love of the Seven!' he shouted, exasperated now, at what he saw through his binoculars at the fork in the road. 'Will those idiots stop launching cavalry charges on Farosi lines?'

A massive force of cavalry tried to charge a small force of Farosi infantry on a wide field with no cover. Most of them had been gunned down and the survivors were already retreating.

'How were they meant to know that would happen?' Renly asked as he looked at the same thing through his pocket telescope, taken from the body of a Farosi officer.

'Because I warned everyone it would happen.'

…

After the cavalry charge against them failed, it looked as if the Westerosi began to use their brains. Archers, riflemen and crossbowmen swarmed up the hill in small groups, crouched behind long blades of grass, rocks or dead horses and began firing from cover. After that the lines scattered and they began to return fire, taking cover where they could. Hassan and Goonlin were together behind a boulder, when one was aiming and firing the other was reloading.

'How many now?' Goonlin asked him.

'Nineteen,' he answered. 'That I know of.'

'Good,' Hassan said and fired. 'Eighteen now.'

'Eighteen? You're falling behind mate,' he laughed and aimed over the boulder, taking his time to aim. He sighted one, an archer who was about to release an arrow at someone else.

Hassan tightened the trigger and fired. When the smoke cleared he saw that the archer was not standing anymore.

'Twenty.'

There was a sudden cheer and both men looked over the boulder to see a new enemy force, made up of infantry in gambesons and light mail and not carrying shields.

'Reform!' came the call and the two men were on their feet, rushing together to join with others and form a line.

As they went, other soldiers rushing together, some men were picked off by arrows and bullets but they kept their discipline, even as many of their brothers in arms were picked off around them.

'Where's the bloody artillery?' Goonlin shouted as he and Hassan knelt in the front rank.

'First rank! Take aim! Fire!'

Hassan fired but he saw the enemy weren't attacking in their usual large blocks, they were loose, fluid, running wildly and when they heard the word fire they all made a sudden movement trying to dodge the bullets. Some were killed but just as many survived. This seemed to spur them on.

The order to fire soon went through the other ranks and then it was Hassan's turn again.

'Fire!'

Hassan pulled the trigger, hoping he managed to hit one of them but it was almost impossible to tell. They were getting closer and closer with every second that passed.

'All ranks rise! Prepare for combat!'

Hassan stood up and braced himself, holding his bayonet at the ready while the other ranks stood tighter together and presented their bayonets, the officers firing off a few shots from their revolvers before drawing their swords and preparing to fight.

The shock of the impact lasted for a moment and soon Hassan was in the midst of another brutal hand to hand fight. He lunged with his bayonet and stabbed a man through the neck but he had to duck to avoid a sword, the offender soon fell dead at Goonlin's bayonet.

The enemy were good fighters, swords, long knives and axes taking a heavy toll against the cumbersome bayonets on rifles. Still, Farosi discipline won out and after the shock of the attack wore off, the order to advance was given and the enemy were driven back by the deadly push of bayonets, quick jabs and thrusts just as deadly as hacking and slashing. When the last of the attackers were killed Hassan thought he could have a moment to breathe but before him he could see the enemy skirmishers, crossbows, longbows and rifles ready.

'Take cover!' someone shouted as the volley tore through them.

Hassan felt blood splatter onto him as he ducked down and fired off a quick shot at the enemy, behind the skirmishers the field was filled with more lightly armed enemy soldiers who looked ready to repeat the last attack.

'Withdraw!' Snowhill's voice cut through the chaos and everyone was happy to agree with the order.

Hassan was soon running for his life up towards Watsend, eventually reaching a row of trees which he, and everyone else, continued going through. Some men stopped behind the trees and fired, Hassan looked over his shoulder to see the enemy coming straight at them, so he kept running.

And then the ground disappeared under his boots and he was falling.

The sunken lane, he remembered. He hadn't realised they were running straight towards it in their retreat. Looking right and left he saw that most of the others had made the same mistake, one poor bugger had even fallen onto his own bayonet in the process, but a few others, including Snowhill, remembered the lane and skidded down the steep slope.

The lane was flanked by trees on both sides, making it much cooler than the rest of the battlefield, but the sound of gunfire could still be heard in the distance. This was still a battlefield.

'Alright, take a moment to breathe,' Snowhill barked at them, Sergeant Dommel and another he didn't recognise, were flanking the officer. 'The other Lieutenants are dead, I'm in command. We will withdraw to Watsend itself next. It will be easier to defend.'

'What if reinforcements don't arrive?' Hassan asked him.

'They will,' he answered, not willing to give danger any consideration.

'Don't hassle him,' Taff warned Hassan. 'He's got enough to worry about.'

'HIGHGARDEN!'

All their eyes snapped to the far end of the sunken lane which had suddenly filled with Westerosi soldiers rushing towards them.

'Let's move!' Dommel roared as he fired a parting shot at the enemy.

All the men who had been on the ground a moment before were now up and running again, reloading as they ran and firing at the enemy. On their left as they ran the upper edge of the sunken lane began to be lined with Westerosi, stopping themselves before they could fall but a few failed. One fell onto the ground right next to Hassan and before he could stand Hassan kicked the man in the face and finished him off with a quick bayonet thrust. The race continued as the enemy began to slide down the bank of the lane and joined the chase.

'Don't bloody load!' the other sergeant shouted. 'Just bloody run!'

Hassan wasn't loading but he started running faster as the enemy battle cry's grew louder and louder. At last they emerged out of the lane and into the sun on the end of a road and what they saw wasn't good. Across the battlefield, the Farosi were being overrun as thousands of Westerosi stormed over the stream. In the distance, at Millers Hill was even being attacked, the men at the top of that hill were firing down and, worst of all, it looked like they were cut off from the front gates of Watsend.

'What do we do?' asked the other sergeant.

'We cut our way to the, yes we cut our way to the closest rampart,' he told them and pointed to the flat hill west of Watsend with his sword.

'There's at least five hundred of them between us and the hill,' said Taff, looking over his shoulder at the enemy drawing closer behind them in the lane.

'We cut our way through!' Snowhill repeated. 'Form a flying wedge. I am the tip, sergeants of the flanks. Three ranks deep! Crown! Senate! People!'

'Crown! Senate! People!' Hassan echoed as he quickly took his place in the wedge.

Shaped like an arrowhead, the wedge was designed for a group of men to attack enemy infantry quickly in the event of a breakout.

'Alright boys! The enemies before us and behind us! Stop for nothing till we reach the rampart! Charge!'

He waved his sword and they all began to run, keeping tight together bayonets forward. Hassan was at the front, Goonlin just behind him, and he knew that this would not be an easy fight. He kept running, he didn't stop running, he didn't break formation. He just ran with his brothers. The enemy before them were focused on the ramparts, not expecting an attack from behind and none of them were able to form a line to oppose them. He speared a man with his bayonet, forced the body onto the ground with his speed and pulled it out, only narrowly breaking formation but was soon back in it. This was repeated again and again as the survivors of three platoons raced towards their only hope of survival.

Snowhill fought bravest of them all, leading his platoon into the fray, sword slashing and stabbing at anyone who tried to oppose him.

At last they were going up a steep bank towards the closest rampart to the wall of Watsend, the men on it happy to see more Farosi as they laid down covering fire for them. Between each large rampart was a small gap and it was through these that they retreated, finally having some level of safety.

What Hassan wanted was to drop his rifle, fall on the ground and go to sleep but the needs of war wouldn't allow it. They had to fight again.

'Onto the ramparts!' Snowhill ordered and Hassan and Goonlin shared a look, one of mutual exhaustion and a dedication to duty.

They got onto the ramparts, the large structures of earth and wood giving them a good height advantage over the enemy who were still attacking.

'Fire at will!' an officer Hassan didn't recognise ordered and he did so, firing at anyone not dressed in blue he could see.

After a few more shots he reached into his cartridge case and felt for ammunition, but he couldn't find any. He was out of ammo.

Needing more he turned to the back of the rampart where extra cartridges were usually kept and as he went to the box he saw movement on the hills behind them. Something was coming. He looked again and saw it, large, fast moving squadrons of men on horses, cresting the hill by the thousand and riding down at full speed towards the ramparts.

'Reinforcements!' he shouted and everyone looked to them at his call. 'The cavalry!'

There was a chorus of cheers at his declaration and soon Light Horsemen were galloping up to the ramparts, dismounting and racing to relieve them, carbines loaded.

…

'It wasn't long after we arrived that General Wago and the rest of the Heavy Horse entered the battle,' explained General Tips. 'With the Light Horse reinforcing the ramparts, the Heavy Horse counter charged the enemy. They were not prepared for it and were soon routed back to north of the stream. Once that happened the rest of our infantry arrived, and we won the battle.'

'No we haven't,' said General Morsey. 'The Battle of Watsend has only just begun.'

He had arrived with the infantry after the fighting had finished that day. He had based himself in the town Watsend in the largest inn which had a large upstairs common area, a large table had been set up in its middle on which a map of the area had been placed. The generals and other senior officers were there, waiting for Morsey's orders.

'Brigadier Prensk,' he said and looked to the exhausted man. 'You did well. Your men held the line for hours and won us the first day of this battle.'

'I lost a lot of good men, but they did their duty, they are now with the True Queen.'

'No doubt. Now, Brigadier, I'll have the Eighth Corps kept out of the fighting for the rest of the battle if I can, they've done enough for now.'

'Thank you, sir.'

'Anyway,' he said and addressed the other officers. 'At the moment most of our forces have arrived at Watsend, our artillery is being put into position, and infirmary and supply depots are being built. Excellent work gentlemen, now, the plan will be to hold this position, and wait, allow Renly to batter himself against our lines.'

'Doesn't this risk losing all the initiative?' asked General Tammon.

'No, we control the ground, and we will not nail all of our men to the ramparts. Only a third of our men will ever be on the ramparts, the rest will remain in reserve, to be moved to wherever needed for a counter attack or a defence. Tomorrow the real fight for Watsend will begin.'

AN: And the Battle of Watsend has begun. The armies of Renly and General Morsey have converged on this tiny town, blood has been spilled and smoke has filled the air. Who shall win? The courage and honour of Westeros or the discipline and gunpowder of Farsos?

Anyway, I'm sorry this one took so long to write but it is a beast of a chapter at over nine thousand words. Anyway, the next part will be out between now and the end of time. I hope you all enjoy.