The Lion with the Severed Hand
The Red Comet hung in the heavens like a festering wound carved across the sky, bleeding crimson light over the Riverlands. It seemed less a star and more a curse—a celestial scar mocking the endless self-destruction of men below.
Beneath its glow, the Whispering Woods had become a slaughterhouse.
The forest floor trembled with violence. Longspears splintered against shields. Steel shrieked against steel. War drums thundered like a giant's heartbeat, and the river ran dark with churned mud and blood.
"Long live the warhammer!"
"Long live the stag!"
"Long live the liberator!"
"Long live the Vale!"
"Fight for Seaguard!"
"Long live House Tully!"
The cries clashed and overlapped, swallowed by chaos.
At the heart of it all rode Gendry.
He raised his spiked warhammer high, his voice cutting through the carnage like iron through bone. "Follow me!"
The tall young knight sat astride a black destrier, his golden cloak soaked in blood and dirt. The rich crimson stains darkened the gold to rust, yet his black scale armor remained largely intact. His speed was relentless. His strength, overwhelming. Around him rode the elite Gold Cloaks, their formation tight and disciplined, cutting through enemy ranks like the sharpened tip of an arrow.
Guarding his flank was Ser Barristan Selmy, blade flashing with lethal precision.
Together they were a storm.
The golden cavalry swept back and forth through the narrow valley. Hooves pounded into shallow river water, sending muddy spray into the air. Oak shields shattered. Arrows hissed between trees. Men screamed.
War, Gendry had learned, was not poetry. It was mathematics—strength concentrated against weakness. Even when outnumbered overall, one must create local superiority and crush the enemy piece by piece.
The cries of "Long live Lannister!" began to fade.
Lion banners toppled one after another, sinking into mud and leaves, trampled beneath boots and hooves. The once-proud Red Cloaks faltered. Their formation buckled. Their morale cracked.
They were outnumbered here. Outmaneuvered. Outmatched.
The Gold Cloaks from across the Narrow Sea, the hardened warriors from the Claw Peninsula, the cavalry of the Vale, and the levies from Seaguard pressed forward with unstoppable force. Except for the less seasoned Seaguard soldiers, the rest were renowned fighters—men forged in hardship and war.
"Surrender and live!" Gendry shouted, raising his hammer again.
His voice rang cold and absolute.
One by one, Red Cloaks dropped their weapons. Some fell to their knees. Others buried their faces in the mud.
Victory seemed complete.
Yet victory breeds carelessness.
In the narrow terrain of the valley, Gendry's cavalry had pushed too far. Units had scattered in pursuit of fleeing enemies. The funnel-shaped geography compressed movement, nullifying their numerical advantage.
Gendry saw him then.
Ser Jaime Lannister—the Kingslayer.
Jaime stood amid the wreckage like a solitary island surrounded by a sea of corpses and kneeling men. His gilded armor was scratched and bloodied. Loyal knights still clustered around him, trying desperately to carve a path of escape.
"Am I going to lose?" Jaime muttered, a hollow smile touching his lips.
He reversed his gilded sword in his grip.
"My lord," one of his knights pleaded, "if you die here, the Westerlands lose their heir! Let us break through together!"
Though scorned elsewhere for his oathbreaking, Jaime remained beloved in the Westerlands—the golden son of House Lannister, a knight of dazzling skill. Even now, men were willing to die for him.
"I will charge once more," Jaime growled. "If I fall, I'll take him with me."
"Remember Lord Tywin's orders—patience!"
But pride outweighed prudence.
Jaime charged.
Across the bloodied ground, Gendry rode to meet him.
Their eyes locked.
Gendry's helm bore the stag and the red dragon side by side—symbols Jaime despised. To Jaime, it was as though Robert Baratheon himself mocked him from beyond the grave.
"I will not lose!" Jaime roared.
Steel met iron.
Gendry's warhammer crashed against Jaime's gilded sword with a thunderous clang. Sparks erupted. Jaime's blade blurred with astonishing speed—swift, elegant, lethal.
He truly was among the finest swordsmen of his generation.
But this was no tourney yard.
Each blow from Gendry carried crushing, bone-shattering force. Jaime's arm screamed in agony. His muscles trembled. His breath grew ragged.
How could this young man still possess such strength after hours of battle?
Jaime felt despair creep in.
Then—
Horns blared from the rear of the valley.
Everyone froze.
From the wider mouth of the valley, three hundred fresh Red Cloak cavalry surged forward beneath lion banners—and the black manticore of House Lorch.
Reinforcements.
Bronze Yohn Royce swore under his breath. They had believed the enemy fully encircled. Clearly, Tywin Lannister had sent additional forces—perhaps anticipating disaster.
"Lord Lorch!" some Red Cloaks cried in relief.
Hope flickered in Jaime's eyes.
But Gendry did not retreat.
"Forward!" he commanded.
He spurred his horse straight into the converging enemy.
The battlefield tightened into a vortex of steel and flesh.
A Red Cloak lunged. Gendry's hammer crushed the man's helmet like a rotten apple. Ser Barristan cut down another attacker with surgical precision.
Jaime, blood running down his face from a scalp wound, charged again.
"You too, Ser Barristan?" he shouted in disbelief.
"Clang!"
Hammer met sword again.
Jaime struck with desperate fury. Gendry countered with overwhelming force. Blow after blow shook Jaime's arm to numbness.
Then disaster struck.
A cluster of spearmen thrust forward. Gendry parried and smashed two aside—but his hammer lodged briefly in a gap of broken armor.
"His weapon!" someone shouted.
Jaime saw the opening.
He charged.
Gendry calmly released the hammer and drew an arakh from his saddle.
The curved blade shimmered with a cold, pale light.
Valyrian steel.
"Die, usurper!" Jaime roared.
Amory Lorch screamed from behind him, "Fall back! That's Valyrian steel!"
Too late.
The arakh flashed once.
Jaime's right hand—and the gilded sword it held—fell into the mud with a dull thud.
A heartbeat later, a second slash carved across his face, slicing through flesh and cartilage. Blood sprayed.
Jaime staggered, a strangled cry escaping him.
Chaos erupted.
Red Cloaks surged forward to retrieve their fallen lord. Amory Lorch rallied men in panic, forming a shield around Jaime as they dragged him toward a waiting horse.
Gendry advanced, merciless.
He cut Amory down in a single savage stroke, splitting him from shoulder to waist. Entrails spilled into the leaves.
The sight broke whatever courage remained.
"Demons!" some shouted.
The red tide faltered.
Gendry became death incarnate, his arakh sweeping through gaps in armor with brutal precision. The Gold Cloaks reformed around him in a tight arrowhead formation, Ser Barristan at his side.
Still, a handful of Lannisters escaped with the maimed Kingslayer.
When dawn's pale light crept through the trees, the battlefield was quiet.
Corpses lay thick upon the ground. The river carried streaks of red downstream.
Most of the late-arriving Red Cloaks were dead. The rest surrendered.
Bronze Yohn, Earl Jason Mallister, and others approached Gendry with expressions of awe.
"Your Highness," Bronze Yohn said carefully, "we feared the worst."
Ser Barristan reported calmly, "Jaime Lannister escaped, but his sword hand is severed. His face is disfigured. He will not command an army again anytime soon. Amory Lorch is dead."
Gendry stood silent for a moment, blood dripping from his arakh.
"I should have held a reserve at the valley mouth," he admitted. "That was my mistake."
Even in triumph, he evaluated his flaws.
"No one can question this victory," Bronze Yohn replied quickly.
Gendry handed the arakh back and accepted his warhammer once more.
"We ride south," he said. "Riverrun still stands in need of relief."
No one argued.
As preparations began, Anguy approached carrying a severed head.
"Your blade is ruthless, Your Highness."
Gendry glanced at Amory Lorch's lifeless face.
"Wrap it carefully," he said. "Send it to Daenerys. Perhaps she will appreciate the message."
Under the fading red glow of the comet, the Lion of the West had lost his hand.
And the war had taken a darker turn.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)