On the southern hills overlooking the Gods Eye, Lord Elmo Tully sat astride his horse, his brow furrowed as he watched the battlefield unfold before him.
He was nearly forty now, with brown hair, but his face was heavy with concern.
Nominally, he was the highest ruler of the Riverlands.
Head of House Tully. Lord of Riverrun.
His father, old Grovar Tully, had been a staunch supporter of the Greens, but Elmo himself had always preferred to sit on the fence and wait.
Yet circumstances had forced his hand. Rhaenyra's supporters throughout the Riverlands...
Along with the support she had received from the Vale and the North, had ultimately pushed him to swear loyalty to her cause.
He glanced toward his son not far away.
Kermit Tully, still only a boy in his teens, watched the battle with excitement written all over his face.
Elmo knew he himself was a mediocre man.
But perhaps his eldest son, Kermit, might become the heir who restored House Tully's fortunes.
Beside him stood the young Benjicot Blackwood, his youthful face burning with fighting spirit.
House Blackwood had chosen to support the Blacks and maintained close ties with Prince Daemon.
He looked as though he wanted nothing more than to charge down the hill and kill enemies with his own hands.
Elmo spoke coldly.
"They're already surrounded. The Westerlanders have nowhere left to run."
"No matter how hard their bones are, we can still crush them."
A cold smile appeared on his face.
"Send the order."
"Archers forward."
"Target the Westerlanders' flank."
"Don't stop."
"Keep shooting until they break."
The Riverlands archers advanced at once.
More than a thousand men formed three ranks.
The first rank knelt.
The second crouched.
The third remained standing.
They drew their bows and aimed their arrowheads at the flank of the Westerlands formation.
That was where the shield wall was thinnest.
The easiest place to punch through.
Under the moonlight, the arrows gleamed with a cold sheen, like rows upon rows of sharpened teeth.
"Loose!"
The arrows poured down like a black storm, accompanied by a shrill whistling roar.
Screams immediately erupted from the Westerlands flank.
Many men fell.
Some were struck in the face, arrows punching through their eye sockets. They let out a single scream before dying.
Others were hit in the shoulder, the shafts driving beneath their collarbones. They rolled across the ground in agony.
Some took arrows in the thigh and collapsed, unable to rise again as blood poured from their wounds and stained the earth red.
A gap immediately opened in the flank of the shield wall.
Dozens of shields went down.
"Close it!"
Lord Lefford's roar rang out from within the formation.
"Close that gap! Don't let them through!"
Westerlands soldiers rushed desperately toward the breach, throwing themselves into the opening to seal it.
"Loose!"
Another volley descended.
One volley.
Then another.
Then another.
Under the relentless rain of arrows, even men clad in full armor fell in droves.
Within a short time, no fewer than a hundred Westerlanders had been brought down.
Arrows bristled from the shield wall.
Corpses littered the ground.
Yet the line still held.
The shield wall still stood.
They filled breaches with bodies, built walls with shields, and leveled spears toward the enemy.
In the center of the battlefield, on the Westerlands' middle line, Adrian Tarbeck had already led the Westerlands heavy knights and cavalry forward to reinforce the damaged sections of the line.
They were not mounted.
On a battlefield this crowded, riding a horse was little different from seeking death.
The horses were too large a target.
In such dense formations, they could barely maneuver and would only become easy prey for archers.
So they dismounted and fought on foot.
Clad in heavy plate armor, their boots sank deep into the earth with every step.
They carried greatswords and battleaxes, advancing like a moving wall of iron.
"Brothers!" Adrian roared, his voice booming across the battlefield like thunder.
"With me!"
He stood six feet five inches tall, broad-shouldered and thickly built, his body packed with muscle.
His plate armor had been forged by the finest smiths in the Westerlands, capable of turning aside most blades.
There was no fear in Adrian's eyes.
Only fury.
His liege, Lord Jason, was dead.
His brothers were dead.
His soldiers were falling around him.
He didn't care whether he would die next.
He only wanted to kill a few more before he did.
They slammed into the Northmen's ranks like a red-hot knife cutting through butter.
Plate armor against leather armor.
Longswords against battleaxes.
Battle-hardened heavy knights against these savage Northern warriors.
Adrian swung his sword and cut down a Northman with a single strike. The blade carved from the man's shoulder to his waist, nearly splitting him in two.
Blood sprayed out, splashing across Adrian's face—warm and reeking of iron.
Another swing brought down a second man.
The blade swept across his neck.
His head flew into the air, spinning several times before landing on the ground, his eyes still open.
A third.
A fourth.
A fifth.
Blood covered Adrian's armor.
A mad light burned in his eyes.
His breathing grew heavier and heavier.
Every swing demanded every ounce of strength he had left.
"Come on!" he roared.
"Come on, you cowardly animals!"
The Northmen were stunned by the ferocity of the counterattack.
They had not expected these heavy knights to be so powerful.
Nor had they expected such a fierce response.
The entire front line of the Northern army was cut down.
The warriors behind them began to fall back under the pressure.
"Hold the line!" Rylly shouted after personally cutting down a heavily armored cavalryman. "Hold the line! They can't keep this up much longer!"
He was right.
Adrian's counterattack was ferocious.
But it was the struggle of a dying man.
Several hundred heavy cavalrymen had charged into the Northern formation.
What awaited them was an endless sea of enemies.
Cut down one, and two more stepped forward.
Cut down two, and four more took their place.
Their numbers dwindled.
The enemy's numbers only grew.
One heavily armored cavalryman after another fell.
Some were hacked to death by axes, the blades splitting helmets apart and bursting skulls.
Some were run through by spears that slipped through gaps in their armor and emerged from their backs.
Others were killed by volleys of arrows, their bodies bristling with shafts like hedgehogs.
An arrow struck Adrian in the shoulder.
The arrowhead slipped through a gap in his plate armor and buried itself in the flesh beneath.
Its barbs made it impossible to pull free.
Gritting his teeth, he seized the shaft and yanked.
The arrowhead came out with a chunk of flesh attached.
Blood poured from the wound, ran down his arm, dripped onto the ground, and pooled beneath him.
The pain nearly made him black out.
But he didn't stop.
He kept fighting.
Then another arrow struck his thigh.
It entered from the back of his leg and punched out through the front.
The shaft scraped against bone.
The pain was so intense that he cried out.
He stumbled and dropped to one knee.
But moments later, he forced himself back to his feet.
His leg trembled uncontrollably.
"Get up!" he roared in fury.
"Westerlanders, get up!"
Another arrow struck him in the chest.
It slipped through a gap in his armor, pierced his mail, and punched into his lung.
He lowered his head and looked at it.
Looked at the shaft trembling slightly.
Looked at the blood seeping from the wound and staining his plate armor red.
Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.
Every breath felt as though someone were driving a knife into his lungs.
"My lord!"
A cavalryman rushed over to support him.
Adrian shoved him away.
His hands were shaking.
His legs were shaking.
His entire body was shaking.
Yet he raised his sword and tried to charge again.
He took one step.
Then another.
And then he fell.
This time, he never rose again.
"Lord Adrian is dead!"
Some of the Westerlands soldiers cried out when they saw him fall, their voices thick with grief.
"Lord Adrian is dead!"
The news plunged the Westerlands soldiers into despair.
Adrian Tarbeck.
The greatest knight in the Westerlands.
Captain of Lord Jason's household guard.
The fearless Tarbeck.
The Tarbeck who had always led them into battle.
The Tarbeck who had never retreated.
Was dead.
Yet their line still had not broken.
They gritted their teeth and continued fighting.
Now, they fought for only one reason.
To survive.