The night was unnervingly quiet. A cool breeze rustled through the branches, and the moon hung high like a cold, judgmental eye.
Then, the world exploded.
A massive roar erupted from the north bank of the Stone River. Hundreds of torches suddenly flared to life, snaking through the Lannister camp like fire-breathing serpents. The tents went up like tinder, and the screams of men being burned out of their sleep filled the air.
The Blackfish had arrived.
I didn't need a bird's eye view to know what was happening. Brynden Tully was a legend for a reason. He'd cleared the barricades, bridged the ditches, and now his cavalry was just mowing down sleeping Westerlands soldiers who didn't even have time to find their boots, let alone their swords. It was a straight-up massacre.
Ten minutes later, the west camp caught fire too. I could hear the heavy thump of Riverrun's trebuchets joining the party. The garrison had realized their ride had arrived and they were pitching in from the walls. The Lannisters were officially caught in a meat-grinder sandwich.
I watched from the shadows of the eastern forest. A few scouts scrambled out of Ser Forley Prester's camp to the south, checked the burning horizons, and sprinted back. The news clearly wasn't good.
The Lannister camp below me turned into a hornet's nest. Torches were moving everywhere, and orders were being screamed over the din. Ser Forley was no idiot. He knew the other two camps were lost. He was packing his bags.
Teams of guys in gold and crimson armor poured out, forming up with practiced speed. Pikemen slammed their shields down, their long spears bristling outward like a giant, angry hedgehog. The archers huddled in the center, protected by the wall of steel.
It was a solid formation. A nightmare for cavalry. If you charge a pike wall head-on, you're just turning your horse into a kebab. But the formation had a weakness: it was slow. And as it started to shuffle south toward the farmland, I saw the Tyrosh mercenaries, the guys paid to be there, cut down the Lannister banner and vanish into the night.
So much for corporate loyalty, I thought.
Then, things got weird.
Out of nowhere, a massive unit of Northern cavalry thundered out from the east bank of the Red Fork. They weren't part of my plan. I didn't know who they were, but they were charging straight for the river crossing, looking to cut Prester off.
Wait, who the hell is that? I felt a cold sweat prickle my neck. If they spooked Prester too much, he was going to bolt right into my "ambush" in the forest but he'd do it at full speed, with 4,000 men. My rope trick wasn't going to stop a stampede.
Sure enough, Prester saw the cavalry tide coming from the west and made a snap decision. His pike wall pivoted. They were heading straight for the eastern road. Straight for me.
"Dammit," I hissed. "They're coming our way."
The Lannister formation was tight, but moving that many guys over rough ground causes cracks. Men tripped. The pikes got tangled. But they were still coming.
I raised my hand and signaled my squad. "Now! Pull 'em!"
My five riders dug their spurs in, their horses dragging long ropes tied to the undergrowth. Behind us, the forest started to scream. Bushes whipped back and forth, branches snapped, and a massive flock of birds, scared half to death erupted from the canopy into the night sky.
From the outside, it looked like a thousand men were crashing through the woods.
Then, my hundred archers let fly.
Twang. Twang. Twang.
Volley after volley of arrows hissed out of the dark. We weren't aiming for precision; we were aiming for volume. I wanted the Lannisters to think the forest was crawling with Northmen.
"Ambush!" someone screamed down on the road. "Watch the trees!"
The front rank of pikemen faltered. Dozens of them went down, clutching at arrows. The screams of the wounded added to the chaos. The soldiers who hadn't been hit stopped dead, looking into the pitch-black woods with wide, terrified eyes.
Ser Forley Prester was a cautious man. He looked at the "tide" of cavalry to his west and the "army" in the trees to his east. He didn't know the North had split its forces. For all he knew, the entire 20,000-man Northern army was breathing down his neck.
Panic is a virus. It started with a few guys tripping over their own pikes and spread through the ranks. The "hedgehog" was starting to look more like a pile of toothpicks.
"Maintain formation!" Prester shouted, his voice cracking.
But his second-in-command, a guy named Ser Selin, pointed at the cavalry closing in from the river. "We can't stay here! We're sitting ducks! We have to break through the woods!"
I saw Prester's face under the moonlight. He looked desperate. "Fine! Charge the forest! Move!"
Oh, hell no.
"Fall back!" I yelled to my archers. "Get to the horses! Go!"
I wasn't about to lead a suicide charge against 4,000 guys. I'm a transmigrator, not a martyr. I was ready to vanish into the deep woods and let them pass until I saw another shadow moving in from the south.
It was a black banner. A white sunburst.
My dad.
"CHARGE!"
Lord Rickard's voice carried over the wind like a thunderclap. He wasn't waiting for them to reach the woods. He'd seen the Lannister formation crumble into chaos, and he wasn't about to let the opportunity slip.
He led the heavy cavalry, the iron-clad fist of House Karstark straight into the weakest point of the Lannister line.
They hit like a freight train.
Rickard was in the lead, his lance punching through a Lannister soldier's chest before the kid could even raise his sword. The rest of our riders followed, three hundred of them screaming Northern war cries as they tore into the archers.
It was a bloodbath. The pikes were useless in the scramble. The archers were being trampled into the mud. In minutes, a third of Prester's force was either dead or running for their lives.
I watched as the Karstark banner carved a path straight toward Prester's own colors. The Lannister commander was standing there with a handful of guards, looking like his world had just ended. He was wearing polished plate armor that shimmered like silver in the moonlight.
Rich guy. High value. Right there.
The adrenaline hit me like a physical punch. My heart was thumping against my ribs so hard it hurt.
Run? I thought, looking at my squad. Why the hell would I run now?
I reached out, grabbed the reins from Abel, and swung myself into the saddle. My body felt light, powerful, and ready.
"Mount up!" I roared. "Change of plans!"
My squad didn't hesitate. They saw the look on my face that Karstark "crazy" was finally starting to show. They gripped their weapons, their eyes reflecting the moonlight.
"See that silver armor?" I pointed my lance at Ser Forley Prester. "That's our ticket to the big leagues. Follow me and don't stop!"
I dug my heels in, and my horse surged forward, leaping over the low brush and out of the tree line.
"CHARGE!"
I leveled my lance, my eyes locked on the rich guy in the silver suit. I was going to show him that in this world, a lance is the ultimate equalizer.