The God's Eye, northern hill.
Mounted on horseback, Cregan Stark looked down at the Westerlands army below, at that dense wall of shields.
He could hear the Westermen singing, and his brow furrowed slightly.
"They're not running? They want to fight us to the death?" Rylly Karstark rode up beside him, surprise evident in his voice.
Lord Cregan nodded.
These Westermen were proving tougher than he had expected.
Their morale was low, they were exhausted, and they were trapped against the lakeshore.
He had deliberately left them a way out, precisely to prevent them from developing the resolve to fight to the last man...
Yet now, they had neither broken nor fled. Instead, they had formed ranks and stood their ground.
Most armies would have scattered long ago.
Cregan sighed with a hint of admiration.
"They really are a hard bone to chew..."
Then he coldly ordered the messenger cavalryman beside him: "But there isn't a bone in this world that the North can't crack..."
"Pass the order. Attack."
"Send the vanguard forward and prepare the second line."
"Let them see what the North is made of."
The war horns sounded.
Woooooo—
Low and drawn out, their echoes rolled across the surface of the lake.
The Northern infantry on the northern slope began marching downhill.
They advanced in orderly formations, carrying round shields and wielding swords and battle axes as they steadily pressed toward the Westerlands line along the shore.
The first line numbered two thousand men.
The second line, one thousand.
The third line, another thousand.
The Northerners' footsteps were heavy.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
Like the beat of war drums, they shook the earth beneath them.
Their breath steamed into white mist beneath the night sky.
The soldiers in the front ranks carried tall round shields painted with all manner of designs.
Some bore direwolves.
Some black bears.
Some ravens.
Others displayed simple geometric patterns.
These were the sigils of their houses. Every Northerner painted his family's heraldry on his shield as a mark of pride.
Their helmets were simple. Some wore nothing more than leather caps.
Yet there was no fear in their eyes.
Only excitement.
As long as they fought for the North, even if they died, their families would be cared for by their lords and by House Stark.
And if they survived...
They could loot even more.
The equipment carried by these Westermen...
Looked very valuable indeed.
Lefford noticed signs of unrest spreading through the formation and quickly shouted: "Hold steady, lads! Don't panic!"
The Westerlands soldiers gritted their teeth.
Holding their shields and bracing their spears, they watched the Northerners draw ever closer.
One hundred paces.
Eighty paces.
Sixty paces.
Under the moonlight, Northern faces became clearer and clearer.
Those thick beards.
Those scars.
Those bloodthirsty eyes.
"Archers!" Lefford roared.
Behind the line, more than five hundred Westerlands archers drew their bows, arrowheads pointed toward the sky.
Their longbows were crafted from yew wood.
The limbs bent deeply.
The bowstrings stretched taut.
"Loose!"
The arrows flew as one.
They streaked across the night sky with shrill whistles before plunging into the Northern formations.
Screams erupted.
Some Northerners fell.
Some were struck in the chest, the arrows punching through their backs.
Some were hit in the face, shafts driving through their eye sockets.
Others were struck in the thigh, collapsing to the ground and howling in pain as blood poured from their wounds and stained the earth red.
But the Northerners did not stop.
Stepping over the bodies of their fallen comrades, they continued forward.
Their shields rose higher.
Their pace grew steadier.
Some even hummed little tunes as they marched.
"Loose!"
Another volley.
Then another.
Then another.
Hundreds of Northerners fell.
The shields of the front ranks bristled with arrows like hedgehogs.
Yet their formation never wavered.
They held their shields overhead, blocking the rain of arrows as they advanced step by step.
Closer and closer.
Whenever a man fell, another immediately stepped forward to take his place.
The formation remained intact throughout.
They sang as they marched, bellowing battle songs rough and bold as the winds and snows of the North:
"Winter is coming, winter is coming,
The wolves are howling, the longswords are roaring.
Southrons, Southrons, are you ready?
Winter is coming, and you're going to die..."
Thirty paces.
Twenty paces.
"Kill them!" shouted Rylly, leading the Northern vanguard, his voice filled with excitement.
"Spears!" Lefford roared back.
The front rank of Westerlands soldiers braced their spears atop their shields.
A dense forest of spearpoints thrust forward, forming a wall of steel.
The second rank rested their spears on the shoulders of the men ahead, creating a second spear wall.
The third rank raised their spears overhead, ready to throw them.
This was the standard tactic of Westerlands infantry—
A triple-layered spear formation, specifically designed to stop a charging enemy.
The Northerners charged.
The two armies slammed into each other with a thunderous crash.
Spears punched through shields, through leather armor, through flesh and bone. Blood sprayed everywhere—across shields, across faces, across the ground.
Some Northerners fell screaming, but the berserkers behind them immediately charged over their bodies, hacking with axes, slashing with swords, and driving forward with sheer brute force.
The Lannister shield wall at the front was shaking.
Not the slight tremor of a line under pressure.
The kind of shaking that came just before collapse.
The iron-rimmed shields groaned and creaked. Their edges scraped against one another, producing a harsh, grating sound.
When a man was knocked down, another immediately stepped into his place.
When a man was cut down, someone beside him seized his shield.
Some were crying.
Some were cursing.
Some were calling for their mothers.
But the shield wall still held.
"Hold the line!" Lefford roared, his voice already hoarse. "Hold the line! Don't fall back!"
The lord's voice echoed through the night, swallowed by the sounds of battle.
He rode back and forth behind the line. Whenever a gap appeared, he rushed toward it, directing the reserves to fill it.
His throat was raw from shouting.
His voice sounded like two stones grinding together.
Yet he kept shouting.
Kept roaring.
Kept fighting with everything he had.
At the center of the battlefield, a Westerlands spearman drove his weapon through a Northerner's belly.
The spearhead burst out through the man's back, carrying blood and entrails with it.
The Northerner glanced down at the shaft protruding from his stomach, then raised his head and grinned.
His teeth were yellow.
Several were missing.
His gums bled, and his lips were covered in blood.
He threw away his axe, grabbed the spear shaft with both hands, and pushed himself forward.
The Westerlands soldier froze.
He had never imagined a man could keep moving after being run through like that.
He saw the Northerner's intestines spilling from the wound.
He saw that there was no pain in the man's eyes.
Only madness.
Panicking, he tried to pull his spear free.
It wouldn't budge.
The Northerner clutched the shaft and kept walking forward, step by step.
The spear scraped through his body with every movement.
More blood poured out.
More entrails spilled onto the ground.
"Die!" the Northerner roared, smashing a fist into the Westerlands soldier's face.
The soldier fell backward.
His helmet rolled away.
His nose shattered.
Blood covered his face.
Dazed, he lay on the ground, staring up at the Northerner standing over him.
The hole in the man's stomach was still pouring blood.
His intestines dragged across the earth.
The Northerner raised the spear and thrust it through the soldier's throat.
"For the North!" he bellowed.
Then he collapsed.
Dead.
Elsewhere, another Westerlands infantryman found himself surrounded by two Northerners.
He blocked an axe strike with his shield.
The axe buried itself deep in the wood and stuck fast.
Before he could throw the shield aside, a sword pierced his thigh.
The blade entered from the front and emerged from the back.
Blood erupted like a fountain.
He screamed and dropped to one knee.
The two Northerners pounced.
One chopped at his neck with an axe.
The other drove a sword into his chest.
"Kill!" roared a massive Northerner, swinging a two-handed battle axe.
Three Westerlands infantrymen fell in quick succession.
The axe was enormous.
Every swing cut through the air with a howl.
One man took the blow on his shoulder.
His collarbone shattered.
He collapsed as blood sprayed from the wound, splattering across the giant's face.
The second was struck in the chest.
His ribs caved in.
He fell as well, coughing bloody foam while a huge section of his chest sank inward.
The third raised his shield in time.
But the axe was too heavy.
The shield split in half.
The impact drove him several steps backward.
His hands trembled.
The skin between thumb and forefinger split open.
The Northerner chased after him and brought the axe down onto his head.
The helmet cracked apart.
Red and white matter splattered across the ground.
The Westerlands soldier died before he could even scream.
"Come on!" the giant roared, drenched in blood, savagery blazing in his eyes.
"Come on!"
A spear suddenly thrust in from the side and pierced his ribs.
The spearhead entered on the left and burst out through the right, carrying blood and shredded flesh with it.
The giant looked down at the weapon.
Then he grabbed the shaft and twisted.
Crack.
The spear snapped in half.
He turned around and saw the man who had struck him.
A young Westerlands infantryman.
The boy's face still carried the softness of youth.
He clutched the broken half of the spear with trembling hands.
His entire body shook.
His lips quivered.
His eyes were filled with terror.
The dying Northerner looked at him.
And smiled.
"Boy," he said, "how old are you?"
The young infantryman trembled so badly he couldn't answer.
"You look about the same age as my son."
The giant grinned.
"He's still waiting for me back home..."
Even so, he mercilessly raised his axe, preparing to bring it down.
But the moment he lifted it, a stray arrow struck him in the throat.
His eyes widened.
The axe slipped from his hand and hit the ground.
Both hands flew to his neck as blood poured through his fingers.