Crows circled overhead, pecking at the vast expanse of corpses. Broken flags lay crumpled in the blood-soaked earth, which was stained a deep crimson.
Shattered armor and broken weapons were strewn everywhere. Wails occasionally rose from the piles of dead, as soldiers in green armor moved across the battlefield, spearing those who were only half-dead.
Lucan kicked down a direwolf banner stuck sideways in the mud. He was a hired rider, a wanderer from the Reach. Pulling a short blade from a Northerner's waist, he cursed while fiddling with the dagger. "Damn it, these Northerners are so poor.
" Tucking the dagger into his belt, he continued to scan the ground as he walked.
"Save me, gods, save me." A weak cry came from ahead. Lucan followed the sound. It came from a pile of bodies. His steel boots crunched on corpses as he walked towards it. He'd acquired those boots after teaching a young boy a lesson with his sword, back when they'd both found a dead knight at the same time.
"Oh, a Northern lad," Lucan muttered, finding the boy among the dead. The Northerner turned his head at the sound of Lucan's voice. "M-my lord knight, I surrender, please don't kill me," he begged.
Lucan slowly squatted in front of him. "Are you a noble?"
"No, sir," the boy replied. "My father is a carpenter. You..." His eyes widened in horror, watching in disbelief as the dagger pierced his chest.
"Say hello to your carpenter father and your wolf lord, Northerner," Lucan said, pulling out his dagger and wiping the blood on the boy's clothes. He rolled the body over, hoping to find something useful, but the carpenter's son yielded nothing but a rusty iron axe. Lucan tossed it aside with a sigh.
A group of cavalry thundered past him. Lucan recognized their coats of arms: the Rowan family of Golden Tree City, whose lands covered the entire northern Reach.
He had followed them into battle, led by Dickon Tarly of Horn Hill, listening only to the wind and the various banners of the Reach fluttering on either side.
Children in the Reach grew up listening to stories of knights: Savin the Mirrorshield, Davos the Dragon Slayer, Roland of the Hornlands.
As his warhorse began to gallop, Lucan had felt an immense surge of heroism, as if he had become the brave, fearless champion knight from those tales. But then, less than half a league from the Northern army, his old horse unfortunately tripped over a stone. Lucan was thrown a long distance, tumbling through the air. He thought he was dead. A patch of mud saved him.
When he woke up, the battle was over. He learned from passing soldiers that they had apparently won. The Stark army, which had been confronting them for many days, was defeated. Lucan had hoped to find a good sword or a set of armor, but he'd woken too late. Or perhaps, these Northerners were just too poor to even own plate armor.
"Hey, over there!"
He heard someone calling him. Lucan turned. "What's up, man?" he asked.
"Just wanted to tell you that Lord Randyll has announced the army is heading north."
Lucan saw the speaker was wearing a chainmail shirt. He slowly walked over, gripping his sword. "When did that happen?"
"Just now." The man pulled out a wineskin, took a swig, then offered it. "Want a drink?"
"Thanks," Lucan said, taking the wineskin. "My name's Lucan Lyle."
"Barry Pichai. Who do you fight for, Ser Lucan?"
"Dickon Tarly."
"Oh, that young master of the Tarly family. You're lucky. You must have fought bravely in this battle."
Lucan smiled bitterly to himself. It didn't matter if he'd fought bravely or not; he hadn't even truly engaged the Northerners. "I got separated from my group," he shrugged.
"That happens. Gods bless us. At least we're all alive. Why don't we go together? There's safety in numbers."
Lucan nodded. "The Northmen lost, so why are we going north?" he asked, somewhat confused.
"I heard there's also an army with the Young Wolf Lord. I guess we're heading there next."
"The imp on a wolf, they say he has a man-eating direwolf."
"His father, the Hand, was defeated by us and fled to the sea in despair. I can guarantee that brat can't compare to his father. People are just exaggerating, just like they said Stannis wasn't defeated by us. They learned their lesson on the Blackwater River." He grinned.
They walked north along the Kingsroad, joined by a few more people along the way. In the evening, they caught up with the main army, and at nightfall, they built campfires beside the road. They caught some salmon from the river and roasted them over the fire.
Lucan turned the wooden spit, listening to them share their experiences and the news they'd heard.
Barry Pichai insisted that Eddard Stark had escaped by sea, but a mercenary named Walt claimed he saw Stark shot by an arrow and fall from his horse. Lucan didn't care whether Stark lived or died. He just wanted his fish to cook quickly; his stomach was already growling for the salmon.
When the salmon was crispy, he took it and ate it.
Walter began to brag about his achievements. "Look at this shield of mine." He pulled the shield from his back. It was yellow, bearing two crossed, black-handled, rusted axes and a black crown in the middle, scarred with sword marks. "It came from the Dustin family in the North. I smashed that knight's head myself."
"Then you should have brought his armor and helmet," Barton retorted, exposing Walter's lie. Enraged, Walter drew his sword, ready to duel. Lucan stood up to stop the fight, but Walter stormed off, parting ways with them.
"May the Seven Gods spit on him, that damn liar," Barry cursed at his retreating back.
Lucan was on the second night watch. There were always four of them. In the dark, he sat by the fire, struggling to keep his eyes open. Owls hooted from the woods from time to time.
In the morning, they caught three sparrows and found some pickles. On their journey, they encountered and fought some remnants of the Northern forces. The weather grew steadily colder.
Lucan remembered how warm the sun had been when they'd set out from the Riverlands and camped at Bitterbridge. He looked up at the round sun, high in the sky, sometimes obscured by clouds that cast shadows below. The sun no longer offered any warmth.
He thought to himself how wonderful it would be to find a warm place to sleep for the night, perhaps a small inn. And, of course, it would be even better if the owner had a daughter.