Chapter 107 — Kill.
Only when Walter Whent finally pushed his way back into the safety of his own men did his legs stop trembling.
By the Seven, he swore he would never in his life pull a stunt that reckless again.
Charging alone into enemy ranks — that's the kind of thing only the greatest knights of the Seven Kingdoms would dare to do.
But Walter Whent had done it… and returned alive.
When this whole mess is over, he decided, he'll hire the finest bard he can find to write a rousing ballad about his "valor," so the entire realm knows that Harrenhal produces no cowards.
"Why are you back alone, my lord?"
a knight asked as Walter approached, confused.
"Where are Ser Cole and the others?"
Walter shot him a murderous look.
Of all the questions you could ask, you choose the one that exposes me most?
He'd left those fools behind — too busy fleeing for his life to bother shepherding anyone back.
"Ser Cole and the others still have… business to finish," Walter said stiffly, waving the matter away.
But before the knight could open his mouth again, his jaw dropped and he pointed forward with a shout:
"They—they're fighting!!!"
Walter spun around.
Down the Kingsroad, the Northern cavalry had begun a full charge — a roaring tide of hooves and steel. Dust rose like a great brown storm. And even through the haze, Walter could clearly see two yellow-armored riders ripped from their saddles and trampled into paste beneath hundreds of horses.
Squish.
Walter swallowed hard.
The knight beside him swallowed hard.
Then their eyes met.
And in Walter's, the knight saw panic.
"My lord, what do we do?" the knight asked quickly, tactfully avoiding further questions. "Do we ride to aid them, or return to the castle for reinforcements?"
Reinforcements?
Walter nearly exploded.
Why not just say 'let's run back to the castle and hide' like the coward you are?
His chest tightened, rage and fear competing in equal measure.
For a moment he genuinely considered drawing his sword and cutting the fool down.
He had been surrounded by worms like this his whole life.
"We stay right here!" Walter barked.
"We wait until they're routed — then we ride in and cut off their retreat!
We'll avenge Ser Cole!"
"Revenge! Revenge!!"
The dozen Whent knights cheered enthusiastically, raising their weapons.
Walter gave an approving nod…
though he had not the slightest intention of stepping anywhere near the battlefield.
He knew exactly what his men were worth.
The Whents were not the Tarlys of Horn Hill, nor the Hightowers of Oldtown.
They were — bluntly put — the family the Crown had planted at Harrenhal to keep the territory occupied, not because they were powerful.
They were literally a modified version of the cursed House Strong's.
They were gatekeepers — nothing more.
If the Iron Throne did not prop them up, they would already have been devoured by stronger neighbors.
Having one of their own become a Kingsguard — Oswell — was the miracle of a lifetime.
And even that miracle had been cut short when the current Lord Commander chopped his hand off.
So when Walter watched Northern riders crush his captain like a bug, he stood frozen — not from grief, but from calculation.
Why rush into a slaughter the moment it starts?
Let arrows do the dying first.
---
On the Kingsroad ahead, Martyn Cassel raised his longsword to the sky and roared at the top of his lungs:
"KILL THAT BASTARD! TAKE BACK LADY STARK!"
He led the charge, far ahead of the others — a perfect Stark bannerman, loyal to the bone.
He knew exactly who they were up against.
He knew how deadly that white-armored Kingsguard was.
He did not care.
Because while Northern men may be slow to anger…
once angered, they are unstoppable.
And ahead of him, Lance lowered his visor, a white giant upon a white warhorse, greatsword Dawn held low and angled like a charging spear.
Two storms — one of steel, one of blood — were about to collide.
He pressed his chest flat to his horse's neck, eyes locked on the Lannister cavalry ahead.
Among the flood of crimson armor, the single figure in blood-stained white stood out like a phantom.
Martyn Cassel spared one last roar to rally the riders behind him, then leaned into the charge, gaze fixed on the Kingsguard who waited without fear — no, without even interest — for him to arrive.
Yes, the duel earlier had proven the white knight's swordsmanship terrifying.
But Martyn Cassel was a winter-forged warrior of the North, undefeated throughout his service in Winterfell.
Even Brandon Stark — who had once bested him in a tourney — would not so easily defeat him in a real battlefield.
And a massed cavalry charge was nothing like a duel.
"KILL!!!"
Martyn swung sideways as the range closed — a perfect strike delivered at full speed.
He never finished it.
In full view of both armies, the Kingsguard — leading the Lannister charge — simply gave a casual flick of his greatsword.
A streak of pale light.
Martyn Cassel's world spun — sky, earth, hooves — until everything went red.
His head hit the dirt.
His eyes still wide, still confused, still trying to understand what had happened…
as white-and-red rode on without even slowing.
---
"WHAT IN THE SEVEN HELLS!?"
Behind him, Maege Mormont screamed.
Even she — who never praised any warrior except those of Bear Island — knew Martyn's ferocity.
He was the one Stark sent when Winterfell needed a dispute settled without raising the banners.
He was the man Southern lords feared to offend.
And just now — he died in one blow.
Not a clash.
Not an exchange.
One.
Single.
Swing.
And in the icy blue eyes beneath that white helmet, Maege saw nothing.
Not triumph.
Not rage.
Not even interest.
As if the Kingsguard had swatted aside a fly.
For the first time in many, many years, Maege Mormont felt fear.
But the gods were not done with punishing the North today.
In the blink of an eye, the pale knight was already upon her — greatsword lifted in a clean, merciless arc.
"FOR THE NORTH!!!"
Maege roared back, no hesitation, no retreat — her spiked mace rose high.
It didn't matter.
Pure white steel flashed.
Her head traced a perfect parabola through the sky before it hit the ground with a heavy thud.
---
"AUNT MAEGE!!!"
At the rear of the formation, Jorah Mormont screamed — raw and broken.
He should have been ahead of Maege.
He should have stood in front.
But the shame of his defeat…
the loss of Longclaw…
the humiliation of the duel…
It had all bitten deeper than steel.
So he hesitated.
He drifted behind the line.
And Maege paid for it with her head.
Her dead eyes stared straight at him — not angry, not pleading, just… disappointed.
Jorah's soul cracked.
His entire life, he believed he would bring honor to Bear Island.
Now he was nothing but failure.
The anger came like fire.
"HRR—AHHHH!!!"
Jaw clenched, ribs screaming, Jorah spurred his horse and hurled himself back into the charge — no hesitation, no fear.
If he could not live with honor…
He would die with it.
"FOR THE NORTH!!!"
He howled and raised a borrowed longsword — the spirit of a true Mormont blazing in his eyes.
It lasted one heartbeat.
A familiar pale blade smacked into his chestplate — not even a killing blow — and Jorah was blasted off his saddle, crashing into the dirt.
The world went dark.
When he opened his eyes again, all he saw was the Kingsguard.
White armor.
Sunlight blazing behind him.
Sword lowered but not striking.
Those indifferent blue eyes — colder than the Wall.
Jorah tried to rise. Pain anchored him down — ribs shattered.
The Kingsguard didn't even grant him the dignity of finishing him.
He simply looked at Jorah…
…and dismissed him.
Behind Lance, the Lannister cavalry stood in perfect formation.
Only two injured, one unhorsed.
Across the field:
half of the Northern riders were dead.
The rest — barely a dozen — clung to their saddles like dying candles in the wind.
Their vaunted fearlessness was gone, replaced by horror.
"Pathetic."
The Kingsguard turned away with a derisive snort, ignoring Jorah entirely.
He raised his sword toward the shattered Northern line — voice cold, echoing like judgment itself:
"It ends now, Northerners."
And in the broken silence, the North understood:
They were no longer fighting for victory.
They were fighting to survive.