Chapter 17 – War (Part I)
Tyrion said nothing, but his silence was agreement. Bronn had voiced exactly what he'd been thinking.
Podrick, on the other hand, stayed quiet.
He knew precisely what the situation was—and why it was so.
But this was neither the time nor the place to say it aloud.
If he told Tyrion the truth now, the dwarf might just turn his horse around, grab the axe Podrick had given him, and ride straight for Lord Tywin to die on the spot.
Podrick wasn't planning to change masters anytime soon.
He wasn't a mockingbird from the Fingers, mimicking suicide.
The reality was grim:
The Lannister left flank had no pikemen, barely any archers, and only a handful of knights.
Everywhere he looked, there were men poorly armed and scarcely armored—like clams dragged from the river, cracked open and left to dry in the sun.
And all of them were commanded by a brute who acted on rage before thought.
A farce of an army.
Podrick took it all in, his fingers tightening on his spear and shield. The weight of the armor pressing against his chest felt heavy, but reassuring. He was grateful for the gear he'd claimed from Lord Lefford's wagons—it was the only luxury this battlefield could offer: a sense of safety.
Tyrion had promised him he wouldn't have to fight. At twelve years old, with the name Payne and a squire's title, he could have stayed in the rear, among the cooks and quartermasters.
That would've been the original Podrick Payne's choice—sensible, safe, and forgettable.
But the one living in Podrick Payne's body now was someone else entirely.
If you want something, you reach out and take it.
If you want to be heard, your voice must be louder than everyone else's.
Power is the only true currency in this world—
and only the power that belongs to you counts.
That conviction steadied him. His fear dulled to focus.
Podrick raised his head, eyes drawn to the distant gleam of red and gold blazing atop the hills.
There stood Lord Tywin Lannister, clad in a deep crimson suit of plate, glazed with dark red enamel that shimmered like blood under sunlight. His cloak was a marvel of golden thread—so heavy it required twin gilded lionesses mounted on his armor just to hold it in place.
Even on horseback, the cloak flowed down like molten gold, draping over the hind legs of his steed.
And crowning him all—a great roaring lion of pure gold mounted on his helm, ruby eyes glinting with fire, one claw raised toward the sky. Every inch of his armor—kneeguards, gauntlets, even the clasps of his breastplate—was etched and gilded with curling patterns of sunlight and flame.
Under the morning light, Tywin Lannister burned like a living inferno, a lion surveying his domain.
Before him, all others looked like ants wallowing in mud and ash.
"Yes," Podrick murmured in his old tongue, just loud enough for himself to hear.
"We are the ash."
He gripped his weapons tighter and turned back toward the front.
The drums thundered louder. Boom… boom… boom…
The sound seemed to beat against the skin, crawl under it.
Then, suddenly—
the enemy appeared.
They poured over the crests of the hills, an endless tide of gray and steel.
Shields locked, spears braced, the Northern host advanced in flawless unison, boots pounding in rhythm to the drumbeats.
Across the plain and through the wind, their banners whipped and snapped in the dawn light.
The white field of House Stark rippled everywhere—its gray direwolf seeming almost alive, ready to leap from the cloth and tear through the air.
Mounted lords rode before their men—faces grim, eyes fixed.
Banner-bearers lifted their sigils high as they rode at their sides.
Through the rising wind, Podrick could see them all clearly:
the stag of House Hornwood,
the sunburst of the Karstarks,
the battle-axe of the Cerwyns,
the iron gauntlet of the Glovers,
…and worst of all—
amid those ranks fluttered the twin blue towers on gray,
the banner of House Frey.
If Lord Tywin Lannister saw that banner—the gray field with twin blue towers—Podrick wondered whether the old lion's face might finally turn red. After all, only days ago, he'd sworn that Lord Walder Frey would never march.
Podrick found himself recognizing more than half the sigils spread across the enemy line.
Then, a deep, drawn-out blast rolled across the valley.
"Woooooo…"
The northern horns wailed—a cold wind from beyond the Wall itself, it seemed, crawling down spines and through steel.
Almost instantly, the Lannister trumpets answered:
"Toot! Toot! Toot!"
When both sides fell silent, the air filled with the sinister hiss of wind splitting around arrow shafts.
Along the road, the archers loosed.
A rain of arrows hissed down.
The Northmen broke into a charge, roaring as they came.
Lannister arrows poured like black hail, slamming into the advancing wall of shields.
A hundred… a thousand… too many to count.
Feathered seeds falling from the sky—planting themselves into the soil, and into flesh.
Men screamed, stumbled, dropped into the mud.
The roar of battle turned to cries of agony.
But before the fallen even stopped twitching, another volley darkened the sky.
And before that volley had struck home, a third was already drawn to the string.
Then—the horns again.
"Toot! Toot! Toot!"
Shorter this time, faster, louder, until they blurred into one continuous wail.
At that sound, the left flank surged to life.
Upon the largest horse of all, wearing plain iron plate over a mountain of muscle, Ser Gregor Clegane raised his greatsword high.
The blade flashed like lightning.
His voice thundered across the lines—
and thousands roared back as one.
"KILL!"
Podrick shouted too.
He dug his heels into his horse's sides and let himself be carried into the storm—
into that roaring, bloody chorus that devoured all fear.
Beside him, Tyrion Lannister rode, jaw tight, face pale beneath the grime.
Bronn followed, sword drawn, eyes narrowed.
Behind them came the mountain clans: Shagga, Zila, Conn, and Timett—all of them howling, pounding their weapons together like beasts.
In just a few heartbeats, the vanguard was galloping full speed toward the northern line.
But not everyone had lost their minds.
"The riverbank!" Tyrion screamed, voice breaking.
"Hold the riverbank! Stay by the river!"
The wind tore his words apart and carried them away.
He couldn't tell if the clans had heard him—perhaps they had, perhaps not.
He did all he could.
At first, he'd been leading from the front.
But when Zila let out a shriek that sounded like a demon's cry and spurred ahead—
and when Shagga bellowed in answer, axes gleaming—
the rest of the clansmen stormed forward, fearless, unstoppable.
In the next breath, Tyrion was left behind—
alone in the cloud of dust their charge had raised.
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