Even the most elite heavy cavalry of Highgarden had failed. Their spears and lances, aimed at the towering giants, had barely scratched the massive iron armor of the creatures. Randyll Tarly's face was a mask of controlled fury, and decisively, he issued the retreat order.
"Beep~ beep~ beep, beep beep beep!"
The shrill, piercing notes of the retreat horn cut through the chaos—the soldiers' cries, the clatter of armor, and the neighing of warhorses all momentarily silenced as the sound reverberated across the hill.
The heavy cavalry from Goldengrove was already in a fast trot, their warhorses yet to reach full gallop. At the command, the riders quickly pulled on their reins, maneuvering in wide circles outside the shield wall. Their superb horsemanship allowed them to circle back, following the main army as it withdrew toward the camp.
With the way now clear, the giants raised their massive shields once more and strode forward, a moving wall of gray steel, targeting House Tarly's banner of the Striding Hunter. Their thunderous steps pressed the ground, each footfall a reminder of the immense danger surrounding the Reach army.
Eddard Karstark scanned the battlefield until he found Ser Garlan Tyrell—the "Valiant" of House Tyrell—lying amidst the carnage. The man was fortunate; the giants had not trampled him underfoot. Unconscious, he bore a deep dent across his helmet. Eddard clicked his tongue in silent dismay.
Even if he regained consciousness, Tyrell would likely suffer a concussion. In Westeros, the most effective remedy for serious injury was milk of the poppy, a sedative mixed with hallucinogens. It alleviated pain, numbed fear, and let the body heal itself—but only the strong survived its side effects. Some injuries it could not fix.
Eddard shrugged, hoisted Ser Garlan onto his shoulder, and continued marching with the giants toward the hedgehog-like shield formation atop the hill.
To the south, Count Tai Tuo Si, commanding the Blackwood cavalry, circled his units, observing the battlefield closely. The Riverlands Regent's forces had retreated safely, giving him the freedom to maneuver. Meanwhile, in the north, Styr's Free Folk drew closer, expected to arrive in ten minutes.
Randyll Tarly's eyes, sharp and calculating, grew cold. He had resolved to fight to the last man. The army had been forced to advance quickly, leaving behind heavy siege weapons such as ballistas and catapults. A night-time ambush and the sudden appearance of legendary giants had caught him unprepared. The heavy cavalry had been his shock troops, and now even they had failed. The infantry and archers were even less effective.
The west offered no escape; the south held more than two thousand Blackwood cavalry under Tai Tuo Si, a formidable and seasoned warrior. East seemed open, but the plains were a trap of fear and indecision. Panic was spreading among the soldiers like wildfire, exacerbated by the catastrophic failure of the heavy cavalry.
Randyll had sent retainers through the ranks, promising one hundred gold dragons for a slain giant, but it barely lifted morale. These two hundred giants, fully armored and marching like slow-moving shadows, inspired the same terror as the dragons of three centuries past. Humanity feared the unknown and the powerful. Once panic took hold, a chain reaction would ripple through the camp—men fleeing, formations collapsing, a large-scale rout inevitable. Only the cavalry might escape.
Randyll's solution was pragmatic. He would target the northern rabble. Poorly trained and lightly armored, they were a softer target. A successful charge here could buy time, scatter the enemy's cavalry, and maybe even create an opportunity to escape. At the very least, he could strike a significant blow before any potential defeat.
As he weighed his options, a new banner rose—a white field with a golden sun catching the morning light. Randyll took the spyglass from a retainer and focused. Emerging from the giants' cover was Eddard Karstark, silver armor gleaming. Slung over his shoulder was the unconscious Ser Garlan Tyrell.
Above them, crows circled, their caws carrying a strange cadence. Then, a hoarse, human voice pierced the battlefield:
"Randyll Tarly, how about a talk, just like on the walls of Twin River City?"
Too much had happened in a single day. Giants marching across Westeros, crows speaking like men… Tarly's seasoned mind, accustomed to politics and war, struggled to reconcile these events. He knew the other party possessed strange powers.
Surveying the battlefield, Tarly saw ten thousand northern soldiers had halted. Tai Tuo Si's cavalry paused, observing. The giants' phalanx had stopped as well. He nudged his horse forward. If a conversation was demanded, then so be it.
"Make way! Clear the path!" he commanded. Soldiers reluctantly formed a narrow corridor, wary and tense.
Eddard dropped Ser Garlan to the ground with casual precision. "A gift," he said, smiling faintly.
Randyll's lips tightened. "Given the current situation, there's little to celebrate," he replied, dismounting and instructing his attendants to have Ser Garlan taken to the camp maester.
"And what should I call you now, Eddard? Lord of the Crossing? Riverlands Regent? Wizard? Barbarian?"
"It doesn't matter. Just call me Eddard."
Tarly studied him carefully. "Alright, Eddard. But why bring a gift and walk into the field of battle to speak with me? Surrender? You see, I have ten thousand soldiers. Even against your giants, victory is uncertain."
Eddard smiled, confident. "I will win. The victor will surely be me. The only unknowns are how many of your men will die and how many of mine will fall. Winter is coming, Randyll, as inevitable as the sun rising."
A raven landed on Eddard's shoulder, its feathers black and glossy. It cawed in a human-like voice: "The soldiers of King's Landing are gone, the soldiers of King's Landing are gone."
Tarly frowned, unease creeping in.
Eddard fed the raven pieces of fresh meat, stroking its smooth feathers. "Swords pave the way for words, Lord Tarly. No matter how many die on the battlefield, in the end, matters move to the negotiating table, and all ends in talk, argument, and concession."
"Corpses have no tongues," Tarly said, voice heavy with impatience.
"But corpses can pick up swords and strike the living," Eddard countered, gray eyes locking on Tarly's. "I prepare for a war between the living and the dead. You've heard of the Others, yes?"
Tarly's expression shifted from disbelief to doubt. "Stories, wet-nurse tales for children."
"No. Not stories. Your son, Samwell Tarly, killed an Other north of the Wall with dragonglass. The dead can be controlled, and those who fall can rise again."
The mention of his son twisted Tarly's features with disgust. "Speak quickly, Lord Eddard. My patience is short."
Eddard raised his hand. A crackling orb of lightning formed, slashing the dry grass and creating a black pit in the earth. Tarly stepped back instinctively. Magic, impossible creatures, strange ravens—suddenly, the legends seemed real.
"The power of magic is returning," Eddard said. "Renly Baratheon was killed by a shadow, just as the rumors said. North of the Wall, the dead are countless. They wait for winter to spread, for the seas to freeze, and then they will come for the Seven Kingdoms."
Tarly's voice wavered. "And when they reach Horn Hill… what then?"
"Then you will fight. Take these soldiers home to the Reach, not King's Landing. When the dead march, put on your armor again, take your weapons, and defend your home and kin."
Tarly fell silent. After a long pause, dew evaporating in the morning sun, he said quietly, "If these Others and the dead are real… what would you have me do?"
"Fight, defend, survive," Eddard said. "And one day, reclaim order. I will attack King's Landing, to wait for reinforcements from the North—ten thousand strong. I will return the crown to Stannis Baratheon. I do not seek the throne for myself."
"And House Tarly?"
"If you wish, the Westerlands, Lannisport, Casterly Rock, and the title of Warden of the South can be yours. 'Heartbreaker' will be returned as well."
Tarly's eyes gleamed with resolve. "I refuse to surrender. As a vassal of Highgarden, I cannot lay down my sword lightly. Nor will my men."
Eddard nodded, acknowledging his stubbornness. "Very well. Lead your attack, then retreat eastward. How many survive is your choice."
Mounting his horse, Tarly rode off without a backward glance.
Eddard exhaled, patted Marga's shield, and commanded in the Old Tongue, "Back!"
The giants obeyed, stepping in unison, shields cutting through the morning light as the battlefield settled into a tense, uneasy pause.
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