Arya III

"Nymeria, what's wrong?" Her wolf was wrinkling her nose, snarling, and snapping after returning to their column of march.

The local guides that Ser Domeric demanded in the king's name had taken them as far as a village called Oxcross, about three days' ride from Lannisport. From there, he split the host in three. Lord Tytos Blackwood would swing south for Crakehall and wait for the Redwyne fleet to come up the coast. Greatjon Umber would ride down to Kayce and the Feastfires peninsula. Those lands were highly exposed to raiders from the sea, Ser said, so they were expecting action. Her master led the remaining third himself. They would make for the Rock and link up with such men as Tyrion Lannister could raise.

Arya's wolf ranged ahead, doing the scouting and tracking work they'd been training for at the Dreadfort. When he noticed the way Nymeria was reacting, Ser Domeric called a halt immediately.

"Something is up, and I don't know what it is. Might be they know we're coming. I want a good, fortified camp set up while the light holds. Tomorrow we'll be close enough to see the sea."

The sea. Arya could smell it even out here. She and Brad hardly dared to talk while they set up Ser's tent, unsaddled his horse, and gave it a good rubdown.

"Stay very close to your wolf, Arya," Ser commanded before he retired to study a map by candlelight. "If ought is amiss, she'll know before anyone else. I'm counting on you."

Hearing that from his lips meant more than she could say. She was a squire to a great knight and had been training at arms for nearly half a year. He counted on her! Arya wouldn't fail him. She couldn't!

That night, she dreamt of a burning city, larger than even Harrenhal and filled with people. The folk were weeping and begging, while thuggish men in rusty ringmail swaggered about, broke into their houses, and dragged their daughters away, weeping.

They broke camp in twilight, noise discipline in effect. It was a somber and wary march from then on. The rough country gradually leveled off and opened up. They saw the smoke before the city.

"Ser! It's just like my dream! The Ironborn are there! Thousands of them!"

Ser's cold gray eyes narrowed. He studied her for a moment, and then nodded. "Everyone arms. Once we're in sight of the city, we draw up for battle."

There was immediate, furious activity as squires helped their knights into their armor. Men changed from riding horses to big destriers or swift coursers. As for Arya herself, she put on a chainmail byrnie that hung down past her knees, as well as gauntlets, greeves, gorget, and a halfhelm with a noseguard made to her measure. Once she got back in the saddle, she loosened her shortsword in the scabbard.

On the way there was a stream of refugees, desperate people with wild eyes, who had fled Lannisport with everything they could carry. The news they brought chilled her. Brad looked afraid. Arya knew she was afraid. Ser Domeric and Alesander kept them close while Elia rode a bit ahead with some of their freeriders to get a better look.

Lady Lance returned with a bloody blade, and Nymeria loped at her side, blood and slaver leaking from her jaws. She's killed, Arya knew suddenly.

"What news?" Ser Domeric asked.

"Arya told it true. The city is fallen. Iron men are despoiling the place. We were pursued, but not too closely. They lack horse."

There was a dark look on her master's face. "To take Lannisport, even if it were lightly held, would require thousands of swords. These are no raids, but an invasion. I knew it. I fucking knew it."

They pressed on in silence with new determination. As the city got closer, the smoke rose higher and thicker, a black pillar always in their path. It smelled awful, like a candle made from rancid tallow.

There were men in rusty ringmail, the same sort from her dream, walking the walls of Lannisport. One blew a horn when he sighted their riders approaching.

"Good," Ser Domeric said coldly. He drew up their battles in the plains beyond the walls of the city. The great fortress of Casterly Rock loomed above, seemingly impotent as the lands it was supposed to protect were ravaged.

It was a tremendous sight: thousands of knights, banners fluttering in the wind, steel glinting in the midday sun. Mighty warhorses snorted and whinnied, striking the ground with iron-shod hooves. She felt so strong sitting on her pony. Even the uncomfortable armor felt light and easy to bear with Ser Domeric so close.

They waited for the Ironborn to come to them.

And waited.

And waited.

The sun was starting to dip on the horizon when Ser Domeric cursed. "Fucking cravens. They're brave when it's time to rape and steal from unprotected civilians, but they want no part of facing real fighters in the open." Those watchers on the walls remained at their posts, and the gates of Lannisport remained firmly closed.

"What will we do, Ser?" Alesander asked. Probably only he was brave enough to ask. They were all mounted and had nothing to scale the walls or break the gates. Arya remembered siegecraft lessons with Maester Tybald back at the Dreadfort. She and Brad liked the lesson well, but now that it was before them...

"Lead the horses to the rear. We will form up again on foot, archers on the wings. Once that's done, blow every horn in challenge. If I offer a fair fight and he refuses, everyone will know their commander for a craven."

Nobody inquired about what would happen after that. It seemed a good idea as any.

***

The sun dipped even lower by the time the gates of Lannisport opened.

"Bastard waited until the sun was in our eyes," Ser Alesander said ruefully.

Ser Domeric shrugged, unconcerned. "At least the fuckers took the bait."

They were positioned in the front, standing under the flayed man banner beside King Stannis' crowned stag. Brad was shivering a bit, so Arya bumped his shoulder in what she hoped was a comforting gesture. They carried spears and would wield them after the Dornish fashion, from behind a shield. Obara had taught them how.

"All right, you two," her master said, not bothering to look back at his squires. "You will stick close, guard my blindside, and stay firmly behind those shields." He was playing with his warhammer almost absentmindedly, but she could tell he was actually loosening up his body. "Lash out with a spearthrust if you see an opening, but snap back your spear quickly. Keep the shield up. Oh, and don't look up."

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

Brad looked up. "What?"

"Don't look up if you don't want an arrow in the eye," Alesander explained to his little brother.

The Ironborn formed up in a sprawling shield wall, jeering and threatening as they stomped forward. She tried to look without looking up. It seemed they had more men, but she dared not say that out loud and make it true.

A stray arrow struck the iron rim of her shield, almost sending sparks into her eyes. It was a good thing she wasn't looking up, for another arrow thumped her on the crown of her head. Their own archers answered and seemed to get the better of the Ironborn, for the rain of arrows slowed down to a trickle. Soon, the foes surged up like a tide, but their shield wall seemed uneven, with plenty of gaps.

Ser Domeric was bouncing on the balls of his feet, seeming almost giddy. Once they were within twenty paces, he raised his hammer, and a horn blew. At them!

Arya tried to stay near Ser Domeric, but he moved too bloody fast! She peered over the rim of her shield when she heard a metallic crunch. One of the men in rusty ringmail was on the ground, shaking and seizing. There was a dent in his helmet.

"Thigh! Thigh!" Brad shouted.

That was right! She stabbed the downed man in his thigh, in the place that would open up his blood, the place Ser had shown them. The mail coat had ridden up, and the vulnerable spot was bare. It was an easy thing to pierce his flesh, especially after their practice slaughtering pigs. There was no hesitation to kill left in her. Suddenly remembering, she barely withdrew her spear before an Ironborn axe cut off the tip. Nymeria, who had been hiding in her shadow, leapt over Arya, tackled the man who slashed at her spear to the ground, and opened his throat. Soon, the direwolf was spreading havoc and terror everywhere.

Her master's hammer was too fast to see. He hooked another man's shield with the spike, pulled him off balance, and came back around with a blow that crushed his mailed chest in two blinks. Mostly, she and Brad finished off men he felled, trying to keep the reavers off his back.

The Northmen to the left and right poured into the gap Ser Domeric seemed to be creating single-handedly. Through the corner of her eye, she noticed Al was smashing his fair share as well. They were driving them back!

No, Arya! she thought. She wasn't here to watch! She was here to fight! There was a man without a gorget, so she struck, viper quick, plunging the head of her spear into his pale white throat. Steel was ringing, steel and blood. Brad had lost his spear when he couldn't pull it out of a man's guts. She did her best to cover him while he groped for another weapon on the bloody ground.

Men fled before the Bolton banner, from Ser Domeric, and Nymeria too, but an armored giant planted his feet in challenge. He and Ser locked eyes, and a terrible duel commenced. This one was fast enough to catch Domeric's hammer on his shield, and the wicked axe he carried was cleaving her master's shield to splinters. Other men forgot themselves and stared at the two champions.

They traded blows, fast and furious, until Domeric changed his rhythm, just like the lessons! He slowed down a bit, then lulled the tall man into thinking him tired. Once that happened, the end came fast. Her master's hammer slipped past the taller man's guard and made contact with the side of his helm, right at the temple, and the foe fell limp as a doll, utterly still.

"He killed Andrik!" someone shouted, and a new fear ran through the Ironborn. Brad at least had time to get another spear, though it looked slick with blood and hard to hold. With new respect for Ser Domeric's lessons, Arya kept her shield up.

Another man with a red sword tried to stab Ser Domeric in the back, but he spun on his heel and drove the spike of his warhammer right into the sneak's gorget. When he wrenched the weapon free, the ugly jagged hole spewed gouts of blood enough to slip on. Arya tried to avoid the puddle of red mud that was forming, cursing herself for not being close enough to protect Ser's blindside.

"Die, boy!" a greybeard shouted, striking her shield with a sword stroke so hard it numbed her arm. Brad got that one in the leg. They did their best to keep up with Ser Domeric, but the battle was moving faster than their short legs could stride. Al stayed back to watch over them while Ser pressed on, the tip of a wedge of dismounted knights and men-at-arms that punched right through the Ironborn center.

Once it seemed safe, she looked up and saw archers were slipping along the flanks, feathering the fleeing reavers. There was another blast of a horn, and Lady Lance led a small group of knights that had been concealed beyond a hill right into the fleeing foe. They rode down many, spitting the runners on lances. Hardly any reached the walls of Lannisport.

The watchers on the walls threw down their spears and tried to make a break for the ships in the harbor, but the people rose against them. Arya couldn't see over stone walls, but she could hear. There was many a shout of hate inside, hate at the men who victimized them.

Once the battle was clearly won, Ser returned, inspected them both for wounds, and gave his squires leave to retire to the rear. Later, Arya heard there was a terrible slaughter in the city as the people of Lannisport took revenge on their despoilers, but she never saw it.

There were only a few hundred prisoners taken, out of thousands. The rest lay dead and dying. As a treat, Ser let them scalp a few themselves. When she got to the man with the red sword, she noticed something strange.

Valyrian steel, it had to be! The coloring was off, but it had the same ripples as her father's sword, Ice. Arya brought the blade to her master as a gift.

"You could keep it for yourself," he suggested, but that wasn't right. Arya knew Ser Domeric killed the man who wielded it, and it was too big for her anyway. "Suit yourself," her master agreed, taking the blade in hand. It was almost the same color as his armor. Mayhaps it was fate! "Anyway, they are drawing baths in Casterly Rock. We'll be sleeping in featherbeds tonight. Good work, Arya, Brad. Congratulations on your first battle."

The two squires looked at each other and beamed.