The second day of the Harvest Festival dawned grey and cold, but the heat from the previous day's excitement had not yet faded. The tourney grounds were packed an hour after sunrise. The smallfolk of the Winter Town, the soldiers of the garrison, and the high lords of the North crowded the wooden stands, their breath rising in a collective cloud of anticipation.
They had seen the Shield Wall. They had seen men become walls. Now, they wondered what madness Lord Stark had cooked up next.
The field had changed. The lime lines were different. Instead of a single center line, there were two distinct boxes marked at opposite ends of the long, muddy expanse. In the center of each box stood a tall wooden post, painted white.
Ned Stark stood in the center of the field, holding a strange object.
It was made of heavy boar leather, stitched tight with sinew. It wasn't round like a melon, nor square like a crate. It was an oval—an egg shape, slightly pointed at the ends. It was stuffed with wool and sand, giving it a deceptive weight.
"My Lords!" Ned shouted, his voice echoing off the castle walls.
The crowd quieted.
"Yesterday, we tested your strength!" Ned called out, tossing the leather ball into the air and catching it. "Today, we test your speed. Your agility. And your ability to think while a giant is trying to sit on you!"
A ripple of laughter went through the stands. The Greatjon, nursing a bruised shoulder from the Shield Wall but looking otherwise ready to kill something, grinned.
"This is 'The Charge'," Ned announced.
He explained the rules.
"Two teams. Fifteen men. The goal is simple: take this ball," he held up the leather egg, "and touch it against the opponent's post."
He pointed to the white posts.
"You can run with it. You can throw it. You must carry it across the line. The enemy will try to stop you."
"Stop us how?" Rickard Karstark shouted from the sidelines.
"By any means short of a weapon," Ned replied. "Tackle. Grapple. Shove. If the carrier hits the ground, he must release the ball. If the ball goes out of bounds, we start again."
He looked at the lords.
"It is a game of chaos. It is a game of flow. Strength helps, but if you cannot catch the man with the ball, strength is useless."
He looked at the bracket he had drawn up the night before.
"The first match," Ned declared. "House Umber..."
The Greatjon roared, stepping onto the field with his team of behemoths. They looked even bigger today, perhaps because they were well-rested and full of breakfast sausages.
"...versus House Reed."
Silence fell over the crowd.
From the edge of the field, Howland Reed stepped forward. Behind him walked fourteen crannogmen.
The contrast was comical.
The Umbers were giants. The smallest of them was six feet tall and broad as a door. They wore heavy wool and boiled leather, their arms thick with muscle.
The Reeds were... small. They were slight, wiry men dressed in greens and browns that looked like moss. They wore lizard-lion skin vests and moved with a strange, fluid gait. The tallest of them barely reached the Greatjon's chest.
"Is this a joke, Stark?" Greatjon bellowed, looking at his opponents. "I'll step on them by accident!"
"Size isn't everything, Jon," Ned called back, stepping off the field to the referee's position.
Howland Reed smiled. It was a calm, mossy smile. He gathered his men in a huddle. They didn't shout. They whispered.
The Umbers huddled too. It sounded like a bear fight. "SMASH THEM! TAKE THE BALL! RUN!"
---
Ned stood in the center. He placed the leather ball on a small mound of dirt.
"On my signal!"
The Umbers lined up like a siege wall. The Reeds spread out, creating a loose, wide net.
Ned blew the horn.
Smalljon Umber, the Greatjon's son and nearly as big as his father, kicked the ball.
It didn't roll. Because of the odd shape, it bounced. It skittered sideways, hopped erratically, and spun like a drunkard.
A crannogman darted forward. He didn't run straight; he zigzagged. He scooped up the ball on the bounce without slowing down.
"GET HIM!" Greatjon roared.
The Umber line surged forward. Fifteen giants thundering through the mud. The ground actually shook.
Crannogman didn't flinch. He waited until the Smalljon was five feet away, his arms spread wide to crush him.
Then, he dropped.
He didn't fall; he slid. He hit the mud knees-first, sliding right between the Smalljon's legs. As he passed underneath him, he tossed the ball sideways.
Another crannogman caught it and spun away.
Smalljon, confused by the sudden disappearance of his target, tripped over his own feet trying to turn around and face-planted into the muck with a wet splat.
The crowd erupted in laughter.
The Box
In the royal box, Arthur Dayne watched the scene with a critical eye, guarding the Stark family.
But the children were less interested in critical analysis and more interested in imitation.
Cregan Stark, nearly four, was bouncing on his cushion. Rhaenys, now a stately six, was sitting beside him.
"Look!" Cregan pointed as the Smalljon fell. "Boom!"
"He's clumsy," Rhaenys noted. "A dragon would have flown over him."
Cregan grabbed a velvet pillow from his chair. He hugged it to his chest. "I have the ball!"
Rhaenys grinned. She grabbed another pillow. "I'm the giant!"
They stood up on the bench. Cregan tried to run past her. Rhaenys blocked him with her pillow. They shoved against each other, grunting with effort, mimicking the scrum on the field below.
"Push!" Cregan shouted.
"Rawr!" Rhaenys roared back, giggling.
Cregan lowered his shoulder and charged. Rhaenys sidestepped gracefully, letting him stumble into the back of the bench, landing in a heap of velvet.
"I win!" Rhaenys declared, tapping him on the head with her pillow.
Arthur Dayne watched them, a genuine smile breaking his stoic mask. "The next generation is already training," he murmured to Ashara.
"They learn fast," Ashara agreed, smoothing Cregan's hair as he scrambled back up for round two. "Though I think Rhaenys has the advantage in footwork."
"She's a dancer," Elia said proudly, watching her daughter laugh.
---
On the field, the game devolved into a chaotic ballet.
The Umbers had a simple strategy: the Phalanx. When they got the ball—usually by surrounding a poor crannogman and simply piling on top of him until he coughed it up—they formed a wedge. The Greatjon took the ball, tucked it under his massive arm, and his men formed a V-shape around him.
They charged.
It was terrifying. It was a meat grinder.
"Stop them!" Ned shouted, watching the Umber wedge steamroll toward the Reed post.
The Reeds didn't try to stop the wedge. You don't stop a landslide.
Howland Reed whistled.
The crannogmen split. They didn't engage the front of the wedge. They attacked the feet.
As the Umber phalanx thundered past, three Reeds dove. They grabbed the ankles of the outer guards.
Timber.
The outer Umbers tripped. The wedge disintegrated.
The Greatjon was exposed. He roared, shaking off a crannogman who was clinging to his back like a monkey. "GET OFF ME, YOU BOG DEVIL!"
He kept running. He was ten yards from the post.
Howland Reed stepped into his path.
It looked like suicide. Howland weighed maybe ten stone soaking wet. The Greatjon was nearly twenty.
The Greatjon didn't slow down. He lowered his shoulder to truck the smaller man into oblivion.
Howland waited. He used the Soft Step technique of the neck.
At the moment of impact, Howland didn't brace. He yielded. He grabbed the Greatjon's tunic and fell backward, planting his foot in the Giant's stomach.
He used the Greatjon's own momentum.
Howland rolled backward, lifting the Greatjon with his leg and flipping him over his head.
The Giant of Umber flew.
He sailed through the air, flailing, the ball flying from his grip. He landed on his back with a crash that knocked the wind out of him.
The ball bounced free.
A Reed scooped it up and sprinted the other way.
The crowd went insane.
The game went back and forth. The Umbers scored once by sheer brute force—Smalljon literally carrying three crannogmen on his back across the line. The Reeds scored once by a dazzling series of lateral passes that left the Umbers spinning in circles, dizzy and confused.
Score: 1-1.
The mud was getting worse. The field was a quagmire.
The Umbers were tired. Moving that much mass through heavy mud was exhausting. They were heaving for breath, their movements slowing.
The Reeds, conditioned by walking through waist-deep swamps their whole lives, were fresh. They seemed to glide over the mud.
"Last point wins!" Ned shouted.
The Umbers had the ball. The Greatjon was angry. He was covered in mud, his pride was bruised, and he wanted to smash something.
"Form up!" Greatjon bellowed. "The Turtle!"
The Umbers formed a tight circle around the Greatjon. Shields of flesh. They locked arms. They began to march slowly, inexorably down the field.
The Reeds circled them, probing for a gap, but the wall was solid.
"They're going to grind it out," Arthur noted. "Smart."
The Turtle marched. Twenty yards. Ten yards.
They were close to the post.
Howland Reed looked at his team. He made a hand signal. The Net.
The Reeds stopped circling. They backed up to their own goal line. They stood in a loose semi-circle, waiting.
The Umber Turtle reached the five-yard line.
"NOW!" Greatjon shouted. "BREAK!"
The Turtle exploded. The Umbers scattered, blocking and shoving, clearing the way for the Greatjon to make the final dash.
The Greatjon charged, ball tucked tight, head down.
He expected a tackle. He expected resistance.
Instead, the two Reeds directly in front of him dropped to their knees.
The Greatjon tried to hurdle them.
As he leaped, a third Reed launched herself from the side. She didn't tackle him high. She didn't tackle him low.
She tackled the ball.
She wrapped her arms around the leather egg and ripped it free in mid-air.
The Greatjon landed empty-handed, crashing into the post. "TOUCH!" he screamed.
"NO BALL!" Ned shouted, waving his arms.
The crowd gasped.
Crangoman rolled, clutching the ball. He scrambled to his feet. The Umbers were all deep in the Reed territory, committed to the charge.
The field behind him was empty.
"RUN!" Howland screamed.
Crangoman ran.
He wasn't big, but he was fast. He sprinted down the sideline, his feet splashing in the mud.
The Smalljon realized what happened. He spun around. "AFTER HIM!"
The chase was on.
Smalljon Umber was surprisingly fast for a giant. He pumped his arms, mud flying from his boots, closing the distance. He was a freight train gaining on a deer.
Crangoman looked back. He saw the monster gaining on him. He was at the midfield.
He looked across the field. Howland was running parallel to him on the other sideline.
He did something no one expected. He stopped.
Smalljon lunged, his arms outstretched to crush him.
Crangoman pivoted on one foot. He wound up her arm and threw the ball.
It wasn't a short lateral. It was a long, spiraling cross-field pass.
The ball soared through the grey sky.
Smalljon tackled empty air, sliding face-first into a puddle.
Howland Reed watched the ball coming. He judged the arc. He adjusted his speed.
He caught it in stride.
There was no one between him and the Umber post.
The Greatjon, standing by the Reed goal, watched in horror from the other end of the field. "NO!"
Howland sprinted the last twenty yards. He didn't gloat. He didn't celebrate. He just ran.
He crossed the line and touched the ball to the white post.
THUD.
"POINT!" Ned shouted. "HOUSE REED WINS!"
The stands exploded. It was pandemonium. The smallfolk were cheering for the underdog. The lords were laughing and exchanging coins.
On the field, the Reeds collapsed, exhausted but grinning.
The Greatjon stood up. He looked at Howland Reed, who was standing by the post, breathing hard, holding the ball.
The Giant marched across the field. His face was a mask of thunder. He looked ready to rip the crannogman apart.
Howland stood his ground, though he barely reached the Greatjon's navel.
The Greatjon stopped. He stared down.
Then, he threw his head back and laughed.
"You slippery little bog-rats!" Greatjon roared. "You stole it! You stole it right out of my hands!"
He grabbed Howland's hand and shook it, nearly dislocating the smaller man's shoulder.
"Well played, Reed! Well played!"
Howland smiled, wincing slightly at the grip. "You are hard to move, Lord Umber."
"And you are hard to catch," Greatjon admitted. He looked at Crangoman, who was covered in mud from head to toe. "And that one... he's got hands like a thief. I want him in my vanguard next time we fight."
Ned walked onto the field. He was smiling.
"A fine game," Ned said. "No broken bones?"
"Just my pride," Greatjon grumbled, rubbing his shoulder. "And maybe Smalljon's nose. He plowed a furrow with it."
Smalljon limped over, wiping mud from his face. He looked at Crangoman. "You're fast."
"The ale is on me!" Greatjon announced to the field. "Any man who can flip me over his head drinks for free!"
The teams mingled, clapping backs and reenacting the plays. The animosity of the competition vanished, replaced by the camaraderie of shared mud.
---
That night, the feast was even louder than the one before.
The Reeds were the heroes of the hour. Howland was seated near the High Table, looking uncomfortable with the attention but bearing it well. The Greatjon was telling anyone who would listen (and many who wouldn't) about how he was "ambushed by tree-spirits."
Ned sat with Ashara, watching the room.
"It was a success," Ashara said, pouring him wine.
"It was," Ned agreed.
"The Shield Wall showed our strength," Ned mused. "The Charge showed our cunning. We need both."
He felt a tug on his sleeve.
It was Benjen. He looked excited.
"Ned," Benjen whispered. "The other lords... they want to play. Karstark is challenging Manderly. Glover wants a crack at the Boltons."
"Let them play," Ned said. "Tomorrow. We'll make a tournament of it."
"And the winner?"
"The winner gets the 'Cup of Winter'," Ned said, improvising. "A silver cup. And bragging rights for a year."
"I'm putting a team together," Benjen said. "The Wolfguard wants to play."
"Use your speed, Ben," Ned advised. "Don't try to tackle the Greatjon. Trip him."
"I learned that," Benjen grinned.
As the night wore on, the songs grew louder and the stories taller. But beneath the revelry, the bonds of the North were hardening like the Roman concrete in the courtyard.