Chapter 19 – War (Final)
The unlucky clansman from the Burned Men never even saw it coming.
The stray spear caught him square through the chest, punching clean through his heart.
He died without understanding how or why—just another faceless corpse claimed by chaos.
His body went limp, reins slipping from his hands as he tumbled from the saddle—
but his boot snagged in the stirrup,
and so he was dragged away, bouncing lifelessly over the blood-soaked earth until the crowd swallowed him whole.
Podrick sat upright in the saddle, staring blankly.
His heart hammered like a drum.
Cold sweat soaked his back.
And beneath that cold terror, something else began to rise—
a surge of hot, violent rage that drowned out all reason.
His eyes burned.
He spun toward the source of the thrown spear and found it—
a northern infantryman, still holding his empty hand where the shaft had flown.
The man froze for a breath, perhaps surprised his misthrown spear had killed someone.
Then he noticed Podrick's glare—
and scrambled to lift his shield.
But fear had already been replaced by fury.
Pod yanked the reins and drove his horse forward.
The man barely managed to raise his shield before the boy was upon him.
Pod twisted in the saddle and brought his sword crashing down.
Steel met oak with a deafening clang.
Splinters burst into the air.
The shield held—but only just.
Pod's raw strength overpowered the man;
he staggered back, boots sliding on mud and blood,
then tripped over a fallen corpse and went down hard.
Pod's horse thundered past.
He pulled on the reins, turning sharply—
and saw his opponent sprawled on his back, the shield slipping from his grasp, neck bared through the gap.
No time to turn the horse around.
Pod's body moved on instinct.
He flipped the sword in his hand,
caught the blade midair with his gloved fingers—
and threw it.
The weapon spun once, twice—
then buried itself straight through the man's throat.
The soldier's eyes bulged wide,
his mouth opening and closing as blood gushed in dark spurts.
He twitched a few times—then went still.
Three men.
He'd killed three men in a single breath.
For a long second, Pod just stared—
then the rage drained away, leaving only the trembling aftershock of fear.
His breath came short and sharp, his pulse roaring in his ears.
He looked around.
The battlefield had dissolved into utter madness.
Everywhere—screams, clashing steel,
the whinnies of dying horses, the calls of horns,
the screams of men too broken to die quickly.
Blood sprayed through the air like rain.
The stench of iron and smoke clogged the lungs.
It was no longer a field.
It was a furnace—forging death itself.
Pod clenched his fists—
and only then realized he no longer held a weapon.
He looked around frantically until his eyes landed on it—
a long spear, embedded through a shattered shield,
and behind it, the ruin of a man's head, burst open like a melon.
That would do.
He spurred his horse forward, switching his shield to his right arm.
Arrows hissed down from above; he ducked, the impacts rattling across his shield like hailstones.
Then, leaning low from the saddle, he yanked the spear free.
The body slipped off the shaft, but the broken shield still clung to the spearhead.
He raised it, slammed the edge of his shield down—
and shattered the wood apart, freeing the blade.
Weapon in hand once more, he looked up—
and saw Tyrion Lannister.
The dwarf was locked in combat with a tall, lean knight clad in chainmail and surcoat.
No—not locked in combat.
"Being beaten to death" was more accurate.
They circled on horseback, steel flashing.
Tyrion struggled to lift his shield, barely fending off blow after blow.
His opponent was faster, stronger—
and his strikes fell like waves crashing against a rock that refused to break but would, inevitably.
Wood chips flew as Tyrion's shield splintered apart.
Pod didn't hesitate.
He gripped the spear in one hand, the shield in the other—no reins, no thought—
just clamped his knees to the horse and charged.
The knight's helmet was gone,
blood matting his hair.
That bright red streak became Pod's target.
He swung—
not to stab, but to smash.
The spear swept in a brutal arc, its iron tip turned hammerhead.
It hit with a wet, crunching sound—
like someone crushing a ripe melon underfoot.
Bone fragments burst upward;
grey and red splattered across the air.
Half a jaw went flying.
The man's head simply ceased to exist.
The body slumped sideways, sliding off the saddle in a heap.
Blood and brains splattered across Tyrion's face, hot and heavy.
The dwarf blinked, dazed, shaking the gore from his eyes.
And suddenly—
there was silence around him.
He lowered his ruined shield, blinking in disbelief,
and looked upon the corpse at his feet.
"Pod…?"
Tyrion's voice was hoarse, disbelieving.
He saw the boy on horseback—blood-spattered, breath ragged—and called his name.
But before Podrick could turn or even answer,
a voice boomed from the chaos—
"For Lord Eddard!"
"For Winterfell!"
A mounted knight came charging through the smoke,
a spiked flail whirling above his head with a deadly hum.
Fresh from the brink of death, Tyrion could only stare—frozen,
instinctively raising his hand to block.
There was no time for Pod to reach him.
No sign of Bronn.
No one close enough to intervene.
Two seconds later,
the horses collided with a crash like thunder.
The knight's flail came down hard,
slamming into Tyrion's right hand.
Pain exploded up his arm.
The axe flew from his grip.
He tried to draw his sword—
but the flail spun again,
whistling through the air,
and struck him full in the chest.
Metal shrieked.
The world spun.
Tyrion was thrown from the saddle,
hitting the ground with a grunt.
"Tyrion the Imp!"
The knight's voice was thunderous.
"You're my prisoner now! Yield, Lannister—yield!"
He rode closer, looming high above the fallen dwarf,
the spiked flail turning lazily in his hand like a predator's tail.
"Do you yield?!"
Tyrion tried to speak, but his mouth was dry.
He couldn't breathe—
could barely move.
The world swayed.
He rolled onto his back, gasping,
pain flashing through every limb.
He opened his mouth—
but no sound came out.
Not that it mattered.
Because from somewhere nearby came a young, sharp, furious shout—
"Yield? To your mother!"
Before either of them could react—
A spear shot out from the side,
the iron tip driving straight into the knight's warhorse's eye.
The dull metal point wasn't even sharp anymore,
but it punched through the socket,
burrowed deep into the skull,
and churned the insides into pulp.
The horse screamed—
a hideous, high-pitched shriek.
It reared up, flailing,
then crashed to the ground with a sickening thud.
The knight, caught off guard,
was flung from the saddle, hitting the mud hard.
Podrick didn't hesitate.
This time, there was no pause,
no second charge—
only instinct.
He released the spear,
let the reins go,
and planted both boots in the stirrups.
Then he leapt—
a full-bodied jump that lifted him clean off his horse.
Shield raised high,
he came down like a falling hammer.
"Smash!"
The word tore from his throat, raw and wild.
The fallen knight had barely begun to rise—
and then Podrick's shield came crashing down on his head.
There was a wet, meaty crack.
Bone gave way.
The man's arms twitched once,
then went still.