Chapter 20 – Demons are Bloody
The Greybeards were in their element. Old men with weathered faces and scarred hands, swinging axes and spears with no thought for their own lives. They cut through men as if the years had only sharpened their hate, not dulled their strength. They were laughing as they kill the enemies of North.
Artos fought in the thick of it, Ice in hand, every swing tearing flesh and steel apart. He carved a path through the enemy when his eyes caught sight of a knight on horseback—broad-shouldered, armored in polished steel, a plume shaking as he reined his mount hard. The man's bearing marked him as one of command, not some nameless soldier or knight.
The knight's gaze fixed on him. His lip curled.
"You've the look of a Stark boy," he called out above the din, voice sharp as steel. "I am Ser Alliser Thorne. Call off your men. Surrender, and I'll see you spared. I'll speak to the prince himself—he'll grant you Winterfell."
Artos froze for the briefest heartbeat, the words like bile in his throat. Did the Southerners truly believe Northerners so weak? To sell blood for stone? To betray kin for a lordship ? Rage flared hot in his chest.
"You can go fuck yourself," Artos spat, spurring Snow forward.
He charged. Thorne jerked his reins, but too late—Artos's swing slammed into the knight's shield with the force of a hammer, and the blow toppled horse and rider alike. The knight crashed to the mud, cursing, scrambling up as Artos slid from Snow's saddle, Ice gleaming in his hands.
Steel hissed free. Thorne's longsword caught the morning light, his stance disciplined, sharp.
"I gave you a chance, boy," the knight sneered, raising his blade. "Hope you don't die too quickly."
Artos didn't bother with words. He came on fast, Ice sweeping down in a brutal arc. Thorne met it with a ringing parry that numbed Artos's arm. The knight pressed, thrusting quick and precise, forcing Artos back a step. He was no green man—his blade moved with the confidence of years of training.
But Ice was no common steel. Despite its size, the Valyrian blade moved as though it hungered for blood, light and swift in Artos's grip. He swung again, sparks flying as the two blades crashed together. Thorne grunted, the force driving him back.
They circled in the mire, steel flashing, boots slipping in the churned mud. Strike, parry, counter—blades ringing like bells of war. Artos felt the rhythm, felt the knight's timing, the way his guard dipped ever so slightly after each thrust.
Thorne lunged, his sword scraping past Artos's ribs by an inch. That was his mistake.
Artos pivoted, brought Ice down in a savage cleave that tore through the knight's pauldron and bit deep into his shoulder. Thorne staggered, gasping, blood spilling down his armor. He tried to lift his sword again, but his arm shook, strength faltering.
Artos did not hesitate. Ice sang as it swept through the air, the black-red mud leaping with the spray. Thorne's head parted from his shoulders in one clean stroke, toppling into the muck. His body crumpled beside it, twitching once, then still.
Breath misted in Artos's throat as he stared down at the corpse. Another bastard slain, another fool who thought the Starks would sell their honor cheap.
The battle raged on around him, but for that heartbeat, all he heard was the quiet hum of Ice, pleased with its feast.
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The mud beneath Artos Stark's boots had turned to crimson paste, a mixture of blood and earth that spoke of Northern fury unleashed. At the spearhead of his army, he carved through the enemy center like a blade through silk, Ice singing its steel song with each killing stroke. Behind him, his Northmen fought not as disciplined soldiers but as the very demons their foes named them—howling, relentless, drenched in gore that was not their own.
The sight that greeted the enemy was one from their darkest nightmares. Demonic Direwolf banners snapped in the wind above warriors who seemed to have crawled from the seven hells themselves. Men pissed themselves at the sight, some dropping their weapons to flee rather than face the Northern charge. The acrid stench of fear-loosened bowels mingled with the copper tang of blood on the wind.
"Demons!" The cry echoed across the battlefield, passed from mouth to terrified mouth. "Demon of the North!" "Demonwolf!"
Their commander screamed orders that went unheeded by men too terrified to stand. Fear was a living thing now, spreading through their ranks like wildfire. Artos smiled grimly through his helm's visor. Let them fear. Fear would break them faster than any sword.
From the reserve position atop a low hill, Prince Lewyn Martell of the Kingsguard watched his allies' right flank crumble like a sandcastle before the tide. Beside him, another white-cloaked figure shook his head in something approaching admiration.
"It seems the rumors have some truth in them," the knight observed, his voice carrying the measured tone of a man who had seen many battles. "The Northmen truly fight like demons. Not that I blame them for it."
Prince Lewyn's dark eyes followed the flow of battle, reading it like a maester might read a text. "Prepare the men," he commanded, his voice cutting through the din of distant combat. "We are going to trap these demons that men fear to speak of."
Behind him, a thousand of Dorne's finest spearmen began their advance, bronze-tipped weapons glinting like serpents' fangs in the afternoon sun. They moved with the fluid precision of vipers, seeking to encircle the Northern right and crush the wolf between hammer and anvil.
High above the battlefield, Rick's keen eyes showed Artos the ebb and flow of combat spread beneath him like a bloody tapestry. The North held advantage everywhere—save for one deadly pocket where a white-cloaked figure moved through his men like death given form. Each swing of the knight's blade was poetry written in blood, and Artos recognized that fluid grace even from this distance.
Ser Barristan Selmy.
The sight of the legendary knight carving through his men like wheat before the scythe sent ice through Artos's veins. He watched as brave Umbers charged toward the white knight, axes raised high in futile defiance. They were good men, loyal men—but they would die if he did not act. Against Barristan the Bold, courage alone would not suffice.
"Snow," he called, and his massive Horse materialized at his side, silver-grey fur bristling with the scent of coming violence. The beast's eyes held an intelligence that was almost human, and together they began their descent toward the melee.
But movement caught his attention—a glint of bronze in his peripheral vision that made his blood run cold.
Prince Lewyn Martell emerged from the press of his spearmen, and Artos cursed under his breath. The Dornish prince had timed his approach perfectly, cutting off Artos's path to Selmy while his men were still engaged with the enemy center.
Relief flooded through him as familiar figures appeared at his flanks. Bert and Hal, the inseparable twins whose loyalty had never wavered, led a wedge of howling Skagosi warriors to his aid. Their war cries predated the coming of the Andals to Westeros, sounds that spoke of older, bloodier times.
The clash came with the violence of thunder against stone.
Dornish spears thrust forward in perfect formation, their greater reach giving them the first taste of blood. Bronze points bit deep into Northern flesh, and men screamed as they died. But the Skagosi were not ordinary soldiers—they were island-born warriors who knew no fear, and their fury was a thing of legend.
Artos carved through the spear wall like a man possessed, Ice leaving trails of crimson mist in the air. The Valyrian blade sang as it worked, its edge so keen it parted bronze spearheads from their hafts as easily as a knife might cut parchment. Behind him, Stig and his men howled their ancient battle cries, pressing forward into the teeth of Dornish steel.
Then Prince Lewyn stepped from the press, his spear dancing toward Artos with serpentine grace. The weapon moved like a living thing, weaving deadly patterns in the air that spoke of years of training and countless battles won.
Steel met bronze with a sound like breaking bells. Artos found himself pressed hard, the Dornish prince's speed forcing him back step by bloody step. Each thrust came faster than the last, and only Ice's superior reach kept the bronze point from finding his flesh.
"It seems they didn't exaggerate about your skills, wolf pup," Lewyn called out, never slowing his relentless assault. Sweat beaded on his brow despite the cool air, testament to the effort required to match Artos stroke for stroke.
"You're good," Artos replied through gritted teeth, barely managing to turn aside a thrust aimed at his throat. "Were it not for Ice's reach, I'd be in quite the trouble."
The prince's smile was cold and predatory. "Then let us see how long Valyrian steel can preserve you, young lord."
They danced the deadly dance of spear and sword, each seeking the opening that would end the other's life. Around them, the battle raged on, but in this moment there was only the prince and the wolf, testing each other's mettle in the oldest game of all.
Blood ran down Artos's sword arm where the spear had kissed his flesh, but he pressed on, driven by the knowledge that his men needed him. Every second he spent here was another second Ser Barristan had to butcher his soldiers.
Then disaster struck.
From the corner of his eye, Artos saw Hal stumble, a Dornish spear taking him low in the belly. The loyal retainer's face went white with shock, his hands fumbling at the bronze point that had found its mark. Across the melee, Bert's eyes found his twin brother's face, and in that look was all the pain of a bond about to be severed.
"Hal!" Bert's anguished cry cut through the din of battle like a blade.
The twin went down hard, his life's blood darkening the earth, and something broke in both Artos and Bert. The careful control that had guided their movements shattered like glass under a hammer's blow.
Bert's transformation was instantaneous and terrible. The disciplined warrior vanished, he became a wild warrior. His axe became a blur of motion, carving through Dornish flesh with mechanical precision. Men died before they could raise their weapons, their screams lost in the hurricane of his grief-fueled rampage.
Artos felt the same wild fury take hold of him. His vision tinged red at the edges, and his strikes became broader, more brutal, less concerned with defense than with visiting pain upon the men who had taken his loyal friend. Ice cleaved through bronze and bone alike, painting him crimson from helm to boots.
But rage, however righteous, could be a double-edged blade.
Prince Lewyn, veteran of countless battles, recognized the change immediately. Where before he had faced a controlled swordsman, now he fought a berserker whose wild swings left openings a skilled fighter could exploit. The prince's dark eyes gleamed with satisfaction as he pressed his advantage.
The spear-point came faster than thought, sliding past Artos's wild guard like a serpent striking. Bronze bit deep into his right shoulder, grinding against bone with a sound that made nearby men wince. Fire exploded through his arm, and for a moment his vision went white with agony.
Lewyn smiled in triumph, already pressing forward for the killing thrust, certain that wound would drop the young lord to his knees.
But Artos Stark was winter-born, and winter was not easily killed.
Instead of falling, he roared like a beast and swung Ice in a vicious arc. The Valyrian steel, hungry for blood, caught the spear's haft and snapped it like kindling. The ancient blade's edge was so keen it barely slowed as it carved through the seasoned ash wood.
Prince Lewyn's eyes widened in shock. His hands, still gripping the useless remnant of his weapon, trembled as he reached for the curved sword at his belt. But death was already upon him.
Ice took his head clean off in a spray of arterial blood, sending it spinning into the mud while his body stood for a heartbeat longer, not yet realizing it was dead. When it finally toppled, the sight sent a ripple of horror through the Dornish ranks.
Around them, the enemy began to break. The sight of their prince's headless corpse, combined with Bert's relentless slaughter and the howling of the Skagosi, proved too much for men already shaken by Northern fury. They turned and ran, abandoning their dead and wounded to save their own skins.
Artos stood among the carnage, his right shoulder aflame with pain but he is withstanding the pain making his sword-arm still strong. Blood—his own and that of his enemies—ran down his leather armor in crimson rivulets. The wound was deep, sending waves of agony through his body with each heartbeat, but it had missed the major vessels. He would live.
And there was still work to be done. Somewhere in the press of battle, Ser Barristan Selmy continued his deadly work, and every moment of delay meant more Northern lives lost.
But first, let the enemy look upon their prince's corpse and know the price of facing the wolves of Winterfell. The Dornish spears lay broken, their leader was dead, and the North's enemies had learned to fear the direwolf's fangs.
The battle was far from over.
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