The ravens circled high above the rolling field of barren hills where Stark Battalion had pitched its tents. Jon Snow was mesmerized by the flight of the divine messengers. What could they see up there, and what could he see if he could see through the eyes of the birds? Would he see the mass of the enemy creeping like a river of iron through the long and unknowable valleys of the Red Mountains and the Broken Arm, beneath the moss-green trunks of trees? They stood on the other side of the grassland. They had entered the region where the endless forests replaced the wilderness, which not even the Great King Aegon the Conqueror himself could see, for he did not have a dragon strong enough to harness the forest dwellers. It would be good to fathom their intentions, the treacherous foe, the Dothraki, the wildlings, the escaped Starks, the unnamed Khalasar who lurk behind the unknown patches of forest in the hills. And especially Prince Oberyn. The attackers have also inflicted extensive damage on the Martell outpost. Jon Snow could still smell the smoke from the bonfires. After the battle, the Martells burned their dead in a nearby grove, knowing they could not take them home to be buried in a crypt beside their loyal horses. The men were scattered during the attack and were unable to maintain order after the enemy struck. The Dothraki swept over them like a whirlwind, retreating without leaving any trace except the dead they left behind. From these, too, it was clear that the enemy had been watching and keeping an eye on their every move since leaving Camp Martell. The forested rocky ridges of the Red Mountains loomed like black walls above them as the Martell and Stark armies gathered in the treeless field around the high-flying flag signals.
- The Dothraki Khal Drogo's outposts gather at the Whip Gasloon. "I saw the cavalry lords," Ser Jaime said to Casta, returning from the river bend, as he jumped from his horse.
He threw off his cloak from his shoulders, only the golden lion-shaped ornaments of his black buffalo hide blood showing his rank. Casta, who had just mounted to inspect the tents pitched and the trenches his men had dug around the highest hill, now stepped in front of him and stood upright in the saddle.
- I'll cut in front of them, attack them, and break them up, Ser Jaime! Their previous attack failed, I drove them back into the forest. I'll burn the damn forest if I have to!
Ser Jaime was cleaning the mud on his breastplate with the tip of his knife.
- It means nothing. So far they've only tasted us. And they think I'll be foolish enough to throw my troops into the river!
A dark expression crossed Casta's face. As if Ser Jaime was openly doubting his claim to be the leader of the Stark army. Ser Jaime paused for a moment, as if not understanding the situation. He looked over at Casta as if he were not there.
- "Lord Oberyn," he said at last, when his eyes settled on the Duke of Martell, "I beg you to station your men at the southern ford. Not the north, but the south. And at least two regiments. I suspect a war plot. If they don't come and break through there, we can hold this field. After a while they'll have to attack, because they can't hold back any longer.
The prince nodded.
- I will follow your instructions, young knight. My men will stand at the southern ford, as you suggested.
- Good! - Ser Jaime moved on with hurried steps, not looking at Casta.
The red and gold sword sheath with the seal of Tywin hung at its side as if it were the sword of the Lion's Roar itself.
- You give orders on my behalf, Ser Jaime? I warn you that King Robert has appointed me commander of the Lannister army. Before you command the Prince of the Martells, you might ask me if I want it.
The knight sighed heavily.
- We have no time for this!
Jon Snow saw Casta's fingers tighten on the bridle. His face was pale, a vein seemed to have popped in his forehead.
- We don't have time for this?
He saw the hatred flaring in Casta's eyes. His muscles tensed, ready to act if his brother made a rash move. Never before had he come so close to pushing his brother out of the saddle with an unexpected jump. Casta, already jealous enough of him, would never forgive him. Yet he must do it. He never thought Casta would do anything crazy. And at the very moment when he needed an experienced commander most! But before Casta could dig his heels into his horse's side, Jon Snow heard the metallic clang. Ser Jaime had his sword half drawn. The light of the sun broke through the clouds the moment his sword slipped from its sheath, and the broad blade glinted in the golden light. Ser Jaime held up his weapon.
- Do you see this, Lord Casta? My sword is called the Lion's Roar. I named it after the coat of arms of House Lannister, for it eases the suffering of all enemies with the mercy of swift death. I'll slit your horse's throat with this sword faster than you can move a saddle. Do not seek shame, Lord Casta. My father Tywin Lannister sent me here to fortify the southern border once and for all. Stay out of my way.
The sky was thundering in the distance, and horses and men were rearing their heads. Casta's hand relaxed, and Ser Jaime calmly walked on. All Jon Snow saw was the sun gleaming on his sword and his brother obediently standing aside.
- 'Let us say a blessing now, then get up and do your work,' Ser Jaime urged his men, some of whom were already kneeling as the sunlight fell on the blade. - All my leaders take your places at the head of your troops! You lead the right wing, Commander Andros. Commander Mallister, left flank. And I will remain at the head of the army.
Casta sat pale in his saddle and nodded without a word.
- 'I am the commander of the army,' he said in a strangled voice, 'but I accept your help, Tywin's son Ser Jaime! Your experience in battle will be a useful aid to me.
Ser Jaime bowed his head with a light gesture.
- I'm glad you're a man of discernment, Lord Casta. You are the blood of Cregan Stark!
Casta turned his horse with a dark face. Jon Snow seemed to sense fear in the eyes of the Stark knights following Ser Jaime. These were Eastern Starks, some of the extended House of Greystark. And his father had once told him that, as the face of the sun lights the earth in the morning from the east, so Tywin Lannister had once come from the east, where the great realm of King's Landing was born, on the plateau of the Crown Lands. Indeed, Ser Jaime had the Sword of the Lion's Roar, which many believe Tywin brought from the valley of Massey's Bend. Or was fortune playing into the knight's hands? Jon Snow had seen septons walk on fire, seen septons who could stick a heated needle through their tongue without bleeding. Even among the masters who lived near Winterfell Castle, there were those who could heal wounds with a mere touch or cause ulcers and sickness with a stare.
- My lord!" shouted the scout returning from the woods.
Both Casta and Ser Jaime listened to the voice, but finally Jaime was the one who spoke.
- What news do you bring?
- 'My lord,' panted the warrior sent out. - They are everywhere in the forest.
- Who are there?
- They have us surrounded! Three of us were shot down from the saddle. They're advancing through the trees like wolves, but how, I don't know.
Ser Jaime put his hand on the hilt of his sword. His face was damp with sweat, his locks of hair against his forehead, but his eyes were like the eyes of a predator stalking prey. Jon Snow as if he saw joy in it.
- Every man take his place in the battalion. Mallister, blow your bugles!
The hill rising in the middle of the field, with the leader's tents on top, looked like a huge green-backed beast. Jon Snow felt the drops of water seeping under his breastplate like icy fingers as the battalion, torn apart by a multi-pronged attack, tried to regroup. Tattered wolf flags still flew high here and there, but not all units had reached the cover of the hill where Ser Jaime had massed his forces. Envoys scurrying from the direction of the command tents tried to make contact, but some of the lines were too far away to reach. Standing on the side of the hill, Jon Snow watched them fight for their lives as the Dothraki and wild horsemen who dominated the battlefield slaughtered them with lightning speed. Men who had fallen from their horses lay dead in the bloody mud. Ser Jaime's bugles did not sound. The sodden ground and the hill rising behind them left them little room to change direction. Around him, Mallister's knights spoke of close combat looking inevitable. Prince Oberyn and other warriors approached from the south, from the distant mist of the trees. The shadows of banners and horses danced across the horizon like blurred undead shapes. Jon Snow watched the black shape of the approaching enemy, as if the river spat out shapeless shadows, he could not see the banners, not even the horses. Who could they be? Mance Rayder's men? Dothraki? Stark traitors, perhaps Martells? Others from beyond the Wall? The sky was all blurred, the bend of the Whip River was no longer visible, and on the other side, the black foliage of the forest was lost in the mist. It was as if rotten bones were twisting out of the fatty flesh before his eyes. The souls of fallen men writhed around the water and blood-soaked hills of the battlefield. Somewhere, perhaps in the misty woods, a septon began to beat its drum to hurl the souls of the dead knights to the afterlife, but its song was soon washed away by the rain and the thunder of the sky. Casta suddenly appeared beside him, accompanied by some of his bodyguards. He came from the other side of the hill, where a melee was already raging. The grey hairs of Casta's horse dripped mud mixed with blood, as if he had waded through the dead. He wore no helmet, his black hair standing in a bloody knot above his wolf breastplate as the horses' hooves beat the sodden earth. His brother's face was still burning with the fury of battle, but when he came close enough, Jon Snow saw that his eyes were still looking inward. When he reached him, he straightened in the saddle and looked him in the eye.
- We will finish the traitors today, brother! Now everyone will finally pay!
There was a fire in his eyes that made Jon Snow catch his own gaze for a moment. This was not the Casta he knew.
- Were the gods with you, brother?
Casta nodded.
- They were with me. I heard their voices in the thunder of the sky!
- Are you leading an attack, brother?" asked Jon Snow, looking up.
Casta was not walking through the people for nothing. Perhaps he had come here to say a final farewell.
- I follow Ser Jaime's suggestion. He advised me to split our army in two, like the wings of a hawk, and thus crush the enemy. Then we will turn around and reunite. We have the advantage on the high ground, and they must make a charge if they are to move us out of here. Their bows are useless. We will win!
- 'Yes,' nodded Jon Snow, and then it was as if he felt a real love for his brother. - The God of Seven wants victory.
Casta nodded with a smile.
- I am counting on you, brother!
He rode on, then drew his sword.
- For Winterfell!
The sword held aloft in Casta's right hand seemed to leap into the sky like a black flame. The ancient word of House Stark suddenly gave his knights courage. Jon Snow just nodded. But his brother's smile was sharp as a blade.
- For Winterfell!
The enemy came in waves. The Starks did not hesitate. Perhaps the leaders thought they could win an easy victory over an enemy surrounded on all sides? If so, they were bitterly disappointed. The bows were rendered useless by the raging storm. They were left with their stabbing and cutting weapons. The deafening whinny of the horses merged with the roar of the men as the front ranks ran into each other. Jon Snow saw a long spear pierce the shoulder of one of Commander Mallister's good men. Flags drooped beside him, including a bloody hand cut from a wrist. A terrible slaughter had begun. More and more came, as if they would never run out. His drawn, straight sword ran into the face of a rider galloping towards him as easily as if he had cut bacon. Was it Dothraki, wildling or Stark? His foe was too late to parry, and it was enough for Jon Snow to see only the stunned look on his cut face as he collapsed with a soundless roar, but the rider beside him had already spun him away. They were charged from right and left. Commander Mallister's upraised shield defended him from the blow. Mallister was thrown from his horse. An arrow pierced his eye. Jon Snow heard his howl for a moment and saw his commander's crushed body in the grass. The men's momentum seemed to break. It was as if they could no longer withstand the tide of the enemy that was coming in waves. With their commander gone, Mallister's men retreated. Jon Snow retreated with them, several of his former bodyguards, assigned to him by the commander, now lying stiff-limbed in the bloody, crushed earth. Then, as if suddenly, the whole line of battle faltered. The enemy's superior strength was beginning to finally sap the Starks' offensive strength. Jon Snow had a bitter taste in his throat. The whole world began to blur before him. Who could be stronger than the Lion's Roar?
- "I'm Eddard's son, Robb Stark," his brother suddenly shouted from beside him. - I will lead you! We will not retreat!
- For the King of the North!" he heard the men shout.
- "For the King of the North!" cried Jon Snow.
As if he were Casta, he cut down his first opponent. For a few moments, it was as if his blade was moved not by his own arm, but by a force beyond man, as the Starks, led by Robb, began a new attack. He could feel his heart pounding under his breastplate as they struck the enemy with renewed force. It was as if fire burned in his chest, as hot as the metal the blacksmith had tempered. The battle cries of Starks, Martells and Lannisters filled the air. Shields and spears flew against each other with a mighty clash, men in full armour fell from their saddles. Jon Snow's straight sword slid into his arm with perfect security, his lightning-quick movements no match for his attackers. A leather-clad Dothraki fell from his saddle as Jon Snow slashed his throat with a lightning-quick move. Blood splattered, and from the right, a huge man with a black beard roaring struck at him with his two-handed sword. Jon Snow parried the blow with his shield. He leapt at the faltering beast, and with a slash of his sharp-edged shield, crushed its skull before his opponent could raise his sword again. He stabbed and parried, deflecting blow after blow, his assailants' weapons breaking on his round shield. As if he had indeed been protected by the armour of the old gods for that time. No blade that struck at it could reach it. All around him, the carcasses lay as the harvested grain. He could taste the salt of blood in his mouth. He tasted victory. Their rush was as terrifying as Robb Stark's roar. The battle did seem to be turning. And now all around Jon Snow was suddenly clear. The world froze. And he, like the triumphant Young Wolf, had just come into battle to cut the heart out of his enemy with his steel sword. As one, he felt the determined gaze of the enemy and Mallister's men.
- For the King! "For Commander Mallister!" he cried, but the sound barely escaped his throat, his heart was pounding.
He was as alone as a lone wolf.
- For the Starks! For the North!" he shouted again and again. - "Follow me, men!" he roared, and held his sword high. - For the King!
More bugles sounded. As if in a rehearsed, deadly dance, so simultaneously did Mallister's warriors move to follow their new leader and the other troopers who joined him. They fitted the arrow to the string as if they were embracing an invisible lover. The death knives whizzed and whirred over Jon Snow's head. The enemy retreated, but their riders who remained on their feet wavered in their saddles, many toppling, others fitting arrows.
- "Draw your bow!" shouted Jon Snow again, but by then the men were firing without orders.
The world became a swirling vortex of hissing, buzzing sounds. A Dothraki arrow fell with a clatter from his helmet, and he saw a Stark knight fall howling to the dust beside him. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered anymore. Another attack began. Jon Snow saw the enemy retreating everywhere. Somewhere the spectre of the attack had struck a deadly blow within them. What could have happened? Would the power within him turn the tide of battle? Or is there something else here? The enemy armies, hitherto advancing triumphantly, were swept by confusion. He saw his brother's wolf flag flying high. Then he saw his other brother marching forward under the flag, his men in close formation as they poured into the swirling mass of rebels. There, too, they were soon broken, and the disjointed ranks began to unravel like a disintegrating fabric. Casta galloped without his helmet, shouting exhortations to his men, his sword like a bloody whip in his hand as he slashed right and then left. The enemy array disintegrated, the units desperately trying to form some sort of defence before the all-encircling Starks finally crushed them. The attack closed in around the enemy on all sides like the jaws of a raging, invincible Targaryen dragon. Jon Snow saw Robb fall off his horse. His crimson blood glistened on his white wolf fur as his broad-bladed straight sword, which he had drawn from under his coat as a defence against entrapment, fell from his grip. Just as he had seen the death-snake, fatefully close at hand, gleaming in the hot light of the sun, he had seen it glistening in the blood-soaked witness of the battlefields. Robb Stark lay on the ground, arms outstretched, silent, helpless, like a sacrificial animal condemned to the coup de grace. His bloodied face was both terrified and desperate. Jon Snow then suddenly stepped on the body of the snake crawling on the ground. His eyes burned darkly. As if slowly glowing with the shadows cast by the clouds now passing across the sky. His thick beard, his curly raven-black hair, suddenly turned red. As the serpent's head rose again, he took his sword in both hands and struck with the blade woven from the shadows of the night. Robb Stark's eyes were still horrified as the serpent's head snapped away from his neck.