Chapter 20 – The Prisoner and the End of the Battle
"I yield!"
"I yield!"
The voice came from the mud—broken, trembling, soaked in pain.
The northern knight, thrown from his horse moments ago, hadn't even managed to stand before another brutal blow came crashing down.
The impact knocked him flat again; his helm filled with dirt, his groan turning into a wheezing, desperate plea.
His surrender came between sobs,
each word muffled by blood and mud.
Podrick's wooden shield had already shattered to splinters against the man's steel helm—
but the boy wasn't finished.
Never stop when the enemy's still breathing.
That lesson, he seemed to understand instinctively.
As the knight collapsed again, Pod hit the ground running, boots slipping on blood-slick mud.
He scrambled to his feet, ignoring the filth coating his armor and hands,
and drew the short sword from the small of his back.
In three long strides, he was upon his foe.
He pressed the blade to the man's neck,
his left hand already tugging at buckles and straps.
Leather cords came undone with a practiced rhythm—
helmet, gorget, breastplate—one after another fell away.
The knight barely knew what was happening before the cold kiss of steel touched his throat.
The [Armor OFF] skill worked better than Podrick had ever imagined—
especially when it mattered most.
In less than ten seconds, the knight was stripped of his armor,
his weapons tossed aside, landing at Tyrion's feet with dull clinks.
The man, still dazed from the earlier blow, could only feel the icy edge against his neck and the rush of cold air on his exposed chest.
Panic flooded in.
He froze, pressed into the dirt, not daring to twitch.
It was only then that Pod noticed the man's arm twisted at a sickening angle—
likely broken when the horse threw him.
No wonder he hadn't fought back.
The horse lay nearby, its breath shallow, blood foaming from its mouth.
The life was leaving it by degrees.
Not far away, Tyrion Lannister, who had also been thrown from his mount, finally pushed himself up from the ground.
He wiped mud from his helm, blinking against the dizziness, and stumbled toward them.
When he saw Pod straddling the knight, sword pressed to the man's throat,
and the discarded weapons at his feet,
he froze.
Only now did he understand what had just happened.
Podrick had saved him—again.
"Seven hells…" Tyrion breathed, voice cracking.
"Thank you, Pod."
In less than a minute, the dwarf had twice stared death in the face—
and twice the boy had pulled him back from the abyss.
He reached instinctively for a sword to help,
but the moment he flexed his right arm,
a jolt of pain shot up from his elbow to his skull.
He hissed through clenched teeth.
And before he could recover, the thunder of hooves sounded behind him.
He turned sharply—
but his injured arm was useless.
Then a familiar voice called out.
"Seven save me—you're alive."
Bronn reined in his horse, eyes scanning the scene.
When he recognized Tyrion, his shoulders relaxed.
Then his gaze shifted to Pod—
the twelve-year-old squire calmly cutting through the dead horse's reins to bind his captive.
"That boy did this?"
Bronn's tone carried disbelief.
He'd seen much on battlefields,
but not this.
He'd been fighting not far away,
trapped in his own skirmish.
By the time he cut down his attackers and turned back,
he'd arrived just in time to witness Podrick's impossible display.
"You're full of surprises, boy," Bronn said with a crooked grin.
Tyrion managed a laugh, bitter and breathless.
"Seems I'm the one who's useless today."
He dropped his sword,
sank to the ground with a wince,
and glanced around the field.
The battle had shifted elsewhere.
Only corpses remained here—
and the crows, already circling above, black specks against the pale sky.
Far in the distance, Ser Kevan Lannister had led the main force forward.
Lines of spearmen pushed the northern army back toward the hills,
where another round of bloody combat now raged.
The crash of pikes met the thunder of shields.
The air was thick with the hiss of arrows.
The Lannister banners rippled faintly in the smoke—
red against grey,
gold against the dying light.
"Looks like you managed without me," Bronn said, nodding toward the wreckage.
Then, glancing back at Podrick, he smirked.
"And you, boy—well done. Brave and clever both.
But it seems you've lost your weapon again."
Pod wiped the sweat and grime from his face, then pointed to the bound knight at his feet.
"My weapon's right where it needs to be," he said evenly.
"Now… what do we do next?"
He tightened the last knot around the captive knight's wrists, using the reins cut from the dead horse, then looked up, breathing heavily.
The fighting was still going on not far away—
they couldn't just stay here hiding among the corpses.
"Now what?" he asked quietly.
At that, Tyrion grimaced and pushed himself unsteadily to his feet.
"Has anyone seen my horse?"
It wasn't far—his brown courser lay winded but alive, struggling in the mud.
Pod's own mount, however, had bolted further down the bank.
By the time they managed to recover it,
the horns sounded again.
From the hills behind, Lord Tywin's reserve force thundered forth in full strength,
rushing along the riverbank where Pod and the others stood.
Five thousand men poured into the fray like a crimson tide.
Tyrion watched as his father rode past—
golden armor gleaming like fire beneath the sun,
five hundred knights at his side,
the red-and-gold banners of House Lannister rippling overhead.
Spears glittered like teeth; sunlight flashed off every helm.
Across the field, the remaining Stark men broke like glass under a hammer's blow—
a shattered tide of retreat and ruin.
Their lines collapsed in waves,
armor and banners alike swept away in the flood.
The battle was no longer a contest.
It was a slaughter.
Tyrion's injured elbow ached with every heartbeat,
and Pod and Bronn had no stomach for what came next.
The three of them turned away,
choosing instead to search for survivors among the fallen.
Most of the "survivors" they found were beyond saving.
Ulf, son of Umar, lay sprawled in a half-dried pool of blood,
his right arm missing below the elbow.
Around him were a dozen of his kin from the Moon Brothers clan—
their bodies twisted together like broken branches.
A little further off, Shagga, son of Dolf,
was slumped beneath a tree,
his enormous frame pierced with arrows.
Across his lap lay Conn, son of Coratt—
motionless, pale, eyes half-open.
For a moment, the three of them thought both were dead.
Then Shagga stirred.
He lifted his head slowly,
and his bloodshot eyes met theirs.
"They killed Conn, son of Coratt."
His voice was no longer the roaring thunder that once filled the campfires at night.
It was hoarse, quiet—heavy with grief.
Podrick knelt beside Conn's body.
Aside from the broken spear still jutting from his chest,
the man bore no other wounds.
The strike had been quick—merciful, perhaps.
"He died a true warrior," Pod said softly.
It was all he could offer to a man who'd once threatened to cut off his cock for sport.
Shagga looked down at him,
then at the boy's hand resting briefly on his shoulder.
He gave a wordless snort—half laughter, half despair.
Bronn stepped forward and helped the huge clansman to his feet.
Only then did Shagga seem to notice the arrows still jutting from his body.
Grunting curses, he began pulling them out one by one,
each yank accompanied by a pained growl and a fresh string of profanities.
"My armor's ruined," he spat, inspecting the punctured leather.
"Holes everywhere. And these bloody arrows sting like hell."
Soon after, Chella, daughter of Cheyk, rode over—
her horse spattered with mud and blood.
In her hand dangled four severed ears,
which she lifted proudly for them to see.
Behind her, Timett and the rest of the Burned Men
were already busy stripping the corpses.
Steel, leather, food, even boots—nothing was left behind.
The field was carpeted with the dead,
their pale bodies gleaming under the sun
as the mountain clans picked them clean.
Podrick saw it all and said nothing.
His face was blank, his eyes dull.
He looked around the battlefield—
at the corpses,
at the crows circling overhead,
and at the ragged figures who still stood breathing.
Of the three hundred mountain tribesmen who had followed Tyrion Lannister into battle that morning,
perhaps half were still alive.
Half—
and even those only barely.
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