Game of Thrones and all related characters are the property of HBO and George R. R. Martin. The Lost Regiment series and characters likewise belong to William R. Forstchen and ROC publishing. No money is being made from their use in this work of fanfiction.

ANDREW

January 6, 1865
Four hundred miles southwest of Bermuda

For the first time in three days, Andrew Lawrence Keane realized, the seasickness had left him. He paused for a moment in wonder; was there nothing left in him to get sick with, or was it the simple stark terror of what was happening?

Tobias Cromwell, insisting that the growing storm would not interfere with his schedule, had passed out of the Chesapeake and on into the Atlantic, even as the wind gust picked up to thirty knots. From there it had simply gotten worse, and by the end of the day they were racing before a southwesterly gale of near-hurricane proportions. The boilers had long since been damped down, and now they were running bare-poled before the wind.

Hanging on to a railing next to the wheel, Andrew watched as Tobias struggled to keep them afloat.

"Here comes another!" came the cry from the stern lookout.

Wide-eyed, Tobias turned to look aft.

"Merciful God!" he cried.

Andrew followed his gaze. It seemed as if a mountain of water was rushing toward them. A wave towered thirty or more feet above the deck.

"A couple points to starboard!" Tobias roared.

Mesmerized, Andrew watched as the mountain rushed down upon them and the stern rose up at a terrifying angle. Looking forward, he felt that somehow the ship could never recover, that it would simply be driven like an arrow straight to the bottom.

The wall of water crashed over them, and desperately he clung to the rope which kept him lashed to the mizzenmast. The ship yawed violently, broaching into the wind. As the wave passed over them, he saw both wheelmen had been swept off their feet, one of them lying unconscious with an ugly gash to the head, the wheel spinning madly above them.

Tobias and several sailors leaped to the wheel, desperate to bring the ship back around.

"Here comes another!"

Rising off the starboard beam, Andrew saw another wave towering above them.

"Pull, goddammit, pull!" Tobias roared.

Ever so slowly the ship started to respond, but Andrew could see that they would not come about in time. For the first time in years he found himself praying. The premonition that had held for him and the regiment, that they were damned, was most likely true after all, even if the end did not come on a battlefield.

The wave was directly above him, its top cresting in a wild explosion of foam. The mountain crashed down.

He thought surely the rope about his waist would cut him in two. For one wild moment it appeared as if the ship was rolling completely over. His lungs felt afire as they were pushed beyond the bursting point. But still he hung on, not yet ready to give in and take the breath of liquid death.

The wave passed, and Andrew, gasping for air, popped to the surface. They had foundered, the vessel now resting on its portside railing. Helpless at the end of the rope, he looked about, cursing that his fate was in the hands of a captain who had killed them all for the sake of his foolish pride.

"Damn you!" Andrew roared. "Damn you, you've killed us all!"

Tobias looked over at Andrew, wide-eyed with fear, unable to respond.

Tobias's gaze suddenly shifted, and with an inarticulate cry he raised his hand and pointed.

Andrew turned to look and saw that yet another mountain was rushing toward them, this one even higher than the last, the final strike to finish their doom.

But there was something else. Ahead of the wave a blinding maelstrom of light that appeared almost liquid in form was spreading out atop the wave like a shimmering cloud of white-hot heat.

The cloud swirled and boiled, coiling in upon itself, and then bursting out to twice its size. It coiled in for a moment, and then doubled yet again.

"What in the name of heaven-?" Andrew whispered, awestruck by the apparition. The intensity of the light was now so dazzling that he held up his hand to shield his eyes from the glare.

There seemed to be an unearthly calm, as if all sound, all wind and rain, were being drained off and they were now lost in a vacuum.

But still the wave continued to rise behind it, and then, to Andrew's amazement and terror, the wave simply disappeared as if it had fallen off the edge of the world.

Where a million tons of water had been but seconds before, now there was nothing but a gaping hole, filled by the strange pulsing light.

Suddenly the light started to coil in yet again, then in a blinding explosion it burst back out, washing over the ship.
The deck gave way beneath Andrew's feet, and there was nothing but falling, a falling away into the core of light as if they were being cast down from the highest summit.
There was no wind, no sound, only the falling and the pulse beat of the light about them; with the toll of exhaustion and the extraordinary events overtaking him, Andrew could only wonder if this was death after all.

Andrew awoke to the glare of the sun in his eyes. Groaning from the bruises that covered his body, he sat up and looked around.

Were they dead? Was this the afterworld? Or had they somehow survived? He came to his feet, and from the way the protest of bruised muscles coursed to his brain, he somehow felt he must be alive after all.

But how? Was the light a dream, a hallucination? All he could recall was that endless falling, the pulsing light and then the golden sphere that replaced it. He struggled with the memory. He seemed to recall awakening at some point, the sound of waves washing up on a shore surrounding him, an expanse of stars across a night sky above with no moon.

Improbable, he thought. The wave must have knocked him unconscious and somehow that damned captain had managed to save them after all.

The deck of the ship was a shambles. All three masts were down, with rigging, spars, and canvas littering the deck from stem to stern. In more than one place Andrew could see a lifeless form tangled in the wreckage. He'd have to get the men moving to start cleaning this up and disposing of the dead.

But where were they? Rubbing the back of his neck, which felt sunburned, he raised his eyes. They were aground, the shore a scant fifty yards away. The sandy beach before them quickly gave way to brush and low trees, and beyond he could see a series of low-lying hills.

Fumbling with his one hand, he managed to untie the rope about his waist.

It was warm; made warmer by the still-damp wool of his salt-encrusted uniform jacket that trapped beads of sweat he could feel coursing down his back.

They were alive, but where? Had they run all the way to Bermuda, or were they now wrecked somewhere along the coast? It had to be somewhere in the south. It could never be this warm in the north at this time of year.

Could it be the Carolinas? But no, he remembered that hills didn't come this close to the sea. Perhaps he was mistaken, but best not to take any chances-they'd have to assume they were in rebel territory till it was proved different.

"Colonel, you all right?"

Hans Schuder popped his head up from an open hatchway, and for the first time in memory, Andrew could see that his old sergeant had a look of total bewilderment on his face.

"All right, Hans. Yourself?"

"Damned if I know, sir," and the sergeant pulled himself up onto the deck. "I thought we'd gone under, and then there was this light. For a moment there I thought, Hans, old boy, it's the light of heaven and those damned stupid angels have made a mistake. And the next thing I know I wake up still alive."
"What's it like below?" Andrew asked.

"Six hundred men puking their guts out. Ain't very pleasant, sir. Couple of the boys got killed from the battering, a number of broken limbs, and everyone with bruises. They're just starting to come to now."

"Well, go below and start getting them up on deck. There's work to be done."

"Right sir," and the sergeant disappeared back down the ladder.

"So you finally decided to get up."

Andrew groaned. He knew he shouldn't think it, but he found himself wishing that Tobias had been swept overboard.

"Where the hell are we?" Andrew asked, turning to face the captain, who was strolling down the deck toward him.

"South Carolina, I reckon. I'll shoot an angle on the sun and soon have it figured out."

"How did we get here?" Andrew asked, unable to hide his bewilderment.

Tobias hesitated for only a second.

"Good piloting, that's all," he replied, but Andrew could sense the doubt in his voice.

"And that strange light?"

"St. Elmo's fire, but I reckon a landlubber like you never heard of it."

"That wasn't St. Elmo's, Captain Tobias. It knocked all of us out and we woke up here, and I daresay you can't explain it more than I can." The - vision? - Andrew decided to keep to himself.

Tobias looked at him, trying to keep up the front, then turned away with a mumbled curse.

"We've been hulled. I'm going below to check the damage. I suggest we get started straightening this ship out, and I expect your men to help where need be."

Without waiting for a response, Tobias headed for the nearest hatchway and disappeared below.

Within minutes the deck was swarmed with men staggering up from below, most of them looking rather the worse for wear. As quickly as they came up, the various company commanders tried to sort them out and run a roll. Spotting Kathleen coming out from the captain's cabin, he hurried to her side.

"You all right, Miss O'Reilly?"

She looked up at him and smiled bleakly.

"Long as I live I'll never set foot on a ship again." The two of them laughed softly.

"Sergeant Schuder told me there've been some casualties. I'd deeply appreciate it if you would find Dr. Weiss and give him your assistance."

He continued to look at her closely, not wanting to admit that he had been concerned for her.

"Colonel, sir!"

Andrew looked up to a private standing atop the ship's railing and pointing off to shore. He came up to his side and looked at the boy, trying to remember his name.

The boy was nothing more than a mere slip of a lad, standing several inches below five and a half feet in height. His red hair, freckled face, and cheerful open expression gave him an innocent, almost childlike look. Andrew fished for his name, wondering how this lad had ever gotten past the recruiting sergeant. Then again, army recruiters were simply interested in warm bodies, nothing more. Suddenly the name came back to him.

"What is it, Hawthorne?"

Vincent looked at him for a moment, swelling a little with the fact that the colonel knew his name. That was another thing learned from Hans-always know their names, even though too often the knowing in the end would cause pain.

The boy was silent, still looking at him.

"Go on, son. What is it?"

"Oh, yes, sir. Sir, look over there, up near those rocks up there a couple of hundred yards up the beach. Seems like a cavalryman."

Andrew shaded his eyes and looked to where the boy was pointing. Definitely movement. A rebel scout?

Andrew looked around for Tobias, hoping he could get a spyglass, but the captain had yet to reappear.

"Son, do you know where my quarters are?"

"I think so, sir."

"Well, run quick-there's a single chest there. My name's on the top. Inside you'll find my field glasses. My sword's there as well. Now fetch them quick, lad."

"Yes sir!"

Obviously impressed with the responsibility given to him, Vincent jumped off the railing and raced below.

Andrew leaned over, still shading his eyes, and tried to get a better look at the lone horseman.

"Stay where you are, dammit," Andrew whispered. "Just don't move."

"Got something, colonel?"

Andrew turned to see Pat O'Donald coming up to join him.

He pointed to where the lone cavalryman sat, half concealed.

"How'd your men take the storm?" Andrew ventured, while waiting for Vincent to return.

"It's not the man, it's the horses," O'Donald said sadly. "We brought along enough for two guns and a cassion-the rest went on another ship. Most of them will have to be destroyed, or are already dead. I checked your horse, sir-he made it through all right."

The tearful remorse in the major's voice was rather a strange paradox coming from a man with his reputation.

"Your field glasses, sir," Hawthorne cried, near breathless as he raced up to Andrew's side.

Andrew brought them up and focused.

"Well, that is the damnedest," he whispered softly.

If this was reb militia, then they sure as hell were scraping the bottom. The man was dressed in a loose, buttonless brown shirt similar to a medieval doublet and baggier than normal trousers tucked into knee high riding boots. His riding tack looked wrong too-the bridle looked to be made of green silk. On his head was what looked like a baklava hood, and his right hand was gripping a –spear?

In front of Petersburg he saw deserters coming in almost daily, but at least they were still carrying guns.

Andrew handed the field glasses to O'Donald, who started to laugh.

"Faith and upon my soul! So there is the vaunted reb cavalry."

As if realizing he was being watched, the lone horseman turned his horse about, and kicking it into a trot he disappeared from view.

"Old men and children in the trenches, and now cavalry carrying spears, of all things. Won't those poor sots ever give up?"

Still laughing, he handed the field glasses back.

"He might look comical, major, but this could prove serious."

"And how so?"

"Those low hills there. Whatever it was you were laughing at could be going to get help right now. If they have a single section of artillery handy, all they need do is position themselves up there and shell us into surrender."

O'Donald fell silent and turned to look back down the deck.

"Too much of a cant here to deploy my guns to respond."

"Exactly," Andrew replied. "We'd better get my men ashore immediately and dig in. Get your men moving and bring those Napoleon field pieces of your topside. That lifeboat there should be enough to ferry them ashore."
Andrew looked back to where Vincent still stood.
"Son, you'd better help me on with that sword," he said softly.

Colonel, with the captain's compliments he wants you back aboard ship."

"Damn it all, what now?" Andrew turned on the messenger and saw that it was Bullfinch, the young ensign who had first led him aboard ship.

"I'm sorry, sir, but the captain did not confide that in me," the boy said meekly.

"Just give me a minute."

Andrew quickly surveyed the ground around him. One thing could certainly be said for the men of his regiment-six months of siege work in front of Petersburg had taught them how to dig. A triangular outworks forming a perimeter a hundred yards across at the base was already laid out in the dark loamy soil. It was already several feet deep on the two facing inland. O'Donald's men were finished with the first gun emplacement, commanding the apex of the line, and were now turning their attention to flanking position. One twelve-pound Napoleon had already been ferried out and emplaced. Looking back to the ship, he could see that the second weapon was being lowered over the side.

It must have been one hell of a wave that pushed them this far in, Andrew thought, as he looked at the damaged hull resting in less than ten feet of water. Besides that, from the ship's compass the shore they were facing toward was to the east with the water westward and he could recall no such coastline south of the Chesapeake.

"Keep the boys at it, Hans," Andrew shouted, and following the ensign, he waded into the waters of the ocean and accepted the helping hands of two sailors aboard the ship's launch. Seconds later they were alongside the Ogunquit, and with the help of a sling, Andrew was deposited on deck.

There was a look of anxiety on Tobias's face, something that Andrew actually found to be pleasing.

"What is it, captain?" Andrew asked coolly.

"Colonel, can you climb the rigging?" And so saying he pointed up to where the shrouds to the mainmast still clung to the shattered maintop, thirty feet above the deck.

"Lead the way."

This was something he would never have worried about once, but since the loss of his arm, Andrew found the prospect somewhat frightening-though he'd never admit it in front of this man.

Tobias scrambled up ahead of Andrew, almost as if taunting him. But all thought of insult died as he finally reached the shattered platform.

"One of my men spotted them. I thought you should take a look."

Fumbling for his field glasses, Andrew looked off to the shore.

Through a gap in the hills he saw that the cavalryman had returned, and had brought someone else with him. His equipment was much like that of the first horseman's, though his-doublet?-was forest-green instead of brown.

Andrew frowned. Seeing one cavalryman with that strangely primitive gear had been one thing, but it was another for him to come back not with the nearest reb forces but merely another one with similarly archaic gear. But from the way they were boldly approaching, they had to have some sort of power behind them.

"My glass has more power than your field glasses," Tobias offered.

It took a moment for Andrew to brace himself and focus the awkward telescope. He trained it upon the two cavalrymen, and his brow furrowed in confusion.

The two men had sun-darkened and weathered olive skin, their looks more of a Mediterranean cast than anything else. The one with the green doublet carried a long scar on his left cheek and another above his left eye. He also had a thin fringe of beard, mostly dark but streaked with silver on either side of his mouth.
And behind them was a whole host of men dressed similar to the two horsemen, some mounted others on foot. Some had the same Mediterranean look as the first two while others were lighter haired and fairer. Most carried spears while a handful of the men on foot were armed with either crossbows or what looked like English longbows. The colonel leaned closer and noticed curious flanges just below the spearheads-like those on medieval boar spears. And that while all the men were armed they carried no swords or maces or other melee weapons except for long knives at their belts or those spears. And they wore no armor.

They're a hunting party, Andrew realized; not an army or war band. He hoped that might make dealing with them easier.

Andrew looked over to Tobias, who wordlessly returned his gaze.

"Captain-just where in God's earth are we?" Andrew whispered.

"...I don't know," Tobias finally admitted.

"Well, dammit, man, you'd better figure it out, because we sure as hell haven't landed in South Carolina!"

Andrew started back down from the maintop and jumped to the deck, Tobias following him.

"Get Dr. Weiss up here!" Andrew shouted, heading for the rail.

"What are you going to do, colonel?" Tobias asked.

Andrew turned on the captain, and stood quiet for a moment, thinking hard.

"Can you get this ship afloat again?" he finally asked.

"There's a hole down below decks big enough to ride a horse through!"

"Then figure something out, dammit!"

Andrew turned to see Emil coming up to join him. Together the two went into the lifeboat. Before it had even reached shore, Andrew leaped out, Emil puffing to keep up.

"What is it, colonel?"

"I want you to see what's coming," Andrew said. "Tell me if it looks like anything you've ever seen.

He already had a strange suspicion, but immediately pushed the thought aside; it was simply too absurd.

Racing ahead, all dignity forgotten for the moment, Andrew rushed to the entryway of the fortified position.

"Hans! Sound assembly!" Andrew shouted.

The clarion notes of the bugle and the long roll of the drum sounded. With the first note, Andrew felt a shiver run down his back. Suddenly the panic and confusion in

his heart stilled; crystal clarity of vision came over him.

The encampment exploded into action. Men raced to pull on their jackets, snatch up muskets, and sling on cartridge boxes.

Following the lead of the infantry, O'Donald called for the two pieces already ashore to be wheeled into their emplacement. Then he led his command to fall in by the men of the 35th.

Within seconds the old ritual, which they had acted out hundreds of times before, was played out: the ranks forming, muskets being grounded, the men dressing the line. Then when all were in place each company snapped to attention, their company commanders turning and coming to attention when all was in order.
Andrew surveyed the line of five hundred men who were his, and the eighty men of O'Donald's command behind them. Every other time, it had been easy enough to explain what they were about to face; orders from above would tell him where the rebs were, and whether he was to hold or attack. There'd be a couple of comments about the honor of the regiment and the pride of being from Maine, and then they would move in.

But this was different. He paused, trying to collect his thoughts. The men started to look uneasily at each other.

There was no brigadier above him now, or regiments falling in to either flank. This time he was alone, just as at Gettysburg, and the decision was his.

"Uncase the colors!" Andrew shouted.

A stir went down the line as the standard-bearers lowered their staffs. Men to either side rushed out to pull off the flag casings. In the faint afternoon breeze the blue flag of Maine snapped out. It was followed seconds later by the shot-torn national standard; emblazoned upon its stripes in gold letters were the names of a dozen hard-fought actions which the regiment had survived with honor.

The men looked to each other, some eagerly, others pale with nervousness; uncasing the colors usually meant action was in front of them.

"Look to those colors, boys!" Andrew shouted, and as one each man's gaze turned to the standards they had followed across countless fields of action.
Andrew knew it was a rhetorical flourish, but he had to start somewhere, and for the men of his regiment-of any regiment-the shot-torn flags were symbols of pride and honor.

"There is a lot I cannot explain to you right now," Andrew continued. "All I ask is that you obey my commands. Just trust me, lads, as you have on every field of action. Follow my orders, and I'll see all of us through this."

He fell silent. This wasn't the typical flag, Maine, and the Union speech. He sensed their uneasiness, but there wasn't time to explain further.

"Companies C through F, deploy to the east wall. H through K, to the west wall. I want A and B, with the colors, in reserve in the center. Major O'Donald! To me, please! Now fall into position, boys!"

The encampment became a wild explosion of movement as the formation broke and men ran to their positions.

"What is it, colonel?" Pat said, coming up to join him.

"Look, Pat, I can't explain the situation now- I still don't understand it myself. We'll just have to wait and see. Let's go up to your emplacement."

The two commanders, trying to appear outwardly calm, strode across the encampment area. They reached the battery where O'Donald's twelve-pound brass Napoleons were deployed.

"Here they come!" came a shout from an excited private down the line.

The small band crested the hill above the beach; they paused visibly as they saw the encampment with its battle-ready men at its walls below, then the older leading horseman in the green doublet rode forward cautiously, one hand up with palm outward, the other on the reins on his horse as he guided it.

"One of them coming up, sir," Hans said, now standing beside Andrew, which he always did when there was the scent of battle in the air.

A loud murmur started to break out in the ranks, men crying out in confusion at the sight of the horseman before them.

"You're the history professor," Emil said, coming up to join the three commanders, "so please help me retain my sanity and tell me who that is."

"I was hoping you would know," Andrew replied. "We couldn't have been blown all the way to Arabia, and they look European, not black or eastern."

"Well, what he's carrying looks straight out of the Middle Ages to me," Emil replied. "Damn it all, look at those weapons! Those things are museum pieces!"

"I know, doctor," Andrew murmured, "I know."

Just what in hell was he facing? He still couldn't figure it out. For the entire world he felt as if he were an army straight out of the tenth or eleventh century.

No, not an army, Keane reminded himself. A hunting party.

The horseman stopped well within arrow range of his companions and waited, arms folded across his chest.

"Hans, just cock that carbine of yours and keep an eye on him."

Andrew climbed atop the gun emplacement and slid down the other side. The horseman drew closer. This was like something straight out of a Sir Walter Scott novel, he thought. Andrew put up his own hand with palm out. The horseman returned the gesture and advanced until he was about ten feet from him, then stopped, saying something that had to mean, "This is close enough." He studied Andrew and the encampment with frank curiosity.

The soldier asked something in some foreign tongue.

Confused, Andrew could only shake his head.

"I am Colonel Keane of the 35th Maine Volunteers, of the United States Army."

Plainly not understanding, the hunter cried out something in the same language again, only louder and more demanding. The colonel shook his head and spread his one hand. "I'm sorry, but I'm afraid we don't understand your language or know where we are."

The confusion only seemed to irritate the other man something further, and Keane could feel the tension mounting between them-then the twang of a bow snapped, followed by the unmistakable boom of a Springfield.

"Goddamit!" Andrew cried as he automatically dove for the ground. Looking forward, he saw the strangers stare behind him and one of the crossbowmen had dropped his weapon and was kneeling on the ground, clutching at his shoulder.

Thinking quickly, the colonel bellowed, "Companies A & B, over their heads, fire!" The two companies did so, and as he'd hoped, the strange host had panicked, running for the woods as the ones on horseback were struggling to control their mounts while they fled. The man in the green doublet likewise had fled, helping the one in his party who'd been shot to his feet and make for the trees.
Andrew got to his feet-no easy feat, given his one arm-and turning back to his men saw Chris Sadler of Company A holding his brother Brian, who had a crossbow bolt in his side.

"Private Sadler!" Letting one of the other men support his brother, Chris snapped to attention. "Was it you who fired that shot?"

"That man shot my brother," the young private retorted, then added, "sir."

"I'm not blaming you," Andrew said then added, "but that doesn't make our situation any better. O'Donald!"

"Yes, Colonel darling?" the red-haired Irish major said.

"Are your Napoleons loaded with solid shot?" Seeing the major nod, Keane went on, "I want you to fire at those trees," he indicated the forest into which the hunters were retreating. "Aim far to their sides-I want those strangers frightened, not dead."

Nodding again, Pat shouted to his men, "You heard the colonel! Number one, fire!" A cannon boomed and tree several yards to the left of the retreating party.

"Number two, fire!" Another tree fell again, this time to the right.

Colonel Keane held up his hand. "That'll be enough." Looking through his field glasses he could see the last of the hunting party vanishing into the woods. He handed the glasses to O'Donald. "Have a look."

A big smile appeared underneath the major's walrus mustache. "Look at them boyos run!" he cackled in delight. Then his face sobered. "What will happen next?"
"That, I'm afraid," Andrew said dolefully, "will be up to them." Even as he pondered the question, the other, larger one was looming in the back of his mind.

Just where the hell where they?

EDDARD

Robert Baratheon, the first of his name, King of the Andals, the Royhnar, and First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros, and Protector of the Realm, roared loud enough to shake the trees, "Dammit Ned, what is the meaning of this?!"

Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North, and most recently, Hand of the King, took several deep breathes as he tried to think. His old friend was in another one of his rages, and he knew it would subside like they always did. "If I knew, Your Grace, I would tell you." He had sent men back to Winterfell, to bring back both the soldiers Robert had brought on his journey here and his own retainers.

"When the others arrive, we must send them forth and kill these strangers!" Crown Prince Joffrey shouted. Although he had the green eyes, golden hair, and overall features of his Lannister mother Queen Cersei the young prince was showing his father's fiery impetuosity. To his side his sworn shield Sandor Clegane, known as the Hound, stood silently, his face half ruined by fire as a child expressionless.

"Agreed." Ser Bryain Sterling spoke up. The young knight from the small army that had accompanied the royal family from King's Landing all the way to Winterfell had a gleaming look in his eyes. Eddard did not like that look; he's seen such before in those of fanatical septons who thought the Old Gods of the Forest he and other men of the North prayed to were demons and evil spirits. "I smelled the stink of the smoke from these bluecoats' metal rods; it was the smoke of the fires that torment the fallen in the Seven Hells. The Lord of the Seven Hells sent them here to destroy us, if we do not destroy them first."

"Well said!' the Prince replied cheerfully. Off to the side, Eddard's own eldest son Rob simply stood, looking at his father inquisitively. Jon Snow was right beside him, carefully staying in the shadows, so the King would not notice him, as silent as the Hound. "We will overwhelm these fiends so hard they'll scarce know what hit them!"

"And how many of our men would die?" Eddard looked sternly at the Prince and the knight. "You saw what that thunder-rod did to Woron over there." He indicated the wounded crossbowman who was lying at the foot of a tree, dulled by milk of the poppy while Maester Jaims was cutting at his shoulder and probing the wound with a pair of forceps.

"Those other rods all pointed at us didn't do anything but make a lot of smoke and noise," Joffrey sneered.

And yet you fled with the rest, Lord Stark thought sourly. Though he had agreed shortly after the King's arrival to betroth his eldest daughter Sansa to the prince he now wondered if he made the decision too hastily. What he'd seen of the prince so far showed Robert's eldest son to be reckless, self-centered, and stubborn. He's only a boy, Eddard reminded himself wistfully. He has time to change. "They were pointed over our heads," he said carefully, taking care not to insult the heir to the Iron Throne. "Many of you saw that as well, right before the smoke and thunder." Several of the men nodded. "And those large thunder-makers that move on wheels-look what they did to those trees, and think what they could do to men.

"Yet although they likely could have killed us all, or at least a great many of us they did not. As I said before, they deliberately pointed those thunder-makers at the tree to our side. That tells me that they merely wanted to frighten us and were trying to avoid bloodshed." He let that hang in the air as he saw all the hunting party was chewing on his words. King Robert himself looked pained; Ned's old friend had always been more a man of action than thought.

CLUNK. The sound of metal dropping against metal broke the silence, and Maester Jaims stood up over his patient. Eddard, Robert, and several others walked over to him. "How is he?"

"He's very fortunate." Jaims was a young Maester, only recently having completed his chain. He had accompanied the royal party up North from King's Landing to Winterfell mainly because his youth made him one of few maesters suited for the rigors of a long journey. Yet from what little Eddard knew of him he had already gained an enviable reputation as both a healer and a scholar. "This caused the wound," Jaims continued as he held out a metal bowel. Inside was piece of lead about the size of the last joint of Ned's thumb that although deformed looked as if it had been shaped like a conical helmet. "Somehow it had struck Woron between his left lung and shoulder with force greater than a knight's lance on a horse at full gallop. Had it hit his lung he would have died; a little higher and I would have needed to amputate. I've washed his wound with wine and dressed it as best I could; barring infection he should have full use of his arm again in less than a month."
The poppy juice had not entirely dulled Woron's senses. "Feels like-I was struck by the Smith's hammer," the crossbowman said wearily.

You deserve it for firing your crossbow like that. Ned sighed; he would reprimand the crossbowman later when he had full use of his senses.

A faint rustle came from the trees, and two men dressed in common foresters' clothes emerged, one of them carrying a tightly wrapped bundle in his arms. They walked over to the king and Hand and bowed low.

After rising, the one holding the bundle presented it to Ned. "We went to where the bluecoats' had smashed the trees," he said as he handed the bundle to Ned. "We found this, in deep crater. Several of the smaller trees had actually been uprooted."

Ned took the bundle and unwrapped it to find a round iron ball, slightly warm to the touch. "It was red hot when we found it," the man said then added, "the only way we could touch it was by wrapping our cloaks around it. There's another one in the other cluster these blue bugger blasted down but it was buried too deep."

Ned nodded. "You did good work, both of you. Did any of the strangers spot you?"

The other man shook his head. "None that I could tell m'lord. Looked t'me like they was diggin' in, as if expecting an attack from us."

"Good," Ned looked back at the rest of his companions. "That tells me that whatever else, these people are not here to attack us. If there was just some way we could speak to them, we could find out who they are, how they came here, and what they're here for."

Uncharacteristically, King Robert had been quiet the whole time. The flesh he'd put on in the years sitting on the Iron Throne made his face surprisingly well suited to sober consideration. He finally spoke "Where's that good-brother of mine?"

"Ser Jaime is back at Winterfell, Your Grace, keeping the Queen his sister company," one of Robert's men spoke up.

"Not him," Robert growled. "The Imp. He came with us on this little hunting party. Now where is he?"

"You asked for me, Your Grace?" Almost as mysteriously as the blue-coated strangers, Tyrian Lannister appeared among the hunters. He was a dwarf, barely taller than Eddard Stark's youngest son Rickon, with a strange mop of blond and black hair on top of his head and mismatched green and black eyes in his rather ugly face. He was also said to be extremely clever, with a mind as sharp as a sword of Valyrian steel, and a tongue even sharper.

Robert looked down at Tyrian "How many languages do you know?"

Tyrian paused. "well, Your Grace I know high Valyrian well enough to read it fluently, and speak with anyone from one of the Free Cities of Essos, despite the maddening differences in dialect, and also learned enough of the language of the summer isle from whores that hale from there. I also can read and write in Old Ghiscari, although no one can speak it anymore-,"

"Do you think you can learn the bluecoats' language?"

"Well, I might if-," Tyrian's voice trailed off as he looked up at Robert. "You're sending me to their camp, aren't you?"
Robert nodded, the multiple chins underneath his thick black beard noticeably wobbling. "Indeed. As soon as the Hand's men and mine arrive. Go among them, learn their language. Find what you can about them."

"Your Grace, why would you send HIM?" Ser Bryain looked a Tyrian with a glare of contempt. "Far better a knight anointed in a sept and blessed with the Seven oils to confront-,"

"Because they'd see you as a threat, you blasted oaf," the king shot back. "The Hand said it best; with weapons like they've got it's best not to antagonize them more than necessary. And who would possibly feel threatened by the Imp?" Nearly all the men in the hunting party, save for the humorless Hound, laughed at Robert's jape-even Tyrion, although the laughter did not quite reach his eyes. "And he's a very gifted speaker."

"If I were truly gifted, I would have been able to talk you out of sending me." Tyrion said that cheerfully yet Eddard couldn't help but notice the iron edge he put in his voice. "But very well, since Your Grace commands I must obey. When do I depart?"

"As soon as the Hand's men and the other's get here, Imp," King Robert said dryly. "We'll keep watch at the edge of the woods in case something happens, but hopefully things will go smoothly enough."

It was several hours before soldiers clad in armor arrived, the light of day turning to dust shining brightly off of their armor. Ser Roderick, the Master of Arms got down from his horse. After bowing to the king, he turned to Eddard. "My Lord, I have grave news."

"What is it?" Ned braced himself; he'd had far too many surprises as of late.

"It's about your son Bran….."

VINCENT

Nothing in Vincent Hawthorne's sheltered life in a Quaker community had prepared him for his first day in the army. Before his world had consisted mainly or farm-work, classes at the Oak Grove school, and for the past two years apprenticing for a clockmaker. On his very first day in army camp he saw smoking, drinking of intoxicating beverages, card playing, heard foul words in various combinations that even now still made his ears red, and even prostitutes, which the men called hookers, supposedly after the hard fighting General Hooker, who was often seen with such ladies of the evening.

He learned to take it all in stride, or at least ignore it as much as he ignored the catcalls of the men who jeered him for refusing to partake in such activities. But compared to what happened today, that strange encounter with the men on the hill, made those experiences seem like picnic after Meeting.

He had been posted to picket duty, with Private Dale Hinsen several yards away. Vincent didn't like the man; a few years older than Hawthorne himself Hinsen was in his opinion one of the worst of the worst in the regiment. Not because he drank, gambled, whored, or swore-Vincent had known others who did those things but they'd never shirked duty or tried to desert more than once. Dale Hinson also frequently complained about having the runs when Hawthorne knew he didn't, stole from the other soldiers, and once even tried to pin one of his thefts on Vincent. The young Quaker would gladly have stood guard with anyone else, no matter how foul mouthed or much they drank-as long as it wasn't on duty.

The evening sky quickly darkened and the stars came out. Already Vincent could tell something was wrong. Where was the Little Dipper, Sagittarius, Andromeda, Perseus or Cassiopeia? They looked wrong too-They were brighter than normal and seemed hung lower in the sky. Listening back at the camp, the private heard Sargent Barry say they must be somewhere below the equator, which got him several sniggers from the Ogunquit's sailors.

Absently, Vincent touched the left breast pocket on his shell jacket where he kept a pocket volume of a Bible. "Though I walk through the Valley of the Shadow of Death, I will fear no evil, for though art with me," he whispered. Yet the 4th verse of the 23rd Psalm did little ease his nervousness.

Vincent had wrestled long and hard with his conscious when he chose to enlist in the Northern Army. Not only had he been taught that killing another was the greatest sin, he had committed the sin of lying about his age, for he was really a month shy of his 17th birthday. Yet he felt the stain of slavery on his country's honor was something he had to help erase, even if it meant committing those sins. However, he hoped he'd never know if a shot he fired killed a Rebel soldier.

But far as Vincent could see, these people weren't rebs. If they charged the camp in the morning, could he shoot them?

Vincent was thinking these troubling thoughts when all of a sudden, he heard a rustle from the nearby bushes. "Stop!" he cried, pointing his rifle where he heard the sound. "Come out and show yourself!"

Slowly a small shape emerged from one of the bushes and walked slowly towards Vincent. He blinked twice. Was this a child? As the small profile came into the moonlight and he could make out it's features, Vincent realized no, this was a man. He remembered the time when he was eight and a circus came to New Vassalboro; his uncle took him to the show. There he saw among other things Vincent saw people who were plainly adults, but barely larger than he had been. This was a dwarf.

"Stay right there," Vincent said, keeping the muzzle of his rifle on the middle of the dwarf's torso. As if understanding, the little man stood still with his hands in the air. "Sergeant Barry!

"What is it, Private Hawthorne?" The sergeant came up from the camp, along with two privates carrying muskets.

Vincent kept his gun on the dwarf. "I've got one of them, Sergeant!"

Barry and the two privates came up to Vincent. "Well, don't that beat all?" the shorter private said when he saw the dwarf. "Did we crash down on a circus?"

"For that, Richards," snapped Barry, "you're taking Private Hawthorne's place. Ignoring Richards's groan, the sergeant looked at Vincent. "You take the prisoner to the Colonel's tent."

Nodding, Vincent motioned with his rifle for the dwarf to follow him. As they walked towards where Colonel Keane had his tent pitched, Vincent asked "What's your name. Mine's Vincent."

The dwarf stared blankly; Vincent cursed himself for a fool. Of course, he should have remembered from earlier, these people didn't speak English.

Taking a different approach, Vincent tapped himself on the chest. "Vincent. Vincent Hawthorne." He then pointed at the dwarf.

Seeming to understand, the dwarf tapped his own chest. "Tyrion. Tyrion Lannister."

End of Chapter One.

Okay. If any of you reader saw me post this story earlier, I have some explaining to do. I had computer trouble after posting the chapter the first time, but was unable to update. Then my life got in the way of writing, and so I finally decided to take the story down.

But lately I've had more spare time and so I've decided to give it another try. Hopeful I will be able to update the story this time.

To any new readers, if you haven't read the Lost Regiment series I suggest you do so. It is an excellent science fiction series written in the early nineties by William R Forstchen and considered by many to be a foreunner of steampunk. doesn't have a section for it and there is very little actual fanfiction written on the series but it is very good.

Send in reviews; I would especially like suggestions for how you think the story should go. And here's one small spoiler-because of this, neither Jon nor Tyrion will soon be going to the Wall-but some other people will.