The mud tugged on Justin's boots. With every stride across the ruined ground of the Scarves came a squelching noise, one like skin tearing off muscle. Poets skipped this part. No talk of honor. None of courage. Just thirty thousand fading lives in a patch of dirt without so much as a real title.
"Commander! The eastern flank is collapsing!"
He spotted Marcus Stark just ahead. Not so lucky anymore, surrounded by high-ranking knights, their fancy armor slowing them down. The next in line for House Stark's throne, seconds away from ending up dead on the ground.
"Sound the horn. Three short blasts."
"Sir, that's...."
Three quick blasts. Justin spoke like someone you just believed, no second thoughts. The horn tore through the noise.
He'd started walking along the wall, his shiny armor rattling as he stepped. The wolf symbol on his chest, hard to see now was smeared with blood and grime. A chunk of what looked like guts peeled away from his shoulder piece.
The battlefield lay out ahead. Not everyone noticed order there. Instead, Justin pictured it like a game, just clumsy players involved.
"Pincer formation. Hit them from the north and south simultaneously. Push them toward the center where the pike wall can actually do its job for once."
His right-hand guy, an old soldier called Torrhen, smirked, lost most of his teeth years ago. "Getting to Lord Marcus? That's basically walking into death."
"Then I'll see you in hell."
Justin jumped on his horse, one huge warhorse that likely set him back way more than his old house ever did. All his stuff came from the Starks. Who he'd become? Their doing.
Who I've become? They'll dread it.
The idea popped up outta nowhere. So he shut it down fast.
The cavalry rushed forward, wild but in sync. Justin stayed quiet, no yelling from him. He didn't have to. The group flowed together, tight and sharp, few soldiers moving as if tied by one mind, one pulse, thanks to relentless practice that burned each move into their bones.
A shadowy creature; part wolf, part insect leap toward him. But Justin already had his sword buried deep in its neck. Dark liquid dripped from the steel. Then the thing faded into thin air.
One more. This time, it nearly killed him only because he spotted the flicker in its back legs just before it jumped. His blade slipped through where the shell didn't quite meet. Soft spot. Gotta aim for the soft spot every single time.
Marcus Stark shouted commands no one caught in the noise. His riders held a line with shields, yet it buckled fast, crumbling under pressure. From their backs came something huge, a ranked B or worse, built like a fever dream, slick with plates and writhing legs.
Justin's brain ran through choices in a flash. A direct attack meant he'd make it out alive one time out of four. Drawing attention first, then moving around gave him better odds about two in three. Falling back? Slim chance Marcus pulls through, just over ten percent. But Justin himself would likely walk away, close to nine times out of ten.
He went with the 67% option.
"Torrhen! Draw it left!"
His second acted fast. The old fighters split up, yelling while clanging blades against shields. The B-Rank creature's head or heads? there were several heads
Justin shifted, no hesitation, just speed. He dashed close to the ground, quick like a shadow dodging through wreckage. One dead warrior blocked part of the path; broken wood from a wagon jutted nearby. His feet gripped muddy patches where most would lose balance. Distance melted: sixty paces out... then forty… now twenty.
The creature saw him. Way past time.
He was slipping under it fast, weapon out. The steel hit tender flesh - no belly shot from legends, just the knot of nerves at the base of its middle limb. A flaw he'd learned during the Third Void breach. That event's still a decade and a half away.
Wait.
No time to think. Then came the scream, sharp, wild. All around, guys hit the ground, hands clutching ears, red streaks dripping fast. Justin was moving before it ended, twisting aside, fingers stretching toward Marcus while the creature whipped sideways.
Rise." He yanked the noble upright. Marcus looked dazed maybe scared. Maybe guilty. "Pull your soldiers together. They're falling apart out there."
Marcus just gave a quiet nod. All around, things started shifting different. Southern horse riders closed the trap fast, smashing those Void Beasts into the spike line. Up north, backup squads began pushing forward now. Maybe ten minutes left before it all ended.
Justin took a single breath. That was it.
Soon the Duke showed up.
The victory tent reeked of sour wine, old blood, yet somehow felt like fake joy. Maps were everywhere, piled high, shoved into corners, tossed aside like broken charms.
Duke Aldric Stark was authority no doubt. Towering frame, wide shoulders, strands of silver untouched even after war's mess. Now he wore parade steel, blood scrubbed off by silent helpers drifting through shadows.
He put his hand on Justin's shoulder.
"The finest commander in Valderra." The Duke's voice carried through the tent, ensuring everyone heard. "A true son of the House."
The gathered nobles lifted their goblets. Yet Justin showed no smile. Quietly thankful. Acting small, how peasants were meant to act around highborn folk.
Yet his gaze stayed on the Duke's eyes.
Over there. For just a second. A flash, something deeper than pride or thanks. His shoulder carried the Duke's hand like stone. Not warmth from a dad.
The heaviness a guy feels while wondering if the blade's fit for use - or if it's too keen to trust.
Justin had studied men's expressions for two decades. Hesitation on a fight scene meant death. Getting motives wrong in royal halls brought doom, slower, yet certain. What he saw now? No mystery there.
Fear.
Duke Aldric Stark, the strongest ruler up north, felt fear toward his top general.
You saved my boy's life today," the Duke said, his hand still on Justin's shoulder. As he spoke, it pressed down a bit more just enough to feel, not hurt. It wasn't pain, just a quiet signal who was above whom. "Stark doesn't let favors go unanswered."
I live to serve, Your Grace," he said without thinking. Over fifteen years, repeating it had shaped how he spoke.
Marcus Stark stood on the far side of the tent, flanked by buddies, kids from noble families who'd never faced battle before this morning. He guzzled wine like there was no tomorrow, shouting anf laughing. Still breathing only because Justin picked a 67% shot instead of one with 91% odds for his own skin.
"Rest tonight," the Duke said, his hand finally leaving Justin's shoulder. "Tomorrow we march for Winterfell. The King will want a full report, and I imagine there will be honors. You've earned them."
Praise. Rank. Extra territory, most likely stuff any regular guy might hope to get.
Anything that could boost his worth. That'd make him harder to replace. A bigger risk.
Justin bowed. "Your will, Your Grace."
He slipped out of the tent while the Duke stayed quiet. Cold night air hit him, thick with smoke from burning bodies. Fire would keep going till morning light. Many graves? No names just silent stones.
He stumbled on a calm patch back near the supply wagons, letting his grip tremble only briefly. Not more than a breath. Enough to know he could still feel dread, that he hadn't gone numb inside.
Yet this dread inside him now had nothing to do with those shadowy creatures or the fight ahead. It ran deeper. Sharper.
He'd noticed that stare in the Duke's gaze earlier. Once only, long back, aimed at another officer. Someone who racked up wins, built strong trust among soldiers.
They discovered the commander's corpse a month after. "Outlaws," the paperwork claimed.
Justin gazed at the night sky. Back then, things were different, he was just a kid surviving on scraps in Hartheim's alleys. The Starks hadn't found him yet. Not until they turned him into something else.
Why? he wondered. What's the point of handing me all this stuff - then acting scared 'cause I've got it?
He had no reply just silence for now.
Yet frozen in place, staring at the smoke curling up from burning piles.