Night fell. Stillness descended. Moonlight poured down. Shadows flickered.
The ground was blanketed in thick fallen leaves. Dense forest cloaked the ridges. The hills sloped gently toward the riverbed. Lower down, the underbrush thinned.
With a few sharp shrike calls the hidden cavalry tightened their reins. Every word of encouragement froze in the cold northern wind.
Below in the valley roughly thirteen hundred Lannister cavalry moved down toward the Tumblestone.
In the darkness came the clatter of men and horses. Some laughed. Some cursed. Hooves splashed through the stream. Knights cracked whips and barked orders.
A long mournful wail rose from the opposite ridge—then the war-horns of vengeance sounded from the Mallister and Frey contingents positioned to the east and west.
From the narrow northern entrance to the valley came the deep resonant horn of House Karstark—grieving yet proud—blending into a vast chorus in the dark.
Down in the valley the Lannister host shouted in alarm. Horses reared. Archers concealed among the branches on Robb's command loosed a storm of shafts. The wood itself seemed to exhale a long-held breath filling the night with the agonized cries of men and animals.
Warriors raised lances shaking off the mud and leaves that had concealed their gleaming steel. Razor edges flashed in the moonlight.
"Winterfell!"
As arrows rained again the Young Wolf Lord Robb Stark shouted galloped past his mother and led the charge down into the valley.
From the opposite ridge Greatjon Umber's cavalry burst from the shadowed trees forming endless silver-flamed lines and thundered down the slope.
Ethan's mount was slower. By the time he reached the fighting the first wave of northern horse had already crashed into the Westermen.
From Robb's tactical deployment Ethan could see the valley was now ringed on all sides by northern cavalry pressing inward. Neither side had room to build momentum for a proper charge.
Moonlight was faint. The melee ferocious. Ethan simply discarded the four-meter lance he had never even blooded and drew the shorter lance that hung at Lightning's side. He began thrusting at nearby enemies.
The long lance was disposable—cheap steel head on brittle hardwood shaft designed to snap rather than unseat the rider. In tourneys charging with lance was a specialized skill Ethan had never learned.
But the shorter lance—two and a half meters long—was different. Shaft of carefully selected tough springy wood. Head of patterned steel Ethan had forged himself. First blood for this weapon.
Wielding the shorter lance Ethan joined the press. Its reach and his own strength made him unmatched in the crush. When a Westerlands knight charged lance leveled at him Ethan simply knocked the point aside then drove his own steel through mail and flesh dropping the man in a single motion. Silver Hand scouts following close behind finished any who still twitched.
The valley rang with splintering spears clashing swords and shouted war-cries:
"King's Landing!"
"Winterfell!"
"Riverrun! For House Tully!"
Hooves thundered. Iron boots churned mud. Swords bit deep into oak shields. Steel rasped on steel. Arrows whistled. War-drums rolled. A thousand horses screamed in terror.
Men cursed begged screamed died or survived.
The valley seemed to swallow sound yet Ethan still picked out Robb's voice amid the chaos:
"Follow me! Follow me!"
The great grey direwolf beside Robb howled and tore at flesh. Horses and riders shrieked in terror.
Ethan spurred toward the sound—only to be struck by a violent impact that hurled him from Lightning's back.
A knight in crimson cloak lunged dagger flashing toward the visor gap.
Before the blade could bite Ethan seized the man's wrist twisted and flung him to the ground. Then he drove a single armored fist into the knight's faceplate caving helm and cheekbone alike—killing him instantly.
Ethan recovered his lance remounted and pressed on toward Robb's voice.
But then another voice—older angrier—cut through the din:
"Robb Stark! Robb Stark! Come face me!"
Jaime Lannister!
Ethan's heart lurched.
He spurred forward and saw a golden-haired warrior charging straight toward the Young Wolf longsword gleaming. The man moved like an iron ram aimed at the heart of the northern command.
Three northern riders threw themselves in his path. The first lost an arm and toppled. The second's helm split open. The third's neck parted—the head jamming Jaime's blade.
Jaime discarded the fouled sword drew his dagger and tried again—but a northern rider seized his reins and crashed into him unhorsing both man and mount. Armored northerners swarmed and pinned Jaime to the mud.
By then the battle was all but over. The Westerlands cavalry who had charged beside Jaime lay broken and scattered. No enemy still stood.
Seeing Robb's guards had the golden lion secured and no fresh threats remained Ethan turned his attention to the three fallen northern riders.
Two were clearly dead—skulls shattered necks severed. The third—the one-armed man—clutched the stump still breathing but blood poured in thick pulses. Without immediate aid he would bleed out in minutes.
Having seen him fall Ethan could not walk past.
He dismounted knelt beside the dying man. The warrior stared up desperate eyes wide unable to speak through blood and pain one hand clamped uselessly over the severed arm.
Ethan whispered to himself "It's all right—I've got this."
At that moment Eddie and several scouts caught up blood-spattered but still moving with purpose—they closed protectively around their captain.
Ethan concentrated. One hand pressed hard over the pumping stump the other flat against the man's abdomen. He raised his voice so every nearby northerner could hear:
"Brothers—pray with me now to the Light!"
Golden radiance bloomed in his palms. Holy Light poured into the ruined body.
Under the glow severed vessels sealed torn flesh knitted ragged breathing steadied. Color slowly returned to the warrior's face.
But even as relief touched Ethan something else began.
Power—immense radiant power—flooded through him like a summer torrent. Yet at the same moment an equal force seemed to replenish it from somewhere beyond.
His body became a channel—a valley through which light roared without pause.
As more and more radiance surged golden mist began to rise from his palms then his arms his chest until his entire form shone like a pillar of living sunlight stabbing into the night sky.
Pain—searing overwhelming—tore through him. His soul seemed to lift free of flesh rising higher and higher.
From that vantage he saw vast currents of magic gathering in the east—three unknown powers preparing a cataclysmic clash.
In the far north a deep shadow stirred hiding unknowable danger.
And from the depths of the western sea a profound ancient gaze turned silently upon the world—waiting.
Faced with this vast perilous board Ethan felt a cold intuition in his final conscious moment: in this game he was the white stone one move from checkmate. One mistake and all was lost.
Farther down the slope Kevin Vitaly and Fibert each led their squads cutting through the chaos.
"Left—now!" Kevin shouted pointing his sword at a warhorse bearing down from the right. His left arm raised a round shield high.
An archer behind him loosed. The shaft failed to pierce plate but struck the mount's neck deflecting the charge. A spear from behind Kevin drove through the rider's stomach dropping him from the saddle.
Kevin lunged forward severed the fallen man's head wiped blood from steel and charged the next foe without pause.
In the narrow valley horse-speed was crippled by trees and corpses. Lannister knights fell one after another beneath arrow storms and disciplined lance thrusts from the Swan Formations.
Whenever a northerner was unhorsed near a Silver Hand squad the medical team's women—following close—rushed forward dragged the wounded clear of the press cleaned wounds with aqua vitae and bound them with clean linen.
In this way many northerners were saved from death by the very free folk they had once despised.
Sometimes though the women encountered riders they could not identify.
"Martha—Martha! This one's breastplate has a long-haired cat painted on it!"
Two women dragged a knight by the legs toward the treeline only to stop confused by the unfamiliar sigil. They called for their squad leader.
"Wait—" Martha hurried over after finishing a shoulder dressing on a fur-clad northern rider. She glanced at the device and brightened. "It's a lion! Lennar said that's what lions look like! Right?"
She turned to the Karstark man she had just treated. Despite his pain he looked glanced and rasped:
"Yes… Lannister knight. Worth a ransom."
But Martha ignored the suggestion. She drew her dagger and slit the unconscious Lannister's throat with calm efficiency. Then she instructed the women:
"Next time you see this pattern—just finish them. Don't waste time."
"Yes ma'am!"
The women dropped the bleeding corpse and hurried toward the next casualty.
Afterward Martha turned back to the Karstark rider.
"What did you say?"
The man shook his head wearily.
"Nothing…"
His gaze drifted toward the sudden golden pillar rising from the southeast side of the valley.
At that moment every man still standing—north and west alike—noticed the phenomenon.
A warm radiant golden light shot skyward from the southeast slope. Sacred dazzling holy—demanding awe.
This must be a dream.
When awareness returned from endless dark Ethan found himself far from the corpse-choked wood.
He floated in a deep blue void. Far away a fierce bright star burned releasing blinding radiance. Around him countless jewels of light studded the darkness.
Below him hung a vibrant living planet glowing softly as though whispering the secrets of existence.
But with one glance Ethan knew—this was not his long-missed Earth.
He waited motionless sensing he had not been brought here without purpose.
Soon enough a golden being appeared before him—shaped like shifting puzzle pieces yet flickering constantly as though caught in powerful interference.
At the same moment a clear bell-like tone rang through the void. A thought—not words—planted itself directly in Ethan's mind:
"I am Naru… Shasha… Naru… Omur…"
A blurred intermittent voice.
Ethan ignored the speaker's identity. He demanded urgently:
"Did you bring me to this world?! Send me back—I want to go home!"
The voice stuttered on:
"…Shadows devour… Shasha… We must plant seeds of light… Shasha—to resist the dark… save this world—only then can you return…"
Ethan felt fury and helplessness.
"Save the world—is that it? Fine—go ahead! What does this world's life or death have to do with me?"
The voice persisted:
"The beacon is disrupted… Only by averting world-ending crisis… Shasha… can you return home… and claim the reward you deserve… The Light Resonance Crystal… Shasha… will… guide you…"
As the voice grew more broken the golden puzzle-being suddenly shattered. Light scattered like meteors in countless golden arcs then swiftly converged before Ethan condensing into a tiny crystal no larger than a fingertip—pure liquid-gold radiance.
The little stone held impossibly concentrated Light magic shimmering gently.
Though reluctance burned in him Ethan still reached out.
The instant his palm touched the crystal a tremendous pull erupted from the blue world below—yanking him back.
When he opened his eyes again he was back in reality—sitting against a large tree feeling drained to the marrow.
Kevin and several warriors stood guard around him swords drawn watching the darkness.
"Kevin—is the battle over?" Ethan asked voice cracked and dry like a man recovering from long fever.
"Teacher!" Kevin spun at the sound joy flooding his face. "Teacher—the battle is over! We won!"
"Ah… good. Help me up."
Ethan tried to grasp Kevin's arm but his limbs felt like sun-baked cotton—no strength at all.
"Teacher!" Kevin quickly supported him then froze voice trembling. "Your eyes—they're glowing gold!"
Ethan blinked in confusion. "Gold?"
He drew his sword used the polished blade as a mirror. Sure enough faint golden mist swirled in his irises—but the glow vanished in an instant as though it had never been.
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