Gods Eye Lake, the northern hill. Lord Cregan Stark.
Cregan Stark rode on his horse, watching the Westerlands army below, their dense shield walls. He heard the songs of those Westerners and frowned slightly.
"They won't run?" Riley Karstark rode up to him, surprise coloring his voice. "They want to fight to the death?"
Lord Cregan nodded immediately. These Westerners turned out to be even more troublesome than he had imagined. Though their morale was low and they were exhausted, trapped by the lakeshore, he had deliberately left an escape route—to keep these Westerners from thinking of fighting to the death... But at this moment, they did not collapse or flee; instead, they formed ranks and held their ground. If this had been an ordinary army, it would have scattered long ago.
"Truly a tough nut to crack..." Cregan said with some emotion.
Then Cregan coldly ordered the cavalry herald beside him. "But we in the North still have bones that cannot be chewed... Send the order: attack. Lead the vanguard; let the second line prepare. Let them witness the strength of the North."
The sound of horns, low and drawn-out, echoed across the lake.
The northern infantry began to descend from the mountain. They formed neat square formations, holding round shields, wielding longswords and battle axes, and stepped toward the Westerners by the lake. The first line numbered two thousand men, the second one thousand, and the third one thousand.
The northerners' footsteps were heavy, rumbling against the earth like drumbeats—thud, thud, thud—shaking the ground so that it trembled slightly. Their breathing was heavy, forming white mist in the night sky.
The northern soldiers in the front row held high round shields painted with various patterns—some depicted snarling wolves, some black bears, some ravens, and some simple geometric shapes. These were all family emblems; every northerner painted his house's sigil on his shield as a mark of respect. Their helms were simple; some even wore leather caps, but there was no fear in their eyes—only excitement. As they fought for the North, even if they died, their families would be supported by the lord and Stark. If they didn't die, they might steal even more. The equipment of these Westerners... seemed extremely valuable...
Seeing the formation become somewhat chaotic, Lafford quickly spoke. "Sons, stay calm! Don't panic!"
The Westerlands soldiers gritted their teeth, raised their shields, held their spears, and watched the northerners draw closer and closer.
A hundred paces. Eighty paces. Sixty paces.
Under the moonlight, the faces of the northerners grew clearer and clearer—those great beards, those scars, those bloodthirsty eyes.
"Archers!" Lafford shouted.
Behind the formation, over five hundred Westerlands archers drew their bows; arrowheads pointed at the sky. Their bows were yew longbows with recurved limbs and taut strings.
"Release!"
A volley of arrows flew through the night sky with a sharp whistling sound, then fell upon the northern phalanx. Cries rose as some northerners fell. Some were wounded in the chest; arrows pierced through their backs. Some were wounded in the face; arrows pierced their eye sockets. Some were wounded in the thigh; they collapsed to the ground, sobbing; blood gushed from the wounds, staining the earth red.
But the northerners did not stop; they stepped over the bodies of their comrades and continued moving. Shields were raised higher, steps became steadier; they hummed a tune as they advanced.
"Release!" Another round of arrow rain.
Another round. Another round.
Hundreds of northern soldiers fell; their front shields were filled with arrows like hedgehogs. But their formation did not break. They raised their shields, blocking the arrows from above, step by step, drawing closer and closer. When someone fell, the shield-bearers immediately filled the gap, keeping the formation intact. They sang songs, shouted battle cries; their voices were bold and heroic, like the snow and wind of the North:
"Winter has come, winter has come,
The wolf pack howls, the longsword roars.
Southerners, southerners, are you ready?
Winter approaches, and you are about to die..."
Thirty paces. Twenty paces.
"Kill them!" The northern vanguard leader, Riley Karstark, shouted excitedly.
"Spears!" Opposite them, Lafford shouted.
The Westerlands soldiers in the front row braced their spears against their shields, tips pointing forward, densely packed like a wall of thorns. The soldiers in the rear row placed their spears on the shoulders of the first row, forming a second wall of weapons. The soldiers in the third row raised their spears above their heads, ready to throw.
This was standard Westerlands infantry tactics—triple pike, specifically designed to counter advancing enemies.
The northerners charged forward.
The two armies collided, causing a deafening roar.
Spears pierced shields, leather armor, and flesh. Blood sprayed—spraying onto shields, onto faces, and splattering across the ground. Some northern soldiers screamed and fell, but the berserkers behind immediately stepped over their bodies and rushed forward, hacking with axes, swinging swords, and slamming with their bodies.
The entire Lannister shield wall in front trembled. It was not a slight tremor, but one on the verge of collapse. The iron shields groaned; their edges scraped against each other with a sharp sound. When someone was knocked down, the man behind immediately filled the gap. When someone was killed, the man beside him took up his shield. Some wept, some cursed, some called for their mothers. But the shield wall had not yet fallen.
"Hold!" Lafford shouted hoarsely. "Hold! No retreat!"
The lord's voice echoed across the night sky, drowned out by the cries of battle. He rode back and forth behind the front line, attacking wherever a breach appeared, directing reserves to fill it. The lord's voice was hoarse from shouting, like two stones grinding against each other, but he continued to shout, to cry out, to fight desperately.
---
In the center of the battlefield, a Westerlands infantryman's spear pierced a northerner's belly. The spear tip protruded from his back, carrying blood and entrails. The northerner looked down at the spear shaft in his belly, then looked up and smiled. This northerner's teeth were yellow; some had fallen out; his gums bled; his lips were covered in blood. He dropped the axe in his hand, grabbed the spear shaft with both hands, and resolutely pushed forward.
The Westerlands infantryman was stunned. He had not expected this man to move even after being stabbed in the belly. He saw the northerner's entrails spilling from the wound, but saw no pain in the northerner's eyes—only madness.
He panicked, wanting to withdraw his spear, but could not. The northerner gripped the shaft, stepping forward step by step. The spear slid through his body; with each step, more blood flowed and more entrails spilled out.
"Die!" The northerner shouted and punched the western infantryman hard in the face.
The Westerlands infantryman fell; his helm rolled away; his nose bone was shattered; his face was covered in blood. Dazed, lying on the ground, he watched the northerner before him—the hole in his belly still bleeding, his entrails scattered everywhere. The northerner raised the spear and thrust it through his own throat.
"For the North!" the northerner shouted, then collapsed and died.
---
Another Westerlands infantryman was besieged by two northern soldiers. He blocked an axe with his shield; the axe bit into the shield and stuck. Before he could even discard the shield, another sword had already pierced his thigh. The sword pierced the front of his thigh and came out the back; blood gushed out like a fountain. He screamed and fell to his knees. The two northerners fell upon him—one chopped off his neck with an axe, the other thrust a sword into his chest.
---
"Kill!" A burly northerner swung his two-handed battle axe, quickly cutting down three Westerlands infantrymen. The axe was heavy; with each swing came the sound of wind. One man was struck in the shoulder; his collarbone broke; he fell; blood spurted from his shoulder and splattered across the burly man's face. The second was cut in the chest; his ribs broke; he collapsed; a large area of his chest caved in; blood spattered from his mouth. The third raised his shield to block, but the axe was too heavy; it split the shield in two. The man was thrown back several steps; his hands trembled; the corners of his mouth cracked.
The burly northerner chased after him and struck him on the head with his axe. The helm cracked; red and white scattered everywhere. The Westerlands infantryman did not even have time to cry out before he collapsed and died.
"Come on!" the burly northerner shouted, covered in blood, his eyes blazing with fury. "Come on!"
A spear pierced from the side, entering his flank. The spear tip entered from the left and exited from the right, carrying blood and shredded flesh. He looked down at the spear, then grabbed the shaft and twisted it hard. The spear shaft broke. He turned and saw that his killer was a young Westerlands infantryman; his face was still boyish. He gripped the half-broken spear, trembling all over; his lips trembled; his eyes were full of fear.
The dying northerner looked at him and smiled.
"Boy," he said, "how old are you?"
The young infantryman trembled, unable to speak.
"You're the same age as my son," the northerner smiled. "He's still at home, waiting for me to return..."
But he still raised his axe without mercy, ready to strike.
But as soon as he raised it, an arrow struck him in the throat. His eyes widened; the axe fell to the ground; his hands clutched his throat; blood gushed from between his fingers.