Siege of Lannisport Part 2

299 AC, Lannisport…

Rody's hang onto the man who was carrying the torch but he sharply turned his head as the Greycloak guarding the gatehouse door spoke up, alerting them to an approaching figure. His heart raced, knowing that if they allowed anyone to enter now, it would be impossible to justify the carnage that lay scattered across the ground. There was no turning back; they had butchered everyone within the gatehouse walls.

Throwing one last glance at the Stark camp, Rody's eyes fixated on the man running toward the commotion, clutching a torch in his hand. The distance seemed vast, but the urgency in the man's steps was evident. Time was running out, and Rody knew it was now or never.

Turning back to his men, he met their resolute gazes and declared, "It's time. There's no return from this path we've chosen." The weight of their actions settled upon them, but there was no room for hesitation. They had a duty to fulfill, even if it meant facing the consequences of their choices.

Rody swiftly issued his next orders, his voice unwavering. "Barricade the door. We can't afford any intruders now." The Greycloaks wasted no time, working together to fortify the entrance, reinforcing their defenses against potential threats.

Meanwhile, Rody and Hunter approached the portcullis, their eyes meeting in silent understanding. They grasped the massive wheel on each end, their muscles straining as they attempted to turn it. The mechanism creaked with resistance, but their determination surpassed the physical strain.

With each concerted effort, they pushed against the weight, slowly but surely, inching the portcullis upward. Sweat trickled down their brows as they poured every ounce of strength into their task. It was a race against time, their window of opportunity closing with every passing moment.

Finally, the Portcullis yielded, groaning in protest as it lifted higher. Rody and Hunter exchanged a victorious glance, knowing that they had accomplished a crucial step in their plan. They could now control the gateway, allowing their allies to breach the city's defenses.

As they stepped away from the Portcullis, Rody wiped the sweat from his brow and took a deep breath. The air crackled with tension, the weight of their actions heavy upon them. But there was no time to dwell on doubt or regret. They had set events into motion, and the consequences would unfold whether they were prepared for them or not.

Voices of commotion reached Rody's ears, carried on the night breeze. People outside the gatehouse had noticed the raised portcullis, the once impregnable barrier now offering an open way into the city. Rody's heart quickened, realizing that the situation was about to escalate.

At that moment, a thunderous bang echoed through the gatehouse as someone desperately tried to open the heavily barricaded door. A voice, filled with urgency and frustration, demanded that they open it immediately. Rody's eyes widened as he recognized the voice—it was Ser Davion, the commander of the gatehouse. But no one answered from within, knowing that their actions had sealed their fate.

Moments later, the clamor outside subsided, replaced by an eerie silence. Rody knew what it meant. The people outside had finally comprehended the danger they were in, their attempts to force their way into the gatehouse proving futile. But the silence was short-lived.

Without warning, the sound of swords battering against the door filled the air, a symphony of metal meeting wood with a relentless determination. Rody exchanged glances with his men, the gravity of their situation etched on their faces. They knew they would soon face an onslaught from those desperate to breach their defenses.

Drawing their swords, the Greycloaks positioned themselves near the door, ready to defend the gatehouse with their lives. Rody's grip tightened around his weapon, his mind focused on the imminent clash. They were outnumbered and surrounded, but their resolve burned brighter than ever.

The door shuddered under the relentless assault, each strike threatening to splinter the wood and grant the intruders access. Rody's heart pounded in his chest, his breath quickening. This was the moment they had prepared for—the moment they would prove their loyalty and bring down the jewel of the Westerlands.

As the door groaned under the relentless onslaught, Rody's voice rang out, resolute and unwavering. "Stand firm, my comrades! We hold this gatehouse in the name of House Stark. They shall not pass!"

With those words, the room filled with a sense of determination and unity. The Greycloaks braced themselves, their swords ready to meet the invaders head-on. They were the defenders of the gatehouse, the last line of defense in a battle that would decide the fate of this city.

And as the swords continued to rain down upon the door, the clash of steel against wood reverberated through the gatehouse, each strike driving home the resolve of those inside.

Suddenly, a deafening crash resounded through the gatehouse as an axe struck the upper part of the door, creating a jagged opening. Rody's gaze locked with Ser Davion's furious face through the breach, their eyes conveying a mixture of anger and fury. However, their exchange of glances was short-lived.

One of the Greycloaks, fueled by a surge of adrenaline, thrust his sword through the opening, ending Ser Davion's sorry excuse of suffering. The Lannister guards outside continued their malicious assault, their determination unwavering. But Rody and his men refused to stay idle in the face of such aggression.

One of the Greycloaks emerged from the supply room, holding several short spears in hand. Without hesitation, he distributed them among the others, equipping them with a new weapon to defend their position. The Greycloaks positioned themselves strategically, ready to strike at anyone who dared to show themselves through the broken parts of the door.

Rody watched with a grimace as one Lannister after another fell to the swift and precise strikes of his men. The blood of their enemies seeped into the room through the gaps beneath the door, painting the floor in a macabre display.

Suddenly, a distant sound reached Rody's ears—a horn echoing through the night. His heart skipped a beat as he quickly turned around and looked through the narrow slit in the wall towards the Stark camp. There was a commotion among their forces, a flurry of movement and activity. Hope surged within him, for he knew that the Crown Prince, Robb Stark, was already aware of their plan.

Rody's voice rose above the chaos, commanding his men with a newfound vigor. "Hold the line! Let no one breach our defenses! The Northern army will be here soon to relieve us!" The words carried a mix of determination and relief, as the realization that their allies were on their way bolstered their resolve.

The Greycloaks fought with renewed fervor, their strikes growing more ferocious and their defenses impenetrable. Despite the relentless onslaught, they held their ground, knowing that their sacrifice would not be in vain.

Outside the gatehouse, the Lannister forces became increasingly desperate, their attacks growing more frenzied. But within those stone walls, Rody and his men stood as an unyielding bulwark, a testament to their indomitable spirit.

Amidst the chaos, a sudden and unexpected turn of events shook Rody to his core. A Lannister spear stretched out through a small opening in the door, swiftly finding its mark in the eye of one of the Greycloaks. The wounded man collapsed to the ground, his agonized scream stifled before it could escape his lips. Rody felt a deep pang of pain at the loss of a comrade he had known since their childhood days in Wintertown. But he suppressed that anguish, burying it deep within himself. There was no room for grief in the heat of battle.

Reacting swiftly, Hunter leaped forward, taking the fallen Greycloak's place. He snatched the spear from the ground, wielding it with newfound determination. With a fierce thrust, Hunter stabbed back through the opening, piercing the flesh of a Lannister guard. The enemy soldier crumpled to the ground, his lifeblood mingling with the spilled blood of their fallen comrade.

Rody's heart ached, the weight of loss heavy upon him, but he had no time to dwell on it. The battle raged on, and his duty demanded that he remain resolute. He pushed his emotions aside, focusing on the task at hand—to defend the gatehouse and ensure the survival of those under his command.

As the Lannister forces outside grew more desperate, their attacks became even more frenzied. The door shook under the relentless barrage, threatening to give way under the overwhelming force. But Rody and his men stood firm, their spirits unbroken, knowing that their allies were drawing closer with every passing moment.

Through the narrow slit in the wall, Rody stole glances at the Stark camp. The commotion among their forces intensified, signaling that Robb Stark and his army were on the move. Hope burned brightly within Rody's heart, for he knew that their daring plan had not been in vain. Reinforcements were on their way, and relief was within reach.

With unwavering conviction, Rody raised his voice above the tumultuous clamor. "Hold strong! Do not let them breach our defenses! The Northern army approaches! We fight for our homes and for justice!" His words reverberated through the gatehouse, igniting a renewed determination in the hearts of his men.

As the battle reached its crescendo, Rody's eyes blazed with a mixture of sorrow and determination. The fallen would be avenged, and their sacrifice would not be in vain. The Northern army drew closer with every passing second, their arrival imminent.

Rody's voice boomed with authority and defiance, echoing through the gatehouse. "Stand tall, my brothers! Hold the line! Our salvation is nigh! For the North!" The resounding cries of his men, filled with unwavering loyalty, merged with his own, their collective strength bolstering their resolve.

The relentless assault on the gatehouse continued unabated, the Lannister guards throwing their full weight against the door. With each strike, the wood splintered and cracked, threatening to give way under the ferocious blows.

And then, it happened. With a deafening crash, the upper part of the door finally succumbed to the unyielding force of the Lannister attackers. Rody's gaze met the furious and desperate faces of the Lannister guards, their eyes filled with bloodlust and triumph.

In the midst of this grim sight, tragedy struck again. Another Greycloak fell, leaving Rody with only three remaining men—two Greycloaks and Hunter. The odds seemed insurmountable, but Rody's determination burned brighter than ever. He gritted his teeth, accepting the fallen warrior's place without a second thought.

Seizing the fallen comrade's spear, Rody lunged forward, his movements fueled by a mix of grief and rage. He thrust the weapon with all his might, its sharp point finding its mark in the throat of an attacker. The Lannister soldier choked on his own blood, his eyes bulging as his life ebbed away.

The scene unfolded in a gruesome tableau, the clash of steel and the cries of battle providing a macabre soundtrack. Rody fought with a ferocity born of desperation, every strike aimed at repelling the relentless onslaught. His remaining comrades matched his resolve, their movements synchronized in a dance of survival.

Outside the gatehouse, the Lannister forces grew increasingly desperate, realizing that their victory was far from assured. They redoubled their efforts, their attacks becoming wild and frenzied. But Rody and his small band of defenders refused to yield, their determination unyielding.

Through the broken doorway, Rody glimpsed a flicker of movement in the distance—the Lannister guards were running in the wrong direction. Instead of more men coming to attack the gatehouse, they were running down the stairs. Hope surged within him, fueling his resolve. He knew that the Northern army was drawing closer, ready to lend their strength to them, beleaguered defenders. He wanted to turn his head and look through the slit on the wall but it was not possible anymore.

Even though they were killing a Lannister guard every second, another was taking its place. Despite some of them leaving the attacking guards alone, the numbers behind the gate were many times more than them.

With each passing moment, the clash of swords and the thud of bodies hitting the ground grew louder. The gatehouse became a battleground, a testament to the unwavering spirit of those who fought within its walls. They were determined to hold the line, to buy precious time for the arrival of their allies.

As the battle raged on, Rody's body ached, his muscles weary from the relentless combat. But he pushed through the pain, his focus unwavering. The fallen Greycloaks would be avenged, and their sacrifice would serve as a rallying cry for the Northern army that was drawing nearer with every passing heartbeat.

And then, above the cacophony of battle, a new sound emerged—a thunderous galloping that reverberated through the air. Rody's heart leaped with joy as he recognized the distinct sound of approaching cavalry. A smile graced his face, the weight of the battle momentarily lifted.

In the midst of this newfound hope, Rody's spear found its mark yet again, piercing the body of another Lannister guard. The enemy soldier crumpled to the ground, joining the growing pile of fallen foes. But just as Rody's spirits soared, the door finally gave way, crashing down with a finality that echoed through the gatehouse.

Rody and his comrades were left exposed, without a barricade to protect them and offer a line of defense. The Lannister guards surged forward, sensing their moment of vulnerability. Rody's mind raced, searching for a solution amidst the chaos.

With quick thinking, Rody hurled his spear towards the oncoming enemy. The weapon sailed through the air with deadly precision, finding its mark in the head of a Lannister guard. The man crumpled to the ground, lifeless. Without missing a beat, Rody drew his blade, the glint of steel flashing in the dim light of the torches around.

As the first Lannister guard crossed the threshold of the broken door, Rody's blade hacked through the air, seeking its target. The unlucky soldier met his end in a spray of blood, falling to the ground with a gurgled cry. Rody's movements were swift and precise, a testament to his skill as a warrior.

The remaining Lannister guards hesitated for a moment, their advance momentarily stalled by the ferocity of Rody's counterattack. It was a fleeting respite, but it allowed Rody's comrades to regroup and rally around him. Together, they formed a defiant wall, ready to face whatever came next.

Outside the gatehouse, the thundering hooves grew louder, the sound resonating with the promise of salvation. Rody's heart swelled with pride and relief, knowing that their allies were on the verge of arriving. The Northern army, led by Robb Stark, had come to their aid.

As the battle reached its climax, Rody's blade danced with deadly grace, his strikes finding their marks with precision. The Lannister guards, once so confident in their assault, faltered under the combined might of Rody and his resolute allies.

And then, as if borne on the wings of fate, the cavalry arrived. The Northern army crossed through the gates with a fury unmatched. The clash of steel and the cries of battle intensified.

Rody fought alongside his comrades, their movements synchronized in a deadly dance of survival. But even as the Northern army turned the tide of battle, tragedy struck once more. Another Greycloak fell, succumbing to the relentless assault of the Lannister guards. Rody's heart sank as he witnessed the loss, his determination deepening in the face of mounting adversity.

With only the remaining men at his side, Rody realized that their chances for victory were slim if they adhered to honorable combat alone. He knew they had to resort to unconventional tactics, to play dirty if they were to survive this onslaught.

Parrying a sword strike with skill honed through years of training, Rody seized the opportunity and launched a counterattack. His blade found its mark, the Lannister guard collapsing in a pool of his own blood. But Rody knew that brute force alone would not be enough to sway the tides in their favor.

Rody turned his attention to the Lannister guard standing defiantly before him, their eyes filled with a stubborn resolve. With a voice laced with authority, Rody yelled, "The Stark army is here! If you continue wasting your time with us, you will meet a gruesome end—dismembered by the direwolf of the Crown Prince!"

The Lannister guard seemed unmoved, his grip on his weapon unwavering. However, Rody's keen eyes caught a glimpse of movement in the periphery. One of the Lannister guards at the back, fear etched across his face, turned and fled, his cowardice laid bare for all to see.

A victorious smirk tugged at Rody's lips. His ploy had worked, albeit with one less enemy to contend with. seizing the opportunity, Rody struck with lightning speed, thrusting his sword forward and ending the life of the Lannister guard before him.

As the remaining Lannister guards assessed their situation, the realization of their dwindling numbers and the imminent arrival of the Stark army began to weigh on them. The once-unyielding assault faltered, uncertainty clouding their eyes.

"Don't mistake your numbers as your victory!" Rody yelled once again. "I am Rody Greyguard! I defeated Ser Barristan the Bold, I defeated your golden lion, Jaime Lannister!"

Rody swung his sword and ended another Lannister guard's life. "Do you think you, some drunk city boys, have a chance against me?! Your death will mean nothing, each of you will die here!"

Rody capitalized on their hesitation, his blade becoming a whirlwind of steel as he struck down one Lannister guard after another. With each fallen enemy, the hope within him burned brighter, bolstering his resolve.

As the Northern cavalry's steel clashed with the guards and their voices reached the gatehouse, their presence became increasingly undeniable. The remaining Lannister guards found their morale shattered. The fear of the dire consequences awaiting them took hold.

One by one, the Lannister guards turned and fled, their tails figuratively between their legs. Rody's smirk widened, his plan of psychological warfare having paid off. With the immediate threat vanquished, he surveyed the battlefield, the gatehouse now littered with the fallen bodies of their enemies.

But there was no time for celebration. The victorious arrival of the Northern army brought a renewed sense of purpose and urgency. Rody rallied his comrades, their voices rising in a chorus of defiance as they prepared to join the larger battle, to fight alongside their allies.

With bloodied weapons in hand and determination burning in their eyes, Rody and his comrades charged forward, the echoes of their battle cries mingling with the thunderous roar of the Stark army.