"Lord Bracken shall lead the cavalry," Harald announced.
"Your Grace, I urge you to reconsider!" Lord Blackwood protested the moment the words left Harald's mouth, his face flushing red with indignation.
The other lords disagreed as well, voices rising in a chorus of objection. Only Lord Bracken was all smiles, preening at the honor while his ancient rival seethed.
Harald had led the First Legion, along with five hundred horse from all the lords of the Heartlands, into the war-ridden lands of the Blackwater. They had passed into contested territory a day ago with a forced march. The men were less tired than they should have been, thanks to some magical assistance on Harald's part subtle enchantments woven into their boots and water supplies that refreshed muscles and cleared minds. Nothing too obvious, but enough to keep his army moving when others would have collapsed from exhaustion.
As they marched, new information came from his scouts. King Argilac was apparently injured and had left the field, returning to Storm's End to recover. Swann was besieging Maidenpool with ten thousand men, which had been Harald's original destination.
He changed his mind when he also heard of five thousand men at Antlers, holding the conquered castle under the command of Lords Dondarrion and Tarth.
The decision was made quickly: he would free Antlers first, crush this smaller force, and then make his way to Maidenpool with momentum and morale on his side. Victory bred victory, after all.
The lords continued to voice their opinions on his decision to let Lord Bracken take the lead in commanding the cavalry. The tent filled with arguments, each lord citing reasons why their house should have the honor or why Bracken was unsuitable.
Harald raised his hand, and silence fell. "My lords," he said firmly, "Lord Bracken, as you all know, is the best horseman in all the Heartlands. This you cannot deny."
The lords shifted uncomfortably, but they nodded. Even Blackwood agreed, albeit reluctantly. It was simply the truth House Bracken had always prided itself on its cavalry, and Lord Bracken himself was renowned for his skill in mounted combat.
"His Grace's choice is wise and well thought," Edmyn said, backing Harald. "Lord Bracken is indeed the best horseman among us."
Lord Bracken bowed deeply, barely containing his satisfaction. "I am honored by His Grace's words," he said. "I swear upon my house's honor that I will lead the horse to victory. The Stormlanders will learn to fear the might of the Heartlands."
"Lord Piper shall join you as well, Lord Bracken," Harald added, which helped mollify some of the other lords. Piper was well respected and would serve as a good counterbalance to Bracken's sometimes reckless aggression. "The rest of you, my lords, I give you the honor of fighting beside me in the legion's ranks."
That brought smiles to their faces. To fight beside their king was an honor worth more than commanding cavalry.
Harald pointed to the map spread across the table in the command tent. "The scouts have spotted all five thousand men. They've been roused and are marching toward us. We will meet them head-on but on ground of our choosing."
He traced his finger along the map. "Lord Bracken, Lord Piper, you will split the cavalry. Bracken, you will take two hundred and fifty horse and hide them in the woods on the left flank. Piper, you will take the remaining two hundred and fifty and conceal them in the hills on the right."
Harald then laid out the plan in greater detail the positioning of each century, the signals for advance and retreat, the contingencies if things went wrong. He had learned much from the Imperial Legion in Tamriel, and he would put that to use here.
Soon the lords were dismissed, each understanding his role. Bracken and Piper departed with the cavalry, splitting in two directions to hide and lie in wait for the strike. Harald ordered the legion to move once more. Within an hour, they had broken camp and were on the march.
Harald led from the front.
With the ten centuries in formation behind him, led by their centurions, the legion moved across the winter landscape. Five centuries marched in the front line, four behind them in support, and the last one in the very back as a reserve and to protect against any flanking maneuvers.
The banners of House Stormcrown, Tully, Blackwood, Frey, Mallister, Vance, Piper, Bracken, Vypren, Mandrake, and more were proudly displayed, the wind tugging at them as they marched. Harald's own purple banner, with its golden imperial dragon, flew highest of all.
The training the legion had received ensured that they could handle even the toughest terrain and weather. It was snowing lightly. Harald planned to end this campaign before the heavy snows set in. Could he use magic to prolong the campaign? Sure, but those spells needed more preparation. Better to win quickly and decisively and make sure that the new lands, which he was sure were reeling from the devastation of the war, were secured.
Just as the day was nearing its end, what Harald calculated to be three hours before sundown they arrived at the place he had chosen as the battlefield.
It was a wide plain with hills on one side and a forest on the other, where the cavalry of Lords Bracken and Piper were lying in wait, hidden among the trees and behind the rises. The ground was good and firm, perfect for maintaining formation. A small stream cut across the plain in front of them, shallow but enough to disrupt and slow down a cavalry charge.
Harald positioned the legion on a slightly elevated rise, giving them the advantage of height and making it easier to see the entire battlefield. He dismounted from his horse. He would stand with his legionaries and fight beside them, as a king should.
It didn't take long for the Stormlanders to appear. They had been following his movements, after all, their scouts tracking the legion's march. Harald could see the dust rising in the distance, hear the faint sounds of thousands of men on the move.
He quickly gave orders. "First through sixth centuries, front line! Form shield wall! Seventh through ninth centuries, second line prepare to reinforce! Tenth century, reserve position!"
The centurions barked commands, and the legion obeyed. The first line of six hundred men formed up. Behind them, the remaining centuries stood ready, reinforced by the lords and their best knights.
Harald stood at the center of the front line, his presence a rallying point.
He waited as the Stormlander army approached, their numbers becoming clearer with each passing minute five thousand men, just as the scouts had reported. They formed up across the plain, the banners of House Tarth and House Dondarrion clearly visible.
"Looks like they do not wish to parley, Your Grace," said Edmyn, who was standing next to Harald.
Harald smiled. "Good. Then we can end this quickly."
He turned to face his legion, and every eye turned to him. The men stood at attention, waiting for their king to speak.
"Legion of the Heartlands!" Harald's voice rang out across the field, enhanced slightly by magic to carry to every man. "Today, you are going to show the might of the Heartlands! Today, you will show all of Westeros that this is the mightiest army in the world!"
The men roared their approval, slamming their fists against their shields in rhythm.
"This First Legion will inspire countless more!" Harald continued. "Stories will be told of this day of how one thousand legionaries stood against five thousand Stormlanders and did not break, did not falter! Your children will tell their children of the day the Heartlands Legion was born in blood and victory!"
The cheering intensified, a wall of sound that rolled across the battlefield. The Stormlanders had to hear it, had to wonder what manner of men could make such noise against such adversity.
"For the Heartlands!" Harald roared.
"FOR THE HEARTLANDS!" the legion roared back, their voices as one.
Harald turned and looked at the five thousand men ahead of them who were preparing for a cavalry charge. He could see them forming up their horsemen, see the knights mounting their destriers, ready to smash into his line with the weight of armored horse and rider.
Poor bastards don't know what's going to hit them, Harald thought, as a spell began forming in his hands.
.
.
.
Legionnaire Bram POV
Bram was born to a simple family of farmers in the lands of Lord Wode.
He was born to hardship and survived in it for the first twenty years of his life. There was no other choice you either endured, or you died. Those were the only options for smallfolk in the Riverlands.
His father, his mother, Bram himself after he turned five namedays, and his little sisters who were born after him all toiled hard in the lands of Lord Wode, farming from dawn to dusk. Their hands were never clean, always stained with dirt and calluses. His father would wake before the sun rose, and Bram would wake with him, learning the ways of the plow and the scythe. His mother worked just as hard or harder helping them, mending clothes until her fingers bled, cooking what little they had into meals that never quite filled their bellies.
His sisters, sweet Ara and little Alys helped as soon as they could walk, gathering eggs from the few chickens they kept, pulling weeds, fetching water from the stream. They never complained, even when their stomachs growled and their feet were blistered.
They had faced starvation many times. Bram remembered those winters, the terrible cold that seeped into your bones and wouldn't leave. The winter when he was but three-and-ten was the worst. His father died that winter, catching a fever from working in the freezing rain as he tried to repair the roof of their cottage before it collapsed. He grew weaker and weaker, and one morning he simply didn't wake up.
They buried him in the hard ground, and Bram became the man of the family at three-and-ten, though he barely knew how to be one.
Then came the day that broke something inside all of them.
The Ironborn came through their lands looking for sport and plunder. Lord Wode should have stopped them, but that was also the day Bram learned how the world worked under the rule of the Ironborn. He remembered his mother screaming at him to hide, to take his sisters and run to the cellar. He did gods help him, he did as she commanded. He held his hands over Ara's and Alys's mouths as they cried, listening to the sounds from above his mother's screams, the laughter of the reavers, the terrible sounds of what they were doing to her.
He was supposed to be their protector, and he could do nothing. He was four-and-ten, tall but thin from hunger, with no weapon and no training. He would have died if he'd tried to fight, and his sisters would have been next. But knowing that didn't make the shame any less.
When the Ironborn finally left, they found their mother alive but changed. She never spoke of what had happened, and they never asked. But she was never the same after that. Her eyes became distant, hollow. She moved through life like a ghost, doing what needed to be done but without any joy, without any hope.
Life continued on, because life always did for people like them. What choice did they have but to keep going?
When Bram was six-and-ten, he was conscripted into Lord Wode's castle as a guard. He had no choice in the matter the lord needed men, and Bram was young and strong enough. It meant leaving his mother and sisters, which tore at him, but the position came with a small wage. He sent most of his pay to them, the very little he got as a guard, keeping only enough to live on. It wasn't much, but it was more than they had before.
The work wasn't terrible standing watch, walking patrols, breaking up the occasional fight in the village. But he hated being away from his family, hated not being there to protect them, even though he'd failed so miserably before.
Then he began to notice Lord Wode's lecherous son watching his sisters when they came to the castle or when they went to the village the way the young lord's eyes lingered on Ara, who was growing into a woman; the way he smiled at her, a smile that made Bram's blood boil.
It was when he was planning to leave the lord's lands entirely, to take his family somewhere… anywhere else, that it happened.
The rebellion.
Lord Wode had sided with the Ironborn, much to Bram's disgust. The craven bastard had chosen to follow the reavers who had terrorized his own people. Bram had no choice but to march to war with them or be hanged as a deserter.
Then the Battle of the Champions happened.
Bram had been there, standing in the ranks, terrified. Lord Wode had joined with the dreaded Dagon Hoare, who was possessed by the Drowned God, the most evil of the gods in the world, a demon from the depths that wore a man's skin. The very air around the prince had felt wrong.
And against them was the army of liberation, led by the Herald of the Gods, sent by the Old and the New to save them all—Harald Stormcrown.
As they marched, Bram came to know of this great man through whispered stories in the ranks: how the gods had sent him to save the Riverlands from the Ironborn; how he had united the river lords against the Hoares; how he wielded magic like the heroes of old.
Bram had nearly shat himself when he saw the stone giants with the army massive creatures of living rock that walked and fought alongside the men as if it were the most natural thing in the world. If he'd had any doubts even after that, they vanished when the great Harald defeated Dagon in single combat and smote the Drowned God itself, casting it back to the depths of the ocean.
The Ironborn army was massacred after that, their spirit broken by the death of their prince. Lord Wode quickly changed sides, declaring his loyalty to Harald Stormcrown and begging forgiveness.
Suddenly Bram was marching with them all to Harrenhal, where Harald Stormcrown defeated the Ironborn once and for all, destroying the castle itself in a display of power Bram would never forget. The massive towers crumbled, stone shattered like ice, the screams of the Ironborn within cut short as tons of rock buried them.
And it was there, standing in the shadow of the shattered fortress, that Bram and everyone else hailed him as king not because they were commanded to, but because they wanted to. Because for the first time in their lives, they had hope.
His life began to change for the better after that.
========
A moon after the rebellion, the kingdom had a new king and a new name. King Harald sent out a call to all the lords to send fifty men for a new army he was building.
Lord Wode did not have fifty men to spare or at least he claimed he didn't. So he sent some lightly trained farmers, men he considered expendable, thinking the king would never know the difference.
Bram, seeing this as an opportunity to serve the king himself, volunteered immediately. He took his family with him, hoping they could survive on whatever the king would spare them. More than anything, he wanted them safe away from Wode's son and his men, whom Bram knew had plans for his sisters. He would not let what happened to his mother happen to them.
They arrived at the capital the people were calling it Harald's Rest and Bram could only stare in awe. His family was equally amazed. A great castle was being raised before their eyes, constructed by stone giants and men working side by side. The giants moved massive blocks of white marble as if they weighed nothing. It was like something from the old stories, from the Age of Heroes.
Training for the new army began quickly. Thankfully, his family found work in the king's new court as servants. His mother found purpose again in the kitchens, and his sisters were given positions as chambermaids. They would be fed, housed, and most importantly protected within the castle walls.
Bram was issued equipment he'd never dreamed of owning: basic leather armor, well made and properly fitted; warm wool clothes without holes; a tunic in red and purple the colors of the Heartlands; sturdy boots that didn't leak; and a cloak that actually kept out the wind.
He was also given a bedroll, bowl, cup, spoon, a waterskin, and other hygiene supplies Bram had thought only nobles could afford soap. Actual soap, not just river water and sand.
He was placed in a ten-man group they called a squad and told to elect a leader by the end of the week.
The first week consisted of heavy training that pushed Bram harder than any farmwork or training in Castle Wode ever had: running in formation for miles, the entire squad moving as one; wrestling to build strength and teach hand-to-hand fighting; and strength exercises lifting heavy stones, doing push-ups until their arms gave out, holding shields above their heads until they thought they'd collapse.
They drilled with swords until their hands were blistered and bleeding, learning basic cuts and blocks. They practiced forming shield walls locking their shields together and holding against a press of men trying to break through. They learned to march in perfect step, to turn as one body, to advance and retreat on command.
They ran for miles with heavy weights on their backs, the centurions shouting at them to move faster, to not fall behind, to remember that in battle their brothers depended on them.
And the food gods, the food. Three times a day they ate, and it was the best Bram had ever had in his life: porridge with honey and dried fruit in the morning; stew with actual meat pig, sometimes beef at midday; bread that was fresh and not moldy; vegetables that weren't half-rotten. His stomach was full for the first time he could remember, and he could feel himself growing stronger.
At the end of that first day, when it came time to elect a squad leader, Bram's squadmates chose him. He was the oldest, and he'd already shown he could keep his head when others panicked during the training exercises.
The squad became his second family. There was Wat, a former baker's son who never stopped talking; Jem, a hunter who could shoot a bow better than anyone; and Pate, slow-witted but strong as an ox. Each of them had their own story, their own reasons for being there, but they were brothers now.
They were part of the First Century, led by Lord Jonnel Blackwood, their centurion. Lord Jonnel was young but capable, a true knight who treated them with a respect Bram hadn't expected from a noble. He drilled them hard but fairly and he fought alongside them in training rather than just shouting orders from the side.
Bram excelled in training, becoming one of the best legionaries in the entire First Century. He was fast, strong, and most importantly he could keep his head in the chaos of mock battles. The centurions noticed, and Jonnel personally commended him more than once.
At the end of their training, they all received armor the best Bram had ever seen. Even the lords did not have such equipment: full metal harness with overlapping steel plates protecting chest and shoulders, complemented by chainmail underneath. It was heavy but well balanced, and after weeks of training, Bram barely noticed the weight.
They each received a sword sharper than any Bram had ever seen, its edge gleaming in the light, and a kite shield painted in the purple and gold of the Heartlands. They looked like real soldiers now like the knights from the stories and pride swelled in Bram's chest every time he donned his armor.
He looked up to King Harald with something close to worship. The king wasn't like the lords Bram had known, taking everything and giving nothing. King Harald had a vision a cause and Bram was a firm believer in it. The king wanted to turn the Kingdom of the Heartlands into the most secure and prosperous realm in the Seven Kingdoms. He wanted all to live well, to be fed and healthy, to fear neither raiders nor starvation nor cruel lords.
Bram also became a firm believer in the Covenant, the new faith that combined the Old Gods and the New. It made sense to him in a way the old faiths never had. The tenets were clear and just: protect the innocent, serve the community, honor the land and those who work it. And those tenets were upheld by the living divine that was King Harald himself, a man chosen by the gods to lead them into a better age.
He would follow King Harald to the Seven Hells if he had to, and so would everyone in his squad, his century, and the rest of the centuries that made up their legion—the First Legion of the Heartlands.
Now Bram stood in the front line of the legion, only a few feet from their king, who had just given a rousing speech that made Bram's blood sing in his veins. In front of them, across the plain, the Stormlander cavalry began its charge. He could hear the thunder of hooves, see the glint of lance points, feel the ground trembling beneath his feet.
He felt no fear because he knew that with King Harald leading them, they would win.
"I'm feeling a bit scared now," Wat said from his back, his voice wavering slightly as the thunder grew louder.
"We are legionaries. We feel no fear," Bram said firmly, gripping his sword tighter, eyes fixed forward.
"Remember what the king said once?" Pate spoke up from behind them. "To say one feels no fear is a lie. Even the bravest man feels fear courage is fighting despite it."
"I do not feel any," Bram insisted stubbornly.
They all laughed near him, nervous chuckles that helped ease the tension as death rode toward them.
Bram's eyes were on the king as he saw his hands begin to glow first gold, then shifting to blue and green.
A wave of golden warmth washed over Bram like standing in summer sunlight after a long winter. It started in his chest and spread outward through every limb, every finger, every toe. He gasped as the little exhaustion he had vanished, the ache in his muscles gone in an instant. More than that, he felt stronger, stronger than he'd ever been, as if he could run for days without stopping, fight for hours without tiring.
His heart, which had been hammering with anticipation, steadied into a strong, rhythmic beat. The fear he'd denied—and yes, it had been there, lurking at the edges—melted away completely. Not because he ignored it, but because it simply ceased to exist. In its place was courage, pure and absolute: a certainty that he would stand his ground no matter what came.
"By the gods," Wat breathed beside him, wonder in his voice. "I can feel it! I can feel the king's blessing!"
Then the king shouted, his voice carrying across the entire battlefield it was like when he destroyed Harrenhal, the voice of a king, some said, gifted to him by the gods:
"MID VUR SHAAN!"
Another sensation struck him.
His reflexes sharpened instantly. The world seemed to slow just slightly, giving him time to see, to think, to react. The approaching cavalry, which had been a terrifying blur of speed and steel, now looked almost manageable. He could pick out individual riders, track their movements, predict where their lances would strike.
His muscles felt stronger. He hefted his sword and it felt light as a feather, and he knew that when he thrust it forward, it would bite deep. His arms, his legs, his entire body filled with strength and speed beyond what any man should have. His grip on his shield tightened, and he knew with absolute certainty that he could block any blow, that his strikes would land true, that he was faster and stronger than any Stormlander knight bearing down on them.
"Seven hells!" Jem shouted, laughing in amazement. "I could fight a hundred men!"
"Feel that?" Pate rumbled, his usually slow voice quickened with excitement. "We're gods-damned invincible now that we've been blessed!"
This was the power of the king. This was why they followed Harald Stormcrown. This was holy magic, true and pure the blessing of the gods made manifest.
The Stormlander cavalry charged with all their might, lances lowered, war cries filling the air. The ground shook beneath their hooves, the sound like continuous thunder.
"HOLD! HOLD!" King Harald commanded, his voice cutting through the din.
Bram held his position, shield locked with his brothers, sword ready.
Then he saw the king use his magic once more.
The king's left hand rose, and light began to coalesce in his palm. A crimson glow formed and shaped itself into something solid. Bram watched in awe as an arrow materialized in the king's hand.
The king drew back his arm as if holding an invisible bow, the magical arrow nocked and ready—and then he released.
The arrow flew toward the cavalry, a streak of red light against the gray winter sky. Bram tracked its flight, wondering how one arrow could possibly stop around seven hundred men.
Then, to his absolute awe, that one arrow turned into a thousand.
At the apex of its flight, the single crimson projectile exploded outward, multiplying into a massive cloud of glowing red shafts that filled the sky. It was beautiful and terrible all at once.
The volley struck the cavalry with devastating effect.
Horses screamed and went down, their legs giving out as magical arrows punched through armor. Knights tumbled from their saddles, the red shafts finding gaps piercing throats and eyes and joints. The charge faltered, broke apart, became chaos as men and mounts crashed into each other, tripping over the fallen the momentum of their attack completely shattered.
Another volley followed, then another. The king's hands moved in rapid succession, each gesture conjuring more arrows, more death raining down from above. The cavalry that had seemed so terrifying moments before was being cut to pieces before it could even reach the legion's lines.
"RAAAAAAHHH!" Bram roared, his voice joining the rest in a cry of triumph. The entire legion was shouting, banging swords against shields, watching their king destroy an entire cavalry charge single-handedly.
The volleys continued until barely three hundred riders remained scattered, disorganized, milling in confusion among the bodies of their fellows.
"FORWARD!" the king commanded.
Bram and the legion advanced in formation, led by the king himself. Centurions called the pace, and the legion moved shields locked, swords ready.
The king's magic still coursed through Bram, making every step light, every breath easy.
Ahead, whatever remained of the cavalry was retreating across the field, and beyond them Bram could see the Stormlander infantry. Some were fleeing, having watched their horse destroyed in minutes, but most were charging forward as well, no discipline, no formation, just a mass of angry, frightened men trying to close the distance before more magic killed them.
Four thousand infantry rushed toward one thousand legionaries.
"SHIELDS!" Centurion Blackwood roared.
Bram and his squad prepared as the charge closed. He set his feet, angled his shield, braced his sword. The entire front line stood ready a wall of steel that would not break.
The Stormlanders crashed into the legion's shield wall like a wave against a cliff.
The impact was tremendous bodies slamming into shields, weapons clanging, men screaming. But the legion held. Bram absorbed the shock through his legs and shield arm, the supernatural strength from the king's spell keeping him upright when he should have been knocked back.
The battle began in earnest.
Bram thrust his sword through a gap by his shield, feeling it punch through leather and into flesh. A Stormlander fell. Another took his place, and Bram's blade found him too again and again, just as they'd trained.
The legion mowed down the Stormlanders, stopping their charge cold. The front rank fought for minutes that felt like hours, stabbing, blocking, holding the line. When Bram felt his arm begin to tire the first hint of exhaustion breaking through the magic.
"ROTATE" Centurion Blackwood commanded.
He stepped back, and the next man from the second rank took his place seamlessly, maintaining the shield wall without a single gap. Bram moved to the rear, took a drink from his waterskin, caught his breath, then moved back up as others rotated out.
They had stopped the four-thousand-strong army's momentum completely. The Stormlanders pressed against the shield wall but made no progress, dying by the dozens. Then Bram saw the king leading the second line three centuries, peeling off from the main formation and flanking around the enemy's left. The king moved with supernatural speed, battleaxe in hand, personally leading the charge into the exposed flank.
The fight ground on as the second line crashed into the Stormlanders from the side, turning the engagement into a killing field. The enemy tried to face this new threat, but that opened gaps in their front, and the main shield wall pushed forward, grinding them down.
Then, from the rear of the Stormlander host, Bram heard a new sound: the thunder of hooves.
Lords Piper and Bracken arrived with the cavalry, completely encircling the Stormlander army. Five hundred horsemen slammed into the enemy's rear and flanks at once lances punching through unprepared infantry, swords cutting down men trapped between the legion, the king's flanking force, and the cavalry charge.
It was a complete defeat. The Stormlanders were surrounded, cut down from every direction, with no hope of escape and no way to organize a defense. Their commanders, whoever they were, were either dead or could not make themselves heard over the screaming.
"YIELD!" someone shouted from the Stormlander ranks. "WE YIELD!" "I YIELD"
More voices took up the cry, and weapons began dropping to the ground. The army started surrendering men falling to their knees with hands raised, begging for mercy.
"LEGION, HALT!" the centurions commanded, and the killing stopped. The legionaries held position, weapons ready but no longer striking, as the Stormlanders threw down their arms by the hundreds.
Bram and the others cheered in victory, their voices hoarse but triumphant. They had done it. One thousand legionaries had defeated five thousand Stormlanders with barely any losses.
Yes, Bram could see it now: unstoppable legions led by King Harald, taking all of Westeros if he wished. No army could stand against them. No kingdom could resist. He would be at the front of it, as he was today. He would march with King Harald wherever he commanded, fight whatever battles needed fighting, and help build the kingdom his king envisioned.
Bram looked at his king, standing among the surrendering Stormlanders, and felt nothing but pride and devotion.
This was only the beginning of something greater—that much he knew for certain.