On the northern hill, Cregan Stark watched the Westerlanders who were still fighting desperately.
The Lord of Winterfell opened his mouth and spoke calmly: "Pass the order. Open a path on the eastern side."
Beside him, Lord Manderly froze.
"My lord?"
"Open the eastern side," Cregan repeated coldly.
"Pull the troops back on both sides and leave them a corridor. Let them see a way out."
Soon, the Northern army deliberately opened a passage leading east.
Cregan stared at that corridor and smiled faintly.
He knew some men would run.
Once people could see a way to survive, they would stop fighting to the death.
...
In the center of the battlefield, Lord Lefford never noticed the corridor.
He was too busy.
The Northmen had begun another counterattack, the Riverlanders in the south were raining arrows down on them, and he could only keep shouting, keep issuing orders, keep plugging one gap after another.
But he was still on horseback, still directing the battle.
"My lord!"
Joffrey's voice rang beside his ear, carrying a trace of hope, like a drowning man grabbing hold of a piece of driftwood.
"The east! The men on the eastern side are pulling back!"
Lefford whipped his head around.
He saw it.
But he immediately understood.
"Ignore it!" he roared.
"It's a trap! Don't run that way! Anyone who runs, I'll kill him myself!"
The Westerland troops guarding that flank had already seen the opening.
They stared at the dark path, at the retreating torches, at the black forest beyond.
Only one thought remained in their minds.
A way to live.
The only way to live.
Their exhausted minds could barely function anymore.
They just wanted to survive.
They just wanted to go home.
"Run!" someone suddenly shouted.
Then they ran.
More than five hundred men threw away their shields, discarded their spears, and sprinted east with everything they had.
They shoved and trampled one another like a panicked herd of cattle, flooding toward the corridor.
At their head was Lord Reyne.
He had no intention of dying here.
Escorted by his family's household guards, he fled the battlefield.
"Reyne, you bastard!" Lefford roared when he saw the chaos erupt behind him, his eyes bloodshot.
"Come back! Get back here!"
A gap appeared in the Westerland battle line.
A massive gap.
The shield wall split apart.
The spear line collapsed.
Northmen and Riverlanders poured through the breach like a tidal wave.
Lefford coughed up a mouthful of blood in fury.
He could hear the screams of his own men.
He could hear the war cries of the Northmen.
He could hear the cheers of the Riverlanders to the south.
In the end, he had still failed.
He had not been able to save them.
...
Northern Hill.
Cregan looked at the breach and smiled faintly.
"Pass the order," he said calmly.
"Tell the Riverland host to commit everything. Leave none alive."
The horns sounded once more.
This time they were sharper and more urgent.
Every Northern and Riverland soldier surged forward at once, a great flood pouring down from both hills.
The Riverlanders moved as well.
Light cavalry swept around both flanks, their hoofbeats thundering like rolling thunder as they charged from the north and south simultaneously.
At that moment, the Westerland line was collapsing.
Lord Reyne's flight had carried away more than a thousand men, creating that enormous breach.
The Northmen flooded through it and tore the entire formation in half.
The Westerland soldiers fought desperately, but it was already too late.
Their formation had broken.
The Northmen surged in like a rising tide, dividing them into countless isolated pockets and destroying them one by one.
"Form ranks! Reform the line!" Lefford bellowed.
But his voice was swallowed by the chaos.
Enemies surrounded him.
War cries filled the air.
Screams echoed everywhere.
He watched his soldiers fall one after another.
Seeing it all, Lefford felt as though knives were twisting in his heart.
The savage Northmen and the advancing Riverlanders were now driving the Westerlanders back toward the shores of the Gods Eye.
Their shield wall advanced step by step, like a moving wall of iron.
The Westerlanders, their formation completely shattered, tried desperately to hold the line, but they simply could not.
Their feet kept retreating.
One step.
Two steps.
Three steps.
The lake behind them drew closer and closer, colder and colder.
Some men had already stepped into the water. Their boots were soaked, their trouser legs drenched, icy lake water creeping over their ankles.
"Feed them to the fish!" some Riverland soldiers shouted, their voices filled with cruel delight.
"Feed them to the fish! Feed them to the fish!"
More and more joined in.
"Feed them to the fish! Feed them to the fish! Feed them to the fish!"
The chant shook the battlefield.
It echoed across the lake like a call from the Stranger.
The more they shouted, the more excited they became.
The more excited they became, the more frenzied they grew.
"Kill them!"
"Leave none alive!"
"Feed them to the fish! Feed them to the fish!"
The surviving Westerland soldiers had been compressed into a tiny corner along the lakeshore.
Packed together like sardines.
Shield pressed against shield, their backs to the water, like lambs awaiting slaughter.
In front of them stood the Northmen's shield wall.
Behind them lay the freezing lake.
Death awaited them in front.
Death awaited them behind.
Some wept quietly.
Some whispered prayers.
Some called for their mothers.
Others had already given up, slumping to the ground and waiting for death to come.
Lord Lefford stood by the shore, watching the spear formations steadily force them back, watching the soldiers still fighting desperately.
His heart felt cold.
He no longer had the strength to shout.
His voice had long since gone hoarse.
He knew the outcome had already been decided.
"Uncle," his nephew Joffrey said, supporting him, "I can swim. Maybe I can get you across."
Lefford shook his head.
The lake water was cold enough to pierce the bone.
Even if they could swim, they would not last long.
And the Northmen would never let them.
They would stand on the shore and loose arrow after arrow until the lake turned red with blood, until the last Westerlander sank beneath the surface.
"We don't retreat."
He coughed up blood as he spoke.
"If we die, we die on land."
He raised his sword, preparing for one final charge.
Then he heard a horn.
It was clearly different from the horns of the Northmen.
It came from the south.
From behind the Riverlanders.
Like a bolt of lightning tearing across the night sky.
Amid the crushed mass of men, Lefford froze.
He turned toward the south.
New torches had appeared atop the southern hills.
Countless torches, arranged in neat ranks.
Then came black banners embroidered with a golden three-headed dragon.
The Targaryen army.
Lefford's heart began pounding wildly.
He could scarcely believe his eyes.
The torches drew closer and brighter.
He could make out the soldiers' silhouettes.
They wore white plate armor, completely unadorned except for the three-headed dragon engraved upon their breastplates.
The armor gleamed coldly beneath the moonlight like rows of mirrors.
They carried halberds whose blades reflected the moonlight, forming a forest of steel.
They marched forward in perfectly ordered formations, advancing toward the battlefield one step at a time.
Their footsteps were perfectly synchronized.
Every step landed at the same moment, producing a deep, thunderous rumble.
"The Iron Throne's army!" Lefford roared to the soldiers around him.
His voice cracked with emotion.
Tears streamed down his face.
"Reinforcements are here! Hold the line! Hold the line!"
The collapsing Westerland soldiers froze.
They turned toward the south.
They saw the torches.
The banners.
The soldiers.
Then a deafening cheer erupted from their ranks.
"Reinforcements!"
"The realm hasn't abandoned us!"
"Hold the line! Hold the line!"
The men who had been on the verge of collapse.
The men who had already abandoned hope.
The men who had been waiting to die.
At that moment, it was as if a shot of strength had been driven into their hearts.
They raised their shields once more.
And began fighting again.