A Young Girl's Game of Thrones by Failninjaninja

Kevan saw the battle host of Stannis form up. The enemy had a frightening amount of heavily-armored knights and the Northern equivalent. Tywin had placed the Stormlords on the right flank with instructions to smash their foe and then wheel around into the center. Beric and the Marcher lords had read the letter from Ser Barristan. Their lady had been given guest right, then a summary execution after a show-trial. Their rage and eagerness to come to grips with the enemy was something Tywin intended to use to hopefully take down Stannis.

Kevan held the center with the Lannister foot. The Crownlands and the last of the free riders who had not abandoned them held the left. Tywin had the Lannister cavalry in reserve, ready to charge to the left flank that would almost certainly break.

Trumpets blared from both armies as they slowly converged together. While Kevan was in the center, he did not lead from the front. Tyrek was near him, as were a score of messengers capable of sending detailed word to various lords leading the combined host. Kevan felt the familiar tension before battle; the first clash would soon occur.

Unsurprisingly, it was the Stormlords who struck the first blow. Their knights raced ahead and clashed with the Northern cavalry. The clash of men and horse was thunderous; standards fell and men and horses died in droves, but neither group gave. Kevan shook his head and signaled his own men. Arrow fire began peppering both centers. Though something about the arc of the arrows descending on his men struck him as odd.

Are those Essosi bows?

Up close now, it looked as if Stannis had hired mercenaries to aid his cause. That was strange for a man like Baratheon. They did not look numerous. Kevan's well-armored men-at-arms of the vanguard pushed forward and collided with the enemy. His foe was a hodgepodge of levies, men-at-arms, mercenaries, and a few mounted knights and officers. As they clashed, Kevan noticed his own more uniform force did well against some, but not others. The fighting was not far from him now; he bellowed out orders to shore up one area or another.

Glancing to the vulnerable left flank, he saw the free riders and Crownlands force break. It was expected, but this was so early. They must have collapsed at the first charge of the Riverlands knights. He hastily signaled for some of the pike formations he had to swing and set in that direction. Looking back toward the right flank, the Marcher Lords' foot was hurrying into the fray. Part of the Northern force was already reeling back, but they were not fully breaking.

Kevan felt a stray arrow strike his plate, and he bit out a curse. It was not a pleasant feeling, even if the danger was minute. The left flank was now in full flight, and Tywin Lannister's mounted reserve was forming up. He could not say how long the battle had been going at this point as he tried to keep track of all the moving pieces at once.

Just as his van started gaining the upper hand against the enemy center, panicked horns blew distantly.

Those are the scouts we set at our perimeter to ensure the Tyrells didn't steal a march on us. If their horse descends on us now…

The thought did not bode well. Kevan heard another dull roar as the chivalry of the Westerlands slammed into their Riverlands counterpart. Whereas the Riverlands were out of formation and harrying the fleeing Crownlands men, Tywin's cavalry presented a tight formation that cut through them like butter.

Kevan knew not to get his hopes too high; just as they had reserves, so did the enemy. As if on command, the enemy's own reserves came crashing into Tywin's knights, who, with their momentum spent, now had their turn to fight charging lances. The howl of wolves lashed his ears from that critical part of the battle.

Kevan's pikes advanced to the left as he gathered his men around him. He ordered half to hold the line against the center, and the other half to aid his beleaguered brother. The only positive he could see was that the Stormlands were reaping a horrific toll on the North's host. Kevan saw a Glover banner and several Stark banners fall to the ground, while the Baratheon and Marcher Lord banners still stood high.

Tyrek called out beside him, "Look!"

Kevan saw at least 200 knights charging toward his pike formations from the back, now on the pike's flank.

"About face! Get those spears turned to them!" Kevan desperately ordered, trying to make his voice heard over the din of battle. Some tried, but even the disciplined men-at-arms of the Westerlands could not turn an entire formation on a dime. Mallister and Dornish banners were raised as their knights slammed into the unprepared men. The pike line crumbled and made to flee – but to where? Their only escape route was straight into Kevan's advancing foot. The Dornish and Mallister knights pursued and cut men down with ease as any semblance of order faded.

Kevan felt his mouth dry out in fear. The men were breaking – all save for the Stormlords were wracked by chaos, confusion, and terror. He tried to rally them as best as he could, but exhaustion and dispirited morale had levied a dreadful toll, and the men of the Westerlands had little fighting spirit left. With Kevan's forces in full chaotic rout, the enemy center began to advance.

"Tyrek, take half the messengers and get to Twyin in that mess over there. Tell him to retreat; the center is lost."

The lad obeyed swiftly and rode out of the chaos as best he could. The Dornish and Mallister cavalry, having done their deadly work, were already wheeling back around toward the left flank. Kevan felt a cold, sinking feeling in his gut. He drew his blade and plunged into the charging enemy center, calling to one and all to rally for House Lannister.

***

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Gods be good, I have never faced a more relentless foe.

Eddard Stark hated fighting against the Stormlords, particularly the Marcher Lords. Robert had always told him that there were no finer warriors in all the world. He may have been correct, but he also had stated warriors, not soldiers. The fury of the Marcher Lords was terrifyingly potent; however, they also fought without much thought to larger strategic purposes. Their initial charge for one had been strung out their formations terribly with their foot desperately charging after their cavalry.

As both initial charges reaped a deadly toll, their momentum became spent. The butchery was slower, but would kill more, unless one side or another broke. There was no breaking the Marcher Lords. They screamed their fury and howled of treachery. Eddard rallied his men and kept them together.

"To me! Winterfell!"

He had given Robb command of the reserves. The fighting was too deadly and thick to see what else was happening on the broader battlefield. His horse reared up and whinnied as a sword gave it a shallow cut. Ned dispatched the foe who'd harmed his steed and then saw a massive mountain of a man advance toward him. The man wasn't as tall as the Clegane brothers, but he was near Sandor's size, and built just as wide. Gleaming battleaxe in one hand, he pointed at Ned from horseback.

"Stark is mine!"

The heraldry on the massive man's shield was black birds on a field of yellow. Eddard readied his blade, and the two clashed. The axe was aimed at his shoulder, and he ducked low on the back of his horse before urging it forward. His own sword whipped out, after he returned to an upright position, and clanged off the enemy pauldron.

The horses danced around each other, and time flowed like honey. The war cries, screams of pain, and the clash of steel on steel rang dissonantly around him. Eddard struck twice off the great shield, doing little but marring the sigil. The axe struck out again, this time lower; he spurred his mount on to try to evade the blow, but it cut a large gash in the horse's flank. It went down, and Eddard slipped free of the stirrups.

The enemy knight circled around with his own steed and brought the axe down. Eddard awkwardly attempted to parry the blow to the side, but the force was too much. His attempt was partially successful, but not enough. The axe smashed into his torso, its horrific force enough to bite into the plate itself but not fully pierce through. The force though was enough to break bone. He felt at least one rib break, and probably more, as he collapsed back onto the ground.

"NIGHTSONG!" The knight roared in triumph.

He lifted his axe again, only for Jon Umber to come barreling out of the mass of men and horses. The Greatjon crashed into the man, and both their mounts fell to the muck. Eddard felt pain as he breathed and knew there was little, or more precisely, nothing he could do. And so, he watched as the two big men began to brawl in armor. Gauntlets and armored elbows struck at each other in a brutal brawl of wrestling and pounding.

Eddard was alarmed as he soon found himself surrounded by a small ring that had formed around the two armored giants' fighting. The men were not his. The Stormlords watched as their knight pummeled the Greatjon. Eddard thought that the Greatjon was the stronger of the two, but he was at a disadvantage in terms of speed and precision. A disadvantage that soon led to the Umber's collapse. After another two blows, he grew still. The enemy knight pulled off Jon's helm.

"Do you yield?"

Umber's face was a mess, and he spat blood into the visor of his foe.

"So be it. May the Warrior treat you justly." Ned felt sorrow as a belt blade came up and slew the Lord of Last Hearth.

"Stark, do you yield?"

"My person, only. My men will continue to fight, as their King commands, regardless of my fate."

"Good enough."

Another knight gave shout, "The Lannister fucks are losing, ser."

"May the Seven preserve us. Take Lord Stark as our prisoner and take a score 'o men and retreat to the Kingswood. The rest of us will see if we can save the Old Lion's arse again."

Ned's breathing was ragged as he was pushed onto a horse and his hands bound. On horseback, the pain grew worse, but it was a little thing compared to his worry over his sons. The brief conversation that he'd overheard sounded as if the rest of the battle was going well, but who but the Gods could truly know. He said a prayer to the Gods of the North and grit his teeth as the jarring ride exacerbated his wounds.

***

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Oberyn's mounted men and Mallister's knights had marched through the night, taking the very long way around. Timing had been of crucial importance because, if they had been caught so far from their allies, they would have been slaughtered. As soon as the sounds of fighting had begun, Ser Patrek had wanted to charge out, but Oberyn knew patience was key.

He had been right. The timing could not have been more opportune. They had charged forward, easily scattering the perimeter scouts the Old Lion had set up, and then raced into the battlefield. Sending the enemy into complete disarray, Oberyn and Mallister had turned their forces toward where they believed Tywin Lannister to be.

The Dornish Prince viewed the chaotic spectacle and oriented his force toward the lion standards. Levies were fleeing and tripping over bodies as they desperately sought to flee the battle. The howling of wolves could be heard over the screams of the dying. By the time Oberyn arrived, there were no longer clear battle lines. One had to guess by the proximity of standards and off scuffed heraldry on shields and tabards to determine friend and foe.

In the chaos, Oberyn spotted his target. There was the man behind the murder of Elia and her children. There he was – Tywin Lannister. He was surrounded by hearty knights of the Westerlands who had cordoned off their lord in a circle of steel. Oberyn raised his spear and pierced any who got in his way toward the object of his burning hatred.

At some point in the frenetic melee, Oberyn's mount collapsed from a wound. Growling in frustration, he crawled free from the bleeding creature and continued his battle afoot. A knight in Lannister colors tried to strike him from atop a horse, so he dodged to the side and then lashed out with his spear, taking the horse in the belly.

It collapsed in pain, and then the knight found himself inescapably stuck. Oberyn stalked forward quickly and saw the fool had his visor up. A quick thrust into the eye finished that business, and he returned his attention to the Old Lion. He spotted his quarry in the process of receiving a frantically-shouting young squire. As one, the knights began to attempt to retreat west and north.

With a burst of speed, Oberyn ran and threw his spear with all his might at Tywin's horse. The spear struck the animal on the rear, making it rear up in a panic and tilt to the side, crushing the Lannister Lord with its bulk. The Lannister knights closed ranks to protect their lord while the Riverlands pressed harder. Oberyn grabbed a sword from a fallen soldier and rushed to join the melee.

By the time he arrived, Tywin was being helped to his feet, another horse by his side. Tywin's movements were slow and pained. Oberyn descended on the knights in a fury. His sword clanged into one knight while he kicked into another, sending him and Tywin sprawling to the ground.

"ELIA! ELIA! DO YOU REMEMBER HER, LANNISTER?"

Sensing movement, Oberyn whirled his purloined blade at the attacker on his left. The enemy was a squire yet to reach manhood. The Dornish Prince parried and then struck back, only for the squire to desperately throw himself to the ground in a dodge. Oberyn advanced a step, blade held high; he needed to finish the distraction and then go back for Tywin.

A mass of weight hit him, and he crashed into the ground painfully. He looked up and saw one of the direwolves the Starks kept as pets. It moved toward the squire and circled him, baring its teeth at anyone coming near.

Seven Hells, what's wrong with the beast.

Oberyn stood up, but by then three more knights barred his path. He slammed into them, but one did not easily kill a man in plate. By the time he broke through again, Tywin Lannister was now astride a horse and galloping off with his guard.

"COME BACK, YOU COWARD! ELIAAAAAAA! I'M COMING FOR YOU, LANNISTER!"

For his shouts, he took an arrow to the breastplate that staggered him. It didn't pierce, but he was drawing attention. He looked around and saw some Lannisters still fighting, but they were being overwhelmed, as many of them had fled.

He saw the Stark heir call out, "Turn to the south! My father needs aid, to me, to me! The Stormlords still stand!"

Oberyn stalked forward. "Stark! Get me a horse and riders; we are letting the Lannister get away."

"I must save my father; there is a battle to win first."

Oberyn saw red, but he would not squander moments in debate. He had need of a horse, and he needed to hunt down the author of his sister's murder.

***

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