[Chapter Size: 3400 Words.]

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Third Person POV

Bear Island, 300 AC.

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The first charge came out of the forest advancing with a thunderous sound of 500 horseshoes crashing against the ground while the camp was in complete chaos, with the ironborn running to their weapons or seeking shelter without having any defense against them, those men did not know how to stop a charge of 500 horses advancing like a wave of death, while their 1200 men there would be doomed.

“Archers! Quickly, formation!” Tristifer shouted to his men, his voice clearly showing nervousness.

The first line tried to form, but they had no way to create defenses against a heavy charge coming straight at them, after all, they were 500 armored men to the point that their own horses had a layer of Eldenmetal to protect their vital points and prevent them from falling easily.

“Shields! Form shields!” Other orders rose from other leaders, but everyone already knew it was too late.

The charge of horses was already upon them at that moment, there was nothing more to be done, the armored warriors of Arctic all wearing helmets advanced without mercy.

The coat of arms of the kingdom beyond the wall seemed to shine before the earth rising with the horses’ hooves, their first real battle in the seven kingdoms as conquerors.

The banners held by the standard-bearers fluttered, their enemies only saw the enormous wave approaching.

They even tried, though uncoordinated, they loosed their arrows placing them as fast as possible on the strings of their bows before aiming forward, firing into that line of horses, but their arrows either missed or struck against the armor without damaging it.

Their expressions of fear were seen, twisting even more as the horses drew closer.

Until…

The impact of the charge exploded over the men who were simply thrown backward by the force of the horses.

The first line simply ceased to exist.

Shields were crushed against chests, spears shattered, men were hurled into the air like dolls. The impact of the first of the 500 mounted horses was the first wave of death for the ironborn.

The sound was horrendous.

The crack of bones.

The crushing of flesh beneath hooves.

Metal cutting through light armor as if it were wet leather.

Lancelot was at the vanguard.

His sword came down diagonally, opening a man from shoulder to hip before the body even touched the ground. His horse tore through two locked shields, knocking down everything in front of him.

“Do not stop!” He roared, cutting through the camp.

His gaze fell upon Barristan Selmy who was there, at the side among the other royal guards, not falling behind.

That man seemed to have rejuvenated some 40 years, returning to his prime, with the potions he began taking since he entered the royal guard transforming the old man who was already known as a bull into a deadly weapon, just as any member of the royal guard should be.

This was because, even taking the potions, the training was done by Lancelot himself, every day before returning to the march through the region beyond the wall and intensified training when they arrived at the city built to create the fleet, while they awaited the king.

“Go! Go! Go!” Lancelot shouted at the top of his lungs amid all that chaos.

The 500 knights did not slow their pace, cutting through the center of the camp in a spear formation, thrown by a giant.

Tents were crushed.

Campfires scattered embers.

Cages toppled over.

Their enemies tried to stop them however they could. Some tried to grab the reins, they lost their hands or were dragged. Others tried to throw themselves aside, they were trampled.

The ground turned into red mud in seconds.

After completely crossing the camp, Lancelot raised his clenched fist.

“TURN!”

Like the training of many years in the northern fields of the kingdom, they acted as a single creature, the knights opened space and began to circle along the flanks, forming a wide arc, they advanced directly toward where the greatest number of ironborn were concentrating at that moment.

After all, as the charge of horses crushed their soldiers with ease, the easiest decision was to get out of the way, unable to resist the enemy and all began to run to the sides to stay out of reach of the enemy cavalry.

What they did not expect was that the Arctican army might have trained to deal with the dead most of the time, but training to kill other men as a single army had never been neglected. And they had multiple military maneuvers to use on the battlefield, as the commander needed to execute them.

Moreover, at the front, there were the cages with the captured women, advancing further would have hurt civilians as well.

In any case, the ironborn panicked for the second time as the groups concentrated on the flanks of the camp fleeing from the first charge.

The sound of ironborn continued as the two lines kept exterminating them with the screams continuing from Arctic’s enemies who could not even handle the advance of the cavalry without almost losing a single knight on horseback.

Tristifer Botley did not understand what was happening until he was knocked to the ground. He was not hit directly while shouting for his men to create any formation against that massacre.

His head was screaming as if some kind of whistle was inside it, he could not even see anything properly, only blurred images of men shouting and shadows moving around him.

The screams and exclamations of men, the neighing of horses, and even the sound of the impacts of death were nothing but muffled noises. He did not even remember what happened before he fell there.

All that came to his mind was only the wind of the impact of a horse passing inches away, and it was enough to throw him onto his back into the red mud mixed with the other bodies, while more and more horses passed by there.

For a second, he only saw sky. Gray.

More screams and muffled sounds.

The sounds slowly returned as he began to rise, even without air in his lungs, starting to recover.

He pushed himself up, leaning on his elbow. Then the sound returned.

Clearer screams.

Clearer horses.

Clearer sounds of impacts and fighting.

The entire camp was covered in dust, he could see nothing but shadows running in every direction, bodies on the ground, no enemies, only the men he led.

“Asha would mock me at this moment…” He did not fail to mutter those words.

A man came out of the cloud of dust at that moment, running as fast as he could as if something were chasing him from within it, he saw him and ran toward his commander.

“Lord Tristifer! Help me!” The man shouted and before Tristifer could say anything, a horse burst from the haze coming diagonally, Tristifer saw his man being skewered by a spear piercing through his neck as he fell to the ground and the armored rider disappeared into the haze again.

Tristifer saw his man there, on the ground agonizing with his throat pierced, his eyes reflecting only terror.

“Damn… where did these men come from…” He said in the tone of someone who had given up, his camp was finished, all he could expect there was death, correct?

He noticed the shadows with the sound of hooves advancing from the side, as they turned, coordinating a new movement even there, he heard an enemy trumpet.

They were turning.

Tristifer had to admit, that was not a disorganized charge, it was not a wild attack.

They are preparing to kill the rest of us…

Tristifer looked at his sword on the ground and picked it up, he had to fight. “Form a line!” his voice was hoarse.

“Form a line!” He repeated, searching for any ally in the haze.

“Form a line!!”

Finally someone appeared, two men in fact running toward him, but with no will to fight in their eyes, what they wanted was… to flee.

“They do not stop! They are coming!!!”

Tristifer grabbed the man by the arm. “Stand firm, damn you! We are ironborn!”

“You do not understand! It is no longer the horses! They are coming!” The man broke free from him and kept running away.

Tristifer wanted to kill that man, but he escaped before he could do anything, he was not in condition for that at the moment, but something caught his attention.

His gaze fell forward, leaving the two soldiers who did not stay with him but ran in the opposite direction, Tristifer kept his eyes fixed into the haze knowing that something was happening there.

Something was coming. He could hear the sound.

His thought was that the cavalry was returning, somehow disciplined to attack.

Then the shadows emerged, but they were not on horseback, and they were not his men, with that expression.

The enemy had an infantry charge advancing on foot behind the cavalry, it made sense now to Tristifer.

The first appeared, armor like the riders, all bearing the symbol of the kingdom beyond the wall.

Through the visors of their helmets, Tristifer noticed there was no hesitation. He had fought men from the North before. He had faced knights from the Riverlands, the Westerlands.

He had seen the face of many enemies. But that… That was different.

They did not shout words like:

‘What is dead may never die!’

‘For the King!’

‘For the North!’

There were no war cries or euphoria, all advanced in a silence that Tristifer could not imagine on a battlefield. Those men were there for only one thing, execution.

The first wave of death had come by horse, now the infantry was there to execute everything left by the cavalry, it was ironic, but efficient, Tristifer had to admit.

The men ran toward him, while one of them simply raised his sword to execute Tristifer in slow motion.

Tristifer knew he was going to die, but would he stand there waiting for death? He opened his mouth, shouting as he raised his sword, if this was his end, so be it, he would at least take one of those damned Arcticans with him.

However, before he could do anything, his neck was cut like hay against that Valyrian steel blade, he simply died there. And his body was crushed right afterward by hundreds of armored men running, as if the armor weighed as much as a feather.

The soldiers continued advancing while massacring everything they saw ahead, while helping any Arctican soldier who had fallen from his horse, even if that number was small.

Lancelot was mounted killing some men near the hostages while they ran toward them, most of the Arctican cavalry was stationed searching for anyone who ran out of the haze of dust.

They formed a wall, killing anyone who came out of it fleeing from the infantry that had just entered.

Men ran, some dismembered, others begging for mercy. But Jon had been clear, there was no mercy, not for those damned ironborn after what happened on this island.

Jon had declared them an evil people who had to make an extreme decision, they had to be exterminated once and for all!

Even Barristan Selmy looked at this swallowing hard, somewhere among the horses, as the cavalry slaughtered survivors.

“You seem shaken, knight of the south.” Another royal guard, always calling him that, said, looking at the knight.

“You should know this is our way when the king decides to exterminate someone, these men killed children and husbands in front of women, before raping them for moons.” He added.

“I know, I am just not used to this…” Barristan Selmy admitted, under the command of the forces of Westeros, they would certainly begin to accept the surrender of the enemies there.

However, the Arcticans massacred them like cornered animals. They executed every ironborn running in desperation and begging for their lives in a cruel and indifferent manner.

“They are animals, we deal with animals as they are.” The soldier finally said.

Barristan Selmy simply nodded, while he heard within all the dust, which was beginning to settle, the infantry advancing killing everything within the dust raised by the horses that were not the hostages.

Lancelot waited until the dust settled, while the other 500 members of the infantry were there, now visible, finishing off the last ironborn hiding in the destroyed camp.

“Good, now let’s clean up this mess and take care of the hostages.” He gave the order, as the soldiers began to move to organize the camp.

Already at the center of the island, the other Arctic charge, led by the king himself with a thousand horses, advanced against the enemy ahead.

The arrival was announced to Victarion Greyjoy, who was already organizing himself, having had more time to prepare his forces since he learned of the fifty ships that had appeared on the northern beach.

More than 3000 ironborn were preparing in the center of the island.

His gaze fell to the North as he rode to the front of the camp on horseback, seeing the forest stirring before him.

The Arcticans had wasted no time in attacking them after everything… He knew that the lack of information from the scouts Rodolf had left meant one thing, that they were all dead.

His eyes returned to the worried men, especially those in groups, moving the catapults, trying to point them to the North.

They had been doing this for many minutes, but had not even managed halfway, after they had remained pointed at Mormont Keep for weeks, sinking somewhat with the passing days of rain and fixing themselves into the ground. The wheels were buried. The hostages they were also trying to gather to make a shield of flesh were not ready, as they were still gathering them to place them, even if they were women, it would be a good incentive for the enemies to hesitate to attack…

“Faster! Push, you useless fools!” His men shouted to those trying to turn the catapults.

The sound of the horses grew louder… At first it was low, now it was clear and impossible to ignore, even the castle filled its walls and highest points with curious heads looking north.

The sound of 1000 horseshoes.

They were coming.

“Forget the catapults, forget the hostages! Drop that shit and get into position!” Victarion shouted to the men, who began to leave the catapults and the hostages, as they ran to grab their weapons and shields.

“FORM A LINE!” Victarion shouted with all the strength of his lungs. “Shields in front! Spears forward! Hold position!”

The men began to organize themselves.

First row knelt.

Shields locked.

Second row raised spears over the shoulders of the first.

Archers behind were already positioning arrows.

From the tree line, they finally emerged, a thousand fully armored riders, like a living wall advancing to crush them.

They kept forming their formation, even at 400 meters of distance.

Jon was the tip of the spear of death, silver armor, and with Blackfyre in his hand.

From atop Mormont Keep, everyone watched the scene unfolding before them.

Men on the walls.

Women holding children.

Wounded leaning against the battlements.

Lyanna was in the main tower, eyes wide along with her maester and the castle’s master-at-arms, all sharing the strange feeling of seeing their enemy, who had terrorized them for moons, being attacked by such a force of knights.

It almost seemed like a dream to the people of that island.

“They are…” Lyanna murmured.

However, something surprised them even more when a sound coming from above the tower drew their attention, making them turn in fright as they saw an enormous bird landing on the roof of the tower above them.

The tiles cracked slightly as Caraxes landed, looking forward with his eyes scanning the enemies and ignoring the astonishment of the Mormonts below the bird who, in the opinion of anyone who was not Arctican, should not exist.

He searched for his target… He found him in the middle of the formation of Jon’s enemies, his master.

It was finally the moment for him to fight for the man who had taken him from that log when he was on the brink of death, left to die after a snake found his nest. He no longer had his mother, he was alone, injured and cold.

Jon of 8 namedays had found him and cared for him, turning him into a kind of eagle unlike any other.

He had never had his true chance to help Jon since he made his kingdom, but this was his opportunity. His feet pressed hard against the tiles and he took off, lifting his wings as he descended toward where the enemies were.

His eyes were fixed on the one who continued shouting words in the human tongue, who had no idea of the danger advancing toward him.

No one noticed the sound of wings advancing over the ironborn, as they were more concerned with the cavalry advancing. Caraxes was closer, the man seemed nervous and determined, but he ignored the shadow being cast over him.

His men then saw it. But it was too late.

As they pointed behind Victarion, he even looked back at the last moment, interrupting his final orders to keep his men in formation, knowing that discipline and morale were what they needed if they wanted to survive that enemy charge.

He only saw the giant wings spread wide as a massive eagle stretched its legs toward him.

He could do nothing. He only felt the impact. The very claws of the monster-eagle the size of a horse circled both of the man’s shoulders, seizing him perfectly before tightening and piercing his skin with sharp talons, while his leather armor offered no resistance against something that could cut a man in half with ease.

The men around him heard the commotion as they saw the eagle shoving their commander forward, who began to scream before letting out a roar. The eagle beat its wings with force and began to fly, lifting Victarion from his horse, immediately terrifying everyone around them.

The brother of their king screamed in the sky as the men watched the scene in shock. Not even the archers had time to react; the eagle was already moving beyond their range, carrying Victarion away, his screams still echoing in the air.

In the castle, Lyanna and the others were equally stunned by the turn of events.

For the ironborn… They had just lost their commander.

That was the first blow to the morale of Arctic’s enemies, and it would not be the last.

The sound of something cutting through the air came from within the forest, rising into the sky as it continued flying toward them, slicing through the heavens. The objects began to fall on the flanks of the first defensive line.

The men recoiled when they saw the enormous harpoons burying themselves into the ground, barely missing anyone, but there was something strange about them, as small fuses were burning, with a liquid hanging from the base of the harpoon in a cylinder.

There were at least some 20 of those harpoons scattered around. Their men could not even understand what that was, until the fire of the fuse finally reached the liquid, which took no more than a few seconds after they fell into the camp, having been launched at the moment when the flame could no longer be extinguished.

In the next moment, two explosions came, one on each side of the enemy formation, tearing man after man apart, giving those nearby no time even to scream as green flames engulfed them entirely.

Those who were not caught, but close enough to burn as if their skin were being melted like rubber, screamed like animals. The entire ground began to tremble as the ironborn cried out in terror.

The Mormont men stared in shock at the explosions.

The Arcticans did not stop advancing as they saw two sides of the enemy formation catching fire, no, on the contrary… it only drove them to charge at full speed, with Jon already upon the first defensive line, crushing it while they were still trying to understand what was happening.

“Kill them all!” Jon shouted, his horse crushing the first enemy as if he were nothing.

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