Chapter 7

The Battle of Bosworth Bridge Part IV

Lord Cregan Stark

The Master of Winterfell could not help but let go a torrent of insults out of his mouth as a good part of the battlefield's centre went up in flames.

By the Old Gods, does everything must go wrong on this bloody day?

The Northern army had been winning, damn the Greens and their Southron Gods to Hell! Their cavalry had been destroyed, their infantry routed. Lord Borros Baratheon's body had been demolished by Northern swordsmen in fury. The Black troops had retaken the ford and the river banks, allowing them to throw improvised bridges and pursue the reeling foot. They had been on the eve of a victory like few had been ever won in the last couple of centuries!

This had been before Cregan's first fall from his mount, alas. It had taken too much time to rise from the mud, take a new horse and receive the reports of all his bannersmen in this windy and rainy battlefield. Too much time to realise what was truly happening, but plenty of occasions on a mud-covered battlefield to fall for a second time from a horse mere moments later. The forces of the Green Dragon had been reinforced by an army of Essossi sellswords, and the bad weather had partially covered their approach. King Daeron had decided to intervene with his dragon and precede the new attack with a wave of dragonfire. Only the intervention of Moondancer and Queen Baela had saved the Black army from annihilation.

Thank the Old Gods I had kept a lot of our foot and horse in reserve. If I hadn't...

The Lord Paramount shivered inside his armour, and it wasn't because of the cold. The sellswords, whoever they were and wherever they were coming from, had managed to arrive at the perfect time and place. Knowing the difficulties to coordinate an assault in these conditions, Cregan was betting that luck more than competence had been on their side, but it did not change the problem. In addition to the Green troops mustered by the Reach and the Stormlands, between six and twelve thousand men had arrived to reinforce them on this bloodstained and god-forsaken place.

It must be Volantene, Pentoshi or Lysene companies out of there. No one else would bring elephants in Westeros at the beginning of winter.

If the Blacks had had more men to send than their opponents, the Riverlands infantry could likely have slaughtered them and broken through their lines before the Green camp came to their rescue. But it wasn't the case. The alliance of Vale, River and Northern lords had been already outnumbered at the start of the battle, and now the straits were becoming desperate as the two dragons fought in the skies over their heads. A large number of men had been sent to hold the left flank, and had been able to inflict heavy casualties on the newcomers, giving the Black army a temporary reprieve. Too bad it was going to be a very short-lived one.

"We are not going to win if you keep the reserves on this side of the river, my Lord." Calmly asserted Lord Robar Bolton, with about as much warmth as he would have used to reprimand his squire if he brought him a meal too late.

"We are not going to have an easy win no matter what command I give." Whispered the Lord of Winterfell, watching the blue dragon unleashing a stunning column of flames. Moondancer largely avoided it. The troops below - Corbray and Stormlanders infantry locked together in a brutal struggle- did not. Screams of agony soared in the air, the cries of men begging for death. Every Northern and Riverlands lord that Cregan could see showed a face of funeral. Dragonfire was a weapon every warrior feared, and for good reason.

This is the third time the dragon is hitting our forces. We won't be able to hold for long at this rate.

Yes, their young Queen was doing a miraculous deed in distracting her cousin mounted on the Blue Queen...but it wasn't going to last. Cregan did not pretend knowing anything about dragon-riding or the flying tactics of the destroyed Freehold. But in the middle of a violent storm, common sense told him the biggest beast had the advantage. The heavier you are, the more difficult it is for the elements to destabilise something. It applied to fortresses and knights in armour; it was dubious dragons would be an exception. Worse, Tessarion had not been wounded like Sunfyre itself was at Dragonstone. This meant that unless an archer managed to shoot an arrow in the dragon's eye, Baela Targaryen had absolutely no chance to win. Given the speed, the evasion moves and the distance separating the hill from the flying animals, the likelihood of a bow-master accomplishing this impossible shot did not look good.

"Do we know where Lord Kermit Tully is fighting?"

"No, my lord." Grunted Wulfric Glover. "My men told me he was leading the attack on the Mullendore infantry when the Essossi arrived. No trace of him after this."

A new grimace barred the face of the Lord Paramount of the North, fortunately dissimulated from his bannersmen by his dark-grey helmet. Failing to know where one of the most important Lords of the Blacks at a moment like this was not surprising, as the rain, the dark clouds and the absence of the sun obscured everything. Still, it was hellishly inconvenient.

From his current position, Cregan could see only the centre of the battlefield. Not the left, where thousands of sellswords tried to cross the swamp-hellhole the plain had become when the river flooded it. Not the right, where the ford's defence had become a massacre, letting hundreds of corpses flow downstream ad provide a macabre scene of death. There was only the centre...but this was largely enough to see a presentation of raw nightmares. The gaze of the Northerner went from left to right...but there was no reason to celebrate. Thousands of men stabbed, pushed and kicked each other, running when the dragonfire came too close, gathering in light shield walls when the threat of archers manifested itself. Here and there, some Black and Green commanders rallied their troops...but not for long. One spear coming from nowhere, and the knight or the freerider was trying to close with his bare hands the hole in his chest. Then discipline collapsed. Men fled or fought by themselves, throwing their weapons and their bodies in a fury of destruction. Bands of clansmen came behind the first lines, cutting the throats of the harmed levies on the ground, ignoring the pleas of those unable to defend themselves. The Marchers marauders bloodily murdered the wounded on the other side. This was no great triumph. There was just killing, killing and dying under a torrential rain.

The combat was raging in the clouds too. A new inferno appeared from the maw of Tessarion, evaded by the Black dragonrider upwards. This time, the dragonfire lost itself in the rain and thankfully caused no more damage amongst the Black or Green ranks.

What to do? What to do?

There were only two choices left to him. Commit everything to the melee or retreat. Attack or disengage. A glorious charge or a shameful retreat.

But things aren't that simple, eh Cregan?

If the Lord of Winterfell chose the first option and the final assault failed, there would be nothing left of the Black cause in the Riverlands should the battle become a catastrophic butchery.

Be honest with yourself, Cregan. This battle is already a catastrophic butchery. It just remains to be seen how bad it will be. This is a day of disaster worthy of the name.

This was the last major Black army on the field, and it was under Northern command. Should they lose it, the cause once championed by Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen was going to die with it. The North and the Vale were probably safe from immediate reprisals, but Cregan feared neither his eldest son Rickon nor his youngest children would be able to safeguard House Stark and the North by themselves. The loss of prestige from this defeat would push rival Houses to rebel in the future. Not in a day or a fortnight, but it would happen. Winter was coming, and there would be no help from the South and the rest of the realm this time. No, only devastation and ruin reigned...the granaries of the Riverlands were gone. Those of the Reach had suffered untold devastation. And the Westerlands gold to pay for all this food had little chance to leave the Rock with the Ironborn reaving in the Sunset Sea and the Riverlords having slaughtered half of the Western nobility like pigs.

On the other hand, a retreat would allow them to save a part of the army...in theory at least. In reality, a fighting retreat was no simple affair, and even with the river, the catapults and the archers, the Lord of House Stark was not too sure his men had the nerves and the iron in them to withdraw in good order. Not to mention the presence of the blue dragon which could roast them all in a tide of fire.

"My lord, Ser Tytos Ryger is demanding reinforcements to the ford!"

Contemplating the messenger in his tattered armour and the faint traces of what had been a horse emblem on the breastplate moons ago, Cregan felt something heavy fall on his heart. With heavy reluctance, the Lord Paramount of the North was reminded where his duties fell.

"What is the situation?"

"The Marcher foot is rallying! Please, my Lord Hand! We need more men!"

Well, time to make the decision the lords expects from a Hand, Cregan. It comes with the title and all of that. Royals fight in the air and speak with dragons. Hands fight in the mud and speak with knights.

I suspect they are not going to like what my next orders will be, though.

"No."

The messenger opened his mouth like one of those big trout the fishermen took in the Green Fork and sold to the various markets.

"My Lord?"

"My compliments to Ser Ryger, but we hard-pressed here and I can't send more men to reinforce him. I command him to retreat on the other side the ford and fortify the positions we held this morning. If he finds Lord Tully, the same orders apply to him. "

The Riverlands nodded five or six times, before going back to the front he had just left, evidently in shock. Somehow, Ryger had really convinced his messenger the Northern cavalry was going to arrive to the rescue.

Maybe I overestimated the wits of some Riverlords...

"You intend to retreat." The tone of Lord Robar Bolton could not be mistaken from a question. But there was no accusation or contestation in this sentence. As always the Master of the Dreadfort was a man incredibly difficult to read.

"If we stay here, we may still be able to win the day, but we won't have an army left." Cregan made a small move with his armoured right gauntlet in direction of the battlefield. "We can't afford that."

"I say we could take them." The voice of Horos Umber was more roar than speech. With his cousin Lord Tomard fighting somewhere in this rain, the big-boned fighter was commanding the reserves from the bannersmen of Last Hearth and the lands close to the Gift.

"Perhaps." The Hand of the Queen in the privacy of his own thoughts was exactly of the opposite opinion. Right at the moment, they had enough reserves to reinforce the left, the right or the centre. Not the three fronts of the battle at the same time and in sufficient strength. "But Westeros has bled enough for today."

We have bled enough for today. The North has not the population of the Reach. We can't afford to lose an army at every grand battle.

Cregan turned his head to see the bannersmen forming his personal cavalry guard, but there were no more protestations. Lord Hornwood seemed almost relieved for the slaughter to cease, despite having his armour intact and coloured black from all the men who had poured their blood on him. The Manderly knight in charge was eating an apple and showed no awareness the discussion had been discussed...an impression which was obviously false, leaving his liege lord the hidden message White Harbour didn't disagree with his actions. A few freeriders and minor Masters were looking like they were emerging from troubling dreams, but started to relay the orders.

Good. I would have hated to kill one of my bannersmen for refusing to heed my commands.

One by one, flags were raised upon the hill, and great warhorns were sounded for the men. Close to the improvised bridges which had been thrown after the death of the Baratheon van, the Northern barrow knights stopped their progression and tried to restore somewhat the discipline they had lost in hours of fighting. Cregan turned his head right and watched the messengers left at his disposition. A sign in the direction of one having two mermaids painted on his armour and the Lord of Winterfell put the next part of his plan into action.

"Find Lord Ryswell. Tell him he must bleed the Essossi dry before withdrawing to the camp."

"Yes, my lord!" The messenger from White Harbour sat on his horse and rode it like the demons of the Seven Hells were in pursuit.

A scout from the Rills was next, with a dark courser next to him making pitiful noises at each wind blast drenching human and animal in cold water.

"I need to know how many men are still fighting under Lord Ryger. Don't let them abandon the ford, the enemy will need to capture it if they want to pursue us with their cavalry."

Not that they have many horses left, I think. These Essossi had a lot of infantry but few mounted sellswords. And we destroyed the cavalry of Storm's End ourselves.

The Northerner nodded silently, before mounting his reluctant horse and departing for the crossing.

The first to separate were the dragons. Moondancer, lithe and swift, made an impressive turn and raced to the Black lines. Tessarion circled and roared, apparently perturbed by its smaller opponent abandoning the fight. The Blue Queen made an attempt to rush towards the Stark lines, but a firm reminder from the Targaryen mounting the flying beast was enough to turn it around. Well that and the score of arrows the bravest archers shot to discourage it. In a loud roar, Tessarion disappeared once more into the clouds.

"Prepare your archers, Lady Blackwood." Commanded the Lord Paramount of the North. "If the Green dragon comes back, I want them to pierce the wings and the weak points of the scales."

The aunt of the Lord of Raventree Hall bowed quickly before marching to her long-range warriors. Not wearing plate or chainmail like the lords and senior knights present around him, the Lady of House Blackwood was a very vision of lethality in leather. The view from the rear was particularly enticing...

It's not the moment to think about that, Cregan. You have more important problems to take care of.

Chasing the thoughts no hot-blooded male would blame him for – in fact Cregan noticed two or three scores of his personal guard admiring the view without any shame - the Lord of House Stark fixed the pale eyes of Lord Robar Bolton.

"Once all the troops we can save have crossed, fire the catapults with every oil and inflammable substance we have."

"There are Vale and River foot which are not going to make it."

There was no need to take a spyglass to know Lord Robar's affirmation was correct. Hundreds of men avid of paying back the Greens in blood, flesh and fire had been too rash in their slaughter eagerness. They were now too far from the river and many were already encircled by the sellsword companies. In other words, they were dead men walking. Even if he hadn't given the order to retreat, Cregan and his men would have had no hope to reach them in time.

The Umber vanguard, which had managed somehow to advance and not be pulverised by the enemy counterattack, may be able to survive. Of course they were led by Lord Umber and it took a very brave man to face the Lord of Last Hearth. Armed with a bloody warhammer in one hand and a two-handed sword in the other, Lord Tomard was creating a trail on his own for his sworn swords to escape.

"I know." Cregan sighed. "But it's us or them."

And I prefer it's them. I gave orders before and during battle to do nothing of the sort. Some men you can explain a long time the orders, they will still ignore them in the end.

Arrows began to rain on the Green troops. The Blackwood archers, who had had two or three turn of hourglasses to rest, were firing again to cover the retreat of the Black retreating troops.

Good thing I left a couple hundred men to carry the arrows from our camp. It would have been incredibly annoying to have a dragon and an army coming at us without anything to kill them.

The furious and desperate melee having raged was ending one fighter at a time. Under the fire of the archers once more, the Green infantry was pausing and taking abandoned shields to protect their tattered armours. The sellsword newcomers were slower to learn, but after five or six scores were pierced from head to toe, they too were forced to abandon their charge towards the river where thousands of corpses floated. The Umber formation was at last able to withdraw in good order, although Cregan would be surprised if one in three of their men were not left behind at the mercy of the Greens. Judging by the shouts of their huge champion and his captains, Lord Tomard Umber understood how close an affair it had been.

Let's hope he will learn from the experience...but I fear chicken will speak High Valyrian before this miracle of the Old Gods happen.

Hundreds of Black soldiers profited from the respite to cross the river on the wooden pontoons the Riverlanders had placed after the death of Lord Borros Baratheon. Some soldiers even crossed on the corpses of the fallen Reachers and Stormlanders. It was horrible to see that no matter how many the river carried away, they always were more bodies coming to thicken the stream in blood and guts.

As always with a retreat, the reactions varied wildly. Many levies had broken like wildlings did when they were defeated, throwing their weapons and everything of importance before running. The chivalry of Houses Manderly and Woolfield had reformed ranks. The heavy infantry of Winterfell, Hornwood and Cerwyn was holding the flanks and preventing a total rout.

Looks like we're going to escape and fight another day.

The Stormlands and the Essossi pikes bearing on their banners a strange bird had realised the same thing, but they were too far away, too tired, and they knew very well what was going to happen if they crossed the river without their own archers in support. Cregan laughed a bit internally. Lord Borros Baratheon had done a great service to the Black cause by trampling the Green bowmen in his last furious charge. The archers of the Marches were tough opponents, forged by centuries of skirmishes and war with the Dornish.

"Collapse the bridges. Then fire the catapults." Said Cregan Stark, as Lord Tomard and his last men abandoned the southern bank, their role of rear-guard ended for today.

Less than a turn of hourglass later, the catapults struck true and the oil and the fire united with the already present dragonfire. In spite of the cold rain, the yellow and red colours spread fast across the carnage thousands of soldiers had made in a single day.

Let this damned battlefield burn, thought the Lord of Winterfell. I have enough of this madness.

Lord Royce Caron

"For the Black Queen! Arrgghh!"

The battle cry was the last thing the man wearing the Velaryon colours screamed before the Lord of Nightsong pushed his sword in his throat. The removal of the steel from the fatal wound in a quick twist was followed by a gurgle, a lot of blood...and the fall of the Black soldier, the light in his eyes no doubt disappearing behind his fish-shaped helmet.

"Fifteen." Told Lord Royce, trying to regain his breath after the vicious duel he had just fought with the knight of the Narrow Sea, and thanking the Seven his last feint had been manifestly unknown on Driftmark.

"You're getting old, my lord! Eighteen!" Exclaimed one of the lowborn sworn swords he kept in his service, ramming his axe in the skull of a muddy men-at-arm. The veteran, going by the name 'Honest Jon' – a name which was probably false now that the master of House Caron thought about it - acted in the battle like a hungry pig with fresh food, throwing himself at his opponent without any elegance or skill. The tiredness of the enemies and the force the axeman put behind his blows ensured this lack of tactics was efficient, though.

"There is no respect for my old bones anymore!" Half-joked the Marcher lord, spitting on the corpse of the man he had just killed and passing his tongue upon his teeth. The result was the unpleasant taste of his own blood.

I sure hope this one didn't break me more teeth...I have lost far enough of them before today.

Seeing there were no more Blacks to kill on the part of the battlefield where he was fighting, Royce planted his longsword in the mud and demanded water. The moment he had gone with his men into the carnage had not been long...but the ache he felt in his bones, arms, legs and heads was having an effect like a thousand ringing hammers.

War is the affair of young men...I'm no longer one.

Drinking lengthily at the gourd of one of his squires had found somewhere, Royce's headache slowly lifted. There was nothing he could do for the exhaustion or the dragonfire-created fog however. The putrid smoke was still hard on his breathing, making him cough violently three times. Emptying the small recipient, Lord Caron took another and drank it at the same rapidity. Only then the master of Nightsong examined his surroundings. All around him, his men were falling on their knees, with most posing their weapons on the ground and asking for food, water or the permission to sleep. Some were looting the corpses. There were knights searching for abandoned horses and whatever thing might be of use for their fortune.

I'm supposed to tell them to make prisoners...but the Blacks fought like demons. I'm not sure if anyone tried to surrender...or if our men were in the mood to accept.

Stopping his thoughts about the possible awful fate of the prisoners of war, the Marcher Lord watched the desolation created by the battle. It was still possible to see the ruins of the Bosworth Bridge from where they stood, but not the hills behind that. The enemy was not visible anymore, withdrawing behind the fog, the rain and the terrible storm. Worse, the sun was now falling and approaching the eve of winter meant the night would not be long in coming. Thousands, no, tens of thousands corpses were lying in the small valley, in the river, on the slopes. The crows were descending in black murders to eat their content. The war had kept them well-fed, but this battle was a monumental celebration by their ghastly standards. So much dead flesh, and the survivors too tired to bury their fallen.

"Did we win the battle, my lord?"

The question was coming from the lips of the young Ser Marran Selmy, the third son of the Lord of Harvest Hall. Knighted more or less two years ago by Royce himself, the young man had stayed at the camp today with the disgraced Stormlanders, proving he had a good day upon his shoulders. His armour and his shield had still been well-used, the three stalks of wheat represented on both protections having turned red and black. The front of the Selmy shield was also marked by a couple of deep slashes, sign a Black soldier had tried his best to demolish it with pure rage.

Now if only Lord Borros had had half of Marran wits...now that's a lord I would have followed to the Seven Hells.

"We're holding the battlefield Marran." The Lord of Nightsong answered, drinking in a large gourd with satisfaction, as this one contained the powerful deep red wine of Grassy Vale. "Chasing the enemy away from the battlefield is always considered a victory ...does it answer your question?"

"Yes, my lord. It does." The tiny smile of Marran Selmy did not reach his pale blue eyes as he removed his helmet and let his light brown hair know the sensation of the rain. "But I watched and saw none of our men pursuing the enemy. Was it not one of your teachings that hunting down the enemy after the battle was half of the victory?"

"You were a good squire, Marran." Told Royce, forsaking for an instant the great gap existing between the second most powerful Lord of the Marches and a third son of the same kingdom. Frankly, Royce Caron was astonished the young Selmy was able to remember what he had said five or six years ago. To be sure, none of the three or four young boys serving at Nightsong at the same time would be able to remember it.

Too busy running after the whores, the drinks, the gold and the glory. And today these squires are dead because they followed our liege lord in his stupid cavalry charge.

"Thanks to you, my lord."

"My father wanted my squiring in your castle to be a punishment, you know."

"I was aware." Retorted Royce. Lord Durran Selmy and himself had never been close in their young years. The Master of Harvest Hall had been too busy travelling to Storm's End, while as the Heir of Nightsong Royce Caron was learning how to rule and chase the Dornish 'bandits' in the Red Mountains. Their only conversation lasting more than the polite greetings had not ended in good terms, and several victories won in the jousts of the Reach had cemented a deliberate ignorance.

"My father wanted to send me at Grandview. My eldest brother Baldric was squired at Storm's End, and Gulian learnt to fight at Griffin's Roost."

His interlocutor nodded politely, trying to ignore the massive piles of corpses spread on the battlefield as the water from the skies progressively drenched the fires. Nothing very unusual there. Many lords of the Stormlands had believed Lord Borros to be the perfect antlered warrior, and Lord Selmy had been one of those. It stood to reason his sons would be squired by the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, or at least one of the brutes serving as his bloody swords.

"Your father did not come with us."

"His leg was not allowing him to ride." The grimace Marran Selmy made was evidence in itself how much he believed this weak excuse. "But Badric and Gulian were with the centre when it charged."

"May I present my condolences, then?" Demanded 'Honest' Jon with his usual bluntness.

It was extremely rude, but the lowborn soldier had a point. As far as Nightsong's master had been able to see, not many knights or lords had survived the terrifying counter-charge led by the giants of House Umber.

If we hadn't had a dragon and an army of sellswords as reinforcements, they would have torn us apart. Oh, fine they tore us apart. It's just we managed to inflict them enough casualties for them to retreat...

"I don't want to speak about it until we've found them." The voice of Ser Marran was not exactly pleased.

And yes, Royce understood. Being a third son, even unwanted, was one thing. But if his eldest brothers were indeed dead, the recently knighted Selmy would be the Heir of Harvest Hall. And it changed everything...Lord Durran's friends and allies were dead or dying on the gloomy, blood-soaked battlefield. There were going to be...adjustments in the power struggle of the Stormlands and the lords having rallied the Green banners. House Caron had survived in sufficient strength not to appear weak in the eyes of the ambitious. For House Selmy, the next moons certainly promised to be less pleasant...

"My lords, we have won a great victory today!"

Hundreds of men turned their heads to see Lord Estermont and a score of immaculate knights advancing on the slopes of the valley. Their armours, shields and banners were pristine; only the legs of the horses were touched by mud. No need to be a great commander to know the Turtle Lord had decided to come when the fight came to an end.

Lord Royce pushed a large sigh and did his best not to stab the late newcomer with his sword. It would not do for King Daeron to execute him for the murder of a fellow lord after tens of thousands men died in a bloody victory. However nothing in this world would be enough to make him congratulate Lord Estermont for arriving late and in perfect appearance, and that included all the gold of Casterly Rock. There were limits to everything and Royce was not a court flatterer.

At least the bards will say we Stormlords are doing our best to imitate the animals on our banners.

Considering what had happened in this battle, this was not exactly an amusing thought.