Author's Note:
Real quick, I wanted to let y'all know I created some new/updated images for Alaric, Alys Stark nee Karstark, and Ysilla Stark nee Royce, and plan to do more as I move forward, so I'll post those on the new chapters whenever I make them
(Alaric full body portrait --->)
(Alaric with Tempest and Cinder --->)
(Alys Stark née Karstark --->)
(Ysilla Stark née Royce --->)
[The Riverlands, Outside of Riverrun, Dawn of the 2nd moon, 299AC]
The hour before dawn was always the quietest, the sun slowly rising, a new day upon them, what lies ahead ever unsure.
Alaric Stark stood beneath a low-burning torch, its light steady but dim against the dark, and looked down at the map spread before him, the rough lines carved into the wood by knife and charcoal marking the Lannister presence before Riverrun.
Three camps, three commanders, and most importantly, all split by an unforgiving river. He had studied them for days, not only from reports and scouts, but from the pattern of their behavior, from what they chose to do and, more importantly, from what they failed to do.
Around him stood the men who would help him crush the three hosts, clipping the claws of the Kingslayer.
Brynden Tully stood nearest, his cloak drawn close, his expression sharp in the half-light, a man who had spent years learning how to bleed an enemy without ever letting them understand where the knife was coming from.
Beside him stood Robb and Jon, younger but no longer green, their wolves close at heel, Grey Wind and Ghost both restless in ways that needed no explanation.
Dorren stood quietly next to Alaric, patting Shadow's head as the great wolf sat on his hind legs, tail slowly wagging.
Rickard Karstark stood opposite them, hard and immovable, with his two younger sons nearby, while Ser Desmond Manderly and Ser Ellard Karstark completed the circle of commanders, each of them waiting without impatience, because impatience had no place in what was about to happen.
A little apart from them stood Oswald.
He did not look like a man who commanded anything. There was no armor worth noting, no weapon drawn, no visible sign of rank or station. But Alaric had watched him work, had seen what happened to horses when Oswald turned his attention toward them, and damn was he good at his job.
Behind Alaric, Tempest stood still, the great direwolf's presence heavy and deliberate, while Cinder paced in a slow arc, her movements measured but alert, as if she already felt the echo of the violence to come.
"They're still holding fast to their siege, not intent on lifting it," Brynden said at last, breaking the silence. His voice was low, but it carried cleanly. "They've been harried, yes, but not struck in force. Not all at once."
"They've grown used to it," Alaric replied without looking up. "Raids at night. Scouts missing. Fires in their supply lines. They expect more of the same."
Robb shifted slightly, glancing toward the dark where the camps lay unseen beyond the tree line.
"They won't expect us to come at dawn," he said. "Not with our full might."
"No," Alaric said, and then he looked up, a wolfish grin upon his face. "They won't."
He let his gaze pass over each of them, measuring not their readiness, because that was already given, but their understanding. This was not a battle to be fought on instinct, if this was to go right, everyone would have to play their roles perfectly.
"Three strikes," he said, placing a gloved hand on the map, fingers spreading to mark each of the camps in turn. "All at once. No delay between them. No waiting for a signal or confirmation. Once it begins, it carries through to the end."
He tapped the northern camp first.
"Andros Brax's csamp," he said. "This one starts it."
Brynden's mouth tightened faintly, something like approval in the set of his jaw.
"They won't be ready," he said. "Not at that hour. Not after the nights they've had."
"They don't need to be asleep," Alaric said. "They only need to be unprepared."
He turned his attention to Robb and Jon.
"You two shall ride with the Blackfish," he said. "You don't go for their line first. You go for their horses. Use both Grey Wind and Ghost. You break them before they can form."
Jon nodded once.
"They'll panic," he said. "Once it starts, it won't stop."
Robb added, "And once the horses go, the men won't hold their ground."
"Exactly," Alaric said.
He shifted to the eastern camp.
"Ser Forley Prester's camp," he said. "Less discipline and more sellswords. They'll fight as long as they think it's worth it."
Rickard Karstark's expression did not change.
"And when they decide it's not?" he asked.
"They'll run," Alaric replied, his eyes darkening, "And you shall cut them down as they do so."
Lord Rickard gave a short nod.
"My men and I will make sure they don't run far."
Dorren now stood at Lord Rickard's side, having walked around the table to get a better look, Shadow at his heel, the dark wolf still and silent, while Rickard Stark and Winter lingered just behind them, pale and watchful.
"You go with him," Alaric said to Dorren. "You and Rickard. Shadow and Winter take the edges. You don't let them regroup. Not once they start to break."
Dorren's gaze held his for a moment, steady and certain.
"They won't get the chance," he said.
Alaric believed him.
Finally, he rested his hand on the last mark.
Jaime Lannister's camp.
"This one is mine," he said.
There was no need to elaborate. Every man there understood what that meant.
"Four thousand horse," Alaric continued. "Two thousand foot behind them. We hit fast, and we sure as hell don't stop. If they try to form, we break them before they finish. If they do form, we break them anyway."
Ser Desmond Manderly shifted slightly, his weight settling as if preparing already for the motion to come.
"They'll try to hold," he said.
"They will," Alaric agreed. "And if they choose to do so, well, then that's where they shall die."
Ser Ellard Karstark gave a low breath.
"And the warg?" he asked.
Alaric turned to Oswald.
"You begin before we move," he said. "The horses first. All three camps, while the direwolves will set them off even further, you shall be the beginning of the unrest."
Oswald nodded once. "They'll feel it before they see anything," he said. "That's how it works. They'll know something's wrong, and they won't know what, that is, until we strike."
"Aye, that'll do," Alaric said.
He straightened then, the moment of planning closing.
"Benjen holds the Twins," he added, almost as a reminder to himself as much as to them. "Supplies, wagons, the road behind us. Once we relieve Riverrun, I expect the baggage trains to begin going from here to the Twins and further north if need be, as needed."
Alaric looked around, nodding when he saw they all understood his words, "Once we have lifted the siege and baggage trains connect, we'll be well fed and supplied for the foreseeable future, for this war is only just beginning."
No one questioned his words, they all knew it to be true.
Alaric looked at them one last time.
"We end this here," he said. "Get your men ready for the assault at dawn."
[Later, as the assault begins]
The first sounds of the assaults were not steel, nor was it a horn.
But rather, it was the sounds of horses screaming.
Alaric heard it before he saw anything, the sound carrying across the distance with a sharpness that cut through the last of the night, and then another followed, and another, until the quiet that had held the world together a moment before began to fracture.
"It has begun," Ser Desmond said quietly beside him.
Alaric nodded.
Then the horns came.
By the time the northern camp sounded its alarm, it was already collapsing into itself, shadows moving too quickly to follow, fire catching where tents had been torn loose, and the unmistakable shapes of wolves moving through the chaos, larger than any creature had any right to be, and far more lethal as well.
"Forward," Alaric said.
He did not raise his voice.
He did not need to.
The various serjeants, those of the Winter Guard, and his vassals alike echoed his orders.
And following the echo, the host began to move.
The first impact came like a breaking wave.
The outer edges of Jaime's camp had not yet fully formed into anything resembling a line when the Northern heavy cavalry struck, the ground trembling beneath the weight of it as strong, sturdy northern steeds drove forward in tight formation, not wild, not uncontrolled, but directed, focused, each man knowing where he was meant to be.
Tempest surged ahead, Cinder close at his flank, the two wolves cutting into the space between men and mounts with a violence that was as precise as it was brutal, their presence alone was enough to send already shaken horses into full panic.
The line that tried to form never even got the chance.
Alaric spurred his northern charger forward, Ice already in his hands, the great blade moving not in wide, wasteful arcs, but in controlled, efficient strikes that ended men quickly and without hesitation.
A Lannister Man-at-arms raised his shield, only for Ice to cleave right through it and into his neck.
Another tried to step in behind him.
He didn't even get the chance as Ice took his head.
"Keep moving!" Desmond's voice carried behind him. "Don't let them form even a hint of a line!"
They didn't.
They couldn't.
From the east, the second collapse came.
Even as Alaric pushed deeper into Jaime's camp, he could hear it, the shift in sound, the change in the rhythm of the battle as the eastern camp broke, the sharper, more desperate cries of men no longer fighting to hold, but to escape.
"They're running!" someone shouted.
"Let them," the gruff voice of Lord Karstark rang out. "They won't get far!"
Alaric did not look that way.
He did not need to.
Lord Karstark would do what was required.
Bringing his focus back to the fighting, Alaric soon spotted a well-armed knight, sporting the wretched Frey coat of arms, quartered with the Lannister lion.
'One of Ser Emmon Frey and Genna Lannister's whelps, huh?' he thought to himself as he rode toward the Frey knight
To his own credit, Ser Cleos Frey hadn't shied away, rather, he came at him shouting.
Alaric did not hear the words.
But he saw the intent.
Ice rose, and soon fell.
No pageantry or fanfare, not even a brief duel, one strike was all it took.
Ser Cleos Frey died where he stood.
There was no pause.
No acknowledgment.
Just the next movement.
The knight's younger brother, Tion Frey, in an act of cowardice, turned tail and ran.
He made it only a few steps before Tempest struck, the great wolf hitting him from the side with enough force to take him from his feet, Cinder there a heartbeat later, and whatever the boy might have said or thought ended in that instant.
Alaric moved past them.
House Frey was now truly extinct in the male line, and he didn't bother to give them a second thought as he continued to cut down man after man.
Ice rose and fell in quick arcs of blood and guts, men cried out and yelled in terror as Alaric rode down any man he could find, and those he couldn't, were soon sniffed out by Tempest and Cinder.
The northern forces were cutting through the Lannisters like butter at this point. Lannister men fell in droves, taking mass casualties and still unable to form even a semblance of a line to hold.
As the fighting raged on, Alaric heard the sound of metal creaking and wood rising, turning his head to look toward that castle, and that's when he saw it.
The gates of Riverrun had opened.
The sound carried even through the chaos, a deep, grinding roar that cut across the field, and then the Tully and Blackwood men came pouring out, striking the rear of Jaime's camp with the force of men who had waited too long for this moment.
"They're finished now," Desmond said, his great halberd falling upon some poor soul, splitting him in twain.
Alaric did not answer.
Because Jaime still stood.
He saw him through the press of bodies.
Gold and white, moving against the flow of the battle, not retreating, not yielding, but cutting forward with a precision that stood apart from the chaos around him.
Jaime was not trying to save the camp.
He was carving a path.
And that path led directly toward Alaric.
"Take him, kill the Kingslayer!" someone shouted.
"No—" Alaric tried to say, wanting to urge his men not to go near the cornered lion. Alaric knew he would have to be the one to put him down.
Before he could reach him, however, he was set upon by multiple Lannister men, blocking his path toward Jaime.
He cut down three men before another two came, as he continued forward.
While at the same time, Jaime continued to carve a bloody path toward him, northmen falling one after another at his blade.
To Alaric's horror, one of his closest friends and good-brother Torrhen Karstark stepped in the Kingslayer's path, set on not letting him get to Alaric.
The clash was fast and brutal.
Steel met steel, as the battle raged on around them, parry after parry, reposte into a thrust. Torrhen held on for as long as he could, but he just couldn't beat one of the best swordsmen in the Seven Kingdoms.
In one quick motion, having parried a strike and knocking Torrhen off balance, Jaime's blade took the man's left arm clean at the forearm, and Torrhen went down with a cry that was lost almost immediately in the noise.
Ser Ellard moved next.
Ser Desmond with him.
Both were struck aside, wounded, not broken, but unable to stop him.
Jaime did not slow.
He continued forward, felling man after man
Alaric himself was doing the same, having just decapitated another random Lannister cousin, followed by a Crakehall knight and two Banefort men-at-arms.
And yet, he was only twenty yards away.
But before he could get there, Ser Lucion stepped forward.
Alone, meeting Jaime in single combat, much like the others who had tried and failed before him.
Their blades met.
Once.
Twice.
Again.
Sparks flew as steel bit into steel, their blades began to blur as a flurry of strikes, parries, and repostes were exchanged.
Lucion even managed to cut Jaime's thigh and slam his pommel into his golden lion-shaped helm.
But it still wasn't enough, Lucion had held longer than he should have.
But his defense was unfortunately not good enough, Jaime managed to break through his guard.
The killing blow soon came, a diagonal slash aimed at Lucion's exposed neck, having had his head whipped backward by a punch.
And just as it was about to take his life, Jaime's blade met not flesh, but Valyrian Steel.
That of the greatsword Ice.
Alaric had managed to get there in time to save his friend, the impact of their blades ringing out above everything else, the force of it running through his arms and into his shoulders, but he held, his stance firm, his grip steady.
For a moment, the world narrowed.
The battle fell away.
Jaime's eyes through his beaten helm's visor met his.
Clear.
Focused.
Alive in a way few men ever were in moments like this.
"Finally, we can have our dance, Stark," Jaime spat out, with almost a feral growl.
"It's time to put your fame to the test, Kingslayer. I sure do hope you don't disappoint me," he replied in kind, his steel grey eyes narrowing, as all outside noise fell away.
He adjusted his grip on Ice and took a step forward.
They both swung, and their blades met.