Chapter 4
The Battle of Bosworth Bridge Part I
Lord Royce Caron
"They are at the ford too, your Grace."
Silence came into the royal tent as the lords and famous knights digested the news and the man who had brought them.
The messenger in Hightower colours had a miserable appearance. The young man had had his brown hair completely drenched, his tunic and the rest of his clothes were so covered with mud the original colours had almost disappeared under the brown-black of the earth. In fact, if Royce didn't know this particular messenger for his regular appearances in the royal tent, guessing the House he was sworn to would have been impossible. All thanks to this damn mud.
Royce watched as several Baratheon bannersmen guffawed and joked at the decrepit appearance of the Hightower scout. Nice of them to ignore half of the army was in the same dirty condition if not in a worse state.
"Good." Grumbled Lord Borros Baratheon. Royce's liege lord had been a massacring humour each time in the last five days desultory skirmishes happened. Of course, wearing the huge plate armour in these weather conditions at all time of day and night had not improved his mood. "Now we are going to smash them!"
Looking at the Master of Storm's End, Royce saw something dark lurking in these blue eyes. Inwardly, the Lord of Nightsong shivered. In the tents, he had heard these past nights some of his own sworn swords joke that Lord Borros knew no other mistress than war. In the royal tent, seeing the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands ready to pounce like one of the big predators of the Marches...this wasn't funny at all. A bloodbath coming seemed to hearten him.
Ours is the Fury. The words of the Durrandon successors had never been more appropriate. Watching the whole tent and the small discussions in the background, Royce sighed. Lord Boremund, Borros's father, had been a reasonable and pleasant lord to swear fealty to. Of course, there had been no war save this trouble in the Stepstones during the reign of Jaehaerys and Viserys but still. Borros...Royce knew Borros was not a good lord. Always searching for some melees in tournaments to participate and whores to warm his bed. More than once, Royce had talked with Lord Swann and Lord Dondarrion how the taxes that went to Storm's End never came back since Lord Boremund had been buried. How the roads leading to their castles needed to be repaired with their own private funds because the merchants coming from Dorne and the Reach complained of Storm's End negligence. How some sellswords avoided the consequences of their actions making them no better than bandits just because one of them had been in the employ of Lord Borros. How alliances cultivated for the Game of Thrones, alliances forged with honour and long friendships, were discarded and replaced with ambitious and power-hungry knights.
And then the war had started and everything got more complicated. A lot of lords from the Stormlands, and Royce had to admit he had been among them, had expected to fight for the Black dragon in the conflict. The Hightowers were growing too powerful, too arrogant. The Reachers had never been too shy in making a lot of claims on the Stormlands in centuries pasts, and many had been in the Marches. If the Hightowers rise was not checked or contained, Nightsong and plenty of other lordships were going to find new masters before the end of this decade. Plus the Blacks had Prince Daemon, and the rider of Caraxes had been a warrior to be respected. Powerful. Charismatic.
Not like Prince, pardon King Aegon the Second of his name and his insane brother Aemond. One had had problems to find his way through his royal quarters without printed instructions and the other was a cruel and vicious beast. Too many people forgot the noble Aemond was trying to mark 'bastard' on the forehead of Prince Lucerys Targaryen like one marked an animal when his victim had stabbed him in the eye. A pity it had not killed him on the spot.
In retaliation, Aemond and Borros had conspired to kill whoever would come to Storm's End negotiate for the Stormlands swords. Prince Lucerys had died, and the realm had shed oceans of blood for it.
The good thing was that King Daeron seemed smarter than his two older brothers. Not that it was difficult to have more wits than the idiot who had amused himself to burn half of the realm and the granaries before winter came. Or their so-called 'glorious king' hidden on Dragonstone for half a year only to fall against a young girl fighting her first battle.
"The map, Lord Grandison."
Lord Caron temporarily abandoned these morose thoughts to see a good part of the most influential lords leave their seats and talks to close on the main campaign table.
Royce didn't even bothered stand up from his current place. Which good would it bring? He was a Stormlander, he had never been so far north in the Crownlands in his life, and he wasn't in Lord Borros good graces, in spite of his troops numbering eight hundred and one thousand.
No, at eight and forty name days, his time in the sun was over, no bad pun with the rainy weather intended. Maybe his eldest son Borric would be able to take back the prestige and the glory lost these last years once he was knighted and became the new Lord of the Marches. Royce was going to endure. Not much else to do.
The drawback, of course, was listening from outside the circle of lords and knights in deep conversation with the monarch made impossible to know the strategy for the next battle. Royce couldn't see the map, and the words coming from every mouth did not led to a clear and uniform tapestry.
"The swamps cover our right flank...just leave a blocking force there..."
"Maybe the infantry can cross at this point up north...sent a few of the Morrigen..."
"Our archers are better...let them take the bridge I say..."
"Only Corbray and Lynderly banners seen so far..."
"The whore is here...slay her dragon and everything is over..."
"How many horses can pass on this bridge?"
"This hill will be hard to take...best keep our cavalry in reserve."
"We don't know how many they are...prudent strategy..."
A score of minutes passed, and what little attention Royce had had for the king and his main advisors died of old age. He was able to share a few jokes and observations with Lord Shermer. The old man of Smithyton had been abandoned to the inglorious and endless task of the supplies lines. Today, the situation was good but Lord Shermer told him without detour it was probably because the army had grabbed everything eatable in the nearest village of...what was the name again? Something like Broken Wheel or such nonsense.
Bah, the village didn't exist anymore. Two farmers had protested their pigs and their cows being taken away, and been killed by Grandison armsmen. Their neighbours had formed a crowd and attacked to avenge them. Stupid. Pitchforks and other farm tools were good to discourage the lone outlaw, not against a score of companies at war. When Lord Durran Grandison had heard of this defiance, the Butcher of Grandview had taken a couple of hundred cavalry despite the rain, and went to raze the village to its foundations, its inhabitants all decapitated and their heads left on pikes for the crows.
Is there going to be anything left of the realm when the war will be over? Thought Royce. Grandison is doing a fine job of destroying it.
"They are calling it the Dance, you know." Told Lord Shermer, before being shaken a monumental series of coughs.
"Who is calling what?"
"This whole war. The bards I have with the baggage are starting to call it the Dance of the Dragons."
"Appropriate." Though the dragons are not the only beings dancing to their deaths.
The conversation continued to unimportant things, until the silence fell at the centre of the tent. Lord Baratheon and Lord Grandison positioned themselves on the right of the king, with most of the Storm's End bannersmen. On the left, the Reachers and the Oldtown supporters. The Crownlords divided themselves on every side. Grimacing, Royce marched at the other extremity of the tent.
"We have decided on a strategy." Announced the young Targaryen monarch.
For the first time since he had entered the tent, Royce Caron was able to see the map in its entirety. There were a lot of things not marked, although it detailed the Green camp and their own positions on this fortified hill with a commendable precision.
"This," said the King pointing to a large wooden point in the middle of the table, "is Bosworth Bridge. It is the fastest way we have to cross the river and march to Maidenpool. Lord Borros?"
"The right flank is looking like a huge swamp." Grumbled reluctantly the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands. "On this side, there is no easy way to cross. With this autumn rain, the small river is flooding and the ground is treacherous.
The other flank is better, with a small ford and the remnant of a crossing for the animals. It will be difficult for light infantry or cavalry to pass, and impossible for the heavies and the chariots, but it offer us a chance to launch an offensive here."
"Thank you Lord Borros. As you can see my lords, the best way to Maidenpool goes through Bosworth Bridge."
No voice came to contest this elocution. After all, why deny the simple truth?
"Unfortunately," the king spoke again after a minor break to underline the importance of the news, "the Blacks are here in force. On the other side of the bridge, our scouts have numbered nearly six hundred and a thousand pikes on guard. Banners besides the Black Dragon are those of Lynderly, Corbray, Tollett, Melcolm, Redfort and others."
Royce emitted a sign of grimace, and he wasn't the only one. In the last couple of years, the Vale contribution to the war effort had been very little. If he had to take a guess, Royce would bet the disdain Prince Daemon had felt for his Royce wife and the draconic threat of the Greens had pushed them to quasi-neutrality. Neutrality which had obviously ended. With the death of Prince Daemon and most of the dragons, the Arryns had sent their bannersmen out to battle.
Then the youngest son of the deceased King Viserys pointed to a point well positioned near the bridge. It was also coloured in black, like all the places where enemy soldiers had been sighted.
"This hill," explained King Daeron I, "is an excellent archer position for the defender. Our enemies have fortified it, there is a small cove not far from the road that they have cut wood to block the horses and make our progression more difficult. Blackwood, Mallister and Tully banners are flying over it. Estimates give them around eight hundred men, give or take. All with longbows."
Next to their sovereign, several old lords scowled. Royce understood their feelings. With the general conditions of the terrain from King's Landing to Maidenpool, taking this hill would have been already a hard deal. Damn the mud to the Seven Hells. With the sort of defences the Blacks had built, massacre was a gentle word for the losses the Greens would take in a straightforward attack.
"The rest of the Black army is positioned here, here and here." Affirmed a knight Royce wasn't able to remember the name nor the colours. The positions the man pointed were black square, one behind the heavy infantry of the Vale, one covering the right flank in front of the swamp, and of course one on the left to block any potential attack by the animal crossing. "Three and ten thousand swords and spears in all."
"That's a lot of men." Remarked someone in the back.
"A lot of untrained levies and infantry mustered in short order." Replied Lord Borros Baratheon in a condescending voice without bothering to turn his head. "We massively outnumber them and they have almost no cavalry. One hard kick, and they will run back home crying for their mothers."
Interestingly, King Daeron violet eyes narrowed a bit at that, and his next comments were like the former sentences had not been spoken.
"Lord Peake, taking the crossing on the left will force the Blacks to weaken their positions elsewhere. Your light cavalry is charged to dislodge the Karstark, Frey and Ryger infantry from their positions."
"Thank you, your Grace!" Beamed the Lord of Starpike.
"Lord Connington, the swamp is impossible to cross for cavalry, but we can fix the attention of the Blacks on it. Take your men, Lord Staedmon and Lord Morrigen archers, and bleed them.
"My men are ready, your Grace!" Replied the red-haired Stormlord. "They will know the fury of the Griffin!"
"Lord Baratheon and Lord Grandison, the attack of the centre is your responsibility. Take the bridge and the hill, and victory is certain."
"Yes, your Grace! I will bring you personally the head of the whore!"
"I will personally command the reserve behind you. Should the weather conditions allow it, I will bring Tessarion to burn the ranks of the enemy or fight my traitorous cousin. Lord Caron, you will be charged of the defence of the camp."
A wave of silent laughter echoed in the ranks of the lords and knights in the assembly. It didn't take a great deal of imagination to Royce to know he was the subject of this amusement.
Lord Borros Baratheon was smirking a light of triumph in his eyes. His blue eyes shone with malice. Durran Grandison to his side had the appearance of a beast which had just smelled the first smell of blood. Plenty of young lords and knights were imitating their liege lord. Pitiful. Some had even abandoned all restrain. The heir of Lord Morrigen was laughing at him directly, mocking him with force gestures and expressions.
Laugh boy, laugh. Had Royce been crazy, he would have laughed too. I have not seen the battlefield, but this is going to be bad tomorrow. By the end of it, I will be alive. You? The crows will feast on your flesh.
But it was obvious the men around him were not going to listen. His answer thus was as diplomatic as it could be in such circumstances.
"I will be honoured, your Grace."
The rest of the assignments were just common courtesy after that. Which force would be under whose command, Baratheon and Grandison forces taking largely the lion's share of the divide. Lord Shermer was placed under Royce's command, along with Lord Graceford.
"We will prepare and attack at dawn. To the Battle!" Said the King, holding his sword over his head in a martial manner.
"To the Battle and to victory!" Bellowed the Hand of the King, imitating his son-in-law.
"Victory and curse the Blacks!"
"Victory!"
"VICTORY!"
Royce quickly muttered "victory" before leaving the tent and been drenched in an icy rain. The wind was violent, and the night was dark. In spite of the Black positions being close on the other side of the river, the fires were difficult to watch. Trying to close his coat as best he could, Royce started to march to his own tent, alone in the muddy camp as his armsmen had been sent to their own quarters a long time ago.
I wonder how many of us in this tent will be alive tomorrow.
King Daeron I Targaryen
One more time, experience triumphs against hope, thought Daeron.
When he had ordered 'to prepare and attack at dawn' last night, Daeron had been really serious. All the knights and lords who had taught him in the past years had insisted to fight a battle the soonest possible in the day. That way, if the enemy was rooting, your army had a chance to pursue it for long hours, destroying it as a coherent force and making hundreds, no thousands of prisoners, holding noble hostages, cashing large ransoms. Oh, and killing thousands of the enemy soldiers of course. Maybe, just maybe, really finishing this war for good.
Now dawn had passed several turn of hourglasses ago and the army still wasn't ready. In fact, so many turn of hourglasses had passed it was almost noon. But as Daeron stood from the back of Tessarion, he saw the long wait was finally coming to an end.
At last.
The long columns of cavalry were trotting on the sparse grass and in the so-present mud. The heavy infantry, carrying halberds, pikes, spears, two-handed swords and large shields were running to the agreed positions in view of Bosworth Bridge.
Yet the fact remained that the Green army was late. Terribly late. From the top of Tessarion and with the help of a Myrish spyglass, Daeron could see the Blacks were waiting for them. The effect of surprise had long been gone.
It wasn't raining anymore, but his status of dragonrider did not leave him believe the grey clouds lying over their heads were much better. The wind was already violent on the ground, it was much, much worse for any animal flying in the sky. Perhaps one of the largest dragons before the war would not have been troubled. But his Tessarion had not grown to the size of Vhagar or the Black Dread. And with these dangerous conditions, unleashing dragonfire on your enemies was a very bad idea, assuming of course the lack of rain continued.
No, better to leave the knights take the glory today. All the scout reports agreed his army had a big advantage in numbers. The great chivalry of the South and the heavy infantry of the Stormlands were better armed than the paltry levies of the Riverlands, the poor Northmen, and the inexperienced Valemen. In fact, either the Blacks kept their cavalry out of sight, or they had already eaten their own horses. There were roughly fifteen thousand infantry on the other side of the river, but only small formation of horse-mounted archers and freeriders.
Daeron felt his army could win this battle. Well, they had to win. His own Master of Whisperers had sent a lot of reports his way this last fortnight, and few of them were good. There had been a bloody battle at Cider Hall, causing so many casualties no one was exactly sure who had won. The only sure thing was that the Greens still held the castle. On the western coast, the reavers were moving southwards, provoking more and more naval clashes with the Shield Island and the Redwyne sailors. Order was breaking down in the Reach and the Crownlands. This war had to be finished. Now.
"TO ARMS!" Screamed Lord Borros Baratheon. "AND NO QUARTER!"
The screams and the war cries answering rose to the Seven Heavens. For a moment, it appeared every House was shouting their own words.
"FIRE AND BLOOD!"
"OURS IS THE FURY!"
"WE LIGHT THE WAY!"
"A GRIFFIN! A GRIFFIN!"
"FOR THE TRUE KING!" Shouted the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands. "AAAAAAAAATTTTTTACCCKKKK!"
The noise was literally impossible to describe for a person having not assisted to a battle before. The horses, the metal of the weapons, the armours, the challenges of the soldiers, the boasts, it all sounded at the same time.
Over five thousand heavy infantry of the Stormlands charged to the bridge, all according to plan, descending the hill and trying to get to their enemies quickly. Behind them, came the archers of the Marches and the Reach to cover their approach and divert some attention. Some two thousand lows and crossbows, toughened by regular skirmishes and fights with the Dornish in the mountains or Blacks loyalists in the Kingswood and the Rainwood.
And then the bloodshed started. From the nearby hill fortified by the Blacks, hundreds of arrows were launched, a rain of wood, iron and steel formed in one goal: killing the Greens soldiers. Despite the wind and the hard visibility today, hundreds arrived on course. Watching with his spyglass, Daeron saw two banners of House Errol fall with their bearers, along with scores of others.
It didn't stop the infantry, though a few groups took some seconds to reorganise before pressing on. But the Blacks archers continued to fire. A second arrow launch was sighted just as the first soldiers arrived on the stone bridge, and the most impatient men of the vanguard were slaughtered as they tried to run on the stonework alone and without the support of their fellows.
For those who managed to cross, the Vale infantry was waiting on the other bank, a rank of pikes and spears that no single warrior could hope to defeat. They were promptly and ruthlessly cut in pieces.
Thanks the Seven I counter-commanded Borros and we didn't send the cavalry against that. We could have lost our entire horse here.
Now it was time for the true battle to begin. The Black archers were sending their third volley, but the Selmy banners were crossing the bridge, and arrived to contact against the pikemen. Even with the distance, it looked ugly. Fortunately, more and more infantry was arriving to the frontlines, pressing on, forcing the Vale shields to take a step back or two. Plus another.
Why didn't they wait in the middle of the bridge?
When Daeron and his lords had discussed the strategy to choose, there had been the fear the Corbray and their allies were going to demolish the bridge while the van passed on it. Clearly, it hadn't happened.
A few drips sounded against Tessarion scales, and Daeron looked to the sky. Sure enough, the rain which had been absent for the better part of the morning was making its return. The sky in the morning had been a neutral grey, was looking darker and darker, with the rain worsening.
Formidable. Like this battle wasn't muddy and bad enough.
The reports came from his lords all over the battlefield. Lord Connington archers were duelling with the Blacks over the small swamp on the right. Lord Peake had tried to cross the ford on the left, but had been repulsed. According to the Lord of Starpike, his losses were light.
"My compliments to Lord Peake, but a second attempt must be made to cross the ford. We must fix the Northern and Riverlands infantry there. Our infantry will soon have finished to cross the bridge!"
The Reacher messenger bowed and then raced off on his horse to transmit the order.
It was a pious lie, of course. While Daeron had had his attention busy with the flanks of the battle, the Stormlands infantry had slowed down and then lost ground, to the point hundreds of soldiers were blocked on the bridge unable to advance, taking screaming and shouting the hundreds of arrows the Blacks sent at them.
How many arrows do they have? It's their ninth or tenth volley!
Daeron forced himself to remain calm and behave in a kingly manner, but it was hard. The bridge, this cursed Bosworth Bridge, was now so full of his own soldiers corpses that they were squires and archers sending them in the river below to have an unimpeded path. The waters, bolstered by the rain, were turning a dark red at a frightening speed.
We aren't winning.
It was a hard realisation, but it was the truth. The Vale pikes, despite their inferiority in numbers, were pushing back his own infantry. And with the Riverlands archers shooting and murdering his own, there was no support. To make matters worse, the rain worsened. Even with his spyglass, Daeron wasn't able to see that much of the battlefield anymore.
"Tell to Lord Borros to send the second echelon." Daeron told to a messenger in Hightower to his right. The young man nodded and bowed before rushing vaguely in the direction where the master of Storm's End commanded his troops.
It was not going to be nice, especially if the archers on the other side had plenty of arrows left, but there weren't many choices. With the rain and the low visibility, trying to ride Tessarion and unleash dragonfire would be a monumental stupidity. He didn't know where Moondancer was. The Blacks could have scorpions and ballista somewhere that his scouts hadn't seen.
No, the second wave of infantry was going to do the job. And if they didn't, there was always the heavy cavalry left. Still, the losses in the Marcher archers were concerning...
"Go the camp and search for Lord Caron." Daeron ordered to another messenger, who had not moved since the start of the battle. "Tell him we need his archers! Go!" The king added, when the man slowly marched away like if there was no battle going on.
The battle continued, with Green and Blacks slaughtering each other. Daeron felt multiple times the urge to order Tessarion to fly, but each time the darkness of the sky and the close proximity of both armies stopped the young king.
"CHHHHARRRRGEEE! OURS IS THE FURY!" The strident voice of Lord Borros Baratheon was hurled over the battlefield, and by a turn of the weather Daeron was able to see a wave of cavalry descending the hill. All the Stormlands cavalry. Heavy and light. Hundreds of horses and their riders, all wearing the plate armours, steel or the light cuirass, galloping to the bridge doing a clamour able to wake up the Seven Hells.
That was not what we agreed on! What is Borros playing at?
It was a question Daeron felt he knew already the answer. Glory. His new father in law had a thirst for glory and power that the young Targaryen monarch had rarely seen in any other man. And seeing all the plans made yesterday crumbled with this cavalry charge, Daeron admitted for the first time Lord Borros Baratheon was a horrible Hand, and not only in peace time.
Thanks the Seven, the best part of the Green infantry realised what was coming in their back and got away before being trampled by the blind gallop of the Baratheon and Grandison warriors. But for the men-at-arms fighting for their very lives on the bridge-turned-battlefield, there was no escape.
Bosworth Bridge was not the Great Bridge of Volantis or any of the stonework built by House Hightower in Oldtown, bit it was at least five feet high, and the river was in fury below it. Jumping, in full armour, was a guarantee of a slow and messy drowning. And many of the infantry were busy fighting the Vale heavy shields and spears.
With the rain thinning for the moment, Daeron was able to see Lord Durran Grandison arrive first on the bridge and smash, trample and kill scores of the Green men-at-arms before reaching the Blacks. There were no words to describe this spectacle, as beautiful and exhilarating as it was cruel and awful. The Stormlands cavalry trampled their own levies before trouncing the Vale infantry, which had not been able to reform their wall of pikes in time.
Thanks the Seven it worked.
With a sigh Daeron looked through his Myrish spyglass again, caressed the neck of Tessarion to reassure his bonded dragon. The Corbray banners were all gone, probably fallen into the mud, and the other Vale soldiers were running away. Daeron was not surprised. They had fought a long time against a powerful enemy twice their entire force, and then the cavalry had caught them in a melee. Now, tired and disorganised, with no reinforcements in sight...the bridge was finally belonging to the Greens.
And I will certainly have to congratulate Borros for it.
It left a bad taste in Daeron's mouth like a glass of wine turned sour. Even as far away from his position, the king of Westeros could see this unplanned charge had cost them hundreds of infantry dead, and more of them fleeing in the opposite direction of the battle.
The Caron archers, who had been supposed to turn the tide against the Blackwoods and their damned-too-efficient bowmen, had been cut down by their own liege lord and were dispersing all over the battlefield.
Damn it Borros...
Daeron knew the relations between Storm's End and Nightsong were strained of late, and Lord Baratheon's insistence to let his bannersman guard the camp had been very suspicious. The young sovereign had accepted to ease the tensions and because someone had to do it in case the Blacks found a way to assault in their rear. This massacre was going to make things dangerous. Perhaps not for a rebellion, but definitely not a little thing to brush off.
"Tell Lord Connington to part with two hundred of his own archers to support the centre." Daeron ordered to a grizzled Reacher veteran lacking a few teeth. "We're going to take them to take this hill."
The old warrior saluted and departed, leaving the king watching what was happening on the battlefield. The surviving infantry of the first wave and the second echelon were finally passing the bridge, preparing to assault the hill. In what could only be a good sign, the Blacks had ceased to fire their demoniac volleys of arrows.
They shot all they had. Now it's our turn.
Seeing a bloodied knight in Peake colours approach, Daeron frowned. What now?
"Great news, your Grace!" Revealed the young man behind the helmet. "Lord Peake has taken the ford and slain Lord Ryger! Their infantry is running for their lives!"
"Excellent, Ser!" Exclaimed Daeron. With two crossings of the river taken, the enemy was in really deep trouble. "My congratulations to Lord Peake, and my command he is to press on. We can trap all the Black centre on this hill if we hurry!"
"To your command, your Grace!" Replied eagerly the knight, rushing his mount to announce the new orders to the commander of the left wing.
In this interval of time, Lord Borros had already sent his first assault at the fortified hill, and the rain had almost ceased, letting Daeron see what was happening. A true bloodbath. The Vale survivors had nowhere to flee there, and were standing their ground. Hundreds of men were stabbing each other in the mud, and the general confusion was such there wasn't one side clearly winning.
And then a loud horn sounded far away. Although to qualify this sound of a horn was greatly a compliment. It was more the primal howl of some agonising animal.
"The Northmen..."
Daeron had heard these horns sound the attack at First Tumbleton. The carnage afterwards had been incredible.
"Your Grace, the enemy is in full retreat on all fronts." Piped Ser Luthor Fossoway, one of the many sons of the green branch of New Barrel. "What a horn or two are going to do?"
Ser Luthor had just finished saying these words that five huge rocks appeared just like magic in the air before falling upon the bridge. Screams of horror and agony mounted. Entire groups of soldiers tried to get away, while Bosworth Bridge collapsed on itself.
"These bastards hid their catapults behind the hill, your Grace!" Told a new Peake horseman, his horse ready to collapse of tiredness.
"Not only the catapults..." Grimaced Daeron, pointing his right hand to a point right in front of him.
Gasps thorough all the Green army convinced him he had seen right. Behind the 'routing' Black infantry, who had stopped running and was reforming ranks, a massive formation of cavalry had appeared.
"WINTER IS COMING!"
And now the jaws of the trap have closed.
The rain chose this moment to resume. Not enough however to hide the thousands of crows now flying over the battlefield, ready to eat the dead.