Disclaimer: Just in case nobody realized I don't own nor do I claim ownership of Game of Thrones, all characters and worlds belong to their real world respective owners. I'm just having some fun, that's all.
The Young Lion
Act 2 Ch 15: Battle Charge
The morning sun hung heavy and golden over the Blackwater, casting a blinding sheen across the fields outside the city's gates. It was a day meant for peace. The air, though thick with the rising heat and the dust of five thousand waiting men, carried a rare stillness.
The Royal Guards stood in their ranks, spears vertical—a forest of steel that shimmered in the morning light. They were at ease, their shields resting against their greaves, the tension of the city walls replaced by the quiet murmurs of soldiers hopeful that the day's work would involve no blood.
Ser Jacelyn, the Master of War, sat at the rear of the lines, mounted on his warhorse, his eyes sweeping over his troops. His face was unreadable, betraying no emotion, but his posture was both tense and alert. The sounds of armor shifting and the quiet mutterings of the soldiers were the only noises disturbing the stillness.
Jacelyn's gaze flickered to the distant treeline. He knew the northerners were out there somewhere, but he couldn't see them yet.
The gates of King's Landing groaned open, and the Royal Escort emerged. At its center rode Joffrey, his custom armor of polished black and gold gleaming like a dark mirror. Beside him, Sansa Stark sat atop the white mare he had gifted her. She wore a gown of deep Northern blue, her hair intricately braided in the fashion of Winterfell. As she looked toward the horizon her expression broke into an excited, enthusiastic smile at the thought that she would get to see her brother's face again after so much time and conflict.
"Stay close, Sansa," Joffrey said, his voice calm, his hand steady on the reins.
As they passed the Royal Guards filed back into lines behind them, sealing the line to the city once more like a wall of steel. Sandor Clegane trailed behind the escort, a looming figure on his horse, eyes narrowed as he scanned the horizon while they rode out. His disfigured face betrayed nothing, but his instincts were honed, always on edge, and he was the first to sense the sudden shift in the air.
When the group made it half way across the field toward the war tent, without warning war horns suddenly blared. They sounded like thunder over the distance, sending a sudden chill down the king's and his bodyguard's spines.
The horns grew louder, their mournful calls echoing through the still air, and suddenly, from the treeline a great wave of northern soldiers surged forward. The enemy came in a rush, as if released from the earth itself, a landslide of iron, moving with a singular, almost suicidal ferocity.
They were clad in mismatched armor, from worn leather to chainmail, their shields raised high, each with different sigils: the white sunburst of House Karstark, the roaring giant of House Umber, and the white merman of House Manderly.
Joffrey's breath caught in his chest at the sight, his eyes wide with shock. There were thousands of them and they were making their way straight towards them.
"Back to the city!" He barked, his voice hard, as his mind raced.
He yanked the reins of his horse, turning it sharply as his Royal Guards scrambled into action. Sansa's horse, startled by the sudden noise and chaos of the approaching enemy, jerked beneath her. She gasped trying to regain control over her mount, her hands trembling on the reins. Her horse bucked and reared, caught in the turmoil of the charge.
"Sansa!" Joffrey urged his horse next to hers, helping her regain control over her frightened horse. Once she did he urged her forward. "Go! Go!" His tone was urgent.
Sansa spurred her horse forward alongside Joffrey's and his Kingsguard, the Royal Guards once again separating creating a path to the city as the gates opened.
"Get inside Sansa!" He ordered smacking the back of her horse as it raced inside the safety of the walls, the gates shutting behind her. He then looked up to the top of the walls. "Archers!" He yelled, waving his hand signaling them.
The archers atop the wall and the workers of the Hwaches nocked their arrows and prepared the scorpions. Joffrey moved his horse to the back of the lines near Jacelyn, a protective circle of his sworn shield and Kingsguard surrounding him.
"Brothers! Form up!" His voice rang across his soldiers' ranks as he put on his custom night-black stag helm from his saddle pommel.
The Royal Guards, nervous but disciplined, moved in perfect harmony. Shields locked together with a loud, resounding clang, creating a nearly impenetrable wall. Spears were raised then lowered, their points deadly and sharp, a thin line of defense against the incoming tide of northern soldiers.
"A-hou!" came the unified war cry from the king's soldiers as they braced themselves, their armor clinking with the sound of the shifting ranks.
Behind them, Ser Jacelyn gave a signal to the archers and crossbowmen. The order rang out across the field. "Ready your arrows!"
At the rear of the northern charge, three lords—Greatjon Umber, Lord Karstark, and Lord Manderly—watched their soldiers battle charge. Lord Manderly grimaced, his voice low but filled with unease. "My lords, our men are too close to the walls."
But their warning came too late. The northern forces surged forward, crashing into the Royal Guards' line with unrelenting force. The first impact was like a thunderclap, the sound of shields clashing, of men shouting in pain and fury.
Joffrey's phalanx didn't move. They were a wall of seasoned oak and hammered iron, five ranks deep. As the first wave of Umber and Karstark men slammed into them, the front rank of the Guard leaned into their shields, boots carving deep furrows into the sun-baked mud. The impact was a symphony of industrial violence: wood splintering, bones snapping like dry kindling, and the collective, guttural grunt of five thousand men exhaling as one.
Joffrey watched from the height of his saddle, the world narrowed to the steel slit of his visor. The air was already foul, thick with the copper tang of blood and the sudden, sharp stench of bowels voiding in terror. He saw a Karstark man—a giant with a beard matted in grey ice—swing a massive bearded axe. It bit deep into a Guard's shield, the steel groaning, but the soldier beneath didn't flinch. He simply held the weight, allowing the man in the rank behind him to lunge. The spearpoint entered the Northman's eye socket with a sound like a boot stepping into deep mud.
"Hold the line!" the king ordered, his voice sharp, a cold command that cut through the battle's roar.
Behind the interlocking shields, the second and third ranks began their work. They didn't swing wildly as the Northmen did; they operated like the pistons of a great engine. Thrust. Twist. Withdraw. Their carbon-hardened spears—forged in the heat of Joffrey's new blast furnaces—whistled through the narrow gaps in the shield wall, finding the soft meat of throats, the gaps in chainmail, and the bellies of horses.
At the rear of the battlefield, Jacelyn gave the order to the battlements. "Loose!"
"Loose," the officer atop the wall repeated.
High on the battlements, the Hwache crews kicked the wooden release pins. A sound like a thousand giant hornets tearing through silk filled the sky. The blackened bolts didn't fall in the graceful arcs of traditional archery; they hissed across the field in flat, screaming trajectories.
The first volley struck the Northern center. These weren't mere arrows; they were iron-shod projectiles that struck with the force of a mace. One bolt punched through a Karstark soldier's breastplate, exited his back, and transfixed the man behind him. The "whispering death" of the carbon-tipped shafts followed—a relentless, horizontal rain that turned the middle ranks of the North into a screaming charnel house.
"Fresh racks!" The officer screamed atop the walls. "Reset! Reset!"
Arrows continued to soar through the air, their fletching whispering as they sliced across the sky. The Hwache crossbowmen followed suit, their bolts snapping forward like deadly lightning. A wave of northern soldiers in the front lines collapsed as the arrows and bolts struck them, some falling instantly, others screaming in agony as they were pinned to the ground. Blood splattered the earth, turning the battlefield into a sea of red.
But still, the northern charge did not slow. They were wild, driven by desperation. Another wave of men rushed forward, some scrambling to climb over their fallen comrades in the chaos of the charge.
Another young Royal Guard near the front hesitated, his hand shaking as he tried to load his spear. His face was pale with fear, his breathing shallow. As he fumbled with the weapon, a northern soldier appeared in front of him, sword raised high. The guard stumbled back, but just as the sword swung down, another soldier to his side thrust his spear forward, catching the northern man in the throat.
Joffrey's gaze swept the battlefield again, his mind calculating the chaos around him. It wasn't supposed to be like this. He had planned for peace, but now he was caught in the middle of a full-scale assault, and every second counted.
"Front line! Push!" Joffrey shouted, his voice a booming command
The response was a rhythmic, terrifying roar from five thousand throats. "PUSH!"
The guards pressed forward stepping over the mounds of dead northerns, their boots slick with gore and filth, but the weight of the northern force pushed back, their bodies crashing against the Royal Guards like a crashing wave.
The sky over King's Landing seemed to darken with the sheer carnage and violence of the battle, a haze of tension and heat pressing down on the field as the Royal Guards held firm against the relentless northern charge.
From the walls above, the archers continued their rain of arrows, their carbon-tipped shafts slicing through the air like a swarm of wasps, piercing boiled leather and chainmail with surgical precision. The northern soldiers at the front, too focused on the overwhelming assault ahead, didn't realize until it was too late: they were now targets.
The battlefield was a cacophony of chaos—men shouting in pain, the clash of metal, the wet sound of bodies hitting the earth. The northern forces, once brimming with confidence, were now in disarray. Their charge faltered, their ranks broken by the sheer efficiency of the Royal Guard's defense. But still, the northern soldiers pressed on, reckless in their bloodlust, oblivious to the mounting losses.
High above the field, the archers continued their work, releasing arrow after arrow with deadly accuracy. The deadly barrage cut through the northern lines like a hot knife through butter, and with every second, the bodies piled higher. Some northern soldiers screamed in agony as the arrows pierced their chests, their cries drowned out by the chaos surrounding them. Others simply collapsed without a sound, their life snuffed out in an instant.
o-O-o
Far from the battle, Robb Stark sat in his tent, his hands clenched tightly into fists as he listened to the sounds of war echoing through the hills. The clash of steel and the cries of dying men drifted in on the wind, a constant reminder of the chaos unfolding just beyond the horizon.
He was trapped—helpless to stop it. His thoughts were a tangle of frustration and anger, but above all, there was a gnawing sense of betrayal. He couldn't understand it. His own men, his own lords, had turned on him. They had followed him into this war, stood beside him as brothers, and now, they had become his jailers.
Lord Umber, Karstark, and Manderly. The three great traitors.
Robb's mind flashed back to that night. The cold, unsettling stillness of the camp, the moonlight slanting across his tent as the northern lords came to him with their dark offer.
[Flashback]
It was late, the fire in Robb's tent smoldering low, casting long shadows across the walls. The door flaps rustled as Lord Umber entered first, his towering figure followed by Karstark and Manderly. The three men were silent at first, their presence alone enough to send a chill through Robb's spine.
"What is it?" Robb asked, his voice laced with suspicion. The three men stood before him, their expressions unreadable, their intentions veiled in the shadows.
"We've come to inform you," Lord Umber began, his voice deep and grating holding a hint of guilt, "that we will be taking command of the siege."
Robb blinked, his brow furrowing in disbelief. "What? You're turning on me?" His voice was barely a whisper, the betrayal sinking in with each word.
Karstark stepped forward, his face a hard mask of resolve. "You would surrender the North to a bastard boy. A southerner cunt who is nothing but a puppet for his grandfather." His voice dripped with disdain. My sons didn't die for a 'rational' settlement. They died for a Free North. You've betrayed your own cause my king."
Robb's chest tightened. He was speechless, his mind scrambling to comprehend the betrayal. His own lords, his allies, now calling him a traitor for trying to find peace, for trying to save lives.
"Traitor?" Robb spat. "You dare call me a traitor?! You are the ones who are willing to send thousands of more sons to their graves and for what?! Pride?!"
Lord Manderly spoke softly, but his words carried the weight of conviction. "The northern people will never bend to a bastard. Not while we still have breath in our bodies."
The words hung heavy in the air, the meaning clear. Robb's kingdom was slipping away from him.
"We're taking control," Lord Umber said, his tone final. "You'll be released once the southern king is in our custody, once we've freed the North from his influence."
As they turned to leave, Robb called out, his voice shaking with disbelief. "Even you, Greatjon? You've been one of my most ardent supporters. You stand with them?"
The massive northern lord paused, his eyes shifting slightly. For a moment, there was a flicker of regret, a brief hesitation in his steely gaze. Then, with a heavy sigh, he looked back at Robb.
"What we do now, lad, is for the good of all the North," Greatjon muttered, his voice low. "And I know I'm a traitor for it. But when the North is free, our families are safe, and our lands secure, I'll happily give you my head if that's what you want."
The words were like a dagger, each one stabbing deeper into Robb's heart.
But before Robb could respond, the lords were gone, their heavy footsteps fading into the night. The betrayal was complete.
[Flashback End]
Robb blinked, the memory fading as the sounds of battle once again pierced through the thick canvas of his tent. His eyes wandered toward the guard standing by the entrance. The man's longsword hung loosely at his side, the pommel worn, the blade still glinting in the dim light. Robb's gaze narrowed.
His hands twitched, longing for a weapon, a chance to do something, anything, to end this madness. But his bonds held him fast, and all he could do was listen as the sounds of war carried on just beyond the hill, the battle continuing to rage in the distance.
He looked at the other trapped lords that the three traitors had left in his tent, their wrists tied and stripped of their weapons. They had been the ones to refuse the traitors plan and so were held captive right alongside their supposed king. Frustration gnawed at him, but his eyes never left the longsword, and his mind never stopped thinking of a plan.
o-O-o
Back at the battlefield the clash of steel and the screams of the fallen filled the air as the Royal Guards held their ground, unyielding and precise. The first line of soldiers remained steadfast, shields locked together like a wall of iron, their spears raised. The northern soldiers, disorganized and wild, slammed against the shield wall with all their might. But the Royal Guards didn't move—at least, not until the signal came.
"Now!" The officer at the front shouted, his voice cutting through the noise of the battlefield.
Then as one the front line of Royal Guards responded, slamming their shields and unison and pushing with all their strength against the enemy, creating distance. With a terrifying roar, the soldiers of the North charged again, desperate to close the distance. But as they surged forward, they were met with the sharp tips of the Royal Guards' spears, thrusting out like a deadly forest of metal.
The spears pierced through boiled leather armor like it was parchment, skewering the northern soldiers with brutal efficiency. Screams filled the air as bodies fell, the blood staining the earth beneath them. But the Royal Guards didn't flinch; they pressed on, pushing their enemies back again with the strength of their coordination.
Once the front line had fallen, the Royal Guards stepped forward, interlocking their shields, forming a new line. They were a living wall of steel, their formation flawless. The archers continued to rain death from above, their arrows finding their marks among the northern soldiers, picking off any who dared to stray too far from their comrades. The Hwaches, still stationed high on the walls, fired their heavy bolts into the fray, tearing through the northern lines with crushing force.
As soon as one Royal Guard fell, another stepped into his place, ensuring the line was never broken. It was a battle of attrition, but the Royal Guards were more than prepared. They had trained for this moment. They knew their tactics. They had practiced these formations every day, sharpening their skill to a razor's edge. And now, that training was paying off.
Joffrey sat at the rear, his eyes scanning the battlefield, his mind working over the chaos as he gave out orders to his vice-commander and his other officers. His voice was cold and commanding, issuing orders with precise calm despite the chaos unfolding around him. His heart pounded, but his face remained impassive.
He was proud. Proud of his guards. Proud of their discipline. He had built them into an army—a force capable of fighting against overwhelming numbers and emerging victorious.
His Kingsguard sat beside him on their own horses, their swords drawn, their armor gleaming, but they were not merely protectors—they were warriors, ready to act on Joffrey's commands without hesitation. His royal soldiers fought with a relentless ferocity, killing their enemies without mercy, without a second thought. The northern soldiers fell before them like wheat to the reaper's scythe.
But the northern forces, despite their disarray, were not without any fight. Their desperation gave them their own kind of strength, a primal drive to push forward no matter the cost. They were relentless, but brute strength was nothing in the face of a regimented military.
At the treeline, the great northern lord, Greatjon Umber, watched the battle unfold with growing frustration. He had been waiting, watching, as his men were picked off one by one by the Royal Guards' impeccable defense. The tide of the battle was shifting. The Royal Guards were holding too strong. He clenched his fists around the hilt of his great sword, his eyes narrowing with resolve.
"Enough waiting," he muttered under his breath. "We need to change the pace or we'll lose this battle."
With a sharp motion, Greatjon summoned the cavalry. From the treeline, a wave of northern horsemen emerged, riding in tight formation. Hundreds of horses thundered into the open, their hooves striking the earth with a mighty sound that reverberated across the battlefield. Greatjon led the charge, his massive wooden shield held high, his great sword gleaming in the morning sun.
The northern soldiers, seeing the reinforcements, backed away clearing a path, getting out of the way of the cavalry charge so as not to be trampled underneath it.The Royal Guards' line faltered slightly, the foot soldiers tightening their grip on their shields and spears. The cavalry was coming fast, and they had to be ready.
"Funnel them!" Joffrey's voice rang out, amplified by the steel of his helm. "Open the lanes!"
At the rear, Ser Jacelyn blew the horn—a sharp, resounding sound that cut through the noise of the battle. The Royal Guards instantly recognized the signal and prepared to shift their positions in perfect unison.
"Hold!" The front officer ordered his men.
The Royal Guards' shields pressed tighter together, their spears braced forward as the cavalry charged straight for them, the ground beneath them shaking with the impact of the horses' hooves.
"Steady!" the officer shouted, his voice steady despite the approaching threat. His eyes locked on the incoming cavalry, his stance unwavering. The Royal Guards did not flinch, standing tall and resolute.
Once the northern cavalry reached the distance that they couldn't halt, the officer's voice rang out once more: "As one!"
The entire lines of Royal Guards moved in perfect synchronization. They rotated as one, changing their formation in the blink of an eye. The men formed five massive rectangular lanes, opening up wide enough for the cavalry to charge through, but just narrow enough to ensure that no man could escape.
The northern horsemen, caught in the speed of their charge, had nowhere to go but straight into the waiting trap. Once the cavalry was deep within the Royal Guards' newly formed lanes, the foot soldiers surged forward. Spears thrust forward with terrifying precision, skewering horses and riders alike. The sound of screams and the sickening thud of spears meeting flesh filled the air as the riders were quickly dragged from their horses and slaughtered where they fell.
Joffrey's eyes narrowed as he watched the carnage unfold, his hand tightening around the reins of his horse.
But amidst the carnage, one figure stood out: Greatjon Umber. The giant northern lord had risen to his full height, his bear pelt flapping in the wind as he bisected any Royal Guard that approached him. He stood tall, his massive shield held firm, and his great sword raised high. His eyes were wild with fury, the battle lust of the North burning in them as he moved forward, cutting down any who dared stand in his path.
Joffrey's gaze locked on the towering figure. He knew that the fight wasn't over yet. Greatjon Umber was not just another northern lord—he was a force to be reckoned with. And if Joffrey wasn't careful, his strategy could unravel.
But for now, the Royal Guards continued to have the upper hand.
The tide of battle shifted once again. The Royal Guards' disciplined line, though a testament to their training, was beginning to show cracks. The brutal force of Greatjon Umber's charge had a weight to it that nothing could prepare them for—not even their rigorous drills.
His massive form cut through their ranks like a mountain rolling through the snow. The giant northern lord swung his great sword with devastating power, cleaving through the Royal Guards with a single blow. His shield—a massive slab of wood the size of a door—knocked over five men in one sweep.
For every fallen Royal Guard, another tried to take his place, but the resolve in their eyes was beginning to falter. Greatjon's sheer size, his monstrous strength, and the raw power in his strikes were enough to strike fear into even the most seasoned soldiers. The front line staggered, retreating slightly, the weight of their earlier victories slipping away in the face of this unstoppable force. The sound of Greatjon's roars, his sword howling through the air, reverberated over the battlefield.
Joffrey watched as the giant stood amidst his soldiers' lines, a literal wall of flesh and fury. As he watched him cut down man after man, the king felt something cold coil in his gut for the first time—fear.
"Sandor!" He called out getting his sworn shield's attention. "Bring him down!"
Without a moment's hesitation, Sandor spurred his horse forward, his massive form breaking through the ranks of the Royal Guards as they parted to let him pass. The Hound rode straight toward the northern giant, his armor clanking with each thunderous gallop. Greatjon saw him coming, a smirk twisting his lips as he crouched low, preparing to face this new challenger.
As Sandor neared, he raised his great sword high, prepared to bring it down on Greatjon's skull. But before he could strike, the giant reacted with terrifying speed. With a roar, Greatjon slammed his massive shield into Sandor's horse, sending the steed crashing to the ground. Sandor was thrown from his mount, rolling across the dirt before quickly scrambling to his feet, his sword still gripped tightly in his hand.
The two men circled one another, their eyes locked in mutual hatred. Around them, the chaos of battle continued, the Royal Guards and northern soldiers clashing with the fury of uncaged beasts. But for the moment, all eyes were on the two warriors in the makeshift ring they had formed.
Greatjon swung his great sword in a horizontal arc, the blade moving with a speed that belied its size. Sandor parried with his own great sword, sparks flying as the metal met metal. The Hound gritted his teeth, trying to hold his ground against the giant's raw power.
For a brief moment, it seemed as though Sandor might have the advantage—he was faster, more nimble, and knew how to strike with precision. But Greatjon's strength was overwhelming. His sword came crashing down again and again, forcing Sandor back step by step. His blows were like thunder, shaking the ground beneath them.
Joffrey watched from the rear, his nerves tightening with each swing of the duel. His grip tightened around the reins of his horse. He could not and would not allow his oldest guard to fall.
Greatjon, seeing an opening, seized Sandor by the throat with one massive hand, lifting the Hound off the ground as though he weighed no more than a child. With a brutal headbutt, Greatjon sent Sandor stumbling, blood spraying from his nose. Before Sandor could recover, the northern lord slammed the pommel of his great sword into the Hound's face, knocking out a tooth and sending him to the ground with a sickening thud.
Joffrey's eyes widened seeing the giant move over his sworn shield. Without another thought, Joffrey kicked his horse into motion, spurring the animal forward into the battle.
"Joffrey!" Ser Barristan yelled as his king raced by him.
Greatjon, not seeing the king approach, raised his great sword high, prepared to finish what he started. But the king was faster.
With a burst of speed, Joffrey drove his horse toward Greatjon, charging full tilt. The ground trembled beneath him, and in the final moment, just as the northern lord's sword was about to descend toward Sandor's head, he turned and was shocked to see Joffrey's horse racing toward him, bring his sword up just in time to sever the beast, but the king managed to throw himself from the saddle at the last second
Joffrey rolled into the dirt, barely avoiding being crushed beneath his bisected horse. He got to his feet quickly, discarding his cloak and drawing Lion's Tooth—his blade flashing in the sunlight.
With one powerful thud, Greatjon lifted the dead horse off of him with one hand and tossed it away. He slowly got back to his feet, turning his head to the sight of the southern king, a crooked smile growing on his face.
"Ah, so the southern bastard has some stones after all, huh?" He grinned, his eyes gleaming with cruel amusement.
Joffrey didn't respond as he reached down and picked up a discarded shield, standing between the giant and his sworn shield. His heart was pounding in his chest, his mind focused entirely on the giant before him. He tightened his grip on his sword, his pulse quickening. He didn't care about the chaos around him, putting it to the back of his head as he faced the beast before him.
Greatjon raised his great sword and charged, the earth shaking beneath his feet. His blade came down with the force of a falling mountain, and Joffrey barely managed to raise his shield in time. The sword cleaved through it, nearly splitting it in two. Joffrey staggered under the force of the blow, but he didn't drop his guard.
He looked down at the splinted shield before discarding it. The two circled, the din of the battlefield a distant hum in Joffrey's ears. He was determined to find a weakness, a gap in the giant's defenses.
Greatjon charged again, his great sword raised high, and Joffrey ducked underneath the swing, narrowly avoiding the deadly arc. He lunged forward, aiming to get inside Greatjon's guard. But the northern lord, despite his size, was quick on his feet. He sidestepped the attack, forcing Joffrey to retreat, narrowly avoiding another strike.
The giant swung again, his blade aimed for Joffrey's head. But the king was ready this time. He raised sword to meet the blow, the steel ringing as the two swords collided. Joffrey gritted his teeth as the sheer force of Greatjon's blow nearly knocked him off his feet. But he held firm, using the opportunity to backhand the giant with a powerful strike to the face.
Greatjon stumbled, a surprised look on his face from the strength of the blow, but only for a moment. He smiled, giving the king a bloody grin before spitting out a tooth. Joffrey was not deterred going for a vertical slash of his own, which Greatjon brought his blade out horizontally blocking the strike with his sword before forcing the two swords behind Joffrey's back lifting him off the ground in a tight bear hug.
Joffrey yelled in pain as his shoulders were strained and stretched to the limit forcing him to drop his sword as the giant continued to hold him tight, almost determined to squeeze the life out of him.
"What are you going to do now, boy?" Greatjon laughed his face only a few inches from Joffrey's.
The King grunted and struggled to get free, then as if remembering something he'd forgotten, he smirked. He then flicked his left wrist down flexing his palm making a twelve inch hidden blade shoot out from his bracer. Then with one fluid motion drove it into Greatjon's eye with a sickening squish.
"AHHHHH!" Greatjon screamed in pain, dropping the king to the ground as he staggered back clenching his eye.
Joffrey fell to his knees, gasping for air as his head spun. He crawled forward finding his longsword, gripping it as he got back to his feet. Greatjon, his face contorted in agony, reached up and slowly pulled the blade from his socket, his eye impaled on the tip. He tossed the broken blade away as he picked up his greatsword.
"You little shit!" Greatjon screamed with bloody fury.
He stepped forward swinging his blade wildly now determined to kill the king. Joffrey parried and blocked every attack using both hands, but the sheer strength of the blows sent jolts through his entire body that he could feel it in the soles of his feet. The locked blades and the northern lord forced them down before back handing the king, sending him tumbling into the dirt.
His ears were ringing and his vision doubled, which only returned just in time to see Greatjon swing his blade down at him with both hands. He rolled out of the way just in time, while Greatjon continued his barrage of wild swings, as he brought his blade down for another powerful slash, but as he did, Sandor Clegane, battered but alive, charged back into the fray.
With a roar, the Hound slammed his great sword against Greatjons, knocking him back a step. Then in a flash of white, Ser Barristan Selmy appeared at the giant's flank, his longsword flashing through the air with the precision of a master. Greatjon hacked and hammered at the older knight, but Barristan danced around the greatsword with the grace of a man half his age, dodging attacks and landing deep cuts and holes through the gaps in his armor.
Greatjon fought back with primal ferocity, but he was now surrounded—his enemies closing in from every angle, until Sandor front spartan kicked him to the body sending him stumbling back.
At that moment, the Royal Guards, their shields raised, encircled the northern giant. Spears pointed inward, forming a wall of iron and steel. Greatjon fought valiantly, but the sheer weight of numbers was too much for even him to overcome. His mighty swings grew slower, more desperate.
The Royal Guards advanced, pushing in, using their spears with deadly precision. Slowly but surely, they overwhelmed him. With a final, defiant roar, Greatjon Umber fell to the ground slumping to his knees, blood pouring from his wounds.
His proud smile remained on his face "the North…remembers," he said before falling forward hitting the dirt with a thud that seemed to quiet the entire battlefield.
The battlefield fell silent for a moment, as the northern giant breathed his last.
And Joffrey—bloodied, bruised, and victorious—stood among the ruins, staring down at the fallen warrior.
The battle raged on.
o-O-o
Robb Stark was confined to his tent, shackled in place, the quiet hum of battle carrying faintly through the fabric walls. His thoughts churned like a storm, restless and heavy with frustration. He could do nothing but listen to the distant sounds of the battle that was happening without him.
With his hands bound together, Robb struggled not to panic, knowing time was slipping away. The sounds of battle—shouts, clashes, the heavy thudding of hooves—grew louder. His body was tense, but his mind was sharp. He needed to move quickly.
The guards at his door were too absorbed in the noise of war, their focus split between the camp and the battlefield. Robb's eyes flicked to the sword resting on one guard's belt. It was close enough.
With a sudden, calculated motion, Robb surged forward, knocking one of the guards to the floor and grabbing the sword in one swift move. Before the second guard could react, Robb spun and slashed across his throat, dropping him where he stood.
Robb's heart raced, but there was no time for hesitation. After cutting his binds he grabbed the dagger hanging from the second guard's belt and quickly freed Lord Glover, his breath quickening as the old lord took the dagger from him.
"Free the others," Robb commanded, his voice low but firm.
Without a word, Lord Glover nodded and hurried to the other prisoners, cutting their binds. Robb, meanwhile, donned his armor with haste, though it was incomplete—no time for perfection. His hands moved quickly, the weight of his decisions heavy on him. His men were dying, and it was time to rejoin them.
o-O-o
Meanwhile, on the battlefield, the Royal Guard's morale surged. Greatjon Umber, the towering northern lord who had led the charge with savage strength, was dead, his massive body sprawled across the field. The sight of his fall had shattered the spirits of his bannerman, and the Royal Guards pushed forward with renewed resolve.
Joffrey himself, soaked in the blood of his enemies, stood at the head of his army. His armor, now smeared with grime and blood, reflected the light of the midday sun, but his face was hardened with determination. The battle was far from over, but victory was within their grasp. He raised his sword and shouted orders as the Royal Guards tightened their formation.
"Forward!" Joffrey commanded, his voice cutting through the clamor.
The Royal Guards responded in unison, pushing forward with practiced precision. The front line hurled their spears with deadly accuracy, and the second line, armed with short swords, pressed forward, cutting down any northern soldiers who dared to stand in their way. The archers above on the walls continued their deadly rain, the arrows whistling as they found their targets.
A few northern soldiers shouted for retreat, their voices edged with panic. But for every man who turned, another filled his place, determined to make their stand.
"Front line, now!" Ser Jacelyn's voice rang out, commanding the men into tighter formation. The front line of Royal Guards as one hurled their spears at the backtracking northerners, then drew their short swords closing the distance and hacked and slashed at the soldiers viciously.
Joffrey picked up another fallen shield and began fighting with his men. The back lines of Royal Guards, the plungers, stabbing any still breathing northern soldiers lying on the ground as the lines advanced.
"Retreat!" Some of the northern officers yelled.
The northern forces then turned tail and began to run back toward the safety of their camp. As they tried to flee the Royal Guards broke rank and began routing the fleeing enemies, determined to kill as many as they could.
The men atop the wall cheered and embraced one another at the clear victory, but on the ground below, Joffrey, who was still on foot led his men as they chased down the fleeing northern forces, adrenaline and bloodlust pumping through his veins.
As they gave pursuit, Joffrey could make out the images of reinforcements on the horizon. The king quickly made his way to the front of his army commanding them to stop.
"Men halt!" He shouted waving his longsword bringing his surging forces to a stop.
"But my king! We have them on the run!" One of his officers pleaded, determined not to let a single enemy escape.
"Their reinforcements have arrived, and they have heavy calvary." He explained to the over zealous officer. "Fall back to the safety of the walls!" He commanded.
He knew their Phalanx would be useless if the northerners could attack their flanks with their horses. The men obeyed without question, locking their shields as one as they got back into lined formations, and slowly backtracked toward the city walls.
Robb, dressed in his boiled leather armor and armed with his longsword, rode out at the head of the rest of his men. As he and his men made their way out of the treeline and onto the field, he surveyed the carnage in stunned silence. Thousands of his soldiers lay dead, the battlefield littered with corpses.
His mouth fell open as he looked upon Joffrey's forces whose number seemed to be the same, despite having been outnumbered more than two to one. The northern cavalry prepared to charge to avenge their fallen comrades, when Robb rode out in front of them.
"Halt! Stay your hands!" He bellowed, his voice cracking with urgency, waving his blade at his forces, signaling them to halt.
His soldiers stopped immediately, their faces hard with disbelief. Robb's eyes locked onto Joffrey. Bloodied and bruised, the boy king stood at the head of his forces, unyielding. For a long moment, the two kings stood across the battlefield, separated by the wreckage of their armies, as if having a silent conversation in the space between their gazes. The tension was palpable.
Then, as if by some mutual, silent agreement, both men turned and raised their swords to their troops.
"Back to the city!"
"Back to camp!"
The pair then turned, giving each other one last look before tilting their heads and leading their forces in opposite directions. The tales of what occurred that day would forever go down in the great histories of Westeros. When a force merely five thousand strong managed to defeat an army twice their size.
Whispers of what actually occurred would fill great halls and taverns for years to come, by those who claimed to have witnessed it. Some said that the king had conjured a kind of spell that brought the wrath of the Stranger down on the blasphemous northerners, showing undeniable proof that the seven faced god was the one and only true god. Others claimed that the king had used blood magic to strengthen his soldiers before the battle had begun.
Some even more ridiculous rumors had sprung up like weeds, though not many were willing to believe that the king's victory was solely due to better tactics and disciplined soldiers.
But that was a story for another day.
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