The sound of thunderous hooves shook the earth as Robb Stark urged his horse forward, heart hammering in his chest as the war cries of the men around him filled the night. The Whispering Wood was alive with the screams of men and the clash of steel, the air thick with the acrid scent of churned mud and sweat. The moon hung high above, its pale glow illuminating the chaos below as Grey Wind bounded beside him, his massive form a blur of shadow and fangs.
Ahead, the Lannister cavalry was in disarray. They had been caught completely off-guard, their lines broken by panic, yet they still clung to their pride, attempting to reform. Robb's eyes darted across the battlefield—Brynden Blackfish's infantry surged forward from the north, shields locked and spears bristling, while Jonos Bracken's men came from the south, tightening the noose. To the west, Greatjon Umber led his cavalry into the fray, a massive wall of armored riders crashing down the hill like an avalanche of flesh and steel. And from the north, Jason Mallister's light cavalry swept in, swords gleaming like silver streaks in the moonlight.
The Lannisters desperately wheeled their horses to the south, attempting to break through Jonos' lines—but it was too late.
They were surrounded.
Robb's grip tightened around the hilt of his sword as he raised it, pointing toward the mass of Lannister cavalry. "For Riverrun!" His cry tore from his throat, and with a single, powerful swing, he brought his sword down and charged headlong into the fray.
The collision was brutal.
The roar of metal meeting flesh filled his ears as horses smashed into one another, sending riders tumbling to the ground. The weight of the impact nearly unseated him, but he pressed forward, his blade cutting through a Lannister soldier's throat, a spurt of blood spraying across his arm as the man tumbled from his saddle.
Grey Wind was a ghost of death at his side, his massive jaws clamping around a knight's throat, dragging him screaming from his horse. The direwolf moved like a phantom of the North, his fur slick with blood, eyes burning with primal fury.
A Lannister soldier appeared before Robb, swinging wildly, his sword cutting a shallow line across Robb's cheek. Pain flared, hot and sharp, but he ignored it, countering with a brutal slash that sent the man crumpling from his saddle, his lifeblood soaking the mud beneath him.
The battle around him was sheer pandemonium.
To his left, Dacey Mormont rode through the chaos, her battle-axe singing as she swung it, burying it into the side of a Lannister knight. The man toppled, and she wrenched her axe free just in time to slam her hammer into the chest of another, sending him sprawling.
Ahead, Patrek Mallister wrestled desperately with a Lannister soldier, grappling atop the trampled grass. The knight's dagger came dangerously close to Patrek's throat before Patrek seized a nearby rock and smashed it against the man's temple—once, twice, thrice—until the knight slumped lifeless.
Eddard Karstark appeared, yanking Patrek to his feet, sword at the ready as another Lannister came at them. Together, they fought, cutting down enemies with a brutal efficiency that spoke of years of training.
To his right, Theon Greyjoy and Harrion Karstark rode side by side, slashing and stabbing as they weaved through the chaos. Theon was grinning wildly, his blade flashing in the moonlight, while Harrion's expression was one of grim focus, his strokes precise and deadly.
But Smalljon Umber was a force of nature.
Knocked from his horse early in the charge, he did not falter. Laughing like a man possessed, he waded into the Lannister ranks, his massive sword cleaving through steel and flesh alike. Blood spattered across his armor, but he did not stop—he tore through the enemy like a whirlwind, his blade a hurricane of steel and death.
A Lannister knight lunged at Robb, sword flashing—but Grey Wind struck first.
The direwolf slammed into the knight's mount, sending both horse and rider crashing to the ground. The knight barely had time to scream before Grey Wind's fangs tore into his throat, silencing him forever.
Then came the infantry.
The thunderous footfalls of the North and Riverland soldiers echoed across the battlefield as Brynden Blackfish's and Jonos Bracken's men crashed into the flanks of the Lannisters. The clash of swords, the splintering of shields, the wet, sickening crunch of blades piercing flesh—all of it melded into a single, bloody cacophony.
The Lannister cavalry was pinned from all sides now.
Robb, still atop his horse, took a brief moment to assess the battlefield—they were winning. The Lannisters were floundering, their formations breaking, their confidence crumbling.
But this battle was not yet over.
He turned his horse, searching for Jaime Lannister.
The Kingslayer was somewhere in this chaos, and Robb intended to find him.
He dug his heels into his horse's flanks, forcing the beast forward through the writhing mass of men and steel. Around him, his personal guard fought with vicious intensity, each one carving a path through the Lannister ranks with the singular purpose of staying together, of staying alive.
Torrhen Karstark rode close to Robb's right, his sword slick with blood as he parried a blow meant for his king. A Lannister soldier lunged at him from the side, but Torrhen twisted in his saddle, driving his blade into the man's gut before kicking him off his sword. His normally fine armor was splattered with crimson, his face tense with effort.
To Robb's left, Smalljon Umber was a brutal storm of destruction. He had lost his shield somewhere in the fray, wielding his greatsword with both hands, cutting men down with the sheer force of his swings. One Lannister knight charged him, lance aimed true, but Smalljon side-stepped at the last moment, gripping the knight by the arm and yanking him from his horse like a child ripping a toy from another's grasp. The knight barely had time to scream before Smalljon drove his sword through his chest, pinning him to the ground.
Behind them, Theon Greyjoy fought like a man possessed.
He grinned as he clashed swords with a Lannister ser, their horses circling one another in the thick of battle. Theon feinted left, then slammed the pommel of his sword into the man's helmet, stunning him. Before the knight could recover, Theon swept his blade across his throat, a red spray catching the light of the torches still burning from the ruined Lannister camps.
Dacey Mormont was a blur of movement, her battle-axe flashing in the dim light.
A Lannister soldier charged her with a mace, but she ducked low, twisting at the last moment and driving her axe into his exposed ribs. With a savage yank, she ripped it free, turning just in time to parry another attack. She fought like a seasoned warrior, her strikes fierce and precise, every motion honed through a lifetime of battle training.
To Robb's right, the other Karstark brothers—Harrion and Eddard—fought as a single unit.
Their swords moved in tandem, shields rising and falling in perfect synchronization as they cut down Lannister soldiers with a deadly efficiency. Harrion, the eldest, led the charge forward with unrelenting focus, his blade carving a path through the chaos.
A Lannister knight on horseback rushed toward Harrion, his spear aimed for the young Karstark's heart. Harrion braced for impact, but at the last moment, Eddard tackled him aside, the spear glancing off his shoulder instead of impaling him. Growling in pain, Eddard rolled to his feet, swinging his sword upward and catching the knight in the throat.
Daryn Hornwood and Donnel Locke were back-to-back, fending off a group of Lannister foot soldiers.
Daryn let out a guttural roar as he parried a downward strike, twisting his sword around and plunging it into his attacker's stomach. Beside him, Donnel moved with calculated precision, his shield absorbing a blow before he drove his blade under a Lannister's armpit, piercing the softer chainmail beneath.
Roger and Rickard Ryswell fought nearby, their movements mirroring one another as they hacked their way through the enemy. Roger, the older of the two, fought with the cold efficiency of a man who had seen too many battles. Rickard, younger and still hungry for glory, was more reckless, throwing himself into the thick of the fighting with a wild grin on his face.
Robb barely had time to take it all in. His sword moved on instinct, blocking a strike meant for his head, countering with a precise thrust that sent another Lannister falling from his saddle.
A horrific scream to his left caught his attention as Grey Wind lunged at a Lannister rider, his massive jaws clamping down on the man's leg and yanking him clean off his horse. The knight hit the ground hard, armor clattering, before Grey Wind silenced him with a savage shake of his head.
That was when Robb saw him.
To the north of the battlefield, a golden blur of armor stood out against the sea of blood and steel.
Jaime Lannister.
The Kingslayer was rallying his men, his presence alone forcing the Lannister soldiers to hold their ground despite the overwhelming chaos.
Robb gritted his teeth, raising his sword high. "Push north!" He bellowed, his voice cutting through the din of battle. "We take the Kingslayer!" His personal guard heard the command and immediately shifted formation.
Smalljon let out a wild, joyous laugh, slamming his sword into a Lannister's shoulder and sending him sprawling before falling into step beside Robb. Dacey Mormont wiped blood from her brow, eyes gleaming with battle-lust, as she spurred her horse forward.
Theon, grinning, nudged his horse into a gallop, blade at the ready.
One by one, his men followed.
As they surged forward, cutting a path through the last of the resistance between them and Jaime Lannister, Robb Stark felt the tide of the battle shift.
The Kingslayer was within reach.