On the northern hill, Cregan Stark, mounted on horseback, heard the blast of horns from the south. He whipped his head around to look, his face instantly changing.
"How is that possible?" Cregan blurted out.
"Weren't they still regrouping at Maidenpool?"
"Where are the scouts? What have the scouts been doing?"
Rylly galloped over, his face filled with shock, cold sweat covering his forehead.
"My lord! An army has appeared in the south! At least two thousand men!"
"The force at the front is carrying Targaryen banners! They're all heavy infantry! Plate armor and polearms!"
"The troops behind them seem to be men from Harrenhal—Strong soldiers..."
"They've already engaged the Riverlands forces!"
Cregan's heart sank.
Sank all the way to the bottom.
At a moment like this, two thousand fresh heavy infantry were enough to change the entire battle.
He looked down at the battlefield below.
The Westerlanders still had more than two thousand survivors remaining. With these two thousand reinforcements added in, that was over four thousand men.
His Northmen, after the brutal fighting earlier, had been reduced to fewer than two thousand.
The Riverlanders still had more than four thousand.
Numerically, they still held the advantage.
But those reinforcements were fresh troops, and their morale was clearly at its peak.
His own soldiers, meanwhile, had been fighting for most of the night. They were exhausted and covered in wounds.
"Send orders!" Cregan roared, a trace of panic creeping into his voice without him even realizing it.
"Tell Elmo Tully to take his men and stop them!"
"Quick! I don't care how he does it—just hold them back!"
The messenger spurred his horse and rode off.
But it was already too late.
A tremendous rumble suddenly echoed across the sky.
It sounded like thunder, yet deeper and far more terrifying.
The sound came from within the clouds, growing closer and louder by the second.
It made people's ears ache.
It churned the waters of the Gods Eye.
It made horses shriek in terror.
It made everyone tremble.
Every head turned upward.
Beneath the moon, two enormous shadows were descending.
One was gray.
Its massive wings spread wide enough to cover half the sky above the Gods Eye.
It was Vhagar, the largest dragon alive, a beast that had already existed in the age of Aegon the Conqueror.
Every beat of its wings unleashed winds like a hurricane.
Trees bent before it.
Men staggered.
The lake churned violently.
Within its jaws, dragonfire was already building.
The other shadow was smaller.
Its black scales glimmered darkly beneath the moonlight.
It was Lothorne, Aemond's second dragon—the black dragon whose growth rate had been nothing short of astonishing.
Though far smaller than Vhagar, it was far more agile and nimble.
Lothorne circled beside Vhagar.
Then both dragons dove.
Vhagar opened its jaws.
A torrent of dragonfire poured downward.
The flames were not pure red, but green.
The dragonfire struck the center of the Northern battle line.
Instantly, more than fifty men became living torches.
They screamed.
They rolled across the ground.
They writhed in agony.
Then they were reduced to ash.
Their mail and leather armor melted like candle wax.
Their swords glowed red-hot, as if freshly pulled from a forge.
Their shields turned into blackened charcoal.
A massive crater was burned into the earth.
Even the stones had nearly melted, glowing red beneath the moonlight.
Lothorne unleashed its fire as well.
Its flames were crimson.
Far narrower than Vhagar's, but far more precise.
It swept over the heads of the Riverlands cavalry and exhaled a stream of fire.
Large numbers of riders—and their horses—were roasted alive.
Across the battlefield, everyone came to an involuntary halt.
The Northmen stopped.
The Riverlanders stopped.
The Westerlanders stopped as well.
They stared at the two dragons in the sky.
They stared at the torrents of dragonfire pouring down.
They stared at the men being burned to ashes.
And every one of them had the same thought:
It's over.
Vhagar's enormous body crashed down in the middle of the Northern lines like a falling mountain.
More than a hundred Northern soldiers were crushed beneath it.
They didn't even have time to scream before being reduced to pulp.
Blood seeped from the gaps in shattered armor, staining the ground red and flowing outward like little streams.
The crackling sound of bones breaking rang out without pause, like someone stomping on dry branches.
"Dracarys," the man upon Vhagar's back said softly.
Aemond wore black plate armor and a dragon-shaped helm. The helmet's wings spread outward, and in his hand he held a dark, ominous sword—Blackfyre.
The sword of Aegon the Conqueror.
One of the symbols of Targaryen royal authority.
Beneath him, Vhagar opened its jaws and unleashed another blast of dragonfire.
The flames were too fierce.
Too hot.
They burned through shields.
Burned through armor.
Burned through flesh.
Ranks of Northern soldiers ahead collapsed like wheat before a scythe.
Their shields melted like candles, becoming pools of molten metal.
Their swords glowed red-hot, as if fresh from a forge, then softened, bent, and snapped.
Their bodies became blackened charcoal, burned beyond recognition.
No one could tell who was who anymore.
Then Vhagar swept its tail.
More than a hundred Northern soldiers were hurled through the air like trash, like rag dolls.
They landed dozens of yards away, bones shattered and tendons torn.
Some died instantly.
Others were left maimed.
Many crashed into more soldiers.
Some fell into the lake, sending up enormous splashes before sinking beneath the water, never to rise again.
Others landed amidst packed ranks of men, knocking down entire groups and filling the air with screams.
Lothorne descended as well.
It landed among the Riverlanders on the other side and opened its jaws.
Purple flames exploded through the crowd.
Riverlands soldiers screamed and scattered in every direction, but they could not outrun dragonfire.
One after another, they fell.
One after another, they turned to ash.
The flames carved a path across the battlefield like a blazing serpent.
It twisted and slithered forward, leaving nothing alive in its wake.
To the south, Aemond's household guard had already begun advancing rapidly.
More than a thousand men marched at the front.
They wore black plate armor and carried polearms, forming neat, disciplined ranks.
Their footsteps moved in perfect unison.
Every step struck the ground at the same moment, producing a deep thunderous roar.
It sounded like an earthquake.
Like a landslide.
Their polearms gleamed beneath the moonlight like a moving forest of steel.
The front ranks leveled their weapons, blades pointed forward, forming a wall of iron thorns.
The men behind held their polearms upright, ready to thrust at any moment.
The Riverlanders tried to stop them.
They couldn't.
The polearms were too long.
Too deadly.
The first rank thrust.
Dozens of men fell like harvested wheat.
Blood sprayed across the blades.
The second rank thrust.
Dozens more collapsed, many without even managing to scream.
The third rank.
The fourth rank.
The entire Riverlands battle line was torn apart like paper.
Scattered like sand before a flood.
They tried to form ranks.
Before they could, the polearms were already upon them.
They tried to turn and run.
They couldn't outrun the reach of the weapons.
They tried to surrender.
The black-armored soldiers did not even look at them.
They simply obeyed their officers' commands and advanced one step at a time.
Step by step.
"Form ranks! Form ranks!" the Riverlands officers screamed desperately.
No one listened.
The soldiers looked at the dragons overhead.
They looked at the black wall of polearms drawing ever closer.
All they wanted was to run for their lives.