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Chapter 10 Artos Stark
🕑 Added 2025-09-09 11:41:32 +0000 UTCChapter 10 – The Battle Begins
Howland Reed burst into the Northern war camp just before dusk, his leather boots muddy and his eyes sharp.
He went straight toward Artos, who stood near the command tent going over formation lines.
"My Lord," Howland said, breathing hard, "Reach army coming. At least thirty thousand men—maybe more."
Artos didn't flinch. "You did good work, Lord Reed."
Lord Jeor Mormont stepped forward, eyes narrowed. "It's flat and open ground. No cover. No terrain to hold."
"They have numbers," said Lord Tallhart. "More men than us, more armor, more horses."
"We're under-armored," Lord Bolton muttered, arms crossed. "They'll press that advantage."
"Aye," agreed Lord Locke and Lord Flint. "More steel. More food."
Artos grinned. "Good. lots of supplies for us then ."
That got a few chuckles from the lords.
"We need a plan," Artos continued. "And I've one in mind."
The map was rolled out and the Northern commanders gathered.
"In the front: Tallharts, Lockes, and Flints. Hold shield line. Absorb the first volley of arrows. Once the archers are spent, Mountain Clans, Skagosi, Umbers, and Mormonts move in hard. I'll lead the charge."
"Right flank—Boltons and Manderlys. Left flank—Karstarks, Dustins, and Ryswells," Artos said, pointing.
"Glovers and Hornwoods in reserve. Rotate them in when needed."
"For archers," Jeor nodded to Howland, "all Northmen's bows together under the Crannog Lord."
"A simple plan," Artos said, "but we know our strengths—and our weaknesses."
"Lord Glover commands the reserves. Manderly on the right. Karstark on the left."
Then Artos glanced across the table.
"And hear this. Don't fight like you're scared. Don't fight like Southerners . WE WILL HARD LIKE NORTHERNERS If you run? I'll behead you myself."
"Aye! Golden words," Rogar Umber barked.
"The North will not forget any coward," said Jeor grimly.
Artos nodded. "Prepare the men. We march."
Later, on the line, Artos stood atop a small rise and looked toward his men.
"Men of the North!" he shouted, voice carrying. "We've marched long and hard. I know you're tired. I know you're bored!"
Laughter rolled across ranks. "Aye!" "Too gods-damned long!"
"Well," Artos went on, "the wait's over. Reachmen are upon us. Thirty-five thousand men. Against our twenty thousand."
He paused.
"Lords say it's a bad field. We're outnumbered. No stronghold to protect us. So tell me, are we afraid?"
"No!" the men roared.
"This'll be hard. Greybeards march among you without intention of returning home. We all may die here—but we're Northmen. Storms and snow made us hard. And we'll show them what we're made of."
He drew his sword.
"I lead from the front. As your commander. As a Stark. Now tell me—ARE YOU WITH ME?!"
"With the Starks!" they shouted back in unison. "WITH THE STARKS!"
Artos raised his sword toward the sky. "Then let's give them a battle they'll never forget."
By dawn, Artos and the Northern host stood in marching formation, riding toward the oncoming Reach force.
A message came—Lord Mace Tyrell had requested a parley.
Artos agreed to entertain it. There would be no peace, but he wanted to see the smug fool eye to eye.
Mace Tyrell was armored in gold and green, his cloak edged with golden roses. He rode with his bannermen, puffed up with confidence.
"Boy," he said, lips curled, "you're young. So I'm giving you a chance. Surrender now. Spare yourself and your men the bloodshed. You have what—twenty-five thousand? Pitiful."
Artos sat calm in the saddle.
"You're right, Lord Tyrell. We have less—only twenty thousand."
The Tyrell lords grinned, smug.
"And you're right, someone should surrender today," Artos added. "Because I fear you're just ten thousand men too short."
Mace blinked once.
"Do you surrender, my lord? Or do you need time... to find more men?"
The Northern lords exploded with laughter behind Artos. The Mountain Clans were pounding their axes on shields. Even the Skagosi smirked.
Mace Tyrell flushed. "Is this a joke to you?"
"No," Artos said. "But you sure are."
"Ohhh, that'll sting," muttered Rogar Umber, grinning.
"Go back to camp, Tyrell," Artos said. "You'll be needing the rest."
Fuming, Mace turned his horse. "You'll regret this, boy."
Back in position, Artos waited behind the first shield line. The horns blew. The Reach army advanced in a long tide of armor and banners.
Arrows darkened the sky. Northern shields held.
Then the lines met.
Steel clashed. Men screamed.
It was time.
"Ride!" Artos roared, charging ahead on Snow, lance in hand. His elite force thundered behind him—Skagosi, Mountain Clans, Umbers , Mormounts at his side.
He crashed through Reach ranks like a hammer through pottery. His lance took down three before shattering. He didn't stop.
He threw throwing axes, knives. He threw two blades at oncoming knights—one took the man in the eye, the other in the neck.
Not honorable—but efficient.
Ned would disapprove of my actions or North such unneeded brutality that I allowed in the field but Good thing for me he wasn't here. Otherwise There would be lectures to listen.
He dismounted into chaos. He told Snow to get back in safe zone .
Rogar Umber at his side, Jeor Mormont grunting nearby, Stig with blood on his face. Skagosi were howling—cutting, tearing, fearless. Greybeards swung with nothing to lose. Every blow meant death or honor.
Artos pushed deeper into Reach ranks, fighting like a rabid wolf. Fast. Unstoppable. Blood and rage surged through him. The front lines shattered around his fury.
He was the storm.
The fight felt that it has been hours but in reality only 30 minutes have been past.
But My plan was working. The fear could be seen in enemies eyes. They were shocked at brutality and savageness of Northern warriors. Shocked that Greybeards were fighting like they have no intention to live. Battling till thier death.
Smoke and blood clouded his mind. He was deeper than expected, near the Reach command.
Reach knights and Lords were throwing down weapons—surrendering.
He turned to order the halt.
Then one Reach Lord drew a hidden blade.
And stabbed Rogar Umber.
The old lord let out a cry, staggering back.
Artos reacted on instinct. In one motion, he flung a knife across the space—it slammed into the lord's throat. He dropped like a stone. But it was already too late.
Rogar was bleeding badly.
Suddenly, the other Reach knights—those who had "surrendered"—grabbed swords. They betrayed their words. Tried to kill him.
That was all the excuse Artos needed.
He lost himself in the blood.Other Lords and men with him also started killing enemies without restraint. Not taking a single surrender.Artos was a raged beast in the field killing without any mercy non stop . Protecting Lord Rogar
He killed without pause. Blade in each hand. His breaths came short, like a beast snarling under armor. Rage overtook him.
Visions flickered in his mind. Strange.
One moment it was the battle. The next, strange images—like he was watching the field from behind. Then back again.
It was disorienting.His vision alternating.He was fighting on instincts.
He kept fighting. Slashing through men like Autumn wind through leaves.
Another flicker—a vision of himself, dancing through the Reach soldiers,to enemies and allies alike he look like a demon in steel.
He understand now about his vision atleast the source.
