Time seemed to speed up.
It felt like the fight had only just begun, yet somehow it was already almost over.
Using the palisade as cover, the garrison soldiers and sailors had successfully held back the first wave of attackers.
Most of the Ironborn were wearing little more than padded shirts.
Many simply fled once they realized the assault wasn’t going anywhere.
The survivors were finished off by the remaining guardsmen.
But while everyone was distracted by the attack coming from deeper inland, terrible screams suddenly rose from the beach.
Sharp screams.
Full of fear and pain.
Arthur froze.
A chill ran down his back.
The Ironborn’s light boats had gone around the vessels pulled up along the shore and slammed directly into the sand.
Warriors wearing armor and mail leaped ashore with excited cries, axes, swords, and spears in their hands.
They immediately went after anyone who hadn’t managed to reach safety.
Women.
Wounded men.
Soldiers who had been left behind.
“No…
we’re finished,” someone nearby groaned.
“Warrior Almighty, give us strength…”
The guardsmen and sailors fighting beside Arthur hesitated.
Some even took a step backward.
They had almost repelled the attack at the palisade thanks to the fortifications, but now they had to rush back toward the beach, where the unfortunate people were already being cut down and dragged away.
Arthur saw one of the women.
She was a redhead, barely covered by a cloak, and she had thrown herself at the Ironborn who attacked her.
Her fingers clawed desperately at his face, scratching at his eyes.
The man grabbed her by the hair.
With one movement, he slashed her throat and threw her lifeless body aside.
“Fucking bitch…”
He clutched his injured eye and kicked the woman’s corpse.
“Fall back!
We’re all…”
One of the soldiers shouted before choking on a powerful blow to the stomach.
“Hold the line!”
The familiar Lannister guardsman roared furiously, throwing kicks and punches as he desperately tried to form some kind of battle line.
“Everyone with shields, forward!
Lannisters!”
“Come on, lad!”
Tom grabbed Arthur by the shoulder and pulled him along, finding a place in the second line.
There weren’t many of them.
They managed to form only two lines.
Maybe two and a little more.
Directly in front of Arthur stood a tall, blond-haired young man, shoulder to shoulder with two other men.
His mud-covered mail blocked most of Arthur’s view.
“Forward!
One, two…”
The line moved forward.
Sometimes falling behind.
Sometimes moving too far ahead.
Arthur cautiously looked through the gap between the unevenly positioned shields.
Thanks to their commander’s efforts, the soldiers had managed to regroup.
But now they were facing real warriors.
Men hardened by dozens of raids.
These weren’t the poorly armed, half-trained militia they had been driving away from the palisade.
These men advanced calmly, cruel smiles on their faces.
Their blades were already wet with blood.
Behind them, archers were drawing their bows.
“SHIELDS!”
The guardsman who had taken command screamed at the top of his lungs.
The gaps between the shields disappeared.
“DOWN, YOU IDIOT!”
Tom’s hand practically slammed Arthur into the man in front of him, dragging him down.
Just in time.
Some of the Ironborn were firing their arrows in high arcs, and the first volley reaped a bloody harvest among those who hadn’t managed to duck or had fallen behind.
Under the protection of the archers, the first warriors charged forward.
They attacked from the flanks, forcing the shield line to bend inward at the edges.
“Forward, you sons of bitches!
Hear my roar!”
The command was immediately followed by a thunderous barrage of blows against the shields.
Arthur was shoved backward.
“STAB!”
Sharp blades thrust through the gaps between the shields.
Arthur could barely see anything anymore.
He seemed to have completely lost himself in the battle.
Screaming along with everyone else, he drove his sword with all his strength through one of the openings.
Wounded men screamed everywhere.
The Lannister commander was shouting something.
For Arthur, everything had merged into one savage blur of screams, blood, killing, and desperate attempts to survive.
And somehow, they managed to repel the first wave.
But there were far too few of them to take advantage of their success.
New enemies were already moving around behind them.
The first to fall was the blond-haired young man protecting Arthur.
The nameless Lannister, dressed in fairly good armor, suddenly had a deep wound in his unprotected head.
A bloody axe now protruded from his hair.
Arthur screamed and struck at its owner, miraculously catching the man in the throat with the very tip of his sword.
It was enough.
Another guardsman standing nearby tried to pick up the fallen shield.
But an Ironborn slipped neatly through the opening and drove his blade into the man’s neck.
The soldier choked.
Blood ran down the golden lion on his chest before he collapsed face-first into the mud.
Arthur didn’t even have time to scream.
A spear was already flying toward him.
He barely managed to dodge.
Then he felt someone behind him collapse, struck by the same attack.
A moment later, Arthur found himself in the thick of the fighting.
Short, brutal battles erupted everywhere.
The Ironborn had worked around the flanks and were now viciously attacking anyone who became isolated.
Arthur slashed.
Stabbed.
Tried desperately to avoid the blows coming back at him.
Blades flashed.
Axes tore through flesh.
The clash of metal and the groans of the wounded merged into one enormous, storm-like roar.
The damned krakens were everywhere.
At one point, Arthur raised his sword to block a blow, but the impact nearly knocked him off balance.
The Ironborn in front of him was broad-shouldered, with long blond hair braided into several plaits.
He grinned and stepped backward, playing with Arthur like a child.
Arthur stepped forward and thrust quickly.
The man deflected the attack without difficulty.
Then he spun and swung his weapon.
Arthur barely managed to stumble backward, tripping over someone’s corpse and falling into the mud once more.
“Get up, Arkt!”
Tom appeared in front of him.
He tried to protect the boy, drawing the enemy’s attention toward himself.
Someone nearby screamed.
A scream of pure agony.
A dying scream.
The ground was slick with blood.
Arthur barely managed to stand, using someone’s body for support.
He didn’t see when the sailor protecting him was wounded.
First, there was a ragged wound in the man’s arm.
Then his head was simply torn from his shoulders.
Tom.
Cheerful Tom.
Tom, who rhymed everything he saw.
Tom, who gave everyone nicknames.
He would never sing his filthy song again. You are reading on g.com, the official source.
His face was twisted in a final scream as his severed head flew somewhere into the mud, staining his red hair.
“No!”
A curtain of rage fell over Arthur’s eyes.
Stumbling through the mud, he charged at the tall figure standing before him.
“Die!”
One blow.
Another.
Then another.
And another.
The fury consuming the boy seemed to double his strength.
But even so, the astonished warrior managed to block every attack, skillfully using his shield and the advantage of his plate armor.
Arthur’s sword knocked splinters from the sturdy shield and left deep notches in the man’s shoulder plates.
The Ironborn seemed to be playing with him.
He didn’t attack.
He simply waited for the boy to exhaust himself.
And that’s exactly what happened.
After several powerful strikes, Arthur felt completely empty.
His opponent didn’t seem tired at all.
Arthur breathed heavily, gripping his sword with sweaty hands.
His arms trembled with exhaustion, and a sticky mixture of sweat and dirt ran down his face.
Standing before him was a tall man in battered armor, holding a massive shield decorated with a crooked oak cross on a blue field.
Above his head appeared a glowing inscription:
Darrion Sparr
Heir of House Sparr
“Well, come on, little one,” the Ironborn said in a rough voice with a hint of amusement.
“Go on.
Do something.
I’m getting bored.”
Arthur clenched his teeth and charged again, swinging his sword downward.
The man easily blocked the blow with his shield.
Then he suddenly drove his foot into Arthur’s stomach, knocking the air from his lungs.
Arthur flew backward and crashed into the mud.
His elbow struck something soft.
He looked down in horror.
It was the body of the Lannister guardsman who had been talking to Tom only a few minutes earlier.
The dead man’s eyes were wide open.
Blood still seeped from his throat.
“Get up before I change my mind,” Sparr said with a lazy grin, spinning his sword in one hand.
“Or have you already shit yourself?”
Arthur struggled to his feet.
His legs were trembling, but he stepped forward again, forcing himself to ignore the corpses around him.
One of the Lannister soldiers lay only a few steps away.
A spear protruded from his back.
The very same spear Arthur had dodged.
Blood had soaked through his clothes.
His eyes, once full of life, now stared into nothing.
Arthur clenched his teeth and charged again.
He struck.
Sparr stepped aside.
They exchanged several blows.
Then Sparr casually slashed at Arthur’s unprotected leg, leaving a shallow but burning wound.
Blood began to run down his leg.
“Well, that’s it,” the Ironborn snorted.
“Your little dance is over.”
He looked at Arthur.
“You fought bravely, I’ll give you that.
What’s your name?
Which house are you from?”
He smiled.
“Surrender.
If they offer a ransom for you, then…”
A long, deep blast of horns suddenly cut through the air.
The ground trembled.
The cries of the fighting men turned into screams of panic.
Sparr abruptly turned around.
Arthur looked up too.
Cavalry was racing down the slope.
Lannister cloaks whipped in the wind.
The hooves of the heavy warhorses kicked up clumps of mud and blood.
The cavalry quickly crossed the half-destroyed palisade and crashed into the disorganized Ironborn like a knife through hot butter.
Men were cut down.
Others were trampled beneath the horses’ hooves.
Everything happened so quickly that Arthur completely forgot about his opponent.
Sparr himself snarled and raised his sword.
But he never got the chance to attack.
A massive knight burst from the crowd of riders.
He wore heavy armor.
His helmet was decorated with the face of a dog.
Despite his enormous size, he moved with terrifying speed.
His huge horse thundered past Arthur.
The rider swung his sword.
The blade passed effortlessly through Sparr’s chest, tearing through mail and flesh.
Darrion jerked.
He made a strange choking sound as he tried to say something.
Blood poured from his mouth.
The enormous sword was pulled free.
Sparr collapsed onto the ground, twitching violently before finally becoming still.
Arthur stood frozen.
Sparr’s blood had splashed across his face.
Slowly, he looked up at the knight wearing the dog’s head.
The man didn’t say a word.
He simply turned his horse, preparing for his next attack.
Arthur swallowed.
His fingers tightened around his sword in a death grip.
The enormous rider moved across the battlefield like a battering ram smashing through ships.
His massive two-handed sword rose and fell.
Every strike left mangled bodies behind.
In full armor, he seemed like an impenetrable fortress.
Blows that would have knocked another man off his feet were little more than minor inconveniences to him.
He didn’t even carry a shield.
The Ironborn tried to surround him.
Against his strength and armor, their axes and swords were useless.
Then they tried to run.
That was a mistake too.
The knight wasn’t particularly graceful.
He was simply brutal and effective.
He deliberately smashed limbs, broke bones, and knocked weapons from people’s hands.
One Ironborn was too slow to dodge.
He tried to protect himself with his axe, but the Lannister’s blade swept straight through his arm, cutting almost to the bone.
The next blow split his head.
Hot blood splashed across the knight’s armor.
Around him, the Lannister cavalry was already finishing off the last of the enemy.
Arthur simply stood among the bodies, breathing heavily and gripping his blood-covered sword.
The blade was covered in fresh notches.
The battlefield was littered with corpses.
His comrades.
His enemies.
And unfortunate people who had simply been caught beneath swords and axes.
The sticky mud beneath his feet wasn’t really earth anymore.
It had mixed with blood and entrails, becoming a slippery, filthy mess.
Arthur’s own blood was mixing with it too, running down his injured leg.
He had survived.
Alone.
When the last of the Ironborn fell, the rider turned his horse and headed directly toward Arthur.
The horse was breathing heavily, its sides covered in foam, but it continued steadily across the battlefield, clearly accustomed to having corpses beneath its hooves.
Up close, the knight seemed even taller.
The rider raised an armored hand and opened his visor.
Behind it was a harsh face with sharp cheekbones and a heavy brow.
The entire left side of his face was one enormous burn, partly hidden beneath long hair.
Sandor Clegane.
That was the inscription floating above his head.
He carefully examined the boy.
Arthur was covered in dirt and blood.
There was no house insignia on his armor, but it was obvious that he’d been fighting on their side.
Clegane had seen the end of his fight with the kraken.
“Who are you?” he asked in a deep, rough voice that suited his appearance.
“Arthur…” the boy muttered.
His tongue felt as though it were stuck to the roof of his mouth.
He was so exhausted that he could barely remain standing.
“What happened here?”
Clegane lifted his chin and looked over the destroyed camp.
“The Ironborn…
They attacked from the mountains and from the boats…
We tried to…”
Arthur swallowed and gestured toward the corpses.
He could feel his legs trembling.
Whether from exhaustion or from everything that had just happened, he couldn’t tell.
Sandor snorted, looking over the battlefield with the indifference of a man who had seen scenes like this far too many times.
“Right.”
There was no mockery in his voice.
No judgment.
Just a statement of fact.
He looked toward the sea.
The remains of the ships were still burning, surrounded by Ironborn vessels.
It seemed they were trying to put out one of the galleys.
And they were actually succeeding.
Another group was chasing the ships that had managed to escape.
Arthur clenched his fists, gathering his thoughts.
Then, almost automatically, he muttered:
“Thank you, Ser…”
Clegane immediately turned his head toward him.
His lips twisted into an unpleasant grin.
“I’m not a knight, boy.”
He paused.
“Remember that.”
Meanwhile, the riders were finishing off the wounded.
One of them, riding a tired gray horse, approached Clegane.
“What do we do?” the guardsman asked.
He was blond, bearded, and clearly a little older than Clegane.
“They’ll be here soon.”
He gestured toward the Ironborn longships.
“Fuck…”
Sandor cursed.
His face twisted, making the scar look even more grotesque.
He looked over the ruined camp once more.
Then he gave an order.
“Take everything we need and get the hell out of here.
We’ll try to reach the second camp.”
“By land?!”
The rider looked west.
Darkness was already gathering among the rocks and scattered trees.
“But there are a ton of Ironborn out there…”
“Did you fucking hear me?”
Sandor fixed him with a heavy stare.
“We’re leaving.
Now.”
“Or do you want to wait until those bastards come back?”
The guardsman clenched his teeth but didn’t argue.
For several minutes, frantic activity swept through the ruined camp.
The riders dismounted and ruthlessly broke open crates of supplies, grabbing everything they could carry.
Bread.
Dried meat.
Water.
Someone quickly searched the corpses, both their own men and the enemy, looking for coins.
One soldier even tried to lift a heavy sack of grain.
Clegane immediately barked:
“Drop the fucking thing!
We’re not millers.”
The soldier nodded and hurriedly dumped the grain onto the ground.
Sandor dismounted as well.
With one movement, he broke open the lid of another crate and pulled out a bottle of cloudy liquid.
It seemed to be one of the bottles Soren had dropped.
“Piss…”
He grimaced, but still drank almost half of it.
Arthur remained standing in the same place.
His lips were cracked.
His legs were trembling.
His chest was still rising and falling heavily after the battle.
He tried to bandage his bleeding leg with a piece of cloth that looked relatively clean.
Then, limping over to the tall man, he finally found the courage to speak.
“Si…
ahem…”
He met Clegane’s heavy stare and almost choked on his own words.
“What…
what happens to me?”
“What, do you need a fucking special invitation?”
The Hound leaned closer.
He smelled of blood, sweat, and cheap liquor.
“Take a fucking horse and get some food.”
Several horses really were tied beside one of the tents.
A couple more, without riders, wandered around the camp.
“I don’t know how…” Arthur managed to say.
Inside, everything tightened with fear at the thought that they might simply leave him behind.
“Didn’t your father teach you how to ride?”
“I’m an orphan.”
“Fuck…”
Sandor exhaled and shook his head, looking as though he couldn’t decide whether to laugh or swear.
“Listen, kid.
I don’t have time to deal with you.”
He pointed toward the horses.
“Take one and learn fast.”
“Pull the left rein to go left.
The right one to go right…”
He shrugged.
“You’ll figure it out.”
“Or you’ll die.”
Nobody was going to let Arthur ride on their horse.
They were going to move quickly.
Sandor waved his hand, signaling to the others.
“All right.
Enough looting.
We’re leaving soon.”
Arthur looked toward the horses.
He had no idea what he was doing.
But apparently, that didn’t matter.
He would either figure it out…
or die.