The foremost cavalry crashed to the ground, the wounded screaming as their fallen steeds thrashed in their death throes. Riders in the rear leapt over or trampled their comrades, while others were thrown when their mounts stumbled over the bodies.
"Ready!" Tyrion bellowed.
The first row crouched. The second row raised their crossbows, aiming at the cavalry who had only just regained order from the chaos.
Three hundred paces!
"Fire!"
Crossbows snapped and hissed, startling horses into rearing. Tyrion tightened his grip on the reins as yet another line of House Frey cavalry toppled in the distance. How many had the two volleys cut down? A hundred? A hundred and fifty?
"Can we fire a third volley?" Brienne shouted.
"No time!" Tyrion answered.
Black Walder's riders might not have been well equipped or well trained, but they adjusted their formation with startling speed. Those who survived kept charging, while cowards who tried to turn their horses were cut down by the overseers.
Two hundred paces!
"Lance up!"
"Lance up!"
Tyrion roared, Brienne echoed him, and the officers repeated the command one after another like a rolling chant. Soldiers dropped their crossbows, grabbed the spears laid flat on the ground, planted the butts firmly into the earth, and leveled their gleaming points at the oncoming riders.
One hundred paces!
"Shields up!"
The front line raised their greatshields, resting their spears across their shoulders. They clenched their teeth or shut their eyes, praying the gods would spare them the agony of hooves crushing bone.
Here they come!
Sharp spearpoints drove into the necks of half the warhorses, flinging their riders through the air. The rest crashed into the shield wall, and both sides erupted in a roar like a breaking storm.
Tyrion raised Ice and shouted, "Long live the Lannisters!" Voices all around him roared in answer. He led the handful of remaining horsemen around the flank, spears flying with a long, tearing shriek of steel through leather. Hoofbeats thundered, blades flashed, and blood spattered the field.
The knight lowered her Longspear, running an enemy in studded leather straight through the chest beneath the lion banner, lifting him off the ground before the shaft snapped.
A knight stood before Tyrion, a black twin-tower banner on his surcoat. His first thought was "Frey," his second "No helmet." With all his strength and the momentum of his horse, he brought Ice down across the man's face, cleaving his skull cleanly apart. The jolt sent numbness down his shoulder.
"Too many!" Brienne yelled. She tossed aside the broken lance and pulled an axe from her saddle. "They have reserves!"
Tyrion followed her gesture. Far off, Black Walder stood surrounded by thirty to fifty riders—his reserve force.
"Damn it, forget that!" Tyrion tore Ice free from another man's body. The greatsword felt like a short spear in his hands. "We have the advantage now! They're trapped!"
A spear slammed into his shield. Podrick raced past him, hacking at every enemy within reach. Tyrion could hear shouting from his own men.
Not cheers. Screams of terror.
Black Walder's reserve thundered forward, a swarm of dark gray locusts.
I am no rose. I am a lion. Lions do not fear locusts, Tyrion thought, gripping Ice as he faced the direction of the incoming charge.
"Tyrion! Fall back!" Brienne shouted, but the words stuck in her open mouth as she froze in shock.
From the woods burst another force, charging straight at Black Walder's reserve.
The leading knight swung a sword wreathed in flame, and the horses shied and veered away from the fire.
The reserve riders faltered at the sudden assault. Their guards scattered as the flaming blade cut through them, and three or five horses tore into the formation. Behind Thoros rode a knight in a bull-horned helmet, warhammer raised high.
He brought it down on Black Walder's skull, sending a spray of white and red into the air.
At first, few noticed the shift in battle. But as moments passed, the cries grew louder, rising from all sides—not just Lannister soldiers or House Frey men.
"Black Walder is dead!" someone shouted.
The cries swelled, louder and louder. Cavalry who hadn't been encircled began slapping their horses' flanks to flee, while the Frey soldiers trapped inside the ring of spears started laying down their arms.
Tyrion pulled off his helmet and dropped it to the ground. Sweat streamed down his brow; he wiped it away. Not blood. Only then did he exhale. "Pod, help me down." His squire's legs were trembling too badly to move, so the female knight leapt from her horse to steady Tyrion.
"Was this your plan?" Brienne asked. "The Brotherhood?"
"Exactly." Tyrion watched Thoros tie Black Walder's corpse to the hindquarters of a horse, then approach with roughly twenty men. "Glad they were willing to lend a hand. Without them, this fight would've been much tougher. Not unwinnable… but harder."
At least another half hour, maybe an hour of fighting—more dead for certain. Brienne turned to look over the field. Fewer than a hundred casualties on their side, most trampled by horses. The Freys had left at least two hundred bodies—though "bodies" meant the unmoving wounded, many of whom were as good as dead. There were more than a hundred prisoners.
The rest had scattered. Most fled toward The Twins, only a few toward Seagard.
"Red priest!" Tyrion called out. "Glad you came."
"To tell the truth, Lady Stoneheart would've liked nothing better than to see the two of you destroy each other," Thoros said as he rode up, dismounted, and kicked Black Walder's corpse. "But I still chose to bring men to help you."
"Why?" Tyrion asked. "It can't be the gold."
"I don't know why," Thoros admitted. "The call of the Lord of Light, perhaps?"
"Catelyn was raised by the Lord of Light as well. Why didn't she come?"
"She's changed. She's no longer Lady Catelyn Stark," Thoros said. "Most here may not follow her anymore. Edric!"
At the shout, Tyrion half expected to see Edric Storm—Robert's noble bastard—but instead a young boy stepped forward. He had white-gold hair and deep blue eyes almost shading into violet.
"Edric Dayne," Thoros said by way of introduction. "Attendant to Lord Beric, and Lord of Starfall."
"My Lord," Edric Dayne said with a bow.
A noble of that standing truly didn't belong in the Brotherhood Without Banners. Thoros had been wise to bring him away.
"And this one," the red priest called, "says he knows Lady Arya Stark. Gendry!"
The young man in the horned helmet jogged over, hammer in hand. He pulled off the helmet, revealing dark eyes and black hair.
Brienne turned—and saw a ghost.
Renly. Even if a hammer had struck her square in the chest, she wouldn't have been so shaken. "My lord?" she gasped.
...
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