The distance between the two armies was not far to begin with, and the speed of the scarlet torrent was faster than imagined.
When Edmure fled back to the center in a panic and looked back with lingering fear, he saw a hellish sight.
The iron-bound shields hastily erected at the front of the Riverlands Allied Forces, and the spears protruding from behind them and slanted into the ground, were as fragile as children's paper toys before that scarlet torrent.
They did not cause the slightest obstruction.
There were only dull, tooth-aching sounds of cracking and crushing.
The Cataphracts of the Bloodsworn completely ignored the spearheads trying to block them.
Specially made extended lances, combined with the terrifying kinetic energy of the warhorses' charge, easily shattered the wooden shields, sending the Soldiers behind them flying with broken bones and shattered shields.
More cavalrymen used their barded warhorses as hammers, ignoring the spears that snapped against the horses' breastplates, and "crushed" through that thin line of defense like a moving wall of iron!
"Crack!"
"Squelch!"
"Ugh—!"
Shields shattered, spears snapped, bones cracked, and men flew.
In just a single encounter, the front line that the Riverlands Allied Forces had struggled to organize was instantly torn open into a massive, bloody gap, like butter pierced by a red-hot branding iron.
The scarlet torrent of iron cavalry continued to bore straight and violently inward through the gap without hesitation, its target clear...
It was the center, specifically that flaunting Red and blue trout banner, and the figure in ornate armor fleeing for his life beneath it!
Edmure was scared out of his wits; his shining armor and cloak had now become the most lethal guide.
He clearly saw the tip of that terrifying cavalry force slightly adjust its direction, thrusting straight toward his position!
He could even see the cold gaze beneath the helmet of the knight leading the charge.
"Retreat! Fall back! Get out of here!"
He screamed again, spurring his horse to flee frantically to the rear and the flanks. Any sense of ducal dignity or commander's decorum was cast aside, leaving only the most primal instinct for survival.
With the commander acting like this, how could the army's morale not collapse?
Fear, like the deadliest plague, spread frantically to both flanks, centered on the area where the vanguard and center had been instantly crushed.
The Riverlands Soldiers watched helplessly as the unstoppable scarlet iron beast rampaged through their ranks, seeing their comrades harvested like straw and trampled into pulp.
Seeing the shield walls and spear formations they relied on shatter like jokes, their will to fight instantly disintegrated.
"Run!"
"Monsters! They're monsters!"
The rout began.
At first it was a few individuals, then whole sections, and finally it evolved into a tide sweeping through the entire vanguard and center.
Soldiers threw down their weapons and turned to run, pushing and shoving one another, falling and then being trampled by the people surging from behind.
After just one charge, the formation of the Riverlands Allied Forces already showed signs of collapse.
On the left wing, Brynden Tully watched all this with a face of ashen grimness.
He watched the vanguard scatter like sand, the center fall into chaos, and that glaring Red and blue trout banner move hurriedly through the retreating troops, carrying fear even further.
He slammed a fist into his saddle, letting out a low curse full of rage and despair.
"Hold! Do not retreat! Pikemen forward! Archers..." He tried to order the left-wing troops to hold their ground, even preparing to personally lead a squad to the center to assist his useless nephew and see if some resistance could be reorganized.
But his adjutant, a veteran who had followed him for many years, pointed ahead with a pale face: "My lord, look..."
Brynden looked in the direction he pointed, and his heart sank.
That scarlet torrent of cavalry, which had just finished its penetration and slowed slightly, did not scatter to hunt down the routing Soldiers like ordinary cavalry would.
They drew a smooth and sharp arc in the distance, turning in unison like a monster with a single will.
The heavy barding and armor emitted a dull roar of metal friction as they turned.
Then, they leveled their lances once more, their tips pointing back at the chaotic Riverlands Allied Forces.
More accurately, they pointed once again at that still-moving, bright, ornate figure trying to hide within the even more chaotic crowd.
The earth began to tremble once more.
Henry personally led the Bloodsworn, riding at the very front.
His now-thinner body looked bulky again under the armor—or rather, imposing was more appropriate. This wasn't due to fat, but from this terrifying equipment...
The innermost layer was form-fitting leather armor, followed by chainmail to protect the joints, and the outermost layer was plate armor forged from solid iron, fitting together seamlessly.
A full three layers of armor!
If the thick gambeson inside the plate armor used to cushion blunt force was included, it was four layers!
Aside from being heavy and sweltering, this outfit had almost no weaknesses; even if one lay on the ground and let others hack at them, they could hold out for a long time.
The warhorse beneath him was also exceptionally robust, draped in specially made integral barding. These were all one-in-a-thousand steeds; in the past, they would only be bought by noble lords for vast sums to show off their status. Who would be willing to array them for battle like this?
It had taken scouring more than half of Essos to gather these three thousand fine steeds capable of carrying heavy armor.
Ordinary warhorses simply couldn't carry such heavy knights and equipment.
This unimaginable expense was the source of the Bloodsworn's confidence to charge head-on and treat spear formations as if they were nothing.
As long as they maintained their momentum, they were an unstoppable torrent of iron.
Henry didn't know what was in the head of that Riverlands commander across from him. Did he think the Targaryens had no cavalry?
To dare to spread out a low-morale, poorly equipped army on such flat terrain to meet a heavy cavalry charge.
This was practically delivering fat meat to the mouth.
Perhaps just one more, or at most two more charges, and this ridiculous "battle" would be over.
"Target! Enemy commander! Wedge formation! Charge—!"
He roared hoarsely, his voice sounding somewhat muffled through the visor, yet carrying an unquestionable murderous intent.
"Rumble—!"
The scarlet mountain set out again, crashing toward the already collapsed center of the coalition in a more violent and resolute manner than the first time!
This time, they were going to completely crush that Tully banner and the foolish commander beneath it.
The defeat was like a mountain collapsing.
This time, even the barely maintained left and right wings began to be affected by the wave of panic sweeping from the center, and their formations began to loosen and scatter.
Edmure felt like he was going crazy.
He spun around in the chaotic rout like a headless fly, that terrifying cavalry locked onto him like a maggot on a bone.
He wanted to strip off this damned ornate armor that made him a living target, but in his panic, the heavy plate armor's buckles couldn't be undone for the moment. He could only dismount and try to hide his conspicuous figure in the crowd.
His guards grew fewer and fewer; some were lost in the chaos, while others were instantly submerged while trying to block the pursuers.
In the end, he was left all alone, fleeing in panic amidst the cries, screams, and the dust kicked up by trampling hooves.
He wanted to find Brynden, to go to the left wing; perhaps his uncle still had a way to stabilize the situation... This thought sustained him, like clutching at a final straw.
However, just as he tried to push past a few routing Soldiers and squeeze toward the left wing, he suddenly tripped... His wide, ornate cloak was pinned down by a fallen Soldier.
"Ugh!"
Edmure gave a startled cry as his heavy body lost its balance and fell hard.
The dull thud of his plate armor hitting the ground made his vision go dark, and his internal organs felt as if they had shifted.
He struggled to get up, but the weight of the plate armor and the dizziness from the fall made it difficult for him to rise for a moment.
What was worse, the routing Soldiers around him didn't care who he was; they only cared about escaping, and several feet were about to trample him.
"Get lost!"
A thunderous shout rang out.
A blade slashed through, and several routing Soldiers fell to the ground screaming.
Brynden Tully, leading several blood-soaked but still fierce-eyed guards, rushed to Edmure's side like a reef splitting the waves.
They temporarily created a small vacuum through slaughter, forcing back the frightened routing Soldiers.
Brynden didn't even look at Edmure on the ground; with a backhand stroke, he severed the troublesome cloak, then leaned down and grabbed the collar of Edmure's ornate breastplate with a large hand, hauling him off the ground as if he were a chick.
Before the shaken Edmure could speak, Brynden's fist, carrying the sound of the wind and all his long-accumulated rage, smashed hard into his face!
"Bang!"
A dull thud.
Edmure's head rang from the blow, and nosebleed instantly gushed out, covering the lower half of his face.
"You incompetent, meddling fool!"
Brynden's roar drowned out the surrounding noise, every word like a tempered nail driven into Edmure's ears and into the depths of his fearful heart.
"The Riverlands! House Tully! This last bit of our legacy! It's all going to be ruined by your hands!"
Edmure was dazed by the blow and paralyzed with fear.
He wanted to cry, to say he regretted it, to say he should have listened to his uncle and found a strategic position to hold instead of coming out for a field battle...
But the immense fear and shame kept him from making a sound; he could only look at his uncle's bloodshot eyes, filled with rage and despair.
Brynden had no time for his repentance.
He shoved Edmure toward a nearby guard and sharply ordered his confidants: "Hold this position! Anyone who retreats is to be executed on the spot!"
The men he brought were all veterans who had emerged from seas of blood. Hearing this, they didn't hesitate; they immediately fanned out, swords drawn, and roared as they cut down several of the foremost routing Soldiers, temporarily curbing the rout in this small area with iron-blooded methods.
Brynden himself stood at the front with his sword, his old but murderous leather and mail armor exuding a daunting bravery in the chaos.
Under the Blackfish's fearsome reputation and iron fist, combined with the desperate suppression by those veterans, this small area miraculously stopped its collapse for the time being.
Some terrified Soldiers instinctively gathered around, picking up their weapons again and forming a shaky but finally somewhat shaped small circular formation behind Brynden.
Supported by a guard, Edmure looked at his uncle's back and the temporarily stabilized line, and a faint glimmer of hope actually rose in his heart.
Maybe there's still hope?
This hope lasted only a short while.
"Boom—!!!"
The terrifying sound of hooves, like the war drums of the God of Death, rang out again from the front-flank and rapidly approached.
The earth wailed.
That scarlet torrent of iron, after easily scattering all the scattered resistance ahead that tried to regroup, adjusted its direction again like a shark scenting blood.
Toward the only place on this battlefield that could still barely maintain a bit of "order"... toward Brynden and the hundreds of men around him, it charged!
Lances like a forest, set against the scarlet armor, shone with a light that seemed to devour everything.
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