Chapter 18 – War (Middle)
At the very front of the field, the Northern spearmen stood in a crescent formation—
a steel hedgehog bristling with death.
Rows upon rows of pikes, each over ten feet long, thrust upward behind a wall of towering oak shields, emblazoned with the sunburst of House Karstark.
They waited, silent and unflinching.
Across the field, Ser Gregor Clegane led a wedge of heavily armored cavalry, the tip of a spear aimed straight at the heart of the enemy line.
Like a sharpened blade, the wedge thundered forward to meet the Northern ranks head-on.
But when faced with the forest of spears, more than half the horses faltered—
screeching to a halt or veering aside at the last instant.
Those that didn't… were impaled.
Lances pierced through plate and flesh alike, horses shrieked, men toppled.
In a single charge, over a dozen fell dead—
even the Mountain's own warhorse caught a glancing strike to the neck, the barbed tip slicing open its artery.
A geyser of crimson sprayed into the dawn air.
The beast reared, screaming, hooves thrashing in agony.
It lunged wildly forward into the enemy formation,
and in that chaos, the shield wall shattered beneath its weight.
Northern soldiers stumbled back in horror,
but too late—
the horse collapsed upon them, crushing ribs and bursting lungs beneath its bulk.
Gregor Clegane, however, rose from the carnage untouched.
He wrenched his greatsword free and swung it in a wide arc.
Steel screamed.
Spears snapped like twigs.
Men split apart at the waist or burst open like sacks of blood and bone.
Behind him, Shagga saw the opening—
a gap torn into the enemy's wall—and charged through with a roar.
The Stone Crows followed, crashing into the breach like a rolling boulder,
tearing it open wider with every strike.
"Burned Men! Moon Brothers! With me!"
Tyrion's shrill voice cut through the noise.
He waved his axe and kicked his horse forward—
but most of the men he called to were already far ahead of him.
He caught a glimpse of Timett's mount collapsing,
the one-eyed warrior rolling free and landing on his feet.
A clansman of the Moon Brothers screamed as a Karstark spear drove clean through his chest.
Conn's horse lashed out with its hooves, shattering a man's ribs.
Zila's curved blade slashed down, biting deep into another's shoulder.
Then—suddenly—the light dimmed.
Tyrion looked up.
A rain of arrows fell from the heavens.
No one knew where it came from—perhaps the North, perhaps their own rear.
All that mattered was that the storm showed no allegiance.
Arrows clattered off steel,
or sank into exposed flesh with wet, meaty thuds.
One found a throat, another an eye.
Men died without ever seeing who had loosed the shaft.
Tyrion ducked beneath his shield just in time.
The impacts rattled up his arm, jarring bone and muscle,
each strike hammering his nerves raw.
He clenched his teeth as fear drained the color from his face.
Amidst the chaos, the Northern line began to waver.
The hedgehog's formation broke apart under the relentless charge.
Spears splintered; men staggered backward.
A foolish spearman lunged at Shagga,
and the son of Dolf met him head-on.
The mountain clansman's axe caught the man square in the chest—
the polished edge cleaving through mail, leather, and bone.
The blow was so brutal the weapon lodged deep within the man's ribs,
his shattered sternum clamping the blade like a trap.
Without pausing, Shagga yanked his other axe and swung again—
splitting a shield clean in two.
The first corpse, still hanging from the embedded axe,
bounced limply in his wake before tumbling to the ground.
Howling with glee, the son of Dolf raised both axes high
and bellowed a roar that shook the air.
From the first charge to the breaking of the line,
only minutes had passed.
The battlefield churned.
The tide of men pressed inward.
And Podrick Payne—no longer merely watching—
charged into the fray.
He saw blood for the first time.
The boy who had once lived beneath the protection of law and order—
the youth who'd known peace, and stories, and sunlight—
was gone.
His bright soul was drowned in crimson.
His fear burned away by the screams of the dying.
And all that remained within this young body
was a heart beating heavy with courage—
and the desperate will to live.
Spurring his horse forward, Podrick tightened his grip on the lance and thrust.
His opponent wasn't stupid—he raised his shield just in time.
But the full momentum of a charging horse, combined with the raw power behind Pod's strike—boosted by the last two free attribute points he had poured into Strength, bringing it to a staggering 9—was far beyond what the shield could bear.
He might still look like a boy,
but that lance, in his hands, struck with the force of a grown man.
The steel tip punched through the enemy's defense.
Before Pod could even see his foe's face, the spearhead slid past the rim of the shield—
and drove straight through the man's skull.
The shield hung limp on the shaft.
Grey matter burst from the back of the man's head, spattering blood and bone across the trampled mud.
But the battlefield allowed no time for awe or horror.
The world had shrunk to the few feet of space around his horse—
and before he could breathe, before he could even think, another soldier lunged at him.
A northern infantryman, spear leveled at his chest.
Pod had no time to wrench his lance free.
He let it go—felt it drop from his hand, dragged down by gravity and gore.
In the next heartbeat, the incoming spear glinted in his vision.
Instinct took over.
He snapped his shield up, slammed it forward—
metal met wood with a crack that numbed his arm.
The enemy staggered back, stumbling out of reach, preparing for another strike.
But Podrick was faster.
In one motion, he drew his longsword, kicked his horse forward, and brought the blade down in a diagonal cut.
The spearman tried to parry, jerking his weapon up to block—
but Pod's sword crashed against the shaft, sliding down it like water on ice.
The edge flashed.
Fingers flew.
The man screamed, clutching at his mutilated hand, and in that instant of weakness—
Pod's sword rose again,
then fell.
The blade sliced clean through helm and skull alike.
Half the man's head sheared away in a spray of red mist.
Pod barely saw it happen—his horse leapt over the corpse, hooves crushing what remained.
And suddenly, the space before him opened—just long enough for him to realize there were more enemies all around.
He turned sharply in the saddle, scanning.
Not far away, Tyrion Lannister was swinging his battle axe clumsily but fiercely, deflecting a blow before his horse lashed out and trampled a man underhoof.
To the right, Bronn was surrounded by three soldiers,
his movements fluid and deadly—
he parried the first thrust, shattered a spearhead, spun, and drove his sword straight through another man's face.
Pod wanted to shout a warning, but he never got the chance.
A throwing spear sliced through the air toward him—
a blur of death from somewhere unseen.
His scalp prickled.
Every hair stood on end.
He didn't even think—
just threw himself backward across his saddle.
The spear whistled past his eyes, so close he could feel the wind of it.
He narrowly escaped.
But not everyone behind him was so lucky.
One of the Burned Men, racing just behind, caught the missile square in the chest.
The iron tip burst through his back in a spray of blood.
Podrick looked over his shoulder just in time to see the man topple from his horse—
eyes wide, mouth open,
the spear still quivering in his ribs.