On the northern hill, Cregan Stark watched as the Westerners still resisted desperately. The Lord of Stark opened his mouth; his voice was calm.
"Send the order: clear a path to the east."
His bannerman, Lord Manderly, was stunned. "My lord?"
"Release the eastern side," Cregan repeated coldly. "Withdraw the troops from the east to both sides, leaving a passage so they can see a way out."
Then the entire northern army deliberately cleared a path to the east. Cregan looked at the passage; a smile played at the corners of his lips. He knew that some would flee. When some people see a way out, they stop fighting desperately for their lives.
---
In the center of the battlefield, Lord Lafford did not see this passage. He was too busy. The northern troops had begun another counterattack, while the southern Riverlanders kept shooting arrows. He could only shout desperately, command desperately, and desperately block one breach after another. But he was still on horseback, still commanding.
"Sir!" Joffrey's voice sounded in his ear, with a hint of hope, like a drowning man grasping at a straw. "The east! The men on the eastern side have retreated!"
Lafford suddenly turned his head. He saw it. But he quickly sobered.
"Don't panic!" he shouted. "It's a trap! Don't run there! Whoever dares to flee, I will kill them!"
The Westerlands troops guarding the flank of that front line had already seen this exit. They looked at the pitch-black road, at the retreating torches, at the dark forest, with only one thought in their hearts: a way to survive. This was the only way out. Their minds could no longer function; they just wanted to live, just wanted to go home.
"Run!" someone shouted.
Then they began to flee.
Over five hundred men threw down their shields and spears, desperately running east. They pushed and trampled each other like frightened cattle and sheep, rushing toward the passage. The leader was none other than Lord Reyne. He was not willing to die here and left under the protection of his own household guard.
"Reyne, you bastard!" Behind him, Lafford saw the chaos and shouted, his eyes bloodshot. "Come back! Come back!"
A gap appeared in the entire Westerlands front line. A huge gap. The shield wall cracked; spears fell; the men of the North and the Riverlands poured through the breach like a tide.
Lafford spat a mouthful of blood in rage. He heard the screams of his men, the shouts of the northerners fighting fiercely, and the cries of the southern Riverlanders. In the end, he could not protect them.
---
On the northern hill—Cregan Stark.
Cregan looked at the gap; a faint smile appeared at the corner of his lips.
"Send the order," he said calmly. "Tell the Riverlands army: the whole army is to advance, leave no one."
The horn sounded again, this time more urgent and sharp. From the north, the entire Riverlands army advanced across the whole front like a flood. It descended from the two hills—north and south. The Riverlanders also moved; light cavalry encircled from both flanks; the sound of horse hooves thundered like thunder, attacking simultaneously from south and north.
At that moment, the Westerlands front line collapsed.
The fleeing Lord Reyne had taken over a thousand men, creating a huge gap. The northern forces poured through the breach, splitting the entire front line in two. The Westerlands soldiers resisted desperately, but it was too late. Their formation collapsed; the northerners surged in like a tide, dividing them into countless small pieces and devouring them piece by piece.
"Form ranks! Regroup!" Lafford roared, but his voice was drowned out. Around him were enemies, battle cries, screams of agony. He saw his soldiers fall one by one. Seeing all this, Lafford's heart clenched.
At that moment, the raging northerners and advancing Riverlanders pushed them toward the shore of Gods Eye Lake. Their shield wall advanced step by step like a moving iron wall. The Westerlanders, having completely lost their formation, desperately tried to hold on but simply could not.
Their feet kept retreating—one step, two, three steps. The lake behind them grew closer and colder. Some had already entered the water; their boots were wet, their trousers soaked; the icy lake water reached their ankles.
"Feed the fish!" some Riverlands soldiers shouted, their voices filled with cruel satisfaction. "Feed the fish! Feed them to the fish!"
More and more voices joined the shouts: "Feed the fish! Feed the fish! Feed the fish!"
This shout shook heaven and earth, echoing across the lake like a foreign call. The more these people shouted, the more excited and mad they became.
"Kill them!" "Leave no one alive!" "Feed the fish! Feed the fish!"
The remaining remnants of the Westerlands soldiers were already compressed into a small corner by the lake. Like sardines pressed together. Shields against shields, backed by the lake, like a flock of lambs awaiting slaughter. Before them stood the northerners' shield wall; behind them was the icy lake. Death came from one side, and death followed from the other.
Some wept quietly, some prayed quietly, some called for their mothers. Some had already surrendered, collapsing to the ground, waiting for death.
---
Standing by the lake, Lafford watched the enemy troops retreat step by step, his soldiers still resisting desperately, his heart cold. He no longer had the strength to shout; his voice was hoarse from yelling, knowing the outcome was certain.
"Uncle," his nephew Joffrey supported him, "I can swim. Perhaps I can take you there."
Lafford shook his head. The lake water was icy; even if you could swim, you would not last long. Moreover, the northerners would not let them swim. They stood by the shore, shooting one arrow after another, until the lake turned red with blood, until the last Westerlands man sank.
"There is no retreat." He coughed blood and said, "If I die, I will die on the shore."
He raised his sword, ready for a final charge.
Then he heard the sound of a horn.
---
The sound of the horn was clearly different from the northerners'. It came from the south, from behind the Riverlanders, like lightning piercing the night sky.
In the crowd, Lafford was stunned. He turned his head and looked south.
On the southern hills, new torches appeared. Countless torches, neatly arranged, followed by black banners embroidered with golden three-headed dragons.
The Targaryen army.
Lafford's heart pounded wildly. He could not believe his eyes.
The torches grew closer and brighter. He saw the silhouettes of these soldiers—they wore white plate armor, no insignia, only the three-headed dragon carved on their chests. The plate armor gleamed coldly in the moonlight like mirrors. They held long halberds; their blades glinted coldly in the moonlight like a forest of steel. They formed neat phalanxes, advancing step by step onto the battlefield. Their steps were perfectly synchronized; each step accompanied by a low rumble.
"The Iron Throne's army!" Lafford shouted to the surrounding soldiers; his voice choked with tears, tears streaming down his face. "Reinforcements are here! Hold on! Hold on!"
The fallen Westerlands soldiers were stunned. They turned their heads and looked south. They saw these torches, these banners, these soldiers. Then they erupted in thunderous applause.
"Reinforcements are here!" "The Crown has not abandoned us!" "Hold on! Hold on!"
Those on the brink, those who had lost hope, those waiting for death—at this moment, it was as if they had been injected with adrenaline, raising their shields again and beginning to fight anew.