[The Riverlands, The Green Fork, 1st Moon, 299 AC]
The ground was wrong.
Greatjon Umber knew it the moment he rode the line at first light, long before the horns would sound and the banners would dip and the killing would begin in earnest, for there was a weight to the earth beneath his horse's hooves that spoke not of firm footing and clean charges, but of damp soil, churned grass, and the kind of mud that swallowed men just as easily as it did horses if they were foolish enough to trust it.
He spat to the side and watched it sink.
"Aye," he muttered. "You'll do."
Behind him, the Northern host stretched in ordered lines, not the loose, eager mass that some southern lords might have expected of them, but tighter, and disciplined, shaped by weeks of marching, drilling, and fighting under men who knew that numbers alone did not win battles, how those numbers were used did.
To his left, the Karstark banners flew, stark and hard against the morning sky, their lines already forming in depth, shields locking in a slow, deliberate rhythm as Harrion Karstark rode along their front, speaking to his men not with bluster, but with quiet, steady certainty.
To his right, the Greycloaks stood in ordered companies, their formation precise, their officers moving between ranks with purpose, Ser Jory Cassel at their center, his presence enough to keep even the newest recruit steady as he spoke with his captains in low, controlled tones.
Greatjon watched them a moment, then snorted.
"They look like they're about to march into a feast," he said.
Harrion's voice came from behind him.
"Better that than a funeral."
Greatjon turned his head slightly, eyeing the younger man.
"You've grown teeth since I last saw you, lad," he said.
Harrion did not smile.
"I've seen enough men die to learn when to keep them alive instead."
Greatjon grunted.
"Aye," he said. "Good. You'll need that today."
Further down the line, near the center, Ned stood with Red Rain in hand, the Valyrian steel blade catching what little light the morning offered, its dark surface already marked by past battles, though it would see more before the day was done.
Tundra stood at his side, silent but alert, her pale eyes fixed on the distant Lannister lines across the field, where red and gold banners shifted in the wind.
"They'll come hard," Ser Wylis Manderly said, stepping up beside Ned, his armor polished but practical, his voice calm in a way that spoke of a man who had spent more time thinking about how wars were sustained than how they were won in a single clash.
"They will," Ned replied.
"They always do," Wylis continued. "Tywin Lannister does not waste strength on half-measures. If he means to break us here, he'll do it with everything he has at hand."
Ned glanced at him.
"And you?" he asked. "What do you think?"
Wylis allowed himself the faintest hint of a smile.
"I think," he said, "that he believes we will meet him as we always have, with a straight charge and a stubborn line, and that belief will cost him dearly."
Ned nodded once.
"Then we make sure it does."
The horns had not yet sounded when Greatjon found himself once more beside Harrion Karstark and Ser Jory Cassel, the three of them standing at the edge of their respective commands as the final preparations were made.
"Say it again," Greatjon said, not because he had not heard it, but because he wanted to hear it once more before the blood began to flow.
Jory did not bristle at the tone.
Instead, he spoke as he always did, clear and measured.
"We do not meet them head-on at full strength," he said. "Not at first. The front line engages and gives ground where needed, slowly, deliberately. They press. They believe we're weakening."
Greatjon snorted. "They'll think we're breaking."
"Aye," Jory said. "That's the point."
Harrion picked up from there.
"When they commit their cavalry," he said, "they'll push into ground that won't hold them. Mud, uneven footing, broken lines. That's when we close."
"And that's when I go in," Greatjon said, his grin sharp.
Jory met his gaze.
"That's when you go in," he confirmed. "Not before."
Greatjon leaned in slightly.
"And if I see the chance sooner?"
"You don't take it," Harrion said flatly.
Greatjon barked a short laugh.
"You sound like your father."
"And you sound like you'd get half your men killed if we let you do as you pleased," Harrion shot back.
For a moment, Greatjon said nothing.
Then he nodded once.
"Aye," he said. "Fair enough."
Jory allowed himself a breath.
"We break them together," he said. "Not in pieces."
Greatjon rolled his shoulders, adjusting his grip on his axe. Lately, he had taken quite a liking to the axe compared to his usual greatsword.
"Then let's get on with it," he said. "I'm tired of talking."
The first horn soon sounded.
Then another.
Then a third.
And the field came alive.
Arrows rose in dark arcs, cutting through the morning air as both sides tested one another, the initial exchange more probing than decisive, though men still fell, and the ground still took its first taste of blood.
Greatjon stood at the front of his line, watching.
Waiting.
It went against every instinct he had to hold back, to let others step forward while he remained still, but he did it because, for once, this was not about proving strength.
This was about using it.
The Lannisters advanced.
Slow at first.
Then faster.
Their lines tightening as they closed the distance, shields locking, spears lowering, the red and gold of their banners bright against the muted tones of the field.
"They're coming," one of the men beside him muttered.
"Aye," Greatjon said. "Let them, it's time the lions learn just what it means to take on the North."
The first clash came along the forward line, where the lighter Northern infantry met the Lannister advance, the impact sharp and immediate as steel struck steel and men grunted with the force of it.
They held.
For a time.
Then… They began to give ground.
Not in panic.
Not in collapse.
But in measured steps, just as they had been told.
The Lannisters pressed harder.
"They're breaking!" someone shouted from their lines.
Greatjon's grip tightened on his axe.
"Aye," he muttered under his breath. "Come on then."
The cavalry came soon after.
Heavy horse, banners flying, riders leaning forward in their saddles as they surged into what they believed was a weakening enemy line.
The ground betrayed them first.
Hooves sank.
Momentum faltered.
Lines broke unevenly as horses struggled for footing, their charge losing cohesion before it ever fully struck.
"Now!" Harrion roared, rallying his men.
Jory raised his hand.
And brought it down.
"Forward!"
The Greycloaks moved first.
Disciplined.
Precise.
Their lines shifting from reserve to assault in a heartbeat, shields locking as they drove into the exposed flank of the advancing Lannister force, their captains shouting orders that carried clearly even through the growing roar of battle.
As they neared, the Northern professional men gripped their pilum as they wound their arms back and finally launched the throwing spears in unison, a large collective of projectiles coming down on the Lannister lines, causing disruption and chaos as men fell, horses were impaled, some taking their riders with them, shields were dropped, and shock rang out through the lines.
"Close ranks!"
"Drive them!"
"Don't give them space!"
At the same time, the Karstark heavy infantry surged forward, Harrion at their head, their advance steady and relentless as they crashed into the other side of the disordered cavalry, trapping them between two advancing walls of steel.
And finally, the Greatjon moved.
"WITH ME!" His roar cut through the battlefield like a blade.
The Umber line surged forward behind him, not in the measured step of the others, but in a full, brutal charge that struck the weakened Lannister center with enough force to shatter what remained of their formation.
The impact was immediate.
Devastating.
Greatjon felt it in his bones as his axe came down, splitting shield and arm alike, his shoulder slamming into another man as he drove forward, the world narrowing to the space directly in front of him where survival and death were decided in heartbeats.
"Push!" he roared. "Push the bastards back!"
Men died screaming.
Others died without a sound.
The mud churned beneath their feet, slick with blood now as much as water, footing uncertain but irrelevant as the press of bodies held them upright whether they wished it or not.
To his right, he caught a glimpse of Ned Stark, Red Rain flashing in tight, efficient arcs as he fought alongside his men, Tundra moving at his side, her pale form a blur as she struck at any man who came too close.
To his left, Harrion's line held firm, their advance slow but unstoppable as they drove deeper into the Lannister flank.
And ahead, A gap finally opened.
He saw him then.
Towering above the men around him.
Armor bright red with blood.
A greatsword in hand that rose and fell with terrible force.
Ser Gregor Clegane, the savage dog of the Lannisters.
The Mountain that rides.
Men broke before his terrible strength, towering above and raining death upon all around him.
Men cowered in front of the great oaf, some wary, others looked to be pissing themselves.
Not because they lacked courage.
But because some things were simply too much to face head-on.
Greatjon grinned.
"There you are," he said.
And then he went to meet him.
The first blow nearly killed him.
Gregor's sword came down with a force that split Greatjon's shield in two, the impact driving him back a step as the wood shattered and the shock ran up his arm like fire.
"Come then!" Gregor roared, his voice as brutal as the man himself.
Greatjon spat blood and grinned wider.
"Aye," he said. "Let's see what you've got."
He stepped in.
Fast.
Faster than a man his size had any right to be.
His axe came up in a brutal arc, forcing Gregor to turn his blade to meet it, the clash ringing out as steel met steel.
Gregor was stronger.
There was no denying it.
Each blow he struck carried enough weight to break bone if it landed clean, and more than once, Greatjon felt the edge of it, his armor denting, his breath driven from his lungs as he was forced back again and again.
But Gregor was not quick.
Not in the way that mattered.
Greatjon shifted his footing, letting the mud work against his opponent instead of himself, drawing him forward, forcing him to overcommit with each heavy strike.
"You're big," Greatjon said between blows, his voice rough but steady. "I'll give you that."
Gregor snarled, swinging again.
"But you're slow, I grew up around many men close to me in size, all more agile than the likes of you, damn oaf!"
The next strike came too wide.
Too heavy.
Gregor's foot slipped just enough in the mud, his balance shifting for a heartbeat.
That was all the Greatjon needed.
His axe came down hard.
Not at the chest, or at his helm, but rather, at the knee.
The blade bit deep, crunching through armor and bone alike.
Gregor roared.
Not in pain, but in fury.
He lashed out, his gauntleted hand slamming into Greatjon's helm, sending him reeling as his vision blurred for a moment.
The world tilted.
Then snapped back into place.
Gregor came again.
Even while wounded, the giant of a man was no less dangerous.
Their weapons met again and again, the space around them clearing as men instinctively gave way, unwilling to be caught between the two of them as they fought.
Gregor drove forward, forcing Greatjon back, his blade carving through the air in brutal arcs that left no room for error.
One strike caught Greatjon across the side, biting through mail and into flesh, sending a hot burst of pain through him that he ignored with a snarl.
"Is that all?" he spat.
Gregor answered with another blow.
Greatjon caught it.
Turned it.
Stepped inside.
His aim was not to draw this out but to get close.
Too close for a greatsword.
Gregor tried to bring the hilt around, and yet, he was too slow.
Greatjon's axe came up.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
The first strike tore through the damaged knee.
The second bit into Gregor's side.
The third came down on his helm with everything Greatjon had left.
The steel cracked.
Split.
And Gregor Clegane fell.
All around them, sounds of shock, awe, and most of all… fear, began to play out. The Mountain's men were no doubt shocked and greatly disheartened at seeing their mighty master crumble, his corpse falling, dead before he hit the ground.
For a moment, just a moment
The space around them went quiet.
Then the battle rushed back in.
The Lannister line wavered.
Then faltered.
Then broke.
"Drive them!" Harrion's voice carried.
"Don't let them reform!"
The North surged forward.
Not in chaos.
Not in blind pursuit.
But with purpose, most of all with surgical control and intent.
They pressed.
Step by step.
Driving the Lannisters back across the field they had once believed would be theirs.
By the time the horns sounded again, signaling the end of the fighting, the field belonged to the North.
Greatjon stood where Gregor had fallen, chest heaving, ungodly amounts of blood, his and others', covering him from head to toe as he looked out across the field.
Bodies lay everywhere.
Men groaned.
Some called for water.
Others for mercy.
Most said nothing at all.
Harrion came to stand beside him.
"You're still alive," he said, almost as if he was surprised by that fact.
Greatjon snorted.
"Aye," he said. "Seems I am." A great smile now spread across his face, the signature boom of umber laughters ringing out for a moment.
Harrion glanced at Gregor's body.
"You killed him."
Greatjon shrugged, still grinning with a wolfish look.
"He stood," he said. "Then he didn't."
Harrion huffed a quiet breath.
"That'll do," he said.
Greatjon looked out over the field once more, now calm, but no less smiling at his great triumph.
He then turned toward Harrion and nodded.
"Aye," he said. "That'll do."