The Eleventh Moon

Potford

Donnahal was no stranger to conflict, to battle. His people had been fighting a three-thousand year battle against the Andals since the Seven Stars. He had gone raiding into the Vale Proper, had fought bandits and brigands whilst serving the Royces, and had even clashed with the Knights of the Vale. He knew war.

Or, at least, he thought he had.

The Battle of Potford was unlike any that the Griffin King had ever partaken in, and he would be a fool to deny that he had feared for his life when he saw the enemy Andal Knights charge, even though he and his men had not borne the brunt of it, having been delegated to leading a flank of light horsemen and Clansmen.

Though, even that command did not spare him from the fray when an arrow met his horse and he was flung from his saddle. Donnahal thanked the Old Gods that he had been able to right himself and unsheathe his sword before he was run through be a Knight.

The Griffin King of the Hill lost track of time as the battle went on. He knew not how many times his sword had swung down on some levy’s head, sheathed itself in a man-at-arms’ chest, or slashed its way through the neck of an Andal Knight or Noble. All Donnahal knew was his sword, shield, and the man between him and whatever goal he was marching for.

At some point, the Chieftain’s Oathsworn found him, dazed as he was from the constant fighting, and before he knew it, Eiric was leading them away from the heat of it all. “Tis not the time to die, Griffin King. Peace must be made with the Eyrie! The highlands must be prepared for Winter! You have a wife to return to, and the child she carries! Onward, my friend!”

The speech shook him out of his fervor, and Donnahal blinked, before nodding. “Aye, Eiric. Onwards. Where are our spears?”

“Ambior is holding out near the Old Wolf, but the Starks will be overwhelmed soon. We can leave them to their fate, or…”

“Nay,” Donnahal shook his head. “There are few of us First Men left as is. I will not forsake them.” Turning to his Oathsworn, the Griffin King raised his sword high. “Come, men of Old!”

With that, they began cutting their way towards the highland spears, and soon enough, they had broken out of the melee and had found riderless steeds. Taking them for their own, the Chieftain led his elite towards the rest of his men, who seemed to be enjoying a lull in the fighting, tattered banners of old First Men houses fluttering above them, his own Griffin banner amongst them.

Steering his steed onwards, Donnahal cantered his horse before his Clansmen, raising his sword high. Seeing their King, the Clans of the Mountain gave a ragged cheer in the old tongue, and Donnahal dismounted.

“Why do you sit here?! Do you not see battle takes place before your eyes?!” he roused them. “Do you intend to let the Andals claim the glory here?! Do you intend to let the ARRYNS claim the glory here?!”

The Griffin King was met with a resounding “NAY,” and Donnahal grinned, dismounting before them.

“Then rise, Men of Old-- for there is the gold and glory we seek!” He pointed towards the Stark lines, which were faltering under heavy Lannister cavalry. “Do you want to take it with me?!”

“AAAYYYEEE!!!” they screamed back, and the Griffin King raised his sword once more.

“THEN ONWARD!!! FOR OUR BROTHERS AND SISTERS! FOR OUR MOTHERS AND FATHERS!

FOR THE VENGEANCE FOR THE SEVEN STARS!!!”

And then they charged, and for one, glorious moment, it was wonderful-- the carnyxs blared, the Clansmen screamed, and Donnahal screamed with them as they ran full tilt towards the Andals lines.

For one, glorious moment, it was beautiful.

It was a charge worthy of song.

With a vengeful fury several-thousand years in the making, the Mountain Clans of the Moon smashed into the men of the Westerlands like that of a tide of dead thralls. Spears impaled, swords swung, axes hacked, and the living intermingled with the dead as the hill tribes cut their way into the side of the opposing force. The Starks, though confused at the sudden assistance from the clansmen, cheered at the respite and pressed on, reinvigorated by the sudden reinforcements.

And, for the first time in time immemorial, the Stark and Griffin forces met in the middle. There was a sudden, awkward lull as the two armies faced each other in silence, only for someone to break out into a well known hymn in the Old Tongue, and all present who knew the tongue took to it, before locking shields and turning once more to the enemy.

And, together, the First Men marched onwards.