Cole stood atop a high hill, watching as the cavalry of Riverrun was encircled. Ser Kevan was advancing with soldiers from the southern and central camps.
Suddenly, a group of riders bearing silver trout banners came galloping toward them from below—more than a dozen in total.
On the hill, there were only five men, including Cole, barely half the number of the approaching enemy.
"Prepare for battle," Cole ordered his men.
Edmure Tully rode up the hill, exhilarated. He had expected to encounter Stark banners and their cavalry, yet as he approached, he found only a small group of unfamiliar riders.
The leader was young, his face smooth and beardless. There was no need to guess—this had to be his nephew, Robb Stark.
He was about to call out when, without hesitation, the five riders leveled their lances and swords and charged straight at them.
"Robb, it's me! I'm your uncle, Edmure!" he shouted urgently.
But the young knight seemed deaf to his words, paying him no heed.
It wasn't until blades clashed and the intent to kill became unmistakable that Edmure realized—seven hells, this wasn't Robb at all.
The young knight swung a massive sword with one hand, cutting down Edmure's guards and closing in on him.
Panicked, Edmure yanked the reins, preparing to retreat, but the knight beside him grabbed his horse's bridle and murmured, "My lord, they're only five men."
Edmure snapped back to his senses. Yes, just five of them.
Gritting his teeth, the Lord of Riverrun raised his sword.
The clash was brief but brutal. Four of his men fell, and they managed to bring down only one of the enemy. But this had only been a surprise attack.
Now, with nine against four, the Tully forces had the advantage.
Edmure himself engaged the enemy leader. The young knight had no one by his side, and Edmure could see his hand trembling slightly on the reins. He wanted to take this boy's head himself.
One of his knights charged first—only to be swiftly cut down.
Edmure and another knight swung at the enemy together. Surely, the boy couldn't best them both.
Yet, before Edmure could comprehend what had happened, a crushing blow struck his head, and the world went black.
As he fell, the remaining Riverland knights moved to rescue him, but the last two Lannister knights had already closed in.
Now, with three against six, the enemy had Cole and his remaining men surrounded.
Cole's right arm was nearly useless, the pain making it difficult to even hold the reins. He could barely lift his sword to defend himself.
Blades came at him from all directions. His armor took several hits, the steel absorbing the worst of the blows. In that moment, the true value of heavy armor was clear.
One of the Lannister knights was knocked from his horse by a spear, another run through where he sat.
Yet the enemy remained unscathed, and the tide of battle shifted against them. Cole was trapped.
Swords and spears struck from every side. For an instant, time seemed to freeze. The falling drizzle shimmered in the air like droplets on an invisible canvas.
Men fought and fell, some screaming, others cursing. Expressions of rage, pain, and desperation painted the battlefield like a macabre masterpiece.
Cole had no time to dwell on it. His mind was focused only on survival.
Before him, two spears and a longsword aimed for his chest, while a mace swung toward his side. He knew another blade was coming from behind, but it was beyond his sight.
If his horse was struck or panicked, he would be thrown. He had to avoid the spears' direct thrusts, but the sweeping arc of the mace and longsword left little room to maneuver.
Still, there was always a way. He just had to find an opening.
The Riverland knights saw him shift to one side, dodging all their strikes in a single movement.
A spear pierced his horse, sending the beast into a wild, frenzied gallop. As it reared, Cole drew two swords from its saddle and swung them in twin arcs.
The wind howled as the blades cut through the air.
Two knights fell, their throats slit before they even realized they were dead.
Cole felt as if the scapula connecting his right shoulder to his arm had nearly shattered. Heat pooled beneath his armor, seeping through his clothes—whether it was blood or sweat, he couldn't tell.
His horse charged uncontrollably into the woods. Suddenly, a low-hanging branch loomed ahead. He had just lifted his head when he was forced to duck again, narrowly avoiding a blow.
The four remaining Riverland knights froze at the sight for a brief moment before three of them spurred their horses in pursuit. The last dismounted to check on their fallen lord, Edmure.
When his pursuers closed in, Cole was far more composed. His blood ran hot, his mind sharpened. Pain no longer mattered—only the fight did.
With twin swords in hand, he moved like a man possessed, eyes blazing red with fury. Against him, the three knights stood no chance.
One was knocked clean off his horse.
Another took a thrust straight through the eye socket—the blade slipping past his visor like a hot knife through frozen lard. He let out a piercing scream before toppling from his saddle, clutching his face.
The last knight, seeing how quickly the tide had turned, panicked. He wheeled his horse around and fled.
At that moment, Cole's own horse stumbled on a tangle of vines, sending him crashing to the ground. He tumbled down a slope, rolling several times before coming to a stop, his face coated in dust. He had no idea where he was injured, but at least he could still stand.
A warm trickle ran down his forehead—blood, no doubt, from where his head had struck his armor in the fall.
Not far away, a riderless horse stood panting. Cole approached, murmuring to calm the beast. The horse sniffed at him, sensing he wasn't its master, and began to resist. Cole grabbed its head firmly, holding it in place.
Mounting swiftly, he pressed his heels into its sides. The horse hesitated, then obeyed.
Ahead, the fleeing knight looked back and saw Cole closing in. Panicked, he lashed his horse with his whip, urging it faster.
But panic breeds mistakes. He struck the horse too hard, breaking its rhythm, and in moments, Cole was upon him.
The knight threw down his sword and begged for mercy. Cole barely hesitated. His blade flashed, and the man slumped from his saddle.
Cole sat there, breath heaving, his body drenched in sticky blood—his own, his enemies', he no longer knew.
When he finally returned to the battlefield, the crimson banner of House Lannister flew high over Riverrun.
Relief washed over him. They had won.
A bloody grin spread across his face.
At that moment, it felt as though he had downed a great bowl of strong wine—at first, he hadn't felt it, but now, the effects struck all at once.
His body sagged. It was as if a mountain had settled on his shoulders, dragging him down. The land before him tilted and swayed, the hills and rivers shifting unnaturally.
Someone spoke beside him, their voice distant, echoing as though from another world.
He tried to focus, but their face blurred, splitting into two, then three.
Then—
A heavy clang.
His armor struck the ground.
And before him stretched the endless night.
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