A Golden Path: Design 3.22 (ch. 45) (Patreon)

For a single terrible moment, the reality of what Ned set in motion crashed down upon him. He did not watch the unplanned charge with any sense of pride or relief. Instead, what he felt was an unshakable despair. Horror. As his rallying cry echoed out across the battlefield, more and more joined the chorus while they thoughtlessly charged ahead, as if it had been planned… 

One singular thought rang through Ned's head like a bell. 

‘What have I done?’ It was a question he knew the answer to. Almost too well, as guilt clawed at his heart and squeezed it. He knew better than any other how pivotal this battle was. How terrible even a single defeat would be in the early stages of the war. The Seven Kingdoms were fractured internally, as divided as the Free Cities were. One decisive defeat would be all it took to convince the lords on the other side of the Narrow Sea that they had gained enough from the excursion. 

A defeat would mean that the enemy would be free to return to Myr. Even if Brandon took the city, he would not be able to hold it. The resistance within it would find a way to open the gates for the army a hundred thousand strong that sought to return home, all the more emboldened by their victory. It would mean the sacrifices of everyone who had died to this point would have been for nothing. 

The entire war, every slave bound in chains and suffered the whip, depended on them to win. 

And because he opened his mouth, their army of sixty thousand was charging headfirst into an army a hundred thousand strong. 

Bile threatened to crawl up from the back of his throat, but Ned forced himself to swallow it down. He wished he could pluck the words he uttered from the air, to undo what he set in motion, but even if he screamed himself hoarse… there was no chance that he would be heard amongst the rallying cry that made the air tremble. The momentum was behind the charge. There was no stopping it. The most he could hope for was to direct it. 

Ned ripped his blade out of its sheath, plans formed and discarded in a moment as he gazed across the field. There was no obvious weakness. Their plan had been to dig in, hold, and wait for the enemy to fracture because of low morale. That was no longer possible, but… if they could not be the anvil the enemy broke themselves upon, then they had to be the hammer. 

A war cry spilled from Ned's lips, knowing what he had to do. It was nothing pure than pure madness. However, it was necessary. His only hope was that he would die in battle, should they lose. But if they won… if they won, then he could die content.

The charge was disorganized. Just a mass of people running forward that slowly grew in scope as the infantry thought they were supposed to charge, or lords commanding it because they understood what he did. It left him as one of the few with a horse, allowing him to swiftly cross the field even if he wasn’t the first to reach the Myrish front line. 

They were greeted by the ready spears of the Unsullied. They were a fearsome sight, that much Ned could freely acknowledge. However, because they only trusted the Unsullied to be merciless in driving the starving slaves forward, they were spread thin across their line. So thin that they were a man deep. A thin veneer across the front. 

A wall of spears still greeted him as he charged into the army, attempting to be seen by all so they could concentrate their charge. He had no idea if it would work. He had no idea if it would get him killed. Ned just knew that it was the only possible way to rectify his mistake. The spears struck him at multiple points, the leaf-shaped tips sliding off if they failed to find purchase, and where they did, so many were jabbing at him that he found they canceled each other out. 

He hacked down with his sword, unsure how grievously he was injured. Or if he was at all. A man fell with his throat slashed, another lost his grasping fingers when he attempted to pull Ned from the saddle. Others were quick to take his place and he felt prying hands on his legs, attempts to grab hold of his arms as he hacked at those around him. 

His charge was foolish. Insane. It went against all good sense, but it worked. The men behind him saw him ride forward to clear the way, and they were inspired. They rushed to join him, widening whatever gap he managed to make, and with their arrival, the grasping hands attempting to unhorse him vanished. All he could do was hope that it was enough as he fought to be the tip of the spear. 

Ned's awareness of the rest of the battle dimmed. From his vantage, all he saw was a sea of bodies stretching around all around him. The only thing he was certain of was that the whole of their army had committed to the charge, and he could see the upturned dust in the air from where their cavalry clashed. However, it was outright impossible to tell who was winning or losing. 

So Ned paid no mind to it. Instead, he drove his blade down into a man, hacking at another before slashing at a spear that tried to slip beneath his helmet. There were only the men before him and those behind him. It was not the perspective of a commander, Ned knew. A true commander would be able to see the whole of the battle, but if he ever had a claim to the title, then he surely lost it with this stunt. 

There was just the sound of battle. Steel crashing against steel, men screaming in pain, fear, rage, and to convince themselves they weren't afraid. Time lost all meaning. It was impossible to tell seconds from minutes. If it weren't for the sun shining overhead, Ned would have been convinced he fought on the field for ages. 

The only thing that mattered was momentum. Gaining it and maintaining it. 

Their initial charge caught the Myrish completely off guard, and rightly so. The very last thing any one of them would have expected was for them to charge. They likely never even considered the possibility, just as neither he, Mace Tyrell or Oberyn Martel had. Because only mad men would have even entertained the thought. However, the blunt truth of it was that they were charging into a much larger army. 

The Myrish at first recoiled from the sudden charge they were ill-prepared for, but the momentum of the charge was blunted as they pushed back against them. Ned found himself in a quagmire, his horse all but standing still as they fought to push deeper into the Myrish line, and with sheer weight of numbers, Ned found himself not just held at bay. They were being pushed back. A fate he fought against. 

He knew not how many had fallen to his blade. Only that his arm grew tired, the muscle screaming at him for respite that he had no intention of giving. Ned would give his life for a single step forward, if thats was what it took. Because as the mad man who launched the charge, he was duty bound to see it succeed or fail- 

“Lord Stark!” Ned heard someone shout, and through the haze of violence, blood, and shit, Ned found the sharp blue eyes of Paul. His face was splattered with blood, it dripped in rivers from his twin blades. “Keep pace. Can't have you falling behind.” 

It almost sounded like a jest, but Paul was deadly serious as he and his dozen men stepped forward. And… 

Paul was his friend. Perhaps the only one he trusted more was Robert. But there was one thing that Ned couldn't deny. On the battlefield, Paul was nothing short of a monster. 

He and his men formed a rough diamond shape around him, and they just…. It was a frightening thing to see. Unnerving almost, even though they acted as the part of guards to defend him. It was frightening because it wasn't the fighting that he knew. There were no feints. There was no hesitation. 

Paul and his men felt like they were performing math rather than engaged in battle. Each wielded two blades, using both in perfect harmony, and with every action or reaction, it was… correct. The objectively correct response to an overhand slash, or an underhand thrust, or a lunge. There was no wasted movement. No flicker of indecisiveness. Nor was there even the sign of passion of a man engaged in a fight for his life. It was instead cold. Calculating. 

Like someone doing their sums, when Myrish men rushed forward, Paul killed them with as minimal effort as possible. When they went for the overhand slash, they bound a knife under their armpit and into their heart. When they went for an underhand thrust, the dagger was planted in their eye. And when they went for a lunge, it was dragged over their throat while they were side stepped. 

It was alarming to watch, but what made it frightening was that each man did those calculations for each dagger in hand. As they killed one, they placed themselves in position to kill another. 

It wasn't fighting by all appearances. It was butchery. Sure as a farmer beheaded a chicken or slaughtered a pig. All those that stood before them simply died. They could do nothing else. 

The pressure that blunted their charge vanished like smoke in the wind. Men weren't so eager to throw their lives away. Those that did push onward did so because they didn't know the danger. And while a single point of weakness in the Myrish frontline was not enough to single handily turn the tide of battle, the men that flooded into the breach were. The effect was likely no less effective than their charge. 

Myrish men who saw the easy, almost effortless, death Paul and his men delivered tried to retreat. To pull back. It failed, more often than not, as they were pushed forward anyway. It rippled across the Myrish formation and Ned did what he could to take full advantage of it. He shouted out, demanding that the men follow or rally around him. He pushed his way to the front, hacking at the men who managed to slip between Paul and his men, few they were. 

They pushed and pushed and pushed… until they had nowhere else to go. 

Ned was caught completely off guard when the wall of men vanished. They erupted on the other side of the Myrish center, and for the briefest of moment, Ned believed that they had carved their way through a hundred thousand men. The truth was only revealed when he looked up to see that the backline of the Myrish had melted away. He could see their backs as they fled, and in great numbers. 

There was no organization in it. The opposite. Ned could see the Myrish riders attempting to rally the men to stop their retreat, but the men fighting realized that those behind them were running so they ran as well. They dropped their weapons, heedless if any commands, and simply started running. 

The battle was not over, of course. Even as hundreds fled, there were still thousands that fought, completely ignorant of their disintegrating army.

However, victory was theirs. It was senseless. Absurd. By all rights, they should have been defeated and Ned should have died on the field as penance. Yet, in the long hours that followed, Ned found himself not just alive, but whole as he was greeted by Prince Oberyn and Mace Tyrell. 

“That,” Oberyn greeted him, a smile on his lips that felt entirely undeserved, “was certainly some speech, Lord Eddard. Forgive me, but I didn’t think you had it in you.” 

“That… would make two of us,” Ned could hardly be offended. “And you have no cause to apologize. I do. I… I meant to steady the men's hearts. I didn't think it would lead to… this.” 

Mace guffawed, “We are victorious! All apologies are needless, Lord Eddard!” Mace said, urging his horse close to pat Ned on the shoulder. He resisted a grunt, as it was only as they stood in a field of the dead and fleeing that his injuries made themselves known. They were few, he thought. Unreservedly few. But his legs and shoulders felt like a giant bruise. “Gods be good, we should have planned that to begin with.” 

“I'm afraid that I was… preoccupied. How did the battle go?” Ned asked, looking around to get a better read on it. The Myrish army had quit the field. The first to flee were long gone, while those that had stayed and fought found themselves harried by riders. 

Oberyn chuckled, “After you charge? Their morale was already hamstrung. It didn't take much to break them. But there was a deliberate betrayal on the field -- the mercenaries withdrew almost the same moment your charge struck. Perhaps a deal that we weren't made aware of?” 

Ned blinked, “I- no, Prince Oberyn. He quit the field?” 

Oberyn seemed to believe him, much to Ned's relief. “He did. Taking with him thirty thousand men. Mine have given him a wide berth, but he seems to be marching to Volantis.” 

That was unexpected. Very much so. Ned suspected that the potential loss of Myr would impact relations with the mercenaries, but for them to outright betray Myr and its masters? “Has there been word about my brother's attack on Myr?” 

“Only what we last heard, lad,” Mace answered, and it seemed they had the same thought. “Perhaps he knew something we didn't. In either case, those cutthroats and vagabonds seek to serve a new master.” 

“They'll likely find one in Volantis,” Oberyn remarked. “They have yet to commit an army beyond paying off the Dothraki to attack us.” 

“Do we have the strength to wage another battle? It is a long march to Volantis, and I am not keen on granting them any more strength than they already have,” Ned ventured. 

There was a shift between Prince Oberyn and Mace. One that Ned couldn't entirely read. It was Mace who spoke, “Our losses were light, by all accounts, but I believe that Myr should remain our focus. We must scatter these ruffians and continue onward to the city.” 

Now he understood. They wanted to deny Brandon his victory. Or, at the very least, share in it. Ned was unsure if their motivation was gold or glory, or something more political in nature. While Mace wasn't wrong about ensuring the army wouldn't regroup, it seemed… less than wise to simply let the mercenaries go on their way. 

When Ned looked to Oberyn, hoping to find support, he instead found a vaguely sheepish but entirely unapologetic shrug. It was frustrating. But he was in no position to criticize. After all, his men constituted a very small portion of the overall army. More than that, while they managed to win the battle, the fact remained it was his blunder that led to an unplanned charge. Leaving him to do nothing but swallow his complaints. 

He inclined his head, accepting the decision, and Mace broke out into a relieved smile. “Then let us make haste to Myr! I've always wanted to see one of the famed Free Cities for myself!” He cheered, riding off with the expectation of being followed. 

Ned hesitated to do so. “And Robert? The Prince?” He asked, looking at Prince Oberyn. 

“They still fight the Dothraki,” Oberyn answered, but there was a certain grimness to his tone. “It was through your strategy and sacrifice that we were able to best them so quickly. It would seem Prince Rhaegar is not cut from the same cloth.” He took a queer sort of delight in that fact as he made to follow Mace. 

Ned lingered a moment longer, glancing in the direction he knew Robert and the Prince had fought. A battle that they had fought for days. Whispering a prayer, Ned could do nothing more as he turned away to follow after the Prince of Dorne and the Lord Paramount of the Reach. 

…

Morale, following the battle, was as high as it could possibly be. For most, nearly all, the disaster they had so very narrowly avoided didn’t even register. They saw only the great victory they had accomplished. Near-outnumbered two to one, they charged into the thick of things and chased off the slavers. What could that be other than proof that the gods, both Old and New, saw their cause was just? That they had the gods' favor? Their approval?

They had won victories before then, but not ones comparable. In the days following, even as the march to Myr began without any delays, they cheered. They drank. They celebrated their certain victory over the masters of Myr. 

Ned found there were differences in how he was treated in the days that followed. He had been respected. Perhaps admired by a few. But now, it was by many. They twisted the tale of the battle to the point it was already unrecognizable. Ned could only imagine what would be said when the story reached the other side of the Narrow Sea. The greatest difference was Mace himself. Now, it almost felt like Mace was seeking to curry favor.

Something that made little sense, as he was the second son.  

All the same, after dispersing the Myrish army, they continued on to Myr with all haste. 

A needless thing, it would seem, as the Direwolf banner already hung from the walls.