Gods Eye Lake, the southern hills. Lord Elmo Tully.
Elmo Tully rode his horse, looking at the battlefield ahead, his brow furrowed. He was nearly forty, with brown hair, but at this moment his face was full of seriousness. He was the nominal supreme ruler of the Riverlands. The patriarch of House Tully, Lord of Riverrun. His father, old Grover Tully, had been a fervent supporter of the Greens, but he himself preferred to sit on the fence and wait and see. But the situation was urgent, and Rhaenyra's supporters in the Riverlands... along with the people of the North and the Vale who supported Rhaenyra, had led him to swear fealty to her.
He glanced and saw nearby his son Kermit Tully, a youth, just a teenager, watching the battlefield with excitement. Lord Elmo knew that his own abilities were mediocre, but his eldest son, Kermit, might be the heir who could revive House Tully...
Young Benjicot Blackwood stood beside the lord, his youthful face full of fighting spirit. House Blackwood had decided to swear fealty to the Blacks and maintained close ties with Prince Daemon. He would have liked to charge in himself and kill the enemy.
Elmo said coldly, "They are already surrounded. These Westerners cannot escape. Even the toughest nuts can be cracked by us. Give the order."
He said contemptuously, "Archers, move forward. Flank the people from the Riverlands. Do not stop; shoot until they crumble."
Then the Riverlands archers formed up, over a thousand in three lines. The first row crouched, the second row half-crouched, the third row stood. They drew their bows; the arrowheads were aimed at the flanks of the Westerlands front. There, the shield wall was thinnest and easiest to penetrate. Under the moonlight, these arrows gleamed coldly, like rows of sharp teeth.
"Release!"
Arrow rain poured down like a black storm, accompanied by a sharp whistling sound. The flanks of the Westerlands front immediately erupted in screams. Many men fell; some were shot in the face, arrows piercing their eye sockets, and they died with screams. Some were wounded in the shoulder; arrows pierced below the collarbone, making them roll on the ground in pain. Some were wounded in the thigh; they collapsed to the ground, unable to rise; blood gushed from the wounds, staining the earth red.
A gap immediately appeared in the flank shield wall; dozens of shields fell.
"Fill the gap!" Lord Lafford's roar immediately echoed from within the formation. "Fill the gap for me! Don't let them in!"
The Westerlands soldiers desperately rushed to the breach, trying to block it.
"Release!" Another round of arrow rain. One round. Then another round.
In an instant, under this heavy arrow rain, even the Westerlands soldiers, though wearing worn armor, fell—no less than a hundred. The entire shield wall was dotted with arrows; the ground was littered with corpses. But the front line held. The shield wall still stood. They filled the gaps with corpses, built walls with shields, and thrust with long spears.
---
In the center of the battlefield, on the Westerlands central front, Adrian Tarbeck had already led the heavily armored knights and cavalry of the Westerlands to fill the gaps on the front line. They did not ride; on such a crowded battlefield, riding was suicide. A horse's target was too large; in a dense formation, it could not turn and would only become easy prey for archers. They dismounted and fought on foot, wearing heavy plate armor; their boots trampled the ground, leaving deep footprints. They wielded two-handed swords and battle axes, advancing step by step like a moving iron wall.
"Brothers!" Adrian shouted; his voice thundered across the battlefield. "Follow me!"
He was six feet five inches tall, broad-shouldered and thick-chested, his muscles knotted like twisted cables. His plate armor had been forged by the finest smiths of the Westerlands and could block most blades and swords. There was no fear in Adrian's eyes—only rage. His lord, Duke Jason, was dead; his brother was dead; his soldiers had fallen. He did not care whether he died next. He just wanted to kill a few more.
They crashed into the northern ranks like a hot knife through butter. Plate armor against leather, longswords against battle axes—the well-trained heavy knights fought these wild northern warriors.
Adrian swung his longsword, cutting down a northerner with one blow. The blade split him from shoulder to waist, nearly cutting him in half. Blood sprayed, splattering on his face, warm and foul-smelling. Another sword struck a second; the blade cut his neck; his head flew up, tumbled several times in the air, and landed on the ground; his eyes were still open. Third, fourth, fifth. His armor was splattered with blood; his eyes burned with a mad light; his breathing grew heavier; each swing of his sword required all his strength.
"Come on!" he shouted. "Come on, you despicable beasts!"
The northerners were stunned by this fierce counterattack. They had not expected these heavy knights to be so strong, able to mount such a counterattack. The entire northern front line was cut down; the rear ranks began to be suppressed and repeatedly retreated.
"Hold!" Riley Karstark personally killed a heavy cavalryman and shouted. "Hold! They won't last much longer!"
He was right. Adrian's counterattack was fierce, but it was a desperate struggle. Hundreds of heavy cavalry had charged into the northern formation, facing overwhelming encirclement. They cut down one, and two rose up. Cut down two, four rose up. Their numbers dwindled, and the enemies grew larger.
One heavy cavalryman after another fell. Some were killed by axes that smashed through their helms and crushed their brains. Some were stabbed by spears that pierced the narrow gaps in their armor and came out their backs. Some were killed by a hail of arrows; their bodies bristled with shafts like hedgehogs.
An arrow struck Adrian's shoulder. The arrowhead pierced the gap in his plate armor, sank into the flesh, had barbs, and could not be pulled out. He gritted his teeth, grabbed the arrow with his hand, and yanked it out. The arrowhead came out with a chunk of flesh; blood gushed from the wound, ran down his arm, dripped to the ground, and formed a small puddle. The pain nearly made him faint, but he did not stop. He continued to cut.
Another arrow struck his thigh, piercing the back of his thigh and coming out the front, scraping the bone and making him cry out in pain. He staggered, fell to his knees, but quickly rose; his legs trembled.
"Rise!" he shouted angrily. "Men of the West, rise!"
Another arrow struck him in the chest. The arrow slid through a gap in his armor, pierced his mail, and penetrated his lung. He lowered his head, looked at the arrow, saw the shaft trembling slightly, blood seeping from the wound, staining his armor red. Blood seeped from the corner of his mouth; each breath felt like a knife stabbing his lungs.
"Sir!" A cavalryman rushed to his aid.
Adrian pushed him away. His hands trembled, his legs shook, his whole body quaked. But he raised his sword, wanting to continue the attack, step by step. Then he collapsed and did not rise again.
"Lord Adrian is dead!" Some Westerlands soldiers saw it and shouted; their voices choked with tears. "Lord Adrian is dead!"
The Westerlands soldiers heard the news and looked utterly despairing. Adrian Tarbeck, the leading knight of the Westerlands, captain of Duke Jason's personal guard. That incredibly brave Tarbeck, the one who had led them into battle, the one who had never retreated—they were all dead.
But their front line had not yet collapsed. They gritted their teeth and continued to fight, just to survive.