The dawn rose slowly, spreading pale red fingers across the eastern sky. Mist, like a gauzy veil, blurred the landscape, while the western horizon remained shrouded in darkness, dotted with fading stars. The Reach army's camp, situated on a gentle, grass-covered hill east of the King's Road, was waking to the soft light. Tents stretched across the slope in neat rows, banners fluttering in the morning breeze, declaring the presence of lords and knights as the day began.
Isaac yawned, covering his mouth, as he patrolled the camp. He took a few long sips from his water skin, letting the icy liquid dispel the lingering fatigue. Sleep clung to him stubbornly. Back home, he thought, his mother would already be calling him to the fields, and the family would be bent over plowing or planting wheat. He had been born for this predictable, tedious life—but when the call for recruits came, he had spent his saved wealth on equipment and joined The Rose's army. Anything was better than returning to the monotonous toil of his village.
The silence was broken by distant barks of dogs and the occasional grumble of exhausted men who had not slept all night. Suddenly, a long, sharp blast of a horn echoed from the west. Isaac shivered. Who could be blowing the horn at this hour?
A cold chill, sharper than frost, surged through his spine, and instinctively he flung the water skin to the ground. Grabbing his crossbow, he ran up the hastily built high platform for a better view.
From the western forest, chaos erupted: trees shook violently, birds screeched as they fled, and small animals darted into the withered yellow grass. Then, to Isaac's disbelief, two hundred humanoid shapes emerged—tall, immense, moving with terrifying purpose.
He blinked, rubbed his eyes, and stared again. His mind refused to accept what it saw. Were these the giants from his mother's stories? Taller even than the Mountain, clad from head to toe in dull gray armor, gripping shields nearly twice the size of a man, they marched steadily toward the camp. Their movement was slow, deliberate, yet unstoppable.
"Enemy attack!!" Isaac screamed, rushing down the platform and shaking his companion awake. "Blow the horn, blow the horn, you idiot!"
The mournful sound of the horn echoed across the camp, immediately alerting the soldiers. Armor clanged, horses neighed, and Randyll Tarly, already prepared for a potential night raid, emerged from his tent. He ordered his personal guard to sound the assembly horn, while elite soldiers armed with long spears and large shields surged out, forming protective circles around the tent of the Horn Hill Earl.
Shields were placed inside, spears outside, forming a defensive formation that resembled a crouching hedgehog on the hilltop. Knights rode through the camp, their banners fluttering, urging the cavalry to join the ranks. Among them, the green banner embroidered with two golden roses stood out—the sigil of Ser Garlan Tyrell, the "Valiant," brother to the Knight of Flowers. Within moments, a thousand cavalrymen had assembled, numbers swelling steadily.
Randyll Tarly swung onto his horse, scanning the battlefield from the high ground. To the north, ten thousand soldiers from Harrenhal were stationed on the opposite slope, their camp sprawling across a plain three or four miles wide. Their black formations resembled a tide of insects moving toward his position, yet the disorder among the enemy was evident.
Disdain flitted across Tarly's face. Did Eddard Karstark believe these inexperienced recruits could challenge him? Absurd.
But his expression froze as he turned westward. Giants. The legendary, supposedly extinct giants were here, armed with steel and oak. Two hundred of them moved in unison, a massive iron fist ascending the gentle slope toward his camp. The scene stirred memories in Tarly—images of monstrous foes, impossible to ignore, yet somehow he had to maintain composure.
"Archers, prepare to fire!" he bellowed. Arrows were drawn, but the trembling hands betrayed fear. These creatures were massive—over three meters tall, with shields almost two meters wide. The horn Hill Earl's heart pounded in rhythm with their thundering steps. Fear crept like mist around him, but he steeled himself; if his soldiers broke, death would come swiftly.
From the forest east of the King's Road, cavalry began emerging. Over two thousand horsemen, banners flying crimson with a black raven surrounding a weirwood tree, represented the Blackwood family of Raventree Hall. The Earl of Tytos led them, horn raised, guiding the cavalry to flank the hill.
The enemy's plan was clear: the giants would smash the formation, instilling terror, while cavalry charges would exploit the chaos. The ten thousand northern recruits would then flood the battlefield, crushing all resistance. Simple, crude—but potentially effective.
Tarly's mind raced. Against iron-armored giants, arrows would do little. A counter-charge could collapse under fear. He grit his teeth. "Blow the trumpets! Cavalry, charge! Smash those monsters!"
Trumpets blared urgently. Some hesitant riders tried to flee, but arrows quickly cut down deserters. The cavalry formed in lines, advancing slowly, banners fluttering, the hill trembling beneath the thunder of hooves.
Hidden among the giants, Eddard Karstark stood beside Marga. The enormous oak shield nearly hid his small frame. He shouted commands in the Old Tongue. "Slow!" The giants obeyed, braking, then forming a tight, shield-to-shield turtle-like formation, impenetrable from front to back.
Two hundred cavalrymen, clad in green armor, braced their long spears, attempting to break through the wall. Was Tarly mad? Behind them, light cavalry armed with hammers, axes, and flails followed, prepared to exploit any breach.
Eddard drew his sword, "Heartbreaker," and watched the heavy cavalry advance. Marga braced his shield into the earth, steel biting into soil, absorbing the impact. Other giants mirrored the motion, taught by months of training: follow Marga, hold the line, and drink wine after.
The first collision was thunderous. Horseshoes struck mud like hail on drums. Ser Garlan Tyrell aimed for gaps between shields, hoping to dislodge them with momentum.
Then came a collective roar from the giants—two hundred voices like thunder. Tyrell's lance slammed against a shield; his arm felt crushed, and before he could react, he was thrown from his saddle, lance snapping, horse collapsing beneath him. Darkness claimed him.
Eddard observed, calm behind the titanic shields. Outside, the battlefield erupted with the sounds of hooves, clashing weapons, and human screams. A single knight managed to force a path through, only to be cut down. The gaps in the shield wall closed seamlessly.
But the enemy's forces continued to arrive. Two columns of heavy cavalry from the Rowan family of Goldengrove, clad in gold-accented armor, prepared to charge. From the south, the banner of Raventree Hall approached. The stage was set for a titanic clash—humans, giants, and steel poised to collide in a storm of chaos and fury.
The dawn light bathed the battlefield in an eerie glow, highlighting the tension, fear, and anticipation. Both sides prepared to unleash their strength, but only one would claim victory from the first, decisive confrontation.
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