Post by J.Hollick on Nov 16, 2012 18:16:10 GMT -9
Fan Fiction Novel from the Game of Thrones. Work In Progress.
The night was ending, a grey dawn approaching, slowly lighting up the lush woods around Lord Medger Cerwyn. His light brown hair was hidden beneath his helm, the visor raised so his grey blue eyes could scan the forest around him. His brown destrier beneath him he pressed forward beside Lord Bolton. His armour weighed heavy on him and the night’s march had his tired eyes aching. His legs were restless as they swung lightly with the horse’s strides but Medger steadied himself, knowing that by the time the sun peaked over the edge of the world he would be knee deep in blood, or already dead. Behind him two thousand men marched, only five hundred of them on horseback and Medger hoped that marching through the night to catch the Lannister army by surprise was going to be worth tiring his men out before the battle even began, somehow he doubted it.
The trees were thinning, Medger could see the clearing up ahead where the Lannister army slept but the sound that reached his ears was of anything but a quiet, unsuspecting camp. Instead he could hear the distinct sound of horns and men yelling. Lord Bolton instantly unsheathed his sword and yelled a battle cry, urging his men on before they lost all advantage. The men behind followed suit, pulled from their daydreams of soft beds and warm women, the sound of thousands of swords unsheathing down the line could be heard. Everyone made for the clearing, separating into their flanks and finding their commanders. The north army broke through the trees and Medger sized up the situation in the few seconds he had. Obviously forewarned the Lannister army haphazardly assembled itself.
Quickly the spearman assembled, creating a wall of spears. The great Gregor Clegane, impossible to miss, charged forward on his great brute of a horse. ‘The Mountain’ they called him and with good reason. The Mountain smashed into the wall of spears, his horse falling down, blood gushing forth as it fell its knees. But the wall was broken and Ser Gregor Clegane was in amongst the northmen, swinging his swords in wide arcs, taking down soldiers left and right.
Medger noticed that the left flank of the Lannister army was not wearing the red and gold of the Lion, their weapons were an array of wood axes and rusty swords. They wore furs and leathers instead of steel armour and they quickly ran ahead of the group, undisciplined, untrained. A trick no doubt, to get them to focus their attention there, allowing them to be bombarded from the side by the rest of the army. Medger hoped that Lord Bolton noticed it as well and he did. Bolton refrained from aiming his attack at the left, he kept to the battle plan and the fight was on.
Medger lost track of the number of lives he had taken, however many it was, it wasn’t enough. He noticed the ever-slimming number of his companions around him but it only spurred him to fight harder. Blood soaked his horse and sprayed his armour, his sword was drenched and dripping. The smell of it hung thick in the air and there were now more screams of agony then of battle cries. Then he heard it, through the fog of screams, Lord Bolton’s bellow across the bloody field of the Green Trident.
“Retreat!” Horns sounded, Stark horns and all around him men turned and ran. Medger turned with them, kicking the sides of his horse to spur him into a gallop. Before his horse could even begin to run a sword cut through the back leg. The horse tried to kick out but fell and Medger fell with it. His armour offered no protection from the fall, his own horse landing on top of him. The air left his lungs, a burning sensation burst through his body and he passed out from the pain.
Medger awoke inside a red tent. Pain wracked his body as he struggled to sit. The world was blurry and too bright but when he tried to lift his arm to shield the sunlight filtering through the open tent flap he cried out. His eyes adjusted, the world came into focus.
His arm was at an odd angle to his body, his ribs were wrapped with a white bandage and his chest crackled when he breathed. He attempted to sit and couldn’t, his legs shot fire through his body. The guards standing at the tent noticed he had awoken and one of them turned and left the tent. Medger gritted his teeth, his head swimming with pain. It was Lannister guards at the tent door. For a brief moment he had hoped that perhaps he was being taken back to the Twins but that was shattered now. He was a prisoner of war and no doubt would be bartered. He hoped Lord Stark had the sense not to, and that their plan had worked and the young Stark Lord had taken the Kingslayer and ended the siege on Riverrun.
The tent flap opened and a tall, regal man walked in, the Lannister gold in his greying hair and in small wisps in the whiskers on his face.
“Lord Cerwyn.” He nodded, his voice deep and booming yet solemn.
“Lord Lannister.” Tywin. Medger cursed the man in his head. Before talk could continue Medger burst into a coughing fit, his side aching and blood splatter out of his mouth in a spray.
“You must rest Lord Cerwyn. My maester has attended to you as best he can, he will be around a few times a day to re-dress your wounds. I promise you that you will be treated respectfully and so long as the Young Wolf does no harm to my son Jaime no harm will befall you.”
“So I’m to become your pawn now. King Robb would never be so dull as to trade the Kingslayer for me. You’ll need a lot more to sway his hand.”
“And more we have. Rest now Lord Cerwyn, recover,” Tywin handed him a flask, “Milk of the Poppy, to help you sleep.” Medger took it with his good arm but didn’t drink it. Tywin just shrugged and with a swirl of the tent flap he was gone. The guards entered again and Medger surrendered himself to his fate. He would be of no use to King Robb until his injuries were healed, best get them healed quickly. He drained the flask and closed his eyes.
The night was ending, a grey dawn approaching, slowly lighting up the lush woods around Lord Medger Cerwyn. His light brown hair was hidden beneath his helm, the visor raised so his grey blue eyes could scan the forest around him. His brown destrier beneath him he pressed forward beside Lord Bolton. His armour weighed heavy on him and the night’s march had his tired eyes aching. His legs were restless as they swung lightly with the horse’s strides but Medger steadied himself, knowing that by the time the sun peaked over the edge of the world he would be knee deep in blood, or already dead. Behind him two thousand men marched, only five hundred of them on horseback and Medger hoped that marching through the night to catch the Lannister army by surprise was going to be worth tiring his men out before the battle even began, somehow he doubted it.
The trees were thinning, Medger could see the clearing up ahead where the Lannister army slept but the sound that reached his ears was of anything but a quiet, unsuspecting camp. Instead he could hear the distinct sound of horns and men yelling. Lord Bolton instantly unsheathed his sword and yelled a battle cry, urging his men on before they lost all advantage. The men behind followed suit, pulled from their daydreams of soft beds and warm women, the sound of thousands of swords unsheathing down the line could be heard. Everyone made for the clearing, separating into their flanks and finding their commanders. The north army broke through the trees and Medger sized up the situation in the few seconds he had. Obviously forewarned the Lannister army haphazardly assembled itself.
Quickly the spearman assembled, creating a wall of spears. The great Gregor Clegane, impossible to miss, charged forward on his great brute of a horse. ‘The Mountain’ they called him and with good reason. The Mountain smashed into the wall of spears, his horse falling down, blood gushing forth as it fell its knees. But the wall was broken and Ser Gregor Clegane was in amongst the northmen, swinging his swords in wide arcs, taking down soldiers left and right.
Medger noticed that the left flank of the Lannister army was not wearing the red and gold of the Lion, their weapons were an array of wood axes and rusty swords. They wore furs and leathers instead of steel armour and they quickly ran ahead of the group, undisciplined, untrained. A trick no doubt, to get them to focus their attention there, allowing them to be bombarded from the side by the rest of the army. Medger hoped that Lord Bolton noticed it as well and he did. Bolton refrained from aiming his attack at the left, he kept to the battle plan and the fight was on.
Medger lost track of the number of lives he had taken, however many it was, it wasn’t enough. He noticed the ever-slimming number of his companions around him but it only spurred him to fight harder. Blood soaked his horse and sprayed his armour, his sword was drenched and dripping. The smell of it hung thick in the air and there were now more screams of agony then of battle cries. Then he heard it, through the fog of screams, Lord Bolton’s bellow across the bloody field of the Green Trident.
“Retreat!” Horns sounded, Stark horns and all around him men turned and ran. Medger turned with them, kicking the sides of his horse to spur him into a gallop. Before his horse could even begin to run a sword cut through the back leg. The horse tried to kick out but fell and Medger fell with it. His armour offered no protection from the fall, his own horse landing on top of him. The air left his lungs, a burning sensation burst through his body and he passed out from the pain.
Medger awoke inside a red tent. Pain wracked his body as he struggled to sit. The world was blurry and too bright but when he tried to lift his arm to shield the sunlight filtering through the open tent flap he cried out. His eyes adjusted, the world came into focus.
His arm was at an odd angle to his body, his ribs were wrapped with a white bandage and his chest crackled when he breathed. He attempted to sit and couldn’t, his legs shot fire through his body. The guards standing at the tent noticed he had awoken and one of them turned and left the tent. Medger gritted his teeth, his head swimming with pain. It was Lannister guards at the tent door. For a brief moment he had hoped that perhaps he was being taken back to the Twins but that was shattered now. He was a prisoner of war and no doubt would be bartered. He hoped Lord Stark had the sense not to, and that their plan had worked and the young Stark Lord had taken the Kingslayer and ended the siege on Riverrun.
The tent flap opened and a tall, regal man walked in, the Lannister gold in his greying hair and in small wisps in the whiskers on his face.
“Lord Cerwyn.” He nodded, his voice deep and booming yet solemn.
“Lord Lannister.” Tywin. Medger cursed the man in his head. Before talk could continue Medger burst into a coughing fit, his side aching and blood splatter out of his mouth in a spray.
“You must rest Lord Cerwyn. My maester has attended to you as best he can, he will be around a few times a day to re-dress your wounds. I promise you that you will be treated respectfully and so long as the Young Wolf does no harm to my son Jaime no harm will befall you.”
“So I’m to become your pawn now. King Robb would never be so dull as to trade the Kingslayer for me. You’ll need a lot more to sway his hand.”
“And more we have. Rest now Lord Cerwyn, recover,” Tywin handed him a flask, “Milk of the Poppy, to help you sleep.” Medger took it with his good arm but didn’t drink it. Tywin just shrugged and with a swirl of the tent flap he was gone. The guards entered again and Medger surrendered himself to his fate. He would be of no use to King Robb until his injuries were healed, best get them healed quickly. He drained the flask and closed his eyes.
