At that moment, in the Riverlands army, Lord Elmo Tully rode his horse, watching all these changes, his lips trembling.
"Block them!" he shouted, his voice full of despair. "Block them! Don't retreat! Don't run either!"
But the lord's voice was drowned out by the chaos. His soldiers fled, scattering in all directions, throwing down their weapons, stripping off their armor, running wherever they could.
"Shoot!" nearby came Aly Blackwood's voice—sharp and piercing. "Shoot at the father on the dragon's back!"
The Riverlands archers drew their bows; the special longbows of the Raven's Teeth beside them also drew their bows. Hundreds of arrows were loosed at Aemond on Vhagar's back.
Aemond saw these arrows. He saw one arrow aimed at the gap in his neck armor. The arrow was fast and precise, with a specially made barbed tip—once it struck, it could not be pulled out. He reacted quickly, reached out, and firmly grasped the arrow. The arrow stopped in his hand; the shaft still trembled slightly; the tip was just an inch from his neck. Then his fingers closed; the shaft creaked slightly in his palm, instantly breaking.
Aly's eyes widened.
Aemond looked down at the broken arrow; a smile played at the corners of his lips.
"Mortals are nothing more than this."
Then he threw the arrow to the ground and sneered.
"Dracarys."
Vhagar opened its mouth, and the surging dragonfire began to spray toward the Riverlands lines. The archers did not have time to flee and were engulfed in flames. Their screams were short—just one sound, then they vanished. Though Aly reacted quickly, she was still thrown back by the shockwave of the dragonfire and fell to the ground.
Aemond on Vhagar began to move, approaching the Riverlands ranks. He saw Elmo Tully nearby under the Tully banner.
With every movement of Vhagar, heavy losses were inflicted on the Riverlands army; the entire Riverlands force began to collapse completely. The Lord of the Riverlands rode his horse, looking at Regent Aemond in terror. Then he furiously turned his horse and began desperately preparing to flee east.
But it was too late. Aemond, already close, jumped down from Vhagar.
Aemond, clad in heavy plate armor, leaped from the dragon's back from a height of dozens of feet and landed before Elmo's horse. The powerful impact instantly caused all four of the horse's legs to collapse; the sound of breaking bones was clearly audible. The horse neighed pitifully and fell to the ground, throwing Lord Elmo off.
Elmo crashed to the ground; his helm rolled away, revealing a terrified face. He had brown hair, blue eyes, and thin lips. But at this moment, his face was contorted with fear; his lips trembled with terror; his eyes were wide with horror. He lay on the ground, his whole body trembling...
Aemond stood before him; moonlight illuminated him—silver hair flowing, violet eyes cold and sharp.
He looked at Elmo.
"Elmo? Going against me... are you worthy?"
Elmo's lips trembled; he wanted to say something, but nothing came out. His body shook like a sieve.
"Regent... no... no... I surrender to you... I surrender... please... spare me... spare my family... I'll give you everything... I'll give you everything..."
Aemond looked at the Riverlands lord begging for mercy. Then he raised Blackfyre and swung the sword down. Valyrian steel cut like mud; Elmo's helm was sliced like paper; his head flew from his neck, tumbling several times in the air. His eyes were still open, his mouth open, and his face still held fear. Then it landed on the ground, rolled several times, and stopped in a pool of blood, stained with dirt and gore. Blood sprayed from his neck, splattering all over Aemond.
He did not dodge; he simply stood, letting the blood spatter on his face, his armor, and Blackfyre. His face was covered in blood; his hair was covered in blood.
"Your Grace!" the knights of the nearby Tully household roared with grief and rage. "He killed the lord! Avenge the lord!"
More than twenty knights nearby charged at Aemond on horseback, raising their spears. They were the most elite knights of House Tully, wearing the finest armor, riding the finest horses, wielding the finest swords. They had sworn oaths of loyalty and protection to their lord. There was no fear in their eyes—only rage.
Aemond on the ground looked at them, spread his arms, and laughed loudly. The laughter echoed across the night sky.
"Dracarys!"
Behind him, Vhagar opened its mouth and spat a beam of dragonfire. Golden dragon tongues engulfed Aemond, the charging knights, and everything around. The knights screamed, tumbled, and burned to ash.
The flame died out.
Aemond stood firm, completely unharmed.
---
On the battlefield, everyone stopped.
"The lord is dead!" the fleeing Riverlands soldiers shouted.
The entire Riverlands force began to retreat. They threw down their weapons, discarded their shields, removed their armor, and fled desperately east, wherever they could. The lords fled first, riding their horses, not looking back. The soldiers followed, like a herd of frightened sheep.
The entire North also suffered, and a wave of retreat and desertion began.
Cregan Stark rode his horse, watching all this with a grim face. He did not want to accept it. He did not want to accept losing like this. He had killed so many men, set traps for so long, lost so many brothers. Finally, he had cornered the Westerners; he was just one step away from finishing them off.
"My lord!" Riley's voice sounded in his ear, hoarse and urgent. "Run! Hurry! We can't hold them!"
But Cregan did not move.
"Stark!" he shouted hoarsely. "Stark cavalry, charge with me!"
He spurred his horse toward Aemond. Behind him, over a hundred northern cavalry followed, holding spears, swords, and axes, desperately charging at the silver-haired man with violet eyes. There was no fear on their faces—only rage. Their lord was charging, and so would they.
Vhagar turned its head, looked at the advancing cavalry, and opened its mouth.
"Dracarys."
Flame burst forth, golden and blazing, falling like the sun. The vanguard cavalry was engulfed in flames; before they could even scream, they turned to ash. The rear cavalry reined in their horses and scattered in all directions. Some were thrown from their horses, rolled several times on the ground, and were trampled by those behind.
Cregan's horse was caught in the flames and screamed as he fell to the ground. Cregan fell from his horse, rolled several times on the ground, and was covered in wounds. He tried to rise, but someone's hand grabbed him. The man embraced Cregan, desperately rolling toward the lakeshore. They rolled into the lake; the icy water engulfed them.
---
At that moment, some of the northern and Riverlands forces completely collapsed. They threw down their weapons, discarded their banners, and scattered in all directions. Those who ran slower had already knelt, raising their hands in surrender. Those who ran fast vanished into the darkness, not looking back.
The advancing guards, among the army, Hal Bellere rode his horse, holding high the Targaryen dragon banner. On the black banner, the golden three-headed dragon glittered in the moonlight.
"Raise the dragon banner high!" he shouted. "Swear loyalty to the Regent!"
The guards shouted in unison: "Raise the dragon banner! Loyal to the Regent!"
This roar echoed across the night sky, drowning out the cries; the voices of a thousand men merged into a torrent, echoing across the lake's surface.
The Westerlands soldiers looked at the banner, at the Regent standing in the center of the battlefield, and also knelt.
"Swear loyalty to the Regent!" "Swear loyalty to the Regent!"
Lafford Reyne knelt on the ground, covered in blood and wounds. He looked at the silver-haired man with violet eyes, at this young but cold face, and a complex feeling rose in his heart. He had saved them. He had also harmed them. If not for his orders, they would not have marched north, would not have been trapped here, and so many would not have died. But it was he, with his dragon and army, who appeared at the last moment to save the survivors. He did not know whether to hate him or be grateful at this moment. He only knew that from today, the Westerlands owed him their lives.
Aemond stood in the center of the battlefield, removing his helmet. His silver hair fell down, gleaming coldly in the moonlight like a waterfall. His violet eyes swept across the battlefield—over the kneeling prisoners, over the still-burning corpses, over the blood-soaked lake.
Tonight is so perfect... Using this war, he intends to severely damage the North, the Riverlands, and the West... Two lords are already dead... And one more... whereabouts unknown...