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"Open the gate! Quickly!"
The guard of House Marbrand roared up at the men stationed on the palisade.
Just moments ago, their young lord had made such a racket that the situation spun completely out of hand. In the end, this veteran retainer, a man of long service and standing within the household, had been forced to strike Adam Marbrand across the face, knocking him unconscious with a single sharp slap.
At a time like this, who still cared about saving face between noble houses? The guard understood perfectly well what was going through Adam Marbrand's mind. He was not troubled by the eight hundred Westlander soldiers he had led out of the encampment, men drawn from many different houses, of which House Marbrand accounted for only a small share.
To speak plainly, Adam felt no grief for their loss, and so he cared very little for their fate.
What he truly could not stomach was the shame of his own retreat in such a pitiful state.
A war camp was not a city where one could hide one's affairs. Within these cramped wooden walls, word of victory and defeat spread faster than fire, and no man could conceal the truth. If he returned in this condition, stumbling back in disgrace, someone would surely put a mocking name on him, perhaps something like "Adam Marbrand, the coward who hid in camp and only ever lost battles."
That was something he absolutely could not endure, nor ever accept.
So he had struggled fiercely, thrashing against his own men, cursing his captain of the guards for daring to defy him. But the latter, hardened by years of service, turned a deaf ear.
In the end, the boy had been too unruly, and the captain silenced him with a knife-hand strike to the back of the neck.
"Open this gate at once! Who gave you the gall to keep it barred, placing the heir of House Marbrand in danger? If Ser Adam so much as suffers a single scratch, when Lord Marbrand returns, he will have your skins flayed and hung to dry from our family's banner pole!"
His voice was harsh and booming, because he knew only fear would make the gatekeepers obey.
And besides, he was not simply spouting wild threats without basis. Lord Damon Marbrand had only this one son, the boy lying unconscious before them, and the lord himself was already well into his years. Whatever vigor he once possessed below the waist had long since faded, and no one believed he would sire another heir.
So if anything were to happen to Adam Marbrand here, not a single soul present would escape with his life.
Never make the mistake of underestimating the influence of a landed Lord of the West. Against Tywin Lannister he might not stand tall, but against small men of the lower ranks like these gate guards, sweeping them aside would be the simplest thing in the world.
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"My lord, that up ahead should be the northern camp of the Old Lion. At the gates below, there seems to be a crowd. The guards have shut them out, and I think someone is calling for the gate to be opened."
The knight assigned to reconnaissance rode back and reported the news to Christen, who, like him, bore the name Manderly and now commanded the host.
Christen gave a small nod. Although he did not yet know the precise situation, his instincts whispered that if they timed it right, if they launched their charge the very moment those fools swung the gates open, then the day's work would become far simpler.
Having made the decision in his mind, he gave the order without hesitation.
"Have the whole army advance slowly. Keep formation tight, press forward as if we were ready to attack. Let those trembling cowards at the gate feel some real weight upon their shoulders."
A rumble of laughter and shouts of agreement rose from the Manderly cavalry in response.
They trusted their young commander, trusted him as wholly as they trusted Clay Manderly. And now, after Christen had already led them to two victories so decisive and satisfying that the memory still burned in their blood, they believed in him without the faintest doubt. His word was law, and they obeyed it without question.
So the heavy cavalry of House Manderly urged their destriers forward. Hooves struck the earth in measured rhythm, the ironclad column advancing step by step toward the gates of the northern camp, their line pushing forward like a tightening wall of steel.
The sight of this advance was not lost on the men still lingering before the gate, the Marbrand retainers who only moments earlier had been hurling abuse at the guards.
At once, they noticed the change, and cold sweat ran down their backs, soaking through their tunics.
They had seen it with their own eyes, the sheer brutality of the Manderly cavalry in the last fight. The image of those armored riders cutting men down like wheat still burned fresh in their minds, sharp, bloody, and terrifying.
At first, they had thought the infantry remnants, the sword-and-shield men and the scattered ranks of spearmen, would be enough to stall these riders, to give them something to chew on for a while before they came again. Yet against all expectation, the knights had not turned elsewhere. For some reason, their intentions twisted in ways no one could guess, they now pressed forward directly toward them.
Panic struck like a hammer blow to the chest. In that instant, every single Marbrand retainer understood with dreadful clarity that if the gatekeepers still refused to let them in, then once those cavalry reached their backs, not a man among them would escape being cut down where he stood.
So desperation drove them past the edge of reason. They shouted, threatened, cursed, clawing for any possible way to force the guards to yield. Some went further still, hotheads who, in their frenzy, drew out the small hand crossbows reserved only for a lord's most trusted household guards. With trembling hands, they leveled them at the men standing above on the wall.
"Open this gate right now, damn you, or I'll put a bolt through your skull!"
Their eyes were wild, voices cracking with panic.
While they raged and flailed, Christen, who had edged his horse closer, took in the scene at a glance. He understood at once that his simple little ploy had worked.
His gaze locked upon the gate. Every muscle in his body was coiled, waiting. The instant it opened, he would launch the charge.
There are times when to accomplish something, you need more than just your own hand. You need your friends, your allies… and sometimes, you need your enemies to play their part.
And this time, his foes were obliging indeed. They did not keep him waiting long.
Very soon, the sight he had been most eager to see unfolded before his eyes.
With a deep rumble, the tightly shut wooden gate swung open.
Steel sang as he drew his sword in a single smooth motion, the blade flashing as it rose high. Christen pointed it straight at the northern gate of the Lannister camp and bellowed, his voice carrying over the clash of hooves and armor.
"Soldiers! The Westermen have opened their gates for us! What are you waiting for? With me! Cut them down! Drive them back all the way to Harrenhal, and let our brothers on the walls see our banners flying beneath their eyes!"
"SOLDIERS… CHARGE WITH ME!"
He spurred his horse forward, riding at the very front, his body wreathed in the glow of a freshly-cast Quen Sign shield. Smooth as flowing water, he placed himself once more as the lightning rod, the point where every enemy's eyes and arrows would turn.
The ground thundered as hooves struck the earth in unison. The soldiers of House Manderly gave wild cries, their voices ragged with bloodlust, as they lowered their lances or brandished long swords, storming headlong through the gaping northern camp gate.
"Loose! Loose the arrows! Stop them! Stop them now!"
Up on the palisade, a knight of Riverspring, who had only moments earlier bowed beneath the Marbrand family's bullying, already felt his guts sour with bitter regret. His face was pale, his expression contorted as though he were swallowing poison.
He swore to himself that if not for those bastards below, aiming so many hand crossbows at him and pressing him with cold steel from every side, he never would have given the order to open the gate for that mob of deserters. Never.
But it was too late. The deed was done, and there was no medicine in this world that could cure regret.
What mattered now was finding some way, any way, to stop these northern horsemen, who were coming at them like sharks scenting blood in the water, thrashing forward with deadly hunger. That was the only thing he had to think about.
The trouble was, he had precious few options left in his hand.
This wasn't a true castle wall. There were no stone battlements, no massive war engines, no great ballistae built to bring down armored riders.
The Lannisters, fearing a sally from Harrenhal, had built the side of the camp facing the fortress strong and tight, ringed with watchtowers and traps, even double-stacking the palisades and digging trenches and pits. That side was solid, almost impregnable.
But on this flank? No one had ever imagined that after the northern host had already been smashed apart, there might still be another army pressing in from outside. So the defenses here were pitifully thin, little more than a wooden wall and a stretch of half-hearted guardwork.
And so, here he was, the commander of what had suddenly become the most critical point of defense, reduced to nothing more than bellowing until his throat was raw and torn, ordering his men to pour out everything they had, every last arrow from their quivers, raining them down in desperate volleys upon the charging riders.
But it was no use. Against Christen and his heavy cavalry, wrapped in plates of armor wrought with such fine skill and tempered steel, unless the riders practically stood still to be shot at, there was no chance the arrows would ever pierce through.
On the thick plates, shafts either glanced off with a metallic ping or stuck shallow, leaving only dents and scratches.
Even in the thinner spots, where the point could sometimes bite, the penetration was too weak. It broke skin, drew blood, stung like a brand… but it could not slow a knight's charge. At most, it made them wince, grit their teeth, and keep pressing forward.
Those tales of warriors bristling with ten, twenty arrows and still charging fearlessly, fighting like porcupines turned to men? They were never miracles. They were only the product of armor so strong it turned real wounds into little more than scratches. Strip away their plate, and not a one of them would dare such bravado.
That was the truth: victories might be dressed up in talk of clever stratagems, of inspired command, or the bravery of soldiers giving their all. Yet in the end, without the right arms and armor to carry it through, no triumph could be made into a pattern, no miracle repeated again and again.
On Christen's helm and faceplate, arrows clattered and rang, each strike a sharp metallic knock, as though a blacksmith were hammering at his skull from every angle.
But he barely noticed. It didn't matter. He knew the Quen sign still glimmered faintly around him. He was untouchable! He was invincible!
Leaning low over his mount, he urged it onward, pouring every ounce of strength into the charge. He no longer cared about saving the beast's stamina.
Because if they failed to break through here, if they were thrown back, then that wall looming so tall ahead of them would shut them out completely. There would be no reaching the base of Harrenhal's mighty towers. They would have to start over, find another way, waste precious time they didn't have.
No… this was the moment. The chance was here and it would never come again. There was no room left for hesitation.
The warhorse let out a piercing neigh, hooves pounding harder, as if its heart and its rider's will had fused into one. Its speed surged again.
Four hundred paces. Three hundred. Two hundred. One hundred…
At last, the wooden gate loomed right before them. And those poor souls who had forced it open, who were still pushing and shoving to squeeze inside, turned and caught sight of Christen bearing down on them like a storm.
Terror split their throats. A wave of panicked screams rose into the air.
They had come too fast!
So fast that the men who had just pried the gate wide hadn't even finished getting through.
This wasn't like a castle's heavy portcullis, the kind that could be dropped in an instant, coldly ignoring the lives crushed beneath. Brutal, bloody, but at least effective.
No… this was nothing more than a timber gate. Even if someone inside wanted to shut it, it could only close once the space was clear.
And in this state, with men jammed shoulder to shoulder in the doorway? To dream of closing it now was madness.
At the head of the charging riders, that black-armored figure came crashing in, arrows bristling from his horse's barding like quills, yet the knight himself sat untouched, not so much as a hair harmed. Seeing him storming down upon them from behind, the commander at the gate, one of the Western lords pressed unwillingly into service here, shut his eyes in despair.
He knew then, beyond doubt, that he had made a mistake of disastrous scale.
As a Westlander noble, his rank wasn't high enough to sit at Lord Tywin Lannister's table and weigh in on the war's direction. But one didn't need such privilege to hear whispers, to pick up news from the fringes.
And he knew well enough: both the northern camp and the eastern camp were empty shells. Lord Tywin had poured everything he had, all the strength of the West, into this offensive. He had wagered blood and treasure alike on this strike.
And that wasn't the worst of it. No… the true weight lay inside this very camp.
There were two very important people here.
Two figures who had never once set foot on a battlefield, yet whose standing was so unshakable that in the entire host, aside from Lord Tywin himself, not a single man dared cross them, not even with a word.
If these two fell into the hands of the northern horsemen about to burst through… then the West was finished. Complete finished.
It would be a blow far crueler than Ser Jaime Lannister's capture. That had been a wound. This would be the uprooting of the very Lannister foundations.
The knight thought of Lord Tywin's cold, merciless face. He thought of how the lion of Casterly Rock would look at him, what sentence would follow, what retribution. His eyes burned hot, almost bloodshot. In that instant, even the instinct to flee died away.
Where could he run? Nowhere.
Instead, he yanked the longsword from his hip. With what men remained loyal around him, he abandoned the gate and turned. Together they formed up just behind the threshold, steel flashing in the dim light.
He had made his choice. With his life and the lives of his followers, he would stand.
He would fight these northern riders who came like wolves, like tigers, tearing down everything in their path.
Even if his own head rolled from his shoulders, even if his blood ran into the dirt, at the very least Riverspring would be spared from blame.
Absolutely…
Absolutely he could not allow those men to find the two within.
Never!
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[Chapter End's]
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