Chapter 15 – Artos Stark
The arrows struck first, darkening the sky before tearing into the enemy lines. Men screamed as shafts slammed into flesh, scattering their formations. Chaos rippled through them, spines breaking beneath the weight of fear.
Now came the final blow.
I steadied myself, tightening my grip on the spear. Snow, my warhorse, was restless beneath me, but the bond between us ran deeper than reins or spurs. Our minds were one. I did not need to guide him — he felt me, as I felt him.
"Winter is Coming."
The words tore from my throat like a warhorn, and Snow surged forward, thousands of hooves thundering behind us. The Northern cavalry roared like wolves let loose, sweeping down in waves of steel and fury.
We slammed into the enemy lines. Their commander had rallied them, I could see that. They held tighter ranks now, a spark of hope flickering, but it meant nothing. Hope shatters beneath Northern steel.
The charge ripped through them like an axe through kindling. Spears impaled men clean off their feet; swords carved, horses trampled, shields splintered. I thrust my spear, again and again, until it shattered on a man's chest with a crack. Blood spattered my mail, hot and viscous. Without pause, I drew my sword and cut down the next screaming knight who dared stand in Snow's path.
Dozens fell. Perhaps hundreds. I hardly counted.
And then I saw him.
A knight in bright armor, commanding and fierce, cutting down Northmen with sharp precision. His stance, the way men rallied to him — this was their leader.
Jon Connington. The Hand of the King.
I urged Snow toward him, snatching up a heavy lance from a fallen man. He turned to me, saw me coming, and spurred his warhorse forward. A duel borne of chaos — two lines converging, two wills colliding.
We met like jousters, wood splintering, iron screaming. Our first passes left only rents in armor, shallow blows in steel — no death, only fury. We wheeled again, blow after blow, before both knew this would not be settled in the saddle.
We dismounted.
I sent Snow away with a command whispered silently to his mind. He obeyed, circling but safe, waiting for me.
"I am Jon Connington," the knight declared, voice grim. "Hand of the King."
I said nothing. His words carried no weight with me.
"You are young," he continued, his sword raised in ready guard. "Your face… your eyes. Stark, no doubt. There's no need for you to die so foolishly. Surrender now. Bend the knee and live. With Brandon dead, with your brother's rebellion breaking — I could grant you Winterfell, the North itself. Stark blood need not vanish. Serve the crown, and be spared."
His words sickened me. Did he think I was some grasping traitor, willing to barter my honor and kin for a crown not mine to claim?
My grip tightened on the hilt. My voice was cold iron.
"I will kill you, and send your head to your king."
We clashed.
Steel rang against steel, each strike meant for death. He was the more seasoned fighter, I could tell — his footing measured, his counters sharp. But I was faster. Stronger. My size misled him. Men of my build relied on brute force; he expected it. But my style was speed, sharp, relentless. Every stroke pressed him harder, every feint found him slower to respond. His eyes betrayed his surprise.
Jon Connington's thoughts — I could almost see them. The Hand of the King, famed bladesman, struggling before a boy of the North.
He shifted, began feinting, showing false gaps in his guard, baiting me. He wanted me careless. One slip, and I would fall. I saw it for what it was.
Instead, I struck faster. My blade sang in a storm, hammering his right side, unbalancing him. His footing faltered. That single misstep spelled his doom.
With one sudden swing, my steel tore deep across his neck.
Blood fountained, hot and dark, spraying down his mail. He fell, gasping, clawing at the wound, screaming hoarsely as his lifeblood poured away. His strength broke; his eyes, once proud, flashed only terror.
I stood over him, stone-faced, and watched as his body failed him. Slowly, so slowly, he drowned in his own blood, until silence took him.
The Northern cavalry raged unchecked. Enemy lines shattered, cries of panic filling the field. Horses thundered on, manes streaked with blood, their riders like wraiths. Some said we Northerners were demons — that day, we were.
Everywhere, broken men fled. Everywhere, death pursued.
From the other side, the Riverlords struck.
Ser Brynden "Blackfish" Tully drove his men into the enemy's rear, cutting them down without quarter. Stragglers, deserters — none escaped his command. The Blackfish showed no mercy.
"Seven hells," Brynden muttered as he witnessed the Northern charge sweep across the battlefield. They tore through the foe like hail on dry grass, cruel and unstoppable. No feigned chivalry, no pretenses of gallantry. Only killing.
He watched their young commander — a Stark boy, no, a Stark man — riding at the vanguard as though fused to his steed. Snow carried him like shadow. Artos Stark killed with precision, with purpose, scything through lives as though counting meant nothing.
Brynden's breath caught when he saw him face Jon Connington. The Hand of the King, one of the realm's most skilled knights, facing a stripling commander. Fear prickled him — that boy would be struck down.
But it was otherwise. He watched, stunned, as Artos slew Connington with ruthless swiftness, leaving him writhing to die slow. Brynden grimaced. A clean death had been denied.
"Demons of the North," the Reachmen called them.
The name fit.
When the field quieted, corpses lay thick as snowdrifts. Northern cavalry, faces and steel streaked with red, looked less like men and more like shades returned from the grave.
I stood in the ruin. Broken men surrendered; few were left alive to do so. My own losses were far lighter, for once — advantage had been ours, utterly.
Through the haze of smoke and blood, Ser Brynden Tully rode to me. His armor bore no less slaughter, though his eyes were keen.
"I am Ser Brynden Tully," he said, dismounting, "brother to Hoster Tully, Lord Paramount of the Riverlands."
"I am Artos Stark. Brother to Lord Eddard Stark — Warden of the North."
Brynden's gaze flicked to the corpse of Jon Connington. "You didn't have to kill him so ruthlessly," he said quietly. "A clean death… you could have granted him that."
I looked him in the eye, my voice cold as winter stone.
"They stood silent while my father and brother burned. Why should I spare theirs? They gave me no mercy. I owe them none."
Brynden exhaled slowly. He knew convincing me otherwise was folly. Too much pain, too much loss.
"What's done is done," he murmured. "Your brother and the other lords will be gathering soon, to speak of the battle and what comes after. Join us."
"In time," I replied, my eyes searching the bloody field. "First I see to my men."
--
YOU LIKE THE WORK PLEASE SUPPORT 🙏
Please join the patreon and join the pack
www.patreon.com/Cregantheblackwolf
Thank you for your support and I am really grateful.