The sound of men dying filled the woods, sharp and guttural cries that rose and fell with each clash of steel. Torrhen Stark rode at the edge of the battlefield, his eyes scanning the chaos. The plan to lure the Kingslayer into the woods had succeeded. His forces, using the dense forest to their advantage, struck like ghosts, unseen until it was too late for the Lannister men to react.
Blood soaked the underbrush, and the once-proud banners of the golden lion now lay trampled in the dirt. From the sheer carnage, it was clear: the sound of death belonged to the Lannister men. Yet Torrhen's satisfaction was short-lived, for amidst the chaos, one man cut through his soldiers like a force of nature—Jaime Lannister.
The Kingslayer was everything the stories had promised. Dishonorable, arrogant, and dangerous. Yet none could deny his skill with a sword. Jaime moved through the battlefield with lethal precision, each swing of his blade a symphony of violence. Every man who dared to stand in his way fell, either slain outright or wounded beyond saving.
Torrhen knew he had to intervene. He could not allow the Kingslayer to slaughter more of his men, nor could he afford to let Jaime's aura of invincibility bolster the morale of the enemy. Tightening his grip on his sword, Torrhen nudged his horse forward, weaving through the skirmishes until he faced Jaime Lannister directly.
The Kingslayer's lips curled into a smirk when he saw him. "Finally," Jaime said, his voice cutting through the din like a blade. "I was beginning to think the Lord of Winterfell was too much of a coward to show his face. Not very Stark-like, is it?"
Without waiting for a reply, Jaime swung his sword with deadly force. Torrhen parried the blow with Ice, the Valyrian steel ringing as it clashed with Jaime's blade. The impact jarred Torrhen to his core, and he gritted his teeth. The stories of Jaime's strength were no exaggeration.
Torrhen stepped back, assessing his opponent. Jaime's arrogance was evident in the way he fought, confident and unrelenting. Torrhen knew he could not match the Kingslayer's years of mastery. But he had something Jaime lacked—raw power and the burning fury of a man fighting for his family, his home, and his honor.
"Not bad," Jaime quipped, his sword flashing in the dim light of the woods. "But strength alone won't save you, boy. It'll take years before you're at my level."
Torrhen said nothing, focusing on the rhythm of the fight. Jaime's blade came at him again and again, each strike more precise than the last. Torrhen blocked and parried, sweat dripping down his face as his arms began to ache. He was holding his ground, but barely.
The battle around them began to quiet. Men on both sides paused, drawn to the spectacle of their commanders locked in combat. Torrhen could feel their eyes on him, their hope and fear mingling in the air. He couldn't lose. Not here. Not now.
As the fight wore on, Jaime's arrogance began to show. He pressed in close, taunting Torrhen with a wicked grin. "Is this all the Stark heir has to offer? You're barely worth the effort."
That was Jaime's mistake. Torrhen seized the opportunity, stepping into Jaime's space and tackling him to the ground. The Kingslayer's sword flew from his hand as they fell, and Torrhen used the momentum to pin Jaime beneath him.
Before Jaime could recover, Torrhen rained down punches, each blow fueled by years of grief and anger. His fists slammed into Jaime's face, helmet and all, the pain in his knuckles drowned out by his rage.
"This is for Bran," Torrhen snarled, his voice a low growl. He struck again, harder this time. "For my father." Another punch. "For Sansa and Arya." The helmet cracked, and Jaime's face was exposed.
Blood streamed from Jaime's nose and mouth, his features battered and swollen. But Torrhen didn't stop. Each strike was a catharsis, a release of the fury that had been building since the Lannisters first brought their cruelty to Winterfell.
"This is for the North!" Torrhen roared, his voice echoing through the woods. He raised his fist again, ready to deliver another blow, when a sharp kick to his side knocked him off balance.
"That's enough," Brynden Tully barked, stepping between Torrhen and the unconscious Kingslayer. The Blackfish's tone was firm but not unkind. "You've made your point, lad. Any more, and you'll kill him."
Torrhen staggered to his feet, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. Around him, the battlefield had fallen silent. The remaining Lannister soldiers, seeing their commander defeated, dropped their weapons and knelt in surrender.
"Bind the Kingslayer," Torrhen ordered, his voice rough but steady. "Make sure he lives. He's worth more to us alive than dead."
His men moved quickly to secure Jaime, their movements efficient and respectful. Torrhen turned to the Lannister soldiers.
"Those who wish to continue fighting will find no mercy here," he said, his voice cold and unyielding. "Your bodies will feed the wolves, crows, and vultures. But if you surrender now, you will have food and shelter tonight."
One by one, the Lannister soldiers laid down their swords. The battle was over, and the North had triumphed.
Torrhen wiped the blood from his knuckles and turned to address his men. They gathered around him, their faces tired but triumphant.
"This is a great victory for the North," he declared, his voice carrying over the crowd. "We have taken back Riverrun and captured the Kingslayer. But this is only the beginning. The war is far from over."
The men cheered, their voices a thunderous roar that echoed through the woods. Torrhen raised a hand for silence.
"As long as my father sits in the dungeons of King's Landing, we will not rest. The South believes the North is weak, but they are wrong. The last king who dishonored the North—Aerys Targaryen—was overthrown and destroyed. The lions and stags will suffer the same fate."
His words ignited a fire in his men. "The North remembers!" someone shouted, and the cry was taken up by the crowd.
Torrhen felt a surge of pride. They were not just fighting for vengeance—they were fighting for their future. And they would not stop until the North stood free and unbroken.
"Prepare yourselves," Torrhen said, his voice steady. "The road ahead will be long and hard, but we will prevail. For the Starks. For the North. For honor!"
"FOR THE NORTH!" the men roared, their voices shaking the very trees around them.
Torrhen stood tall, his gaze sweeping over the faces of his soldiers. The battle was won, but the war was just beginning.