Author's Note: I'm alive! I apologize for the long break. I'm glad to be back and hope to start writing somewhat regularly again. I hope you enjoy the chapter.

Chapter 8

Just West of Waterhold, Shibon 26, 15,367 ABG

Eddard watched the line of men snaking through the trees in the valley below. It had been ten days since they began their march north and east and the fact that they had made it to Waterhold in that time was nothing short of a miracle. The snowmelt that had been little more than a hindrance weeks ago was turning into a calamity. Roads had been flooded, villages abandoned, and whole towns washed away by the ever-widening streams and rivers. The worst part was that the snow from the mountains feeding those streams was not close to being meaningfully diminished.

'We'll need to dam some of the rivers,' he thought grimly as he turned and looked at the White Knife, frothing with momentum as it surged well past its banks.

Unfortunately, such plans would have to wait until the end of the civil war that the North had become embroiled in.

'All for one man's ambition,' he thought with anger as he looked at the Bolton encampment, well-fortified and positioned so that its back and left flank were covered by the river.

Bolton had over a week to prepare the battlefield and it was obvious that he had used that time to his best advantage. Though, if he was seeing the numbers right, Lord Waterman had not gone down easily. If his eyes were counting true, there were only around 4,000 men in the camp. Still, that meant that his force was slightly outnumbered as, even after adding the retinues from his Lords, his force numbered only some 3,900 men. The difference in quality, though, was immense. While his forces had one-hundred less men, nearly all were his own professionals or his vassal's best men, with only five-hundred being levy forces, archers all. Bolton's force meanwhile had just under 2,000 levies in his army, and it was well-known that levy forces under the Boltons were always less well equipped than those from other lands.

'No,' he thought as he scanned the battlefield slowly, 'While Roose has the position and likely the Level advantage, this will be a much closer battle than he might think.'

"Much closer than I can afford as well," he mumbled to himself.

"What's too close, father?" Robb asked as he shifted in place atop his horse.

"Nothing, Robb," Eddard said as he gave a brief smile to both of the sons he had brought on this campaign.

From the scout's reports, both Robb and Jon had performed admirably in the most consequential skirmish to date. Jon had managed to kill Roose Bolton's bastard son and, more importantly, he had managed to save the life of Lord Karstark's heir, a debt that no doubt the Karstarks will wish to repay as soon as possible. The nearly three-hundred cavalry that they both had managed to deprive Roose of was nothing to scoff at either.

'Not that Roose seems to be planning on using much cavalry,' he mused as he looked again at the Bolton encampment.

"Can you tell me why Lord Bolton arrayed his army as he did?" he asked, looking at both Jon and Robb in turn.

Both boys seemed to take his question very seriously as they glared down at the enemy forces, eyes moving rapidly over the distinctive features.

After nearly a minute of silence, Jon spoke.

"He knows we have the better men and so he wants to fight a defensive battle where our cavalry won't be of as much use," he stated tentatively.

"True," Eddard nodded slightly in agreement. "What else, Robb."

"The Bolton left and rear are unassailable and they have heavily fortified their right flank. They want to force us to fully attack their center but it is likely a trap of some kind," Robb said confidently.

"A trap is only half as effective once it is discovered, though Bolton laid this one out in plain sight. Do you see where his archers are congregating?" Eddard asked as he pointed at the archers in question.

Seeing both boys nod in return, he continued.

"The majority are camped near the center but are positioned at the edge of the camp closest to us. The rest are camped on their right flank. That means even if we were to catch them off guard by charging, we would still have to assault under a storm of arrows until we reached their lines."

Both boys paled at the prospect of marching two-hundred yards under arrow fire.

Grinning wryly at his sons' discomfort he continued speaking quietly.

"While both of your observations are correct, you have left out some significant details. Our scouts have reported that Lord Bolton ordered every man, woman, and child in Waterhold to be slaughtered. Surrender is not an option for any man in Bolton colors and every man down there knows it. Lord Bolton positioned his men knowing that should the battle begin to go against him, his army has neither the opportunity to flee nor surrender. A cornered animal is not one to take lightly," he finished grimly.

Seeing Robb frown, he knew what his son was going to ask next.

"Why not just surround them, then? If the Boltons are so set on fighting a defensive battle then they've given up the initiative to attack or maneuver. Their position is also difficult to support logistically with Waterhold nearly a mile away upriver. Any barge trying to sail the White Knife right now would capsize almost immediately," his son said excitedly.

"In normal circumstances I would agree with you," Eddard responded. "Unfortunately, the Boltons are not the only traitors in this rebellion. I don't see any soldier in Whitehill colors in their camp and the Dustins and Ryswells have free reign in the south while we're dealing with the Boltons. Roose knows this, just as he knows that it would take nearly a month for us to get any meaningful reinforcements. We don't have the time, and I cannot afford to let Bolton retreat across the White Knife with his barbaric acts unanswered. No, Roose will get his battle and it will be up to us to win it," he said seriously.

A solemn silence filled the hilltop as he looked carefully over the enemy camp.

"Now that you've seen it, how would you take it?" he asked, trying to force some cheerfulness into his tone.

Both boys winced before shaking their heads.

"I don't know, father," Robb said quietly.

'Nor do I, my sons,' he thought as he sighed at the thought of the bloodshed to come.

Hours Later…

Eddard finished his walk around the camp and decided to move toward the command tent where he could already hear his Lords arguing.

'Best to get on with it then,' he sighed as he pushed the flap covering the entrance of the tent open.

All his Lords, Lady Mormont, and his sons were standing around a cyvasse board sitting on the middle of a table. Looking carefully at the board, he noted that the pieces closely mirrored his and the Bolton army's position.

A weary Lord Karstark noticed him as he walked in.

"Lord Stark," he said solemnly, inclining his head toward him.

At that, the rest of the Lords and Lady greeted him, and he greeted them in turn.

Finished with the pleasantries, he got down to business.

"What can you tell me of our position?" he asked brusquely.

"Our position is sound, Lord Stark," Ser Wylis Manderly said quickly. "We have access to clean water and the game here is plentiful. The supply train may continue to be delayed but I see no reason why we shouldn't be able to wrap this affair up within two moons," the Heir to White Harbor said confidently.

Looking around the table he could tell most, if not all, the Lords were satisfied with Ser Wylis' words. As his gaze passed that of his own sons', they both winced and looked away.

"It seems I have given the wrong impression," Eddard said slowly to his gathered Lords. "I do not mean to starve Lord Bolton into submission. I mean to take his head in battle or on a block soon after."

Stunned silence filled the tent before the Greatjon's laughter rumbled through those present.

"Hah! I knew I'd get a chance to wet my blade against some Bolton scum. My son will be green with envy when he hears he missed this," he roared with merriment as he wiped a lone tear of mirth from his eye.

The rest of his Lords looked uneasy, however.

"My Lord, what is your plan to defeat Bolton's encampment?" Lord Karstark asked with well-concealed doubt.

"I had hoped, seeing as I have the greatest military minds in the North here, that I would have several proposals ready for me when I walked in this tent. It seems I was mistaken," Eddard said in the same slow drawl from earlier.

The Lords within the tent looked properly chastised at his rebuke.

"Bah! No need for strategy. Our cavalry outnumbers theirs three-to-one, we'll run the bastards over," the Greatjon shouted in manic glee.

"Oi, shut yer puss! Yer aff yer heid if ye tink The Ned be lissenin to yer blabberin, ye saff-faced eejit," Donnel Flint, heir to the Flint Clan, said in a mocking tone to the Greatjon.

When dealing with the Mountain Clans, Eddard had made it a policy to nod thoughtfully at whatever they said without ever agreeing to anything outright. It was the way his father and his father before him had dealt with the Clans, and it was something he would teach Robb one day as well. And so, when Donnel Flint proudly looked at him, looking for the Gods know what, Eddard nodded slowly and was relieved when that seemed to be enough for the Flint heir.

As the evening turned toward night, the outrageous proposals fell to the wayside in favor of the practical. Eventually, they had decided on a workable, if daring plan.

'One Robb even had a hand in crafting,' he thought proudly as he looked at his exhausted son.

Robb had proposed to break the archers that would be placed behind the infantry into three groups of 275 men. The first group would release a volley, followed by the second group two heartbeats later, and the third group two heartbeats after the second. The first group would then shoot another volley two heartbeats after the third and restart the cycle. Robb had theorized the constant rain of arrows would shock the Bolton archers into trying to avoid the incoming arrows rather than kill as many of the incoming infantry as possible. That was the hope anyways. Eddard would be leading the center of their infantry while he gave command of the left and right flanks to the Greatjon and Lady Mormont respectively.

Oddly enough, Theon Greyjoy had volunteered to lead the archers in the center. The boy was arrogant in the extreme but was likely one of the best archers in the army. After thinking it over, he gave nominal command of the archers to the Greyjoy lad with secret orders to Benfred Tallheart to take over if Theon proved incompetent.

The cavalry commands were a headache as every Lord wanted that particular 'honor'. In the end, he gave command of the cavalry detachment in the center to Lord Karstark and gave the command of the cavalry detachment on the left flank to his son, Robb. The cavalry in reserve were placed under Ser Wylis and were mostly outfitted after the southern fashion.

With the commands and the troop placements all set in stone, he bid his Lords and Lady goodnight.

The Next Morning, Shibon 27, 15,367 ABG

The morning dawned without fanfare. The day seemed idyllic. The sky was clear-blue, the birds were swooping and singing freely, and the sound of rushing water from the nearby river calmed the mind. The fact, then, that 8,000 men, geared for war, stood opposite each other on this morning seemed surreal.

Eddard stood at the front and center of the infantry, and he turned to gauge the mood of his men. The joyful grins he got in return seemed out of place on the battlefield.

'It must be the little trick we told them about,' he mused thoughtfully.

It was his experience that a soldier was never so happy as when he was able to outwit his enemy before stabbing them through the eye. What that said about soldiers he wasn't sure, but enthusiasm for your work was hardly a bad thing.

When he received the confirmation that the left flank was ready, he knew it was nearly time. Breathing deeply, he caught the eyes of the Greatjon and Lady Mormont and nodded to each.

Half-turning, he roared, "Men, FORWARD, MARCH!"

The rhythmic sound of one-thousand of his men marching in step was a heady drug that seemed to wake the Wolf's Blood inside him. Each step seemed more vibrant. He could both see and smell with greater clarity, and he was able to make out each of the individual sounds his men were making. So caught up was he in this new sensation, it wasn't until he heard the enemy commander yell 'NOCK' that he managed to break free from the novelty of it all.

"Men, SLOW JOG, MARCH!" he ordered just as the enemy commander ordered his archers to 'loose.'

In perfect synchronicity his men shifted speed to the dreaded slow jog, adopted by Ser Rodrik as a training tool so many weeks ago. The change in speed caught the enemy archers off-guard as the first volley passed over his two-hundred man front and just barely over the last line of men in the five-man deep formation.

His men 'whooped' and grinned at each other at the trick they played, and they continued their pace, trying to reach the enemy formation before too many of their men were felled. Six heartbeats after the first, another volley pierced the sky and came flying toward them. This one was closer than the last.

"SHIELDS," he roared.

Lifting his own shield, he was uncomfortable with the weight. He hadn't trained with a shield since his brother Brandon died, but he was not such a fool as to not bring one when playing tag with seven-hundred archers.

The volley passed over the first three lines but hammered the fourth and fifth. The sounds of his men dying shattered the earlier morning's peace. The grins his own men had just seconds earlier turned to a grim line on their faces.

"KEEP MOVING MEN! STAY IN-STEP!" he yelled, reminding the men to try and stay in formation.

The formation kept moving. When his men saw the archers draw their next arrow, he could hear them grit their teeth as they stayed in-step. He had never felt such pride. But this volley flew true. The seven-hundred arrows striking shields, armor, and flesh made a sound like a thunderclap sent from the Gods. He could feel no less then four arrows smash against his shield, but the steel inlay stopped them cold. His men were not so lucky. Dozens fell, and yet they kept moving.

"KEEP GOING, MEN!" he yelled, exhorting his men even further.

He could hear the Greatjon and Lady Mormont doing the same on his left and right. The enemy archers knocked another arrow and he nearly despaired. And then the archers paused as they looked skyward. The archers crouched as they looked up with fearful eyes at their doom. The men-at-arms behind them stepped forward to shield the archers. It worked, for some. The unlucky were skewered to the ground. The men-at-arms stepped back to give the archers room to fire in return, and the next volley fell. And the next. And the next. Some brave archers fired at his men despite the arrow storm. Their standing silhouettes made them better targets for his own archers.

When they were one-hundred yards from the enemy line, the enemy archers broke, or tried to at least. They had taken massive casualties and were trying to make their way back through the men-at-arms. The enemy infantry commander was not allowing it. The archers tried anyway. Then the first archer was struck down by his own side. The fratricide seemed to spread, and the remaining archers backed away from their own line in seeming incomprehension as they continued to fall by arrow, spear, or sword. Maybe one-hundred enemy archers were left when they were fifty yards away. Some fired at his men, more wept, and others stood stock still, as if shocked that this was their end. When he was twenty yards away, the enemy commander ordered the archers to retreat to the rear and perhaps fifty remained alive.

Eddard's vision, so heightened earlier, narrowed to the three men directly ahead of him. Fifteen yards away. His heartbeat pounded in his throat, and he had an irrational urge to start laughing. So, he did. Ten yards away. The short-sword in his hand felt unwieldy, as if it didn't belong. He picked the man in the middle and threw it at him. He could see the man's eyes widen in fear and he grinned wider. Five yards away. Mid-step he drew Ice from his back and he could feel his men give him some space. Good. He threw away his shield, unconcerned where it might go and swung.

The three men interposed their blades, two failed. A normal Valyrian blade might have shattered a steel sword after two exchanges. Ice was different. Whatever magics the Valyrians of old placed in their blades, they stuffed that and more into the six-foot length of Ice. Two men looked in horror at their shattered blades while the third threw his chipped sword in the dirt in disgust.

But he had not waited. The first law a wielder of a greatsword learns is that movement is life. When Ice had stopped at the third man's sword, he swung it in reverse. By the time the Bolton men realized that they were unable to lift their shields in response. Ice cut, and three heads fell. The men behind them in line did not step forward. So, he went to them. These ones seemed to have learned from their predecessors and lifted their shields to cover their heads when he feinted high. He went low. He cut two pairs of legs off from halfway below the knee while the third man interposed his shield at the last moment. Ice cut a quarter-way through the shield, in a manner that would trap a normal sword. He knew better. Twisting the blade to the left, he pushed Ice forward and through the right lung of the young man still holding the broken shield. He pushed forward again and could feel the enemies to his left and right try to strike at his flanks. And yet, his men were with him, covering his flanks.

'Only three more ranks until we're through to their rear,' he thought as he grinned savagely at the next trio.

One of them pissed himself. He swung toward him first and the man backed away, tripping over seemingly nothing. Redirecting his blade, Eddard swung his left foot back, allowing an enemy sword to go wide as he took off the offending arm. Crouching low, a spear thrust directly overhead. Torquing his body, he swung wide, cutting a swathe through the ranks to his right. He cut down the last man standing of the trio and moved forward once more. He grimaced when he saw two dozen archers being moved forward to help plug the gap.

"BACK!" he yelled at the men who had followed him deep into the enemy formation.

Trying to kill the remaining two ranks while dodging the arrows from two dozen archers was no better than an elaborate form of suicide.

As he and his men slowly retreated, he cut chunks out of the ranks to his left and right, a step ahead of most and covered by his men when he wasn't.

When he made it back to the rest of his army's front line, he surveyed the devastation he left in his wake. Dozens of bodies littered the ground and yet there were hundreds more left standing. He sighed as his bloodlust began to fade.

"Time to get back to work, old man," he said.

Author's Note: Battle of the Whitewater Part I. Part II will be out next week and will be from a Robb POV. I look forward to your reactions in the Comments section!