The Dance is not over

by Antony444

The Dance of the Dragons was the most devastating conflict Westeros had ever seen, one hundred and seventy years before the War of the Five Kings. In the end, a succession of deaths and betrayals allowed the kingdom to find peace and recover. But what if it had not happened? What if the courage of a young dragoness had pushed this war to be fought to the bitter end?

5. The Battle of Bosworth Bridge Part II

Chapter 5

The Battle of Bosworth Bridge Part II

Lord Cregan Stark

"Well, it appears they have swallowed the bait."

Cregan's voice was part-relieved, part-disappointed.

"It was time. I started to have doubts whether the plan was going to work, my lord."

The low voice of Lord Bolton was difficult to hear in the screams and the war cries of the battle raging in front of them. Not to mention the shouts 'Ours is the Fury!' pushed by thousands and thousands of cavalrymen charging straight for Bosworth Bridge. At their head, a giant helmet-antlered warrior was brandishing a huge warhammer, joyously trampling and killing his own infantry having the dire fortune to be in front of his war horse. From their position at the top of the hill, it certainly looked like a mass charge without any subtlety or finesse.

"The Green King is young, but no fool." Recognised the Lord of Winterfell. "If he was free to put his own circle in command positions, Daeron would truly be an opponent to fear."

In fact, with a dragon able to flee in a perfect weather, Daeron Targaryen would have already been even more dangerous, but no need to demoralise his bannersmen in the middle of a battle. Especially this battle. By the looks of it, the Greens had brought with them over eight and twenty thousand men, horse and foot. Perhaps as many as thirty thousand, it was difficult to count properly in this rain. To be sure, this was not a force to take lightly.

"We must thanks the Old Gods Lord Baratheon is as dumb as an ox, then."Murmured the Master of Dreadfort. "No doubt the Stag ignored his King's orders and charged ahead to take the glory."

The sight of an archer being crushed by his own Lord Paramount's horse in the distance, made possible by a timely interruption of the rain, confirmed how much Lord Borros Baratheon wanted this victory. Very badly. Cregan had heard the news from his agents the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands had married one of his daughters to the new Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and been named Hand of the King. It seemed it had not been enough to sate his thirst of power. Somehow, most of the Black leaders and those having travelled once in their life to the Stormlands were not surprised.

"In that case, I think it's time we do something about it, no?" His sworn swords, positioned in a circle to guard against a lone arrow or treachery, chuckled or barked in laughter. Good. They were all going to need it before plunging into this hell of blood and mud.

"We will wait until their cavalry has been fully engaged on our side of the bridge, then order the catapults to fire. That way we will trap most of their horse on our side. They have lost two-thirds of their archers, only their dragon will be able to save them." Cregan told his Bolton bannersman. Most of the men listening approved or saluted. The plan had been long discussed the day before, only the time to give the signal had been in question. Looking at the tormented skies where the fury of the Gods was clashing, Cregan gave a quick prayer to the Old Gods for it to remain that way. No dragonrider would dare fly in this tempest.

It had already been a hellishly task to make the catapults under the unending rain, move them for two days to Bosworth Bridge and place them in position behind the hill, far from any prying eyes. Cregan and all the Black lords had been insulted uncountable times by their own men for giving them such thankless tasks...now it was the time to see that all these efforts had not been put to waste.

"The Vale infantry is not going to hold." Lord Robard Bolton voice carried not even a hint of protestation. It was a cold and hard battle assessment, praiseworthy by its lack of feelings. "They are too tired and the Stormlanders are not going to give them enough time to reform the line."

"True. Send your son and two of your best swords, to make sure they are not running too far."

"Lord Lynderly and Lord Corbray are not going to be happy to see their men destroyed."

"No, I imagine they don't. But betrayal carries its lot of inconveniences, no?"

A curt nod from Lord Bolton was the only answer, with a small smile to accompany it.

The Warden of the North had seen at the banquet how those two had been unhappy with the decision to search battle against the Greens. Added to their natural ambition and their neutrality in this war, precautions had to be taken. The same precautions the Starks always took with House Bolton, as a matter of fact.

A prudence well-founded judging by a lone raven intercepted by the Blackwoods archers two nights ago. In it, Lord Lynderly and Lord Corbray were charged to turn on the Riverlander and Northern forces in the heart of the battle, in exchange of several land claims in the Vale they had always coveted. It was a singular turn of events most of these lands were in the hands or under control of lords having come with them to wage war, no doubt. A suspicious mind would tell the traitors were trying to win more power by selling their Black allies to the Green blades... and that the first backs to be stabbed would be Vale ones.

It had been a pain to arrange, but Cregan had changed all his strategy, and placed the Vale infantry of uncertain loyalty at the place of greatest danger. The two Great Lords and five of their cousins were all under arrest waiting their travel back to the Eyrie for oath-breaking before their execution...and the rest had been sent to form the vanguard guarding the crossing with Lord Ryger.

I doubt there will be one in five of them alive by the time this day is over.

The Lord of Winterfell regretted it, many in the infantry had obviously been innocent of their lieges conspiracies. But there hadn't been enough time to interrogate the Valemen one by one and the Warden of the North duty was to his people, not to the men of the East. And if you had not the time, better to not take any risk. Like the proverb said, you can't make an omelette without breaking a few eggs. With a bit of luck, the treacherous elements were dead or dying in the melee next to the bridge, and the innocents would emerge stronger from the battle.

Hopefully. Maybe. Destiny in a battle was fickle and not even the Gods could control everything.

"It's time." Affirmed The Lord Paramount of the North, addressing the closest messenger, a young boy in Manderly colours, who was waiting with a not-hidden impatience the occasion to join the bloodbath. "Tell to Lord Umber I am going to join him for the charge. The moment the catapults have demolished the bridge, they are ours. Lord Tully can attack the Peakes and the Mullendores to our right at the ford."

"By your command, Lord Stark!" Replied the boy, who had most likely not celebrated his thirteen name days, and raced down the hill slopes to transmit the order at an impressing speed. Of course, considering the rainy ground, the youth fell three times before being out of view in the elements. Running on a slippery ground was not a good idea at the best of times, and the earth here was close to a mud soup. More laughter echoed amongst the guards at these falls before seriousness came back.

Lord Cregan took a general glance at the battlefield. His infantry was retrenched in three massive formations on the heights, waiting for the showdown between the Vale infantry and the heavy cavalry of the Stormlands to be decided. By the looks of it, the horses had almost created six or seven huge mud rivers in their attack. Man-made rivers they were trying fruitlessly to go out. The cavalry of the South was going to win, but the butchery was ugly. There were scores of bodies carried away in the river, the current had taken a black-red colour, and near the bridge a big mountain of corpses.

What was the imbecile thinking? Except on the bridge, half of his forces are bogged down in the mud, and on it his men are target of choices for trained archers!

This was why the Northern cavalry had positioned itself out of view on a rocky path directly opposed to the road, with enough solid ground to launch a good strike. On another time, it had served for cattle. Now it was going to serve for war.

After a few moments, Cregan made a gesture to the rest of his messengers, gave his last orders for Lord Ryswell, Lady Blackwood and Lord Glover, and mounted his black horse Shadowwolf. Then his party of sixty, Lord Bolton and Lord Hornwood included, descended the brown fortified hill to find the hundred of horses sagely waiting for them.

Under a mantle of rain, they appeared scores by scores, fresh and eager for the clash of swords to come. Barrow knights, eager to avenge their fallen Lord Rodrik Dustin. Small crannogmen with curbed bows and poisoned arrows. Great knights of House Manderly, armoured from head to toe in plate. The fearsome Mormont warriors, furs, iron and leather giving them the looks of disguised animals. Pale standards and livid skins of the Dreadfort bannersmen. Wood riders, the hunters of the Wolfswood. Free riders of the Rills, patrolling and guarding the North eastern coast with their resistant mounts. And of course everywhere the direwolf of House Stark, with freeriders and the cavalry of the North. Most of the banners were not flowing freely, soaked by the heavenly water falling from the skies, but their martial looks were not diminished. In this army reigned a hunger, a will to fight that had been transmitted from the Age of the Builder and led Starks to countless victories. The Old Gods be good, today this spirit was going to make the difference.

"The men stand ready, my lord!"Lord Tomard Umber came out of the rain, riding a horse that at point or another had giant ancestors to bear the weight of his muscled master. "Give us something to kill and we tear it apart!"

"Good. You can begin your battle-speech." The Last Hearth Master guffawed, saluted and then raised with his right hand an incredibly massive mace, forged in the blackest iron. One look at it was enough for Cregan to know it was a weapon most of the Northern warriors, himself included, would be unable to handle with their two hands.

Next to his wildling-lookalike bannersman, Cregan waited.

A pre-battle speech was always a difficult affair. It required a loud booming voice and an uncommon charisma, a point of madness and an air of leadership to make the common swordsman believe their lord is going to lead them to the Seven Hells and back without a scratch. Cregan Stark freely admitted screaming battle speeches were not was he did best. His father had always told him he had the knack to gather his lords around him, but not the thunderous war screams a commander needed to breathe a bloodthirsty instinct in his men.

Fortunately, for this and many other things, there was Lord Tomard Umber. With a bit of advice and preparation, the Lord of Last Hearth could push dead men to wake up and take the battlefield.

"MEN OF THE NORTH! MEN OF WESTEROS! TODAY IS A GOOD DAY TO DIE! DO WE FEAR DEATH?"

"NO!" Screamed every mounted soldier.

"NO! WE DON'T FEAR DEATH! RUN TODAY AND YOU MAY LIVE FOR A WHILE! BUT THEN WHEN THE OLD GODS WILL TAKE YOU IN SCORES OF YEARS IN YOUR BEDS...YOU WILL GIVE EVERYTHING TO COME BACK ON THIS BATTLEFIELD AND KILL THE ENEMY!"

Now the forces under his command were truly alive. Before they had been only excitation; now there was the bloodlust and the envy to kill and shred the enemy.

The direwolf wakes up...

"WE ARE BORN OF WINTER! THE DRAGONS WILL NOT HAVE OUR SOULS...AND THEY WON'T TAKE OUR WINTER!"

Thousands of screams echoed in accord, until the throats could take no more.

"SOUND HORNS!" Ordered the Umber giant, giving the example by blowing a massive winter horn which had been on an aurochs head centuries ago.

The cavalrymen around him did not think and sounded in turn their personal instruments, making a monstrous cacophony enough to depress every bad and singer ever lived. Soon, the entire army sounded its horns. Howls. Loud howls everywhere calling for war and the end of an era.

Cregan raised his hand and gave to one of his captains. A black and red flag went up in the air and the massive catapults launched their devastating barrage.

Now this is going to hurt them.

"SEND THEM IN THEIR FUCKING SEVEN HELLS! CHARGE! CHARGE! YAAAAAHHHHH!"

Cregan pivoted his horse as his cavalrymen started their trot. Unlike Lord Tomard, the Lord of Winterfell was going in the second line. Not to join the battle would have been an act a cowardice and provoked a lack of trust from his banners, but nothing stopped him to be smart about him. And to add his own support.

"WINTER IS COMING!" Cregan shouted as the trot intensified and the horses gained speed around the hill.

Cregan lowered his helmet and unsheathed Ice. The taint of the great Valyrian sword was even more sinister than usual in this dark rain. Shadowwolf whinnied powerfully, the horse feeling the first smells of the massacre. And the entire cavalry shouted the ancestral Stark words as the battle came into view.

"WINTER IS COMING!"

"WINTER IS COMING!"

The Northern army was now fully engaged for the biggest cavalry charge it had made in the last decades. Too late to withdraw or stop now. And the details of the battle were becoming more precise as the Black horses neared their enemies.

As Lord Bolton had predicted, the Vale foot soldiers had not taken the shock, but there were still hundreds of them alive, and here and there Northern warriors rallied them to put them. The majority of the infantry were standing on the heights, intact.

It is time to end this battle.

Here and there, hundreds of horses broke at full gallop, their cavalrymen screaming and gesticulating diverse profanities.

The Baratheon cavalry had seen them, and the horns of the Storm sounded furiously to answer the hundreds of screams shouting for Winter. But from Cregan's view, a lot of them had been dismounted and were fighting on foot. Many more were trapped in the mud or had disappeared in the river. Of Bosworth Bridge, there were only the two extremities. The bridge had been cleaved in two parts by the catapult salvo. The plan had functioned, and by the looks of it, plenty of Stormlanders and Reachers had been so close from being pulverised they had loosened their formation.

They are not going to reform their line in time.

"FULL GALLOP! FULL GALLOP AND KILL THEM ALL!" Lord Tomard Umber had taken a dement turn, and the entire Black centre cavalry accelerated at its best speed to smash in the Green horse. Three or four score of Baratheon that had by a miracle of the Seven achieved the double feat of avoiding the mud and the Vale pikes reacted, repositioned their swords and spears. Then they charged to meet Cregan's Northerners.

Here it begins.

The first lines fell upon one other in a torrent of steel and blood. Scream of agonies sounded and then they were in the core of the battle. Cregan saw a green knight on a brown horse rush in front of him. One strike of Ice in the right arm, and the opponent let down his longsword. A second in the neck and the Green fighter collapsed. A grey armour with a bridge emblem came into view, and the Lord of Winterfell disarmed him in the same manner. Too bad things got too quick and the battle separated them before the death blow.

Another man, this one dismounted, tried to attack him on his right with an axe. Parry. Parry. Parry. At the third parry, the steel of the weapon was cut in half by the might of the Valyrian Steel. Not letting his opponent come back into the fight, Cregan pushed the edge of Ice in the surprised soldier's neck, before slamming it into another soldier trying to come behind him.

The speed of the cavalry charge was gone. Around him, the Lord of Winterfell was seeing hundreds, no thousands of men, fighting in the mud. Drowning them, beating them with stones. The earth was red not brown. Parry. Strike. Everything was wrong. It was killed or be killed. Counter. Strike. Cregan had always known he was one of the best swordsmen of the North, and one after one the Green knights near him received the dolorous bite of the ancestral Stark blade. When one tried to attack him with two swords; Ice cut the first in half and a powerful kick in the unprotected face of his enemy dealt with the issue. Another move and a new head rolled under the hooves of Shadowwolf.

Imbecile, where did you lose your helmet? And your head? By the Old Gods, I think I love this shit.

"FORWARD! FORWARD MEN OF THE NORTH! FORWARD TO VICTORY!" Cregan squalled. One more strike, and a man with an armour in blue fell down in the mud and didn't move anymore. A Hightower knight tried to attack him in a desperate charge, how exactly the man and his courser had managed to remain atop in this bloodbath the Warden had no idea, but Cregan cut the head of his horse before shredding his leg and that was his end.

"WINTER IS COMING! PUSH THEM TO THE RIVER!"

"KILL THEM ALL!" The thunderous roar voice of Lord Tomard Umber came to the Lord of Winterfell's left, and while eliminating two more dismounted swordsmen, Cregan saw the familiar mass of the Umber giant tore apart the lines.

For a moment the entire battlefield froze. The seven Green knights mustering under an Errol ruined banner froze too. Then Lord Tomard was upon them. "THE. GIANT. IS. UNLEASHED!" Each word was followed by a stupendous movement of the mass. The first knight head was beaten into a pulp. The second had his legs crushed. The third tried to flee, only to be thrown away in the air, like one in these heroic bard tales. The crack announcing his contact with the mud-covered ground was sonorous and final. The fourth tried to block his doom, but the light sword was brutally moved aside and the doomed warrior was smashed against a horse's corpse and ceased to move.

"THE NORTH REMEMBERS! FLEE FOR YOUR LIVES SOUTHRONS!"

Finishing a spearsman who had watched too long this slaughter, Cregan saw the ranks of the Stormlanders tremble. Like they all realised they were going to be doomed.

A last push. A last push and they are ours.

Cregan launched Shadowwolf in a last effort between two fallen Vale pikemen and killed a swordsman who was fighting with a Barrow knight.

"WINTER IS COMING! VICTORY IS OURS!"

"NO!" Screamed a massive knight, standing up on the corpse of his large warhorse. "OURS IS THE FURY! OURS IS THE FURY! TRAITORS! TRAITORS I WILL ALL SEND YOU IN THE SEVEN HELLS!"

Cregan bared his teeth in a predatory smile. Massive plate armour. Large warhammer. Booming voice. Baratheon colours, strained with mud and blood. Helmet with antlers. Lord Borros Baratheon had decided to grace them of this presence, and by the looks of it, his entire guard was dead or dying around him.

"COME LORD STARK! COME FIGHT ME AND DIE!" Boomed the thunderous voice of Storm's End. But the imprecation was not as powerful as the former ones. Now, the hint of fear was clearly audible. Cregan had hundred of Northmen hacking their away around him. Lord Borros was alone, as one of his knights fell to a Karstark champion.

The Lord of Winterfell fought desperately against the urge not to laugh. The Hand of the King wanted a duel. With him. And the battle was lost for the Greens. Who did the Lord of Storm's End think he was? An Arryn?

"One hundred dragons for the one who brings me his head!" Shouted Cregan, pointing Ice directly towards the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands.

Whatever the Hand of the Green King had expected to hear from his Black counterpart, Lord Borros had clearly not thought of that. And as hundreds of Northern warriors dismounted and rushed on him, there was no time for the Stormlander to change his strategy. The rest of the action was not pretty to see. The famous Baratheon warhammer smashed the first two barrow knights having rushed, but then the Stormlands brute was completely surrounded. And against that many opponents, the best plate money could buy was not enough. A Manderly knight covered in blood pushed his sword in the leg of the Stag.

"I WILL...AAARRRRGGGHHHH!"

Like a pack of wolves, the Karstark, Umber, Hornwood and Flint dismounted and cut the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands apart, punishing every error with a swift and deadly strike of an axe, spear, sword or mace. Lord Borros screamed. A lot. He screamed when his left hand was shredded finger by finger, perhaps the work of a Bolton. He screamed when his legs failed him and the ground was tainted of his blood. It was only when his throat was torn open that the screams ended.

The warhammer fell, under the stunned eyes of the surviving Greens.

"PUSH THEM TO THE RIVER!"

This time, the Stormlands and Reach soldiers all ran for their lives. It was the moment Shadowwolf chose to stumble on the corpse of a Marcher archer. As the ground neared him, Cregan thought could only be resumed in two words.

Oh, shit.

Lord Royce Caron

In all his life, Royce had always loathed with a passion the turn of hourglasses preceding an important event like a battle or a tourney. The anxiety permeating your very skin. The annoying noise of the rain and the shrieks if the weather was bad. If the sun came out, the terrible warmth that made wearing his plate armour absolutely unbearable and boiled you so much many fainted before the order to charge was given. The smell of the shit from the horses was unbearable, when it wasn't added to the men themselves pissing in their breeches next to you. The whispers of the other lords, no doubt intending to betray you for glory and the ear of their liege lord. The grumblings and the curses of the levies, unhappy at the idea of leaving their home to die on Seven-cursed battlefield for a lord they were perfectly content to ignore.

But with now the opportunity to notice the differences, there was nothing more awful than assist to the battle deciding the fate of Westeros and not be able to participate. Especially when his side was losing.

No, I'm wrong. The most awful thing would be agonising in this mud hell. I'm alive, this is a point in my favour.

"Are we going to charge, my lord?" Asked one of the uncountable hedge knights of Oldtown who had been left with him. By all rights, the man did not look happy. He had the face of someone who had just seen his entire family die before his very eyes.

When I think about it, perhaps it is exactly what happened. We must love lost hundreds of spears since the first charge went in.

"Charge where, Ser?" Replied bitterly the Lord of Nightsong. "The Blacks have destroyed the bridge if you haven't noticed." As if anybody, dead or alive, could have missed the launch of several catapult projectiles and the hellish carnage they had made touching the ground. "Unless your horse has learnt to fly when I had my back turned, I'm afraid we're stuck where we are."

"There is still the ford!" Protested the young man, turning his breastplate to reveal the emblem of a bee over a tower.

By the Seven, are you blind Ser? Our cavalry and our infantry are getting massacred and you want to charge in THAT?

Lord Royce loved a good melee as much as the next knight or lord wanting a thrill of glory. This battle wasn't it. No, this massacre wasn't it. The imbecilic charge of his liege Lord, and if he wasn't wrong, against the Royal orders too, had managed to make a complete slaughter of a battle already badly engaged. From the start of the battle, the Riverlands archers had exercised their archers' talents to turn their army into porcupines; after the catapult barrage of destruction, the Green soldiers near the bridge had been demanded to swim without any warning. By the looks of it, they were sinking pretty handily. Heavy armour tended to do that. And the rest of the scene seen from the camp wasn't much better.

There was red everywhere, when the rain calmed down momentarily to let the Marchers watch the carnage. The Northerners, cavalry and infantry, bayed like wolves, and massacred everyone on their side of the river, pushing the Stormlanders in the river or slaying them where they stood. The Stag and the Lion banners of Baratheon and Grandison were falling, sinking in a torrent of water and blood, trampled by the Black armoured feet. There was no one to raise them defiantly in the air anymore. There was no one alive to contest the northern bank anymore.

Where is the glory you promised us, my liege? Where are the sun and the victory? Where are the Black sheep supposed to fall bleating upon our blades?

His morose thoughts did not get better when a messenger bearing the orange-black of House Peake raced before him and looked him with a terrified face.

"My lord, my lord! Lord Peake has been slain by the Tullys! All the left wing is collapsing! We need reinforcements!"

Trust the bad news to come with the bad ones. And why are they going to me? I'm supposed to guard the camp, no?

Lord Peake had been an insufferable ambitious and the Lord of Nightsong was happy to see him gone. The loss of the left wing...that was more regrettable. Not to mention difficult to deal with when part of your army was reeling from the losses of hundreds if not thousands of your best swordsmen.

"Our centre is gone." Interrupted another mounted warrior who had come out of nowhere. "We must direct all the reinforcements here NOW!"

"I'm afraid the centre is going to hold on its own." Replied in a hot-head manner the Peake messenger. "Don't you hear what I say? The Blacks have retaken their bank of the ford! We need reinforcements there! All else can wait!"

"What are you doing here Caron? We need every man now!" Purposely the other messenger was ignoring the Peake sworn sword and addressing himself to Royce, leaving the Lord of Nightsong place a name along the face.

Ser Richard Cafferen. One of Lord Baratheon fiercest supporters, maybe because the knight was unable to have a single thought of his own which did not cover whoring and drinking until he didn't remember his own name.

"I will move when I will have archers to cover my advance." Declared finally Lord Caron, maintaining a pious attitude of regret he knew would not fool the two men in front of him.

And indeed, it was sufficient to provoke an explosion of fury from Cafferen.

Not thinking me and my troops are that useless anymore, Ser?

"You have archers! Scores of them! Hundreds of them!"

"I had many archers under my command." Corrected Royce. "Until Lord Borros killed them in his glorious charge."

And you helped him do so, was the part left unsaid. Marcher archers were valuable soldiers. Trained and excelling in long-distance shoots thanks to hundreds of skirmishes with the Dornish, Royce was going to take years to replace them, assuming it was possible. The last thing Lord Caron wanted was to throw the rest of his sworn swords and cavalry in this mud hell.

"If you don't form the line and charge Lord Baratheon will have your head for this!"

"The day the death comes back to life, surely." Royce laughed. This was way too funny. "Tell me, Ser, have you seen Lord Borros standing on the other side? No? I'm afraid our lord has left us for a better world."

Likely the Seven Hells, given Lord Baratheon's love for battle and blood. First battle, and the proud Stag had screwed it up completely.

"I refuse to hear these traitorous words." Snarled Ser Richard Cafferen. "It will take more than a hundred Black traitors and barbarians to slay our lord! What we're seeing is only a small part of the battlefield, I am certain our forces are regrouping on the heights! I'm going to help them! Who's with me?"

The acclamations were pathetically few to mount in the air, and the visage of the Fawnton knight showed the signs of a terrible anger. No doubt he had hoped for more support. Slowly, thirty cavalrymen and about twice that many pikes abandoned their positions at the limit of the camps and rallied to Cafferen. Few of them, less than half a score all told, had been sworn to the Nightsong. Not the most reliable, and all had spoken against Royce leadership in the first place.

Good riddance. You're welcome to have them, Ser Cafferen. Take them and join Lord Baratheon in the Seven Hells. I will sleep better tonight.

Assuming of course there is enough of me left to sleep.

"You will get what you deserve, Caron!" The exclamation of Ser Cafferen echoed as the small group descended the slope and disappeared in direction of the frontline.

So will you.

"Good. This imbecile has ceased to be a problem." Grumbled a lightly built pikeman having watched the scene on the left.

"He took nearly one hundred men with him, lord." Said a grey-haired old knight, a man long past his prime in tourneys and hunts, with something like reprobation. "We could have used them for more than fish bait."

"True, but unimportant." Shrugged Royce. "The milk and the wine are spilt, and all of that. Begin to make the preparations for a hasty retreat. My aching bones tell me we're going to need the advance to escape the pursuit."

"Where is the King?" Intervened another knight, who had apparently not bothered to come in full armour, but instead had put heavy cloaks on his horse and himself to protect the duo from the assaults of the rain.

Indeed, where down the slope there had been a dragon and its royal passenger, plus a couple hundred of knights, there was no one here anymore. In the tumult of the battle and the rain, Royce's levies had not even noticed.

That's why these idiots came directly to me...

"I don't know..." The Marcher lord hesitated. "Perhaps gone on the left on his dragon to see how the battle was going?"

It was at this moment a loud thrill sounded in the distance. The knights of the Stormlands mustered on the hill did not lose any time to share their estimation.

"What is this sound?"

"Have the Northerners taken us in the back?"

"If the left has dispersed..."

"Trumpets and drums."

"Trumpets and drums? We haven't..."

"Trumpets and drums?" Asked the Lord of Nightsong to himself. "But our instruments are lying at the bottom of the river..."

Unless...unless the calls of our good Master of Coins have not went unheard. And if it is the case...

"The Lannister have deep pockets and pay their debts..." Murmured Royce, as some of the closest warriors on horse looked at him in a strange manner.

Instants later, the source of the noise revealed itself from the rain and the elements. Soldiers. Columns of soldiers, marching in tight formation of pikes. And over their heads, flew large banners, representing animals that were neither of the Marches nor of Westeros. Elephants. Tigers. Parrots.

And in the middle of these thousand rushing to battle, grey animals dressed like miniature forts, ready to brink destruction on the enemy.

"Prepare the men for battle." Ordered Royce Caron to his men, a necessary order considering many were gaping like idiots with their mouth completely open. "There is still a chance this day will not end in disaster."