Aedric shook his head, utterly speechless. He was just about to say something when his expression suddenly changed. He turned his gaze toward the forest's edge and murmured, a hint of surprise in his voice:
"They've already caught up? That fast? Looks like this time, we've got some real experts coming."
Everyone froze. A seasoned guard quickly dropped to the ground, pressing his ear to the soil to listen. After a few tense seconds, he lifted his head, face pale.
"My lord—there's a large force about ten miles out. Judging by the sound… at least a few hundred riders!"
Gasps rippled through the group. Then all eyes turned to Aedric — who stood there calm and unbothered, as if he'd known all along. The man's hearing and perception were terrifying.
But after a whole day of shocks, even Eddard Stark had grown somewhat numb. He took a deep breath and gave the only order he could:
"Everyone mount up! We ride — now!"
As for Sansa Stark… Eddard didn't speak her name, but everyone understood. In this moment, with so many lives on the line, one missing daughter had to be sacrificed. Only a man who was both a father and a lord could bear to make that kind of decision.
But just as everyone swung into their saddles, ready to flee, they noticed Aedric still standing motionless in place — utterly calm, making no move to follow.
"Jon! What are you doing?!" Eddard shouted.
Aedric didn't answer. He simply took a long spear from one of the guards and began walking, step by steady step, toward the open road beyond the trees.
"My lord, what do we do?" one of the men asked anxiously.
Under normal circumstances, such disobedience would earn a man a swift death. But everyone here knew — they were only alive because of Aedric. No one wanted to abandon him now.
The Northmen weren't exactly known for cleverness, but their loyalty ran deep.
Eddard Stark — a man who embodied that stubborn northern honor — drew his sword in silence, then said solemnly:
"All of you. Prepare to meet the enemy!"
"OHHHH!!!"
Dozens of voices roared as one. Swords flashed skyward, glinting in the sunlight. Fear turned into fervor — so fierce it seemed to ignite the very air.
They rode after Aedric without hesitation, straight toward an enemy force ten times their number. Even the maids refused to retreat. Foolish, perhaps — but undeniably brave.
Stepping out of the forest and onto the open road, Aedric gripped the stolen spear in his right hand, drew the True Martial Sword in his left, and gazed toward the rising dust on the horizon.
Then he turned to glance at the crowd galloping up behind him, his eyes finally resting on Arya Stark. A small, easy smile tugged at his lips.
"Arya, this is a good opportunity. I'll show you how a swordsman deals with cavalry. Watch carefully."
"Jon, don't be reckless! We'll fight together!"
Eddard's voice was tight with panic. Even after everything he'd seen, he couldn't believe Aedric could possibly stand against cavalry — the most devastating force on any medieval battlefield.
But Aedric only winked at Arya, whose eyes lit up with excitement, and then turned his attention back to the distant riders.
A troop of more than two hundred Gold Cloak cavalry thundered toward them, led by a towering man whose monstrous frame was unmistakable — Ser Gregor Clegane, the Mountain That Rides, Tywin Lannister's most brutal hound.
What caught Aedric's attention, though, was the sword on the man's back. It looked familiar. A massive, double-handed greatsword — Ice, the Valyrian steel blade of House Stark.
He chuckled. Well, isn't that poetic.
With a flick of his wrist, Aedric poured inner strength into the spear and hurled it.
"Step one: strike down the leader — slow the cavalry's charge."
The weapon shot across a hundred meters like a bolt of lightning, aimed straight at the Mountain. Gregor let out a startled roar and swung Ice to block.
The collision sounded like thunder splitting the heavens.
Gregor's gigantic form was lifted clean off his horse and flung backward, bellowing in pain. Ice spun out of his hands, clattering to the ground.
Even Aedric had to admit — Valyrian steel was absurdly durable. His nearly full-force throw hadn't even nicked the blade. If Gregor had still been using one of his old steel swords, both man and weapon would've been reduced to scrap.
And that wasn't all.
As the spear shattered on impact, a second wave of internal force hidden within the weapon detonated. The explosion ripped the spear into shrapnel that tore through the front ranks of the cavalry, sending horses and men tumbling in chaos.
"Step two," Aedric called out, "press the advantage. Don't give them time to regain speed."
Then he dashed forward like a shadow, moving faster than any human should be able to.
In one smooth motion, he scooped Ice off the ground, dropped into a low crouch, and spun.
Horse legs flew in all directions. The front line collapsed into a screaming tangle of beasts and men.
Leaping high into the air, Aedric brought both swords — Ice and the True Martial Sword — whirling in deadly arcs. Severed heads rained down like a crimson storm.
"Step three!" his voice rang out, impossibly clear even a hundred meters away. "Cut the horses' legs first — then take the riders' heads. Always keep moving. Find their weak points, strike, and go! Never stop, or you'll be surrounded!"
"Old gods above…" one of the guards whispered, trembling.
Before their eyes, Aedric danced through the chaos — soaring, crouching, twisting — a phantom amid the slaughter. Wherever he passed, death followed.
Limbs and blood filled the air. The once-proud cavalry formation turned into a meat grinder.
Only Arya remained unfazed — her eyes wide, shining with awe.
That's my teacher…
Each step, each strike, followed the ancient patterns recorded in the Book of Wu Mu's Military Strategy — techniques once used to shatter the Jin Empire's elite heavy cavalry. Combined with Aedric's peerless martial prowess, the result was catastrophic.
By the time the dust settled, the battlefield was silent. Nearly all two hundred cavalrymen lay dead or dying.
Only fifty or sixty survived — and they fled in utter panic, riding as if the very devils of the Seven Hells were on their heels.
~~--------------------------
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