Snippet #1515314

[[OOC – Note about battle of Winterfell --> Lionel&co are going to lose a whole lot of men while taking Winterfell (I would possibly suggest that Winterfell be retaken by the Greyhardts after Lionel&co move on in attempt, one that will fail in the end, to take King’s Landing or something).
Also, as for House Thorneir, I would suggest that they also lose a good chunk of their men.

The battle of Winterfell is not a cakewalk. It is as difficult as trying to chew nails to a pulp without breaking a single tooth. I am going to emphasize that in like, every sentence. XD

@Belynta – Right now, Lionel is definitely not fighting up against Nathaniel.]]

This battle was turning out worse that Lionel had first expected it to. Sure, things had gone well in the beginning – what with House Thoneir’s blitz attack and them forcing their way past the gate. But that was when things had gotten much harder than he had thought it to be. Damn it all, storming a Keep should never be this bloody hard.

He whirled in a rage, sword slicing at anything that so much as dared to step near him, though he did his best to not hit anyone on his side – but perhaps that failed once or twice.

And where the bloody damn was Leliana? Just as he had through of that, an arrow whizzed past his face and he jerked backwards, his head snapping in the direction it had come from. It was not her, but another bowman, who had most definitely nearly succeeded in picking him off from the fight. Leliana was nowhere in sight – Lionel figured she must have been in a different part, out of sight due to the massive amounts of men that seemed to crop up everywhere.

Though they were inching forwards into enemy territory due to the surprise-factor of their attack, every step forwards that the combined forces of Lionel’s disjointed army – if one could call that rabble of mongrels who hated one another to varying extents – felt like shitting needles. It was a tug of war between the two opposing forces, and so far it was unclear as to who exactly was coming out the victor.

And then, just when Lionel figured that they had the Inner Walls of the Keep, along with part of the Keep Courtyards and Proper, contested – they were being pushed back. Wintefell was a fortress in every sense of the word and the fortifications and defenses were definitely more than he had bargained for. He felt a brief and very sudden surge of worry and a thought crossed his mind – what if they did not win?

Best not contemplate that, he decided to himself as he pressed onwards, fighting to survive now more than anything. He thought of Leliana then, his mind wandering to her – had that been part of why she had acted so strangely last night? It was entirely possible that an attack on her home had affected her, but he had been too preoccupied to notice or even care. He would have to speak to her about this when it was all over, because it was not as if Lionel could suddenly put down his sword and seek her out right then and there.

No, he had a Keep to besiege and a battle to win – and, the Seven be damned, he was going to bloody do it one way or another – even if it meant him losing a good third or even half of his mean. He should have paid closer attention, possibly even spent more time pouring over maps and devising a better strategy instead of more or less waltzing in. Though, perhaps this was as best a chance as any as they would ever get at taking the Keep. They would have never been able to get this far without House Thorneir joining their side and wriggling their way past the gates and inside.

For a few seconds he had no idea what he was slicing at with Night, and then he forced himself to attempt to focus again. The Mummers had dispersed into a flurry of unorganized berserking which, though effective in its own way, was providing nothing of structure to their battle tactics. Things had become entirely too disorganized and Lionel was sure that if he did win, it would be by the combined numbers of his men and those of House Thorneir, and not any sort of planned out and organized set of steps.

It had more or less dissolved into chaos, but at least the Tyrell men where the ones who were keeping themselves ordered – that much he could be thankful for at that moment in time. This was going to draw out into hours, he was sure of it, judging from the way things were progressing. For every inch they won, they lost two – and then the situation reversed and it was the other way around. And then back again.

His head was beginning to ache. Lionel gritted his teeth and slashed his blade against his opponent – a nameless man with a face that he did not care to get to know before felling him.

---

Ammon tensed when the man suddenly cuddled into him in a manner which hinted more at the need to be coddled then the desire to be flipped over into the grass and given and broken in like a prized stallion. Ammon had to admit that he was beginning to feel incredibly uncomfortable at that moment in time, but he forced himself to relax and tighten his one-armed embrace.

He sat there for a few moments and then felt something in him gave way. Ammon shifted so as to better tuck Kervall’s head into the cradle of his shoulder, leaning himself into the touch of the hand on his chest.

“I am Ammon,” the words came out as a soft rumble as he continued to gently run his fingers along the chiseled line of Kervall’s jaw – a motion that now served to focus Ammon as well as to temper the drunken man in his arms. There was no more information that he was going to offer at that point in time, as it was unnecessary for him to be laying out things about himself that need not come out anyways. The less people knew of the truth, the better it was.

“And if you do not wish to speak – may I suggest other things?” He asked, a smirk coming to his lips. Ammons’ impatience was beginning to wear his nerves thin, but somehow he forced himself to keep those feelings buried deep down. “More drink, perhaps?” He leaned his head down to nuzzle the side of Kervall’s head and let out a chuckle of a laugh, his breath quite possibly tickling against the man’s skin.

He had the distinct feeling that the man in his arms had never before explored his own gender before and that he most likely would have to play this game a little more carefully – even given the drunken factor. Ah, well, sometimes effort had to be put into things.

Cautiously, almost as if he was afraid of startling a cat rather than getting himself laid, he leaned his face down and pressed his lips just shy of the corner of Kervall’s mouth, almost as if to ease the man into more physical contact bit by bit.