Chapter 16: Clash of Steel
Saelen's roar tore through the stillness of the night, ripping the camp from its sleep.
Robb and Jon were the first to react, rallying their men and charging toward Saelen's position.
"Useless idiots—four against one and you still can't kill him!" a voice cursed from the darkness.
"So what now? Fall back?"
"Fall back? To where?" another snarled. "If you want to freeze to death out there, be my guest. Anyone who doesn't want to die in the snow—come with me! Kill these southern bastards!"
With that, the speaker surged forward toward Saelen, five or six men close behind him. The remaining dozen or so split off, rushing to intercept Robb and Jon.
The leader wore rough beast-skin garments, layered with crude armor made of bone plates. He had a thick beard, golden hair, and the savage confidence of a seasoned raider. His followers were draped in animal pelts, their weapons crude and mismatched—stone blades, bone-tipped spears, rusted iron. Most had no real armor at all.
Saelen showed no fear.
He scooped up two longswords, spun them idly in his hands, and shouted:
"Winterfell, stand fast!"
He charged.
From the other side of the camp, Robb, Jon, and the others echoed the cry—
"Winterfell!"—as they slammed into the enemy ranks.
Three throwing axes whirled through the air. Saelen's twin blades flashed, batting them aside. His swords crashed down at an angle onto the bearded leader's weapon—
CLANG!
The impact sent a tremor up the man's arm. His face twisted in pain as he staggered backward, retreating fast.
Saelen pressed the attack.
Twin blades carved shimmering arcs through the air, forcing the raiders into chaos.
Three enemies lunged in with spears.
Saelen blocked one thrust and, in the same motion, severed the shaft with his other sword. The remaining two men grinned savagely and drove their spears into Saelen's body—
Only for the bone and stone tips to screech uselessly against his armor.
Saelen merely slid back two steps.
The two attackers froze, stunned.
Saelen was already moving.
One sword slashed across a man's throat. He kicked the corpse away mid-fall. The second blade swept diagonally upward into the next man's neck, biting deep to the collarbone. Blood sprayed as the man collapsed in agony.
Saelen sucked in a breath and turned on the final spearman.
This one had some skill, bracing the broken shaft and thrusting forward. Saelen answered with a brutal, downward cut.
The blade split chest and belly in one savage arc.
Blood—and entrails—spilled out.
The man screamed and dropped to his knees.
The last three attackers regrouped under the bearded leader, forming a loose circle around Saelen—but none dared to advance.
Saelen wasn't in a hurry.
He flicked the blood from his blades and glanced toward the other battlefield.
Robb, Jon, and Ser Rodrik stood back-to-back, locked in combat with three or four enemies. Several bodies already littered the ground at their feet. A short distance away, Theon loosed arrows methodically, while the remaining raiders were being isolated and surrounded by Saelen's men.
The outcome was no longer in doubt.
It was only a matter of time.
Saelen withdrew his gaze from the wider battlefield and fixed it on the bearded leader.
"You're Free Folk from beyond the Wall, aren't you?" he asked calmly.
"Where is Mance Rayder?"
The man exploded with rage the moment he heard the name.
"Fuck Mance Rayder!" he roared. "The Free Folk bow to no one!"
The warriors beside him took up the cry at once.
"The Free Folk bow to no one!"
With a howl, they surged forward, closing in to finish the fight.
Saelen had intended to keep the leader alive for questioning.
He slipped past the leader's downward slash, smashed the pommel of his sword into the man's face, then drove a brutal kick into his abdomen. The bearded man flew backward and slammed into the ground.
Saelen didn't even spare him a glance.
He turned on the remaining three.
Twin blades flashed in his hands, rising and falling like silver lightning. The Free Folk stood no chance—each was cut down in moments, their bodies collapsing into the snow.
The bearded leader struggled to his feet, leaning heavily on his sword, blood running from his mouth.
"What's your name?" Saelen asked.
The man spat a mouthful of blood in answer.
Saelen frowned. "Surrender. Your people are all dead."
By now the sounds of fighting elsewhere had ceased. Robb and Jon were closing in with their men.
The bearded leader glanced around, then raised his sword one last time.
"Free—"
Thwip.
An arrow punched clean through his neck.
The man gagged, clutching at the shaft, making wet, choking sounds before collapsing into the snow.
At a distance, Theon stood with his bow still raised, wearing a smug, self-satisfied grin—clearly expecting praise.
Saelen's expression turned icy.
"I was going to keep him alive," he said coldly.
Theon's grin froze. He snapped back, defensive and irritated, "How was I supposed to know that?"
Saelen exhaled sharply.
Fine. He had a point. Anyone with sense would have known to leave a prisoner alive—but expecting sense from Theon Greyjoy was apparently asking too much.
Jon stepped forward, glaring at Theon, muttering under his breath, "That damned idiot."
Robb frowned as well but said nothing.
Saelen couldn't be bothered to argue.
"Jon," he said instead, "there should still be two alive at the sentry post. Take a few men and check."
Jon nodded and left with four others.
Robb approached, looking genuinely shaken.
"Saelen… if you hadn't raised the alarm, some of us would've had our throats cut in our sleep."
Saelen waved it off.
"No one expects raiders to be roaming around in weather like this. From now on, we stay sharp—extra watches, no exceptions."
Robb nodded in agreement. His face was splattered with blood, his sword still clenched in his hand, trembling slightly.
Saelen noticed and smiled faintly.
"First kill?" he asked.
Robb flushed, then laughed awkwardly. Saelen clapped a hand on his shoulder.
"You'll get used to it. You're a man now, Robb. A warrior of Winterfell."
He laughed loudly, breaking the tension.
"Clean up the battlefield," Saelen ordered. "If there are any wounded enemies left alive, give them mercy. In this weather, we can't afford injured prisoners."
Saelen's men dispersed immediately.
The Winterfell guards and the sons of the bannermen hesitated, instinctively looking to Robb. When he gave no reaction, they finally moved to obey.
Saelen pretended not to notice. He slung an arm around Robb's shoulders and led him inside.
A short while later, Jon returned with two captives in tow.
"They're not badly hurt," Jon reported, "but they're stubborn. Won't say a word."
Saelen looked to Robb.
Robb shook his head. "Before we left, Father ordered me to follow Uncle Benjen and you in all matters."
Saelen nodded approvingly.
He turned to one of his men. "Will. They're yours. I just need them talking."
A middle-aged man stepped forward, grinning viciously.
"Leave it to me, my lord."
He dragged one of the prisoners away. Moments later, screams echoed through the ruins—long, ragged, and relentless.
Tarly entered shortly after, saluting.
"My lord, the count is finished. Twenty-three Free Folk in total. Two prisoners alive, the rest dead. We lost two men, and a dozen more have minor injuries—nothing serious."
Everyone had slept in armor, which spared them from worse casualties. Only the two sentries had died—cut down silently in their sleep after slacking off at their posts.
In this frozen wilderness, carelessness was paid for in blood.