"Shields up!" a serjeant shouted as the boats surged onward.
Arrows kept raining down over them. Some splashed harmlessly into the dark water. Others rattled against shields held overhead by the men in the boats. To Donnel's left, a soldier suddenly bucked, a black-fletched shaft protruding from his throat.
For half a heartbeat, he remained sitting there, eyes wide with surprise. Then the man clawed at his own neck desperately, his fingers slick with blood. Before they could even try to stop the bleeding, he was already gone.
Donnel stared blankly ahead. No one had stopped rowing, and no one looked back.
The harbor loomed larger with every pull of the oars. Donnel could see the defenders rushing toward the quays now. Men-at-arms, spearmen, and militias scrambled into the harbor as the archers fell back behind them.
The sight made Donnel's stomach tighten. This was no longer sailors fighting aboard ships. This was a battle. His first true battle.
They hit the quay hard, scraping against the stone. Before the wood had even settled, Ser William vaulted over the gunwale. The weight of his armor dragged the boat down as if it were nothing more than kindling. Water splashed around his boots as he landed.
One of the braver Grafton swordsmen rushed to meet him, but it had been a mistake. Ser William's great morningstar rose coursing through the air, quickly, and then fell. The iron head connected with the man's helm with a bone-splintering crunch that echoed around the harbor. A slurry of grey and bloody shards erupted from the ruined head, painting the quay.
"Forward!" Ser William bellowed.
Donnel followed at once, thinking, stay beside your knight. He kept close to William's left flank, just as he had been taught a hundred times before. Protect the space your brother-in-arms cannot see, a simple lesson to remember when men were trying to kill you.
The Grafton men tried to hold their line well. Donnel saw their officers shouting orders, but the soldiers were panicking. They were still shoving one another, trying to hide behind the poorly formed shield wall. But when the Northerners poured onto harbors with axes and swords, their bravery deserted them.
The relentless press of the Northerners' steel and discipline broke the Grafton lines as their militiamen began to flee.
A Grafton man-at-arms lunged at Donnel with a broad steel axe and swung sideways through the air, with enough force to cleave a man in two. Donnel quickly jumped behind, the steel whistling inches from his belly. Before the man could recover, he pushed forward and kicked at the man's hand. Making the man lose his balance even more.
With the man overextended, Donnel drove his mace on an upward swing, catching him squarely under the chin. The man's jaw shattered into a bloody pulp. He dropped and tried to hold onto his dangling, ruined mouth.
Before Donnel could finish him off, another soldier charged at him, eyes wide with a frantic anger. He barely raised his shield and caught the blow. The impact nearly knocked him off his feet. With every bit of his strength, Donnel pushed the man away and looked him square in the eye. A moment later, and this bastard would have killed him.
The axeman tried to raise his weapon again when fear flooded Donnel. Before the man could do anything, he charged and began to swing wildly. The man dodged a few blows, but then suddenly got pushed in front by something behind him. The edge of Donnel's mace immediately caught the man across the face in a savage blow, bursting through the ear.
"Close ranks!" shouted Walton Bloodaxe. "Push them behind!"
Donnel barely noticed how the man fell onto the ground as he found himself moving along with the other northerners.
He kept swinging his weapon without thinking, hitting as many enemies as he could. For a moment, Donnel wanted to stop. He wanted to see if the fellows he hit still lived. Maybe he could remember their faces, honor them as a man. But instead another enemy came and then another. A battle left no room for pity, only survival.
They had not expected this. That much was plain. The royalists had thought Gulltown safe behind its walls. They hadn't thought their harbor would be threatened today. No one had told them the Northerners could fight at sea.
By now, even the men-at-arms had begun to break. First, a few. Then in the dozens. Soon, all of them were retreating toward the city streets.
"They run, the cowardly bastards!" Bloodaxe shouted with glee as he began to chase them with a few other winter wolves.
Within a few moments, the harbor was theirs. Donnel stood breathing hard. His sword arm ached, and blood covered his gloves. His ears still rang with the sounds of screams and bones. The battle had lasted only minutes. It felt much longer.
Ser William stood among the fallen, breathing hard, his morningstar dark with blood. His voice cut through the noise of the harbor. "No looting or pillaging," he barked. "Any man I find disobeying me, I'll crush his head myself."
The words were not shouted for show. Donnel had heard that tone before, and he knew the men heard it too. Discipline mattered to Ser William. To him, victory bought with chaos was no victory at all.
"Someone bring me a soldier alive, if you can," Ser William added. "I want answers. And where is Ser Henry?"
Donnel turned just as his brother pushed through the press of men. Ser Henry Locke was already blooded, his sword red to the hilt, his helm pushed back enough to show his face slick with sweat.
"You called, my lord," Henry said, dipping his head.
Ser William did not waste words and started giving quick commands. "Take the tower on the north of the harbor. Ring the bell. Let our friends know we have come."
Henry's eyes flicked toward the tower, then back. "Aye, ser. At once." He turned and was gone, gathering men as he ran.
After a moment, the guards brought an enemy archer and dropped him in front of Ser William. Donnel watched the archer stumble to the ground before Ser William, arms raised, "Mercy, m'lord!" the man cried, eyes wide, voice shaking with fear, as if pleading alone could spare him.
Ser William's gaze was steady and cold. "Which gate did they send you from?" he asked, his voice low.
"The western gate, m'lord…please, don't kill me," the archer stammered, his words tripping over themselves in desperation.
Donnel heard Ser William mutter something under his breath.
"Take him away," Ser William ordered. The soldiers obeyed, dragging the man aside, still whimpering.
Donnel's eyes tracked the archer as he was dragged away, the man's pleading echo growing faint by the second. He knew Ser William would brook no hesitation in this moment. He would show mercy, yes, but only after the battle had been won.
Ser William turned toward his younger brother Ser Wylis and his uncle Ser Marlon Manderly, "Take half of our men and fortify the harbor. Hold this position and expect more attacks. Don't let anyone slip away."
Ser William turned to the rest of the men. "Rest of you with me," he ordered sharply. "We move west. Show no mercy for traitors, but spare those who surrender. I want no meaningless waste of men."
The soldiers obeyed and formed lines. Ser William looked at Donnel and asked, "Are you okay? Can you still fight?"
Donnel did not realize his heart was still beating fast. He nodded and wanted to say he was fine. But for some reason, the words got stuck in his throat, and he could only murmur, "Aye, ser, I can do my duty."
Ser William looked over at Donnel and smiled faintly. Donnel knew his knight saw the fear upon him, though he had said nothing of it. Ser William's voice was gentle when he spoke. "Remember this, Donnel. Duty comes with a heavy burden, heavier than a mountain, and death comes light as a feather to all men with duty."
A sad smile touched his lips. Ser William looked into his eyes, "When that day comes for you, do not fear it overmuch. Meet it with your eyes open and your sword in hand. Greet it as you would an old companion upon the road. For when death takes us, our burdens pass from our shoulders at last."
Donnel nodded, his heart slowed a little.
Ser William put on his helm and patted Donnel on his shoulder, "Be brave, Donnel, be brave."
Donnel ran with the vanguard through the narrow streets, his boots slapping against the wet cobbles. The western gate loomed ahead, a solid wall of stone and timber. The Royalists had a company of nearly a thousand men defending that corner of the city. Or so the prisoners had claimed. But war was unpredictable, and desperate men would say anything in hopes that it might buy them a few more hours of life.
Donnel marched at the front along with Ser William. His eyes scanned every window as they walked through the streets. The Pikemen marched behind them and the swordsmen guarded the flanks. The Myrish crossbowmen they had hired were waiting behind that ring of defense to let fly their bolts into mounted knights attempting to hold the gate.
As they reached the narrow road's end, the battle began again. The noise that surrounded them was a tangle of metal, screams of pain, and shouts of commands.
"Hold the line! Push them back!" Ser William bellowed. His voice carried, cutting through the shrieks of men and the clatter of arms.
Donnel pressed forward, shoulder to shoulder with the men-at-arms. His lungs were burning, and his mail shirt was heavy with sweat. His heart danced a frantic, jagged rhythm against his ribs.
Donnel knew he was tired, but he pressed on, holding onto his shield along with the pikes protecting them from oncoming arrows. The line held behind the shield wall and moved on ahead. From the safety of Iron and oak, their own crossbows began firing back bolts. Thrum. Thrum. Thrum.
As they reached the enemy lines, their pikemen met the enemy pikes with their long-reaching spears. Donnel dropped to a crouch along with the other men-at-arms and went across beneath the sky of pikes. The air beneath the pikes was thick with the smell of wet wool, filth, and the iron-stink of the dying.
Donnel had switched to his short sword for the battle in this narrow street. The northern men-at-arms began stabbing the enemy from beneath the forest of pikes.
Donnel found a Grafton knight in plate standing behind the pikemen, shocked at seeing the Northerner's madness. Before the knight could react, he drove his blade upward into the soft, unprotected gap behind the knight's knee. The steel bit deep, shearing through leather to grate against the joint.
The knight's cry was high as his leg buckled and he fell to the ground. Donnel jumped over him while crouched and stabbed the man in his neck. There was no time to capture the knight and ransom him. Then he started fighting again.
The battle seemed as though it would never end. One moment, Donnel was crouched beneath a forest of pikes, the next he was stumbling through mud made slick with blood, gasping for breath behind the rim of his shield. Time had become a strange thing amidst the fighting. The noise drowned everything. Men shouted. Men screamed. Steel rang against steel. Horses shrieked when they went down.
A bolt flew past Donnel's face so close he felt the wind of it. Another struck a man beside him right on the cheek. The fellow dropped his sword and clawed at the shaft protruding from his face before a second bolt punched into his throat.
Donnel stared for half a heartbeat. Then someone crashed into him. The enemy tried to grapple with him, fighting to deliver the killing blow. He pushed the man's hand back with every bit of his strength and turned the man onto the ground.
Donnel didn't have his sword nearby instead, he reached for his shield and started bashing the man's helm with it. Blow after blow, and another, till the man stopped moving.
"Make way!" someone shouted.
Donnel looked up to see the charge of enemy cavalry. He dodged as fast as he could, nearly being trampled. The horses reeled near the northern line as the pike-wall still held strong. Crossbow bolts kept on flying, killing plated knights like flies.
Everywhere Donnel looked, men were dying. A pikeman stood clutching his belly while loops of his guts spilled between his fingers. Another man crawled across the stones, dragging shattered legs behind him. The horses must have ran through the man. One of the winter wolves was laughing as blood streamed from half his scalp. Half his face was gone, yet he was still hacking at enemies with an axe.
Donnel wondered how long they had been fighting. It must have been an eternity. He heard shouting from the enemy ranks. He looked up to see confusion and fear on their faces as they looked toward one man.
A mounted noble wearing the colors of House Shett of Gulltown was swaying in the saddle. A crossbow bolt protruded from his temple. For a heartbeat the man remained upright. Then he toppled from the horse, and the animal reared wildly.
The effect was immediate. Without their leader, the remaining soldiers wavered, their formation collapsing under the steady press of pike and steel. Some of them began throwing down shields and running away while others simply stood frozen.
"Yield!" Ser William roared, standing in front of them. "Throw down your arms and live!"
Many did. Those who did not were cut down where they stood. Within minutes, the fighting was finished, and the western gate now belonged to them.
Donnel stood amidst the aftermath, breathing hard enough to hurt. His sword hung limp at his side. Blood dripped from the edge. Bodies lay everywhere. Men he had fought beside and men he had fought against.
Broken shields. Discarded helms. Severed limbs. One dead horse blocked half the roadway, its belly split open. Crows would feast well before sunset.
The smell was worse now that the fighting had ended. Blood. Smoke. Shit. The true scent of battle. Donnel suddenly understood why old soldiers drank so much. He wiped his blade clean on a fallen cloak, his hands still trembling.
Nearby northern men were gathering prisoners. Others searched the dead for purses, rings, and anything worth taking. Some sat upon the ground, too exhausted to move.
Donnel looked at the prisoners. Most were no older than himself. Some were even younger. A boy with scarcely a whisker on his chin stared at the corpses with hollow eyes.
Donnel found himself wondering if that boy had felt the same terror he had. If the lad had thought himself brave before the battle, he would not think the same now.
His arms felt numb, and his shoulders ached badly. Bruises were already forming beneath his mail where blows had landed. Yet somehow Donnel remained standing when so many others did not.
Ser William walked past shortly after. His eyes swept across the gatehouse and the prisoners, then landed upon Donnel. "Well done," he said simply and moved on.
Donnel scarcely had time to catch his breath before Ser William was giving orders once more. The fighting at the western gate had ended, yet the battle was still going on.
"Get those horses saddled," Ser William commanded. "Any mount fit to ride is ours now."
Men hurried to obey. The Grafton stables stood close behind the gatehouse. Before long, northern men were leading frightened destriers and coursers into the yard, stripping fallen riders of spurs and harness. Stableboys and grooms were dragged from hiding places and put to work beneath the watchful eyes of armed men.
Donnel sat upon a bloodstained mounting block while a groom tightened the girth of his horse. Including him, fifty mounted men-at-arms assembled quickly in the courtyard, with helms, lances, and swords.
Ser William inspected them himself before calling, "Wendel!"
Ser Wendel Manderly, broad-shouldered, thick-necked like most Manderlys, stepped forward.
"The western gate is yours." Ser William replied and clasped his brother's forearm. Ser Wendel said little and went to his duty without complaint. He turned and strode away, already barking orders at the men left behind.
Ser William swung into his saddle. The gates opened before them, and beyond lay the road east. Donnel rode beside Ser William as they passed out of the city, hooves thudding against the hard-packed earth beyond the walls. The wind was sharp against his face, carrying the distant sounds of battle still echoing from the east. His mail tugged at his shoulders with each movement of the horse, heavier now that the fighting had slowed enough for him to feel it.
They rode hard, banners snapping behind them. At last, they crested a low rise, and the eastern camps came into view. Tents spread across the fields like fresh flowers after a storm, banners rising above them in proud defiance. The falcon and moon of Arryn flew highest, its blue-white cloth shining against the darkening sky.
Nearby stood the sigils of the Vale, Bronze of the Royce with runes and studs black as iron, the red castle of Redfort on a white field, the five silver arrows of House Hunter, and a dozen others besides. And right beside the Arryn pavilion, loomed the stag of House Baratheon, black on gold, bold and furious.
Donnel reined in behind Ser William as they approached the heart of the camp.
Lord Jon Arryn stood afoot upon the trampled grass, clad in mail and plate worked with the crescent moon and falcon. His hair had gone to silver, but his back was straight and his gaze keen.
Beside him stood Lord Yohn Royce, dark steel gleaming, wearing his ancient bronze runed armor that was said to protect him from any harm. Lord Horton Redfort stood beside Royce, broad-shouldered and stern-faced, his naked sword resting against one mailed shoulder. Blood stained the edge.
Ser William swung down from his horse. "Lord Arryn," he said, voice steady, "the harbor and the western gate are yours."
"You chose a fine moment to arrive, Ser William," Lord Horton said, smiling.
"Aye," Lord Royce added grimly, "The eastern gate still holds, but not for long. With the harbor lost and the western gate broken, Grafton's hours are numbered."
Lord Arryn's eyes flicked toward the city walls, "Your arrival is good tidings nonetheless. I feared the royal fleet would reach Gulltown before we could take it. Had that happened, this rising might have been strangled in its cradle."
"The city will be ours before sunset," Ser William replied proudly, "And then King's Landing itself."
"Let us hope the war is over before that," answered Jon Arryn softly, his eyes looking sad.
Ser William replied angrily, "This war only ends when all the Targaryens are gone."
Lord Arryn looked at him for a moment. The weariness in his eyes were plain, "I pray it does not come to that, William."
Ser William's face remained hard. "It already has, my lord."