On the northern hill, Cregan Stark, on horseback, heard the horn from the south. He suddenly turned his head and looked in that direction, his face drastically changing.
"How is this possible?" Cregan blurted out. "Aren't they still resting at Tumbleton? Where are the scouts? What are the scouts doing for food?"
Riley Karstark rode up to him, his face full of shock and cold sweat on his brow. "My lord! An army has appeared in the south! At least two thousand men! The vanguard flies the Targaryen banner! All heavy infantry! In plate armor, with long halberds! The group behind them seems to be the troops of Harrenhal and House Strong... They are already fighting the Riverlanders!"
Cregan's heart clenched. It sank to the bottom. At this critical moment, these two thousand fresh heavy infantry troops were enough to change the course of the entire battle. He looked down at the battlefield; the Westerlands still had over two thousand survivors, and with these two thousand reinforcements, that made over four thousand. As for his North, after this bloody battle, fewer than two thousand men remained. The Riverlands still had over four thousand. In total, they still had a numerical advantage, but these reinforcements were fresh troops, and their morale was clearly high. His soldiers had been fighting most of the night—exhausted and wounded.
"Send the order!" Cregan shouted; a note of panic he himself did not notice crept into his voice. "Tell Elmo Tully to lead his men to hold them back! Quickly! Whatever method you choose, hold them back first!"
He ordered the cavalrymen to ride out.
But it was too late.
Suddenly, a huge roar came from the sky, like thunder, but deeper and more terrifying than thunder. The sound came from the clouds, growing closer and louder, painfully shaking people's ears; the lake churned, horses neighed, everyone trembled.
All looked up.
Beneath the moon, two enormous black shadows descended. Grey-green wings spread wide, covering half the sky over Gods Eye Lake. It was Vhagar, the largest dragon in the realm today, the dragon that had existed since the time of Aegon the Conqueror. When its wings beat, the wind it raised was like a hurricane—trees bent, people swayed, the lake churned. Dragonfire was brewing in its mouth.
The other shadow was smaller; its black scales glowed faintly in the moonlight. It was Lothron, Aemond's second dragon, the black dragon growing at an alarming rate. Its size was much smaller than Vhagar's, but it was more agile and maneuverable. Lothron circled around Vhagar.
Then the two dragons dove down.
Vhagar opened its mouth, and a torrent of dragonfire poured down. The flame was not pure red, but green. When the dragonfire fell into the center of the northern formation, in an instant, over fifty men turned into torches, screaming, tumbling, rolling on the ground, then turning to ash. The chainmail and leather armor on their bodies melted like candles. Their swords glowed red, as if freshly pulled from a forge. Their shields turned to charcoal like burnt wood. The entire ground was scorched into a large pit; the stones nearly melted, glowing red under the moonlight.
Lothron also breathed fire. Its flame was red, much thinner than Vhagar's, but more precise. It swept over the heads of the Riverlands cavalry, unleashing a blast of flame; a large number of cavalry and their horses were burned like roasted meat.
On the battlefield, everyone unconsciously stopped. The northerners stopped. The Riverlanders stopped. The Westerlands also stopped. They looked at the two dragons in the sky, at the pouring flames, at those burned to ash. Only one thought remained in their heads: it was over.
---
Vhagar's massive body landed in the center of the northern line, crashing down like a mountain. Over a hundred northern soldiers were crushed beneath it, unable even to scream before being ground into mincemeat. Blood seeped from the gaps in their armor, staining the ground red like a small stream flowing in all directions. The sound of breaking bones came without pause, like stepping on dry branches.
"Dracarys." The man on Vhagar's back said quietly.
Aemond wore black plate armor and a dragon-helm carved with dragon figures, its wings spread; he held the dark sword called Blackfyre. Aegon the Conqueror's sword, one of the symbols of Targaryen kingship.
Beneath him, Vhagar opened its mouth and spat a beam of dragonfire. The flame was fierce, too hot; it burned through shields, armor, and flesh. Rows of northern soldiers in front fell like wheat being harvested. Their shields melted like candles, turning into puddles of molten iron. Their swords glowed red, as if freshly pulled from a forge, then softened, bent, and broke. Their bodies turned into charred, pitch-black lumps, unrecognizable as human forms, impossible to tell who was who.
Immediately after, Vhagar's dragon tail swept, sending over a hundred northern soldiers flying through the air like trash, like ragdolls, landing dozens of paces away—bones broken, muscles torn, some dead, some wounded. It struck even more men. Some fell into the lake, splashing huge sprays of water, sinking and never resurfacing. Some landed among the crowd, knocking down groups of men and making them cry out in pain.
Lothron also landed. It landed among the Riverlanders, opened its mouth, and purple tongues of flame burst through the crowd. The Riverlands soldiers screamed in pain and scattered in all directions, but could not escape the dragonfire. One by one they fell, turning to ash. The flame cut a path in the ground like a fire serpent, writhing forward, leaving nothing in its wake.
---
To the south, Aemond's personal guard had already begun a rapid advance. Over a thousand men at the front wore black plate armor and carried long halberds, forming a neat phalanx. Their steps were perfectly synchronized, each step simultaneous, producing a low rumble like an earthquake or a landslide. Their halberds gleamed coldly in the moonlight, like a moving forest of steel. The men in the front row held their halberds horizontally, the blades pointed forward, like a wall of spikes. The men behind raised their halberds, ready to strike at any moment.
The Riverlanders tried to stop them, but they simply could not. These long halberds were too long and too sharp. The first row was cut down; dozens of men fell like harvested wheat; blood sprayed and splattered on the halberd blades. The second row was cut down; dozens more fell, barely able to scream. The third row, the fourth row...
The entire Riverlands front line was torn apart like paper and scattered like sand. They tried to form ranks, but before they could finish, the halberds fell upon them. They tried to turn and run, but could not outrun the length of the halberds. They tried to surrender, but the black soldiers did not look at them at all; they simply followed the officers' orders, advancing step by step, step by step...
"Form ranks! Form ranks!" The Riverlands officers urgently shouted, but no one listened. The soldiers looked at the dragon in the sky, at the ever-advancing black phalanx of spears, and all they wanted was to escape.