Woo~ woo~ woo woo woo! The horn sounded, sharp and urgent, echoing across the fields like the surging waters of the Green Fork River. The sound carried an undeniable urgency, compelling the soldiers and laborers to spring into action as though they were swept along by a relentless current.
A faint gray light shimmered across Horn Hill, a translucent veil that seemed to wrap the entire fortress for a brief moment before vanishing into the air. Almost immediately, the defenders on the walls braced themselves, unsure of what they had just witnessed. Then the command rang out:
"Fire!!"
Archers on both sides surged forward, taking their positions with precision. Each soldier nocked an arrow, drew the bowstring, and released a deadly hail of projectiles. The rain of arrows fell relentlessly onto the city walls, forcing the defenders to scramble for cover behind crenellations and parapets. As soon as the first volley was released, they drew again, firing arrows with meticulous timing, each shot meant to keep Horn Hill's garrison under constant pressure.
"Charge!!" came the next command.
Teams of laborers, carrying scaling ladders, pressed forward toward the hill. Their task was clear: place the ladders against the walls, climb, and then fetch taller ladders to allow the main army to ascend. Fully armed soldiers followed closely behind, their faces etched with determination and fanaticism. Among them were the Northmen from Karhold, known for their unyielding strength and ambition. They knew the stakes—whomever could breach the city first might secure a fiefdom for themselves, a chance to rise in rank and favor under the Lord of the Crossing.
"Push harder! If you don't want to die, give it all you've got! Every ounce counts!" Karas Snow bellowed, hidden beneath the heavy wooden planks of the makeshift battering ram. His voice carried urgency and authority, echoing across the line of laborers and soldiers. The massive ram, entirely constructed of reinforced wood and salvaged from House Bunnell's carriage, groaned under its weight. Despite its crude design, it was far from light, even for the burly Northmen pushing it forward.
On flat ground, the ram was manageable. But the uphill path, steep and narrow, was another matter entirely. The ascent slowed dramatically, and every step required Herculean effort. Sweat poured down Karas Snow's face, mingling with the grime on his armor, and his arms ached with the strain. Each forward movement felt as if the ramp extended infinitely before him. He couldn't see the city wall, the defenders, or the enemy's reactions. Only the incline a few meters ahead was visible through the gaps in the wooden planks.
Outside, Land Bark continued to shout, his voice shrill and irritating:
"Let my brother inherit Horn Hill!! Throw stones! Fire everything! Attack the ballistas!"
But the defenders on the city walls were relentless. A ballista bolt, its arrowhead nearly ten centimeters wide, tore through the wooden planks of the battering ram and struck Karas Snow's shoulder plate. The steel bent and twisted under the impact, then ricocheted, hitting another soldier's helmet with a sharp clang.
"Damn it! Fuck!" two voices cursed in unison.
Fear mingled with fatigue and exertion. Sweat streamed down Karas Snow's cheeks, blinding him for a moment. The narrow ramp seemed endless, and every forward push felt like a battle against the laws of gravity itself. Land Bark, tied to the ram, remained unnervingly calm, his mind already accepting the possibility of death. He had expected Eddard Karstark to be ruthless—but not like this, not so methodical, so unflinching in the pursuit of victory.
"Blood-Colored Sun," they called him, a man who had once defeated Gregor Clegane alone on the battlefield. Land Bark could see now why the title was feared. This wasn't honor. It was calculation, efficiency, and a cold-hearted willingness to do whatever it took to win.
The ballistas reloaded slowly, frustratingly slow. Then a single arrow whistled through the air, striking the neck of the soldier operating the first siege engine. He collapsed, sending the bolt clattering to the ground.
Angai, an archer positioned nearby, squinted in confusion. Something was off. The enemy, skilled and disciplined, should have been firing long before now. Yet their movements were sluggish, uncoordinated, almost as if unseen forces held them back.
Eddard's telescope confirmed his suspicions. He observed the city walls carefully, then nodded in quiet satisfaction. This was magic—the power he had unlocked since becoming the Lord of the Crossing.
[Detected: Host identity confirmed as Lord. Advanced Magic unlocked.]
[Advanced Magic Exchange List]
Greater Slow: Status magic that weakens enemies within a designated range. Causes fatigue, stiffness, and extremely slow movement for ten minutes. Cost: 500 Soul Power units. Initial casting: 50 units; more souls required for larger areas; usable once per day.
Greater Strength: Status magic that temporarily multiplies the physical abilities of targeted soldiers. Duration: ten minutes. Cost: 500 Soul Power units. Initial casting: 50 units; more souls required for additional targets; usable once per day.
After his relentless campaign from the Westerlands to the Reach, Eddard and his troops had killed over a thousand enemies. The remaining Soul Power allowed only a few more uses of these spells, but on a small battlefield, they were game-changing.
Eddard activated his spell subtly. A faint red glow, almost imperceptible, spread across the First Guards' soldiers, weaving into their muscles and bones. For Karas Snow, it was instantaneous. His strength surged, the weight of the battering ram halved, and his forward momentum almost tripped him as his body adjusted to the sudden burst of power.
"What's happening?" he gasped. Confusion flashed across his eyes, but there was no time to dwell. A ballista bolt whizzed past, narrowly missing him. "Push! Harder!" he bellowed. The ram's wheels groaned, then spun faster, its slow crawl now a rapid ascent toward the city gate.
Inside Horn Hill, chaos erupted. Soldiers attempting to move logs and stones found their muscles unresponsive. Arms hung limp; weapons felt impossibly heavy. Archers could not draw their bowstrings; ballista operators struggled to crank their engines.
"What's wrong? Why can't I move?!"
"This is witchcraft!" someone cried, eyes wide in terror. "The enemy leader has drawn our souls!"
Prayers to the Warrior went unanswered. The Seven Gods themselves seemed silent as the iron-studded gate trembled under the battering ram.
Thump.
The impact cracked the oak and splintered the left doorpost. A deafening bang echoed as the gate finally collapsed under relentless assault.
"Kill!" Karas Snow roared. He drew his battle axe, stepped over the debris, and surged into Horn Hill with the elite squad, their movements fueled by spell-enhanced strength. Ladders were abandoned, soldiers climbed walls with reckless courage, and the city's defenders, paralyzed by magic, fell into disarray.
Lando, biting a cleaver, leaped onto the wall. For the first time, he felt a thrill of fortune. No arrows, no rolling stones, no resistance—he was free to scale the wall unhindered. When he reached the top, he saw defenders kneeling, eyes closed, hands clasped in prayer, lips moving in silent incantations.
"Lay down your weapons! Surrender, and you won't be killed!" Lando shouted instinctively, taking command of the chaos.
One stubborn knight swung a greatsword, feeble and uncoordinated. Lando dodged easily, his short knife striking like a viper, severing the knight from shoulder to hip. Blood sprayed, and the enemy collapsed, muttering curses and disbelief.
The Second Guards of Twin River City surged onto the walls, consolidating control. Even as defenders began to recover, they were too slow to mount effective resistance. In mere moments, Horn Hill was overrun. The battle had been decided in ten minutes.
Karas Snow's eyes shone with exhilaration. The red glow of the spell, now fading, had ensured their victory. Each soldier's enhanced strength had turned them into unstoppable forces. The city gate breached, the walls dominated, the remaining defenders powerless—Horn Hill had fallen almost without a fight.
Eddard walked along the narrow ramp, observing the chaos and control with a cold, calculating eye. He had anticipated every move, predicted every reaction, and now, he was already thinking ahead to the next step.
He approached the battering ram, where Land Bark was still tied.
"Good luck," Eddard said softly, almost casually.
"No, my lord," Land Bark replied, awe and terror in his voice. "It is your mysterious power that saved me. Otherwise, I would have been crushed under logs and stones long ago."
He had witnessed everything—the gray veil, the glowing soldiers, the unstoppable surge into Horn Hill. He could no longer dismiss the rumors. Magic was real, wielded by a young, ruthless, and cold-hearted liege.
"My lord," Land Bark continued, voice trembling, "I pledge my loyalty to you. Until my blood runs dry, until the gods call me home, I serve you—even if only as a squire. Will you still accept me?"
Eddard's gaze was steady, measuring, as the city around him settled into silence. Horn Hill had fallen, the magic of the Lord of the Crossing displayed in all its terrifying glory.
The battlefield had shifted in mere minutes, and the name of Eddard Karstark would be remembered not just for brute strength, but for a power that transcended mortal skill—a power that could bend warriors, walls, and fates to his will.
Füll bōøk àvàilàble óñ pàtreøn (Gk31)