This is war as it should be! Doing the will of the Queen and the will of the gods, and riding her enemies to ruin . This is Norrey's first battle, and his heart stirs with excitement. He rides with the rear rank of the cavalry, on the left flank of the Northern army, as they start to trot forward. He had no need to fight, but volunteered to ride with Lord Cerwyn's men. "Kill them All! The Gods will look after their own!" he cries out, to the men around him. One horseman stares at him as if he is mad. The mud is a problem, constantly slowing them, but they gradually pick up speed. Four hundred yards ahead, he sees Yara Greyjoy's Kraken banners, fluttering over the enemy lines. He hopes she survives the fight. He'll enjoy interrogating that bitch! He's heard she likes pretty girls. He might pair her with another woman for his own amusement. "Get your damned visors down" shouts Cerwyn to the riders. "They'll start shooting at us in a moment". He does as the man orders, just as well. Within seconds, arrows are slashing into their ranks. One of them bounces off his breastplate. spinning away. There is no chance of arrows penetrating armour from three hundred yards, but here and there horses are going down. They pick up speed, reaching a slow canter, as volleys of arrows fall among them in earnest. No more than a hundred yards, now; surely no army can withstand this weight of steel bearing down on them! With this army, I could storm heaven itself. He keens wildly, anticipating the killing to come.
Yara watches as the lines of horsemen sweep down on them. She recognises some of the banners, the three trees of Cerwyn, the giant in chains of Umber, the Merman of Manderly. No more than a hundred yards now. Footmen armed with long spears and shields move forward to protect the archers, now shooting eight arrows a minute. She sees horses stumbling in the mud, and going down right across the line, but arrows alone won't stop them. On the other hand, shallow pits, dug under cover of darkness, before being covered with brushwood and earth, will do just that. Hundreds of horses go down, as the ground seems to open up beneath them, thirty yards from the front ranks of the ironborn. The pits are not deep, but quite sufficient to break the legs of horses that fall into them unawares. Worse, the pits are lined with small wooden stakes or caltrops, which cause additional harm. She winces as she hears injured horses screaming, although she feels little pity for their riders. She sees the footmen advancing steadily forward, bludgeoning and spearing the fallen horsemen, and stepping between the pits before re-forming. The rear ranks of the enemy cavalry mill about in confusion.
"Shall we charge?" asks Sigurd Harlaw, mounted next to her.
"Not yet. We've still got an ace to play". They hold steady, the horses straining to attack. And then,
"Good gods! " Harlaw exclaims. "Are they fighting each other." It's true. Hundreds of sellsword cavalry are attacking their astonished comrades, right in front of them." Yara is grinning, like a thief who's just stolen the fattest purse of her career.
"My old friend, Casporio the Cunning, but to those of us who know and love him, Casporio the Cunt. I met him first in Meereen, and we've stayed in touch. I knew he could be turned if the price was right. Sansa should never trust sellswords. Now, we move."
The cavalry trot down a clear path between the pits and fan outwards. The enemy left wing is in total disarray as they join Casporio's company. The Loyal Swords, they call themselves. The Treacherous Arseholes would be more fitting
She spies Casporio, leading from the rear of his cavalry, as usual, and calls a greeting. He waves in acknowledgment, and then she plunges into the fray, uttering one final prayer to the Drowned God. A horseman saws his reins to meet her, thrusting his lance, but she turns it with her sword, urging her horse into his, and jerking the man out of the saddle. She and her riders drive on. Another man cuts at her, grazing her breastplate, before she gives him a good, hard, chop to the neck, sending him tumbling. She spies Qarl and Sigurd laying about them manfully. The world contracts to the reach of her sword, steel ringing on steel, men and horses screaming, the taste of blood in her mouth. She sees the banner of Cerwyn fall, before a screaming fanatic rides hard for her, shouting abuse. The man swings at her head with a war hammer, which she catches on her sword, the impact shuddering up her arm. With her left hand, she draws her axe, spurs forward, and drives it hard into his visor, blood and jelly spurting from the eye holes. And then the enemy break. Although she does not know it, she has just killed Norrey, while Cerwyn and Manderly lie dead on the ground. The remaining cavalry stream back, riding down their own footmen in their desperation to escape. The footmen break up in panic in turn as the whole left wing of the Northmen dissolves in rout.
Ser Raymond Hightower watches the unfolding disaster on his left wing with fury. He rides with his reserves, just behind the ranks of footmen in the centre. Tallhart is with him. "Take your men, and the remaining reserves, and form a shield wall to protect our centre. " Damn Norrey! His instincts had been right. . Never do what Grey Worm wants you to do!. That should have been obvious. As for The Loyal Swords, he'll have them flayed alive after this is over. Despite the rout on the left, the battle is far from over. The horsemen in front of him have had the good sense to dismount, and join the foot, to fight the Unsullied, who have advanced beyond the pits. As far as he can tell, the carnage is appalling on both sides, neither of which has gained the advantage. And on the right, if anything, his men seem to be pushing the enemy back. Perhaps the day can be won after all.
"We're hard pressed, my lord" pants the squire, riding over from the Bear Islanders on the left, to Grey Worm. "I don't think we can hold them." He looks over. On the far left flank, a furious cavalry battle is taking place, and it's unclear who has the advantage. There is no doubt that his footmen are giving back, although they remain in good order. But in a few minutes, they might break in flight. Time for the Mhysa to earn their pay."To the left" he commands. The regiment pivots left and marches fast into the fray, as he rides in their midst. Suddenly his horse collapses, felled by an enemy arrow, but he is able to jump clear as it falls. Three ranks ahead, he hears a sound like the rumble of thunder as his men close with the steel clad foot of the North. Time now to fight. "I thought you might want this my lord", his squire hands him a pole axe, which he takes in both hands. Grimly his men press forward, but many of them fall. At last, he finds himself confronting the enemy. A giant, clad in black armour, strikes at his head with a war hammer, but he catches the blow with his axe. He may be well into middle age now, but he trains every day, and handles the poleaxe with ease, driving the man to his knees with deft blows. A final blow to the back of the man's neck leaves him prone. "Cockless cunt!" screams a Northmen, levelling a crossbow at his head, five yards away, only for the man to take a hand axe between his eyes, thrown by Grey Worm's own squire. "My thanks; now you're a centurion", he tells the man, who expresses his thanks. His men press on, their pikes driving into enemy ranks. Slowly, very slowly, he senses the enemy giving back, but still in good order. He strikes again and again, remembering an old saying "he is not fit for battle who has not seen his own blood flow, or felt his teeth crunch beneath the weight of an enemy's blow". If he survives this fight, he'll have a fresh crop of bruises, and he suspects, a couple of fractured ribs. He cannot tell what is happening in the centre, but he has confidence in his regiments.
From his horse, Ser Raymond can see that the battle is being lost. The Unsullied have taken terrible losses, but are still holding firm, even as the dead bodies of his own men pile up in front of them. For the time being, Tallhart is holding off the enemy's victorious right. His own right, who seemed to be winning a short while ago, are now edging back, before the Mhysa, the Bear Islanders, and the Ironborn. No, it is time to retreat. Perhaps half the army can be salvaged, if he retreats now.
Even as he mounts the gallows, weeks later, he will still wonder if the battle could have been won.
Notes:
1. Well-trained longbowmen would have had no difficulty shoot eight arrows a minute. The best could shoot a dozen a minute. Longbowmen shooting in volleys did not bother to aim. With thousands of arrows being fired every minute, some would be bound to find their targets. The priority was speed of shooting.