Another volley of arrows, bolts, big bolts and stones descended upon the Ironborn as they charged at the Northmen.
What could they do in this situation? They could only charge desperately and hope for the best or retreat and die afterwards in a siege. Even if they die, they will drink and feast till eternity in Drowned God's watery halls.
The Northmen are also not fuel-efficient lamps with limited energy. How could they let their enemy charge peacefully at them?
Under the command of their officers and their General Alyn, men quickly formed their formations.
All men of Winter legion had one thing in their minds, " this is just another bloody drill."
These past six months, they had been through hellfire. Even a demon would throw up after witnessing their training.
Every morning the bloody horn would blare across the camp wake them up. The kit inspection was followed by breakfast. Then came the ground drill. Marching in step, halting, turning, changing face at the word of command. Every misstep or wrong movement brought forth a barrage of abusive slurs from bloody drill instructors and a slash of a wooden cane.
"It can be said that bloody discipline and order the had been beaten into them, and those drill sergeants enjoyed every bit of it.
The current Northern Phalanx is based on earlier Spanish tercio before the gunpowder age in other times and space.
One-third of swordsmen, one-third of spearmen with Macedonian sarissa, and one-third of crossbowmen and archers organised into a company of 300 men.
At a single command and bellow of military horn, Northern Phalanx quickly formed up to brace for the charge of their enemies with a roman style shield in their left hand, swords and spears in their right.
Swordsmen in front, the spearmen behind them and crossbowmen scattered here and there between them in groups of four.
Ironborn howled and charged as fast as they could. At enemy, who had quickly formed into five squares. Before they could react or think further as they closed in, they were greeted by a steady stream of crossbow bolts when they were only 200 meters away.
"Watch out!" some stopped and tried to form a shield wall, but the comrades behind them didn't hurling them on the ground to be trampled by the feet of their own comrades.
It was not until Ironborn finally hit the wall of spears and Iron shields they finally regained their sanity. They wish to drown in the blood of their enemies, not their own.
"Form a shield wall! Sargon yelled hard as spears impaled the first group of ironborn men before they could touch the shield wall, stepping back, axe in hand, a shield on his left as a bolt landed on his armour.
He winced in slight pain; fortunately, the bolt only penetrated his armour, not his skin.
Finally, the arrows from the Ironborn landed upon the Northmen, giving them time enough to form their famed shield wall.
It was not before both sides hit each other. The shield met the swords axe with a loud clang; if not, then swords and axe tasted blood, staining the shallow seawater below their feet red with blood. For every grey slain, four ironmen died.
Air was full of clash of metal, blood and rude insults.
One particular man with a horned helmet stood out; that man was King Robert Baratheon, happily swinging his Warhammer left and right, harvesting the lives of his enemies as he casting nastiest insults ever heard like a machinegun. Beside him stood the Quiet Wolf with greatsword in hand.
"Come at me! Daddy here will send you to your drowned god," madness and bloodthirst flashed in his eyes as he swung his Warhammer at another poor hapless bastard.
Ironborn lines were first to break under the skilled arms coordination of Winter legion. While they(Ironmen) faced the swordsmen toe to toe, spears would land upon them from back time to time. When they got rid of the spear tips, the crossbow bolts fell upon them, and when they shielded themselves against the bolts and arrows, the annoying swordsmen in the Northern phalanx would push shove their swords at them at the fastest speed.
Add insult to the injury, Northmen are armoured head to toe, unlike boiled leather armour mixed with minimal plates and fish chainmail armour of theirs.
How could they face such a super terrorist shield wall?
Finally, what crushed the back of the camel was the arrival of the constant stream of reinforcements from the ships.
As the Ironmen broke the formation, Sargon's eyes turned red in anger and grief; his eyes fell upon Yellow demon Boby B, who was still happily harvesting the lives of his men with a Warhammer. He knew at a glance the identity of his enemy.
"What is dead may never die!" Breaking the bolt sticking out of his armour, discarding his shield with axes in both hands, he roared and charged at the King.
Warhammer fell upon the head of another Ironborn crushing both helmet and the head. The blood and sticky white paste fell upon his yellow armour.
King's gaze fell upon a seething madman dispatching stark soldiers in his way with two axes with brutal efficiency and finesse in the balance of force and speed charging at him laughing like a mad man with each kill he scored along the way. Like Ironborn King's champion of warriors of the old tales in the age of heroes.
The King welcomed this challenge. It had been a long time since he had a duel, a proper one. Last he fought one; he ended a dynasty.
The King didn't say anything; he drew a canteen and drank a mouthful of wine, then threw it away.
He pointed his Warhammer at the incoming Ironborn, " Let him come," he ordered everyone around.
No one obstructed the red-eyed lone Ironborn.