POV Luther Strom
Gods… that knight has a loud voice. Julius Harlane. I'd only heard tales of him around the campfires. Seeing him now, I believed every word. 'Honor and Blood'? Are those his house's words? Nobody knows where he came from, and it doesn't matter now. The shaking in my hands was gone, replaced by the fire his words lit in us. We charged the enemy with all the ferocity we could muster.
We were the first to hit. The killing started instantly on both sides. I drove my spear into an opponent's throat, killing him before he could blink. The spear was stuck fast, and I had no time to pull it free. I unsheathed my sword and shield just in time to block a blow from another man.
It was a vicious struggle, but I somehow managed to get inside his guard. He was a well-trained knight in good steel plate, but he'd lost his helmet. I pulled my dagger and shoved it into his eye, piercing his skull.
Then I killed a boy. A squire no older than three-and-ten. That isn't a kill a sellsword boasts of. The boy thrust his sword at me, maybe hoping for fame or to avenge his master. Before I even knew what I was doing, I cut off his head with a single slash. A boy, not even old enough to have felt a woman's cunt. Now all he'll ever feel is the embrace of the cold, muddy waters.
I didn't feel a damn thing. No remorse, no sadness. This is war. Survival is the first and only thing that matters.
We slowly pushed the loyalists back toward the river, but they just kept coming, throwing more men into the grinder.
When I looked around, all I saw was men on both sides struggling, killing, and dying. The ground beneath us was a carpet of the dead. Very few men I personally knew were still standing, and they were dying one by one. For every man I killed, two more took his place. I didn't know how long we'd been fighting. Exhaustion was taking its toll, and I didn't know how long I could keep swinging my sword—the only thing left in my hand, my shield lost to the gods.
Our morale was the only thing holding, and that was because of the man leading us.
His blue cape was now a dark, sodden red. But the eagle-helmed knight was swinging his black sword like a circling windstorm. I don't know how many men he had killed. Just watching him for a moment, I saw five die. Each swing of his sword took a life. Gods, he was carving a bloody path through their lines.
I have never in my life seen a beast that could butcher so many. The man wasn't human; he was a monster straight from the Seven Hells. The more people who went near him, the more who ended up dead. And that was what gave us the strength to go on.
Suddenly, our advance halted. Fresh loyalist forces slammed into us, and we saw the banner of the three-headed dragon. With it came real knights in steel plate, not farmers with spears. They pushed us back toward the shore.
Our side was not doing well. Most of the men who started with us were dead. The only clear thing was that we had killed more than twice our number. Even with our ranks dropping like flies, we held.
For a moment, I thought this was the end.
I couldn't have been more wrong.
The next moment, Baratheon flags joined the fray, and at their helm, Lord Robert came blazing in on his horse. We got our momentum back.
Then, in the midst of the battle, I saw a white blur and lost all my strength.
Thus ended our bold sellsword. He fell into an eternal sleep with the rest of his fallen brothers. His name will be forgotten, just like the rest of the soldiers who fell on this field. There will be no song for him, though he deserved one. But it is their sacrifice that forges new history. The white blur he saw was none other than the Kingsguard, Ser Barristan Selmy. None could match his boldness.
Valar Morghulis.