It was silent. He hated silence. It was dark too. He hated the dark.
He couldn't see who he was going to kill and he couldn't sing about it.
Its death, one voice in his head said.
Its Robert, another said.
He looked at his doom. Open farm land. Then Targaryens. A three headed dragon took flight in the wind. Then the walls.
It wasn't impenetrable, the gate was wide open, eager and willing to be sacked. After that he couldn't see. He heard it was a small town, houses made of wood only the brothel stood with stone. He made a mental note to visit if he survived.
He hadn't had a good whore since Riverrun, and that tumble had to be cut short.
Robert Baratheon you horny bastard, Yngvi thought.
They were here because the young Lord wanted a woman. Not his love, not his whore, not even his woman. Just any woman. He couldn't wait.
The plan was to meet at Riverrun, Yngvi thought. They would meet at Riverrun marry Jon Arryn to Lysa Tully and Eddard Stark to Catelyn Tully. Here the three rebel Lords would combine their armies and push on to the Capital under the Crowned Stag. Jon had arrived with a hundred horse at his back, his foot stood a vigilant rear-guard further down the Trident. Jon had bedded his wife dutifully, so had Ned.
He had even shown his new bride compassion by forgoing the bedding ceremony, instead he escorted her to the room, hand in hand. There he took her maidenhead.
Yngvi was outside their window, a floor below, in the darkness with a whore. Not all the moans and grunts were coming from her though.
The only one who had failed was Robert. Even his army made it to Riverrun. That's where he heard the tale.
Robert went whoring.
Ned took command of the newly unified Army. The horse would be split, one third would ride south to the Stoney sept, the other two thirds would bring Lords, on the Trident, still loyal to the crown over to the rebels. Nearly all of the foot would march to Jon Arryn's host down the Trident, securing its North bank. Some would march to the Stoney Sept to reinforce the horse, helping for a organised retreat if they should lose.
We'll lose, Yngvi thought. He could clearly count the campfires outside the walls, they were outnumbered two to one, that didn't mention the troops inside the walls searching for Robert.
The bells were heard when the wind blew from the south. So faintly.
They had about four thoasand horse with the same number of foot miles away.
That's when he saw it. Eddard Stark drew his fathers sword, his ancestors sword; Ice. His armour was steel plate, tough and battered. He wore no helm.
"The men need to see me, Yngvi. See I have no fear," Ned had said. A victory here and noone would doubt Ned's resolve.
Bu we are doomed, Yngvi thought.
He rode out in front of them, a bannerman riding along side him. The direwolf was caught in the wind, it was the only sigil they brought. In the rush they had left the Tully's Trout, the Baratheon's Stag, even Arryn's Falcon, only Neds Direwolf.
The voice filled the air. Not Jon Arryn's, or Hoster Tully's. But Ned's.
"Men, take heart. If you don't die the whores probably won't charge..."
"The whores always charge,"a voice interrupted.
"I did say probably. I won't lie. We're outnumbered, our support and army far away. I see a thoasand fires in that camp with ten men around each, that's eight thoasand men. Eight thoasand men we can kill, eight thoasand we want to kill..."
"That's ten thoasand men milord."
"It is. And probably more inside. But here, on this ground now is where you prove yourself. I know you can fight, I know you want to. I want to see if you will. Starks take not one step back, for Winter has truly come. For them or us, you decide men.
"Follow me, I ride, not to glory, or victory, nor even defeat. I ride to blood. WINTERFELL!" He screamed, spuring his horse forward. His banner followed him, dancing in the wind just before the rain fell.
Then the thunder. And then the charge.
A solid line of horse charging towards the sept on the hill, charging towards the gate. The thunder covered the screams of the men.
"Winterfell."
"Riverrun."
"Stark."
"Magnar."
He turned to see Gorne riding a steed besides him, forked beard and black eyes. He wore no armour, only paint. He had no sword only an axe.
His goal was different though; find Robert and keep him alive.
Gorne was no true fighter. His skill wasn't in standing, trading blows with an opponent. No, his skill relied on movement, speed and the idea that killing the other bastard was more important than surviving. He was no fighter, he was a brawler.
Lightening crashed again. It illuminated the field they were riding. The Targaryen camp was closer now, Yngvi could see thoasands of men.
We are going to die, he thought; one last time.
The wave of horses smashed into the camp. Yngvi couldn't look around, his mind focused on pikemen, thrusting at him. He parried and countered, flesh giving way to steel.
The thunder had covered their approach, most of the Targaryens were still in their tents.
Fire flew across the sky. The clash of steel was drowned out by agonising screams. The tents were on fire, torches were being thrown at them.
The smell of blood was slowly being replaced by the smell of cooked meat.
Yngvi thrusted his blade into a pikemans unprotected face, and twisted. His crooked nose and darting eyes were gone, replaced by a gaping bloody hole. He dropped his pike, and just before he collapsed, he took one last wheezing breath.
He looked around, his charge had brought him into a labryinth of fire. Thick smoke filled the air. The only sounds were screams.
He looked for the Direwolf. He looked for Ned.
"To me, to me," his voice called out, conquering the sounds of battle. He was still on his horse, his left hand on the reigns, his right wielding Ice.
The weapon cut through steel and flesh, plate and bone. In its clumsy, looping arc it meant death for foe after foe.
Fire seperated them. A big wall of flame.
He didn't think. He couldn't, if he thought, he would of died. He just charged at it.
His horse leapt through it...
...and landed on a pike. The horse reigned up, standing tall on its hindlegs. But the pike was dug deeper and deeper into its chest. Yngvi fell out of the saddle and hit the ground hard, as his horse died next to him.
A man appeared, no armour only breeches. He didn't have boots on his feet, so the mud squelched through his toes. The rain had washed some blood off of his skin, but it was still there, staining him.
Yngvi was gasping for breath, looking for his sword. It was just a few inches away from his hand. It was so close, but not as close as the cold blade touching his neck.
"Die boy."
His blade pulled back.
And fell from his fingers. A thin red line formed across his neck. His head rolled back and the line got thicker and redder, and soon it became a smile.
His body fell into the mud, and over the top of him stood the bog devil; Howland Reed.
He took the hand that he offered and regained his feet.
They could hear the bells now, ringing loud and often, from the sept on the hill. They ran into the walled town, and choas reigned.
Two men, covered in mud, were fighting on the ground. When one reached for his sword, lying a few inches away, the other man bite into his throat. Blood sprayed out, but the last thing the dying man did was stick his sword into the victors heart.
Men were fighting on rooftops, throwing slate and fletch at the enemy below, whilst thrusting with spears at each other. Horses galloped riderless, running down friend and foe alike. House sigils and colours could no longer be seen, only red blood and brown mud.
A man rode in from the west gate, clean as silk, a winged lion across his chest.
"Connington," Reed muttered.
Yngvi wiped the mud and blood off his sword, and plunged it into the nearest Targaryens neck. He hacked off anothers sword arm then, with the backswing, his head. He cut down on a skull, feeling the impact on his arm, and the sound of bone cracking.
He moved slowly towards the brothel, hacking and slashing his way forward.
He lost sight of Howland, but didn't care. He no longer felt the dull ache in his back, nor the weight off his sword. He felt the blood pulsing through, and spraying on him.
He no longer saw, he just reacted on instinct. He had killed men before seeing their faces. He had cut a bloody path through, and now the brothel was in sight.
A man stepped in front of its door. Covered in plate armour with a two handed greatsword, a terrible looking thing, covered in blood and brain.
Yngvi carried on forward, his sword twirling in his right hand, walking straight at the man. He lifted his greatsword above his head.
And Yngvi lunged forward, his sword piercing bone and flesh. The man's greatsword dropped behind him, and he fell to his knees, yet Yngvi kept pushing towards the door, and the man's corpse was forced onto its back. As Yngvi walked into the brothel, he pulled his sword out of its unprotected face.
He closed the door behind him. In front of him Gorne was sat down, eating a chickens leg.
"How's the battle, Yngvi?"
"Get this bastard off of me," the chair screamed.
"Yes milord," Yngvi said,"Gorne go find out for yourself." Gorne immediately threw away the chicken leg, picked up his axe and left, whilst his chair got up.
"Robert let's go, we have a battle to win," Yngvi commanded, handing the older lord his famed warhammer. He just smiled and left.
Right at the door the winged lion stood, frozen in shock, as Robert kicked him in the face.
He fell to the ground, losing both sword and shield. Hoster Tully was slumped in the doorway and Yngvi stepped over him. Robert was being pressed by a Targaryen spearmen, so Yngvi slashed at Connington with his sword.
And heard the clash of steel. His sword was halted by another. Yngvi looked at his new foe.
A skinny old man, grinning a toothless grin. Yngvi headbutted him, and as he stumbled back, brought his sword across his neck. His body slumped agaisnt the brothels wall and his head landed in the mud, shock eternal on his face.
The chance to kill the defenceless Connington was gone, he stole away with most of his surviving troops, through the western gate.
"Shit," Robert roared as he caved someones head in with a single handed strike with his warhammer,"the Griffen got away." He looked around searching for another opponent, but found none. Howland Reed was protecting the wounded Tully in the doorway.
Ned was surronded by men. Ice was red with blood and his guard was low with exhaustion. Yet, when they came he cut them down.
The first was a spearman, who thrusted at him. Ned stepped to the open side of the spear and cut diagonally, from left shoulder to right him. The man wore no armour so he fell apart, lungs, heart and guts in the mud.
The next was a swordman, who slashed at him. Ned ducked under the attack, then cut across his belly. Blue eels wriggled out as he died.
The next two practically charged into his blade, after him, one soldier tripped over his comrade's corpses and slid in the mud. He fouled himself before yielding. He stayed on the ground for fear of moving.
The last two now circled Ned. Watching. Waiting to strike.
Ned didn't even keep his guard up and just smiled at them as two spears emerged from their chests.
"To me, to me," Ned screamed. Slick with mud and red with blood, he still wanted more.
A lone rider charged at him. Ned thrusted upwards, and Ice slipped under the riders breastplate, forcing from his saddle. As the horse galloped off, he slid down the edge of the blade. Each inch made his eyes go wider and his gasps louder.
All around them victory roars and deaf cries reigned.
Robert was having a whale of a time. The bare chested brute was caving in heads and shattering bones of anyman to come near.
He is grinning, Yngvi realised, men around him are crying for their mothers and he is having the time of his life. He heard a charging roar.
The Targaryens troops running towards the western gate were suddenly set upon, by Dreadfort men.
They charge through, slaughtering left and right.
"Bolton, send two hundred men to harrass them as they retreat. Come back before dawn." Ned waited a moment,"This battle is won."
Silence riegned for a moment. Then the cheer went up. A wild roar developed, drowning out the bells.
Yngvi knew what would happen now. The men would rush for a whore or a bed, and those who didn't would have to look for wounded or stand guard.
He was tired. He could hardly pick up his sword. A deep ache was developing in his muscles and he knew he would never stand guard like this.
They'll cut my head off if they catch me sleeping on guard.
Even before the roar of victory had died out, he was inside the brothel once more. He grabbed a girl.
A pretty little thing. Stood two heads below him and was slender. Her skin was pale and felt soft. Her long, unkept, black hair rolled down and rested on her breasts.
She didn't struggle as he marched upstairs and into the nearest room. He locked the door and rushed to get his armour off.
His cuirass was easy, two buckles on each side then off over the head. His vambraces were much harder, the numbness in his fingers made them uncooperative. After a few moments he gave up.
He threw his bloody sword into the corner and dropped his swordbelt.
He ripped off his shirt. Then his boots. Then his pants.
He stood there naked. Covered in blood, mud and sweat.
He kissed her. It was forceful, but not rough. Her mouth didn't open for his at first, but his tongue forced it. She slowly wrapped her arms around his neck as he gripped her waist. He pulled her tighter as he grew hard.
He ripped her dress off of her and threw her on the bed.
As he took her, the only sounds he could hear were the fire and screams of death.
