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"Sound the horn, and send a rider immediately to Ser Harlon! Tell him to hold that left flank, his foot soldiers must not falter!"
"If that flank collapses there'll be no time to form a proper retreat!"
The field was chaos. Tywin Lannister was pressing everything he had in regards to infantry. The bulk of his foot surged forward, and their sheer numbers were beginning to crush our forces. Worse still, the central vanguard some five thousand Stark infantry had been enveloped almost completely at the center. Tywin had seen through our maneuver, and now sought to destroy the illusion we'd carefully constructed.
I had arranged his line to appear as if it were already withdrawing, the flanks drawing backward as though attempting to disengage under pressure. In truth, the motion was deliberate, a show of retreat designed to conserve our strength and bait Tywin forward.
Five hundred armored riders, our heavy cavalry had waited motionless moments away in-front of me. Waiting patiently fir their order to charge in at the lead of one of my captains.
This entire battle had never been meant as a triumph; victory was irrelevant. The object was deception, delay, and buying time.
And for the first time, I regretted bringing the artillery pieces here at this combat zone.
Miniature torsion catapults had been flinging clay pots of flammable mixtures over more than two hundred yards since the battle began, and by my count nearly eighty pots had burst among the enemy ranks. The liquid was then ignited by a fire scorpion which engulfed a wide portion of the field, turning the western ground into smoldering ruin and denying movement there. Hundreds of Lannister men had died in the flames, screaming and flailing amidst burning grass and boiling substance. Another creation by the think tank of the north.
And even with our efforts of putting up a steady fight, the disciplined lines of Lannister infantry never halted. Their archers kept sensibly beyond our own bowshot and scorpions, rained arrows whenever our men tried to regain momentum. The sun dipped low, staining the haze of smoke red-gold. Three hours of clash, fire, steel and screaming had passed, and now the decisive moment was upon us.
The Stark vanguard was shattered. Our own infantry, though bloodied less, was perilously close to being overwhelmed. Through his telescope Domeric watched Tywin's cavalry shift, poised like wolves waiting for the kill.
"Sound the horn for retreat," He ordered at last. "Have the infantry pull back and ready the cavalry to charge."
Walton, grim-faced, relayed the command.
"Cavalry ready!" Captain Gors bellowed to the armored riders.
Many would die. But their death would not be without purpose.
Through the glass, he spotted Tywin's heavy cavalry in reserve, precisely as expected. Tywin was no fool. He thought he faced Robb Stark, and believed rightly that we were outnumbered and outmatched. Which we were but he was arrogant to believe that the stark boy would just charge into his forces with his lesser numbers . He likely thought we would give him a respectable fight before collapsing.
The enemy horse had begun cleaving toward our center, trying to encircle and create a killing field. Our foot held admirably, but Lannister archers kept us pinned at a distance that favored Tywin.
A thunderous horn shook the ground. Our five hundred riders began at a trot, then thundered to a full charge, smashing into the Lannister line with steel tipped lances.
Seeing this, Tywin committed everything. His cavalry surged forward in one devastating mass to meet ours.
The heavier artillery had been pulled off an hour earlier, retreating northwest. The roads were guarded by our isn bolton light cavalry and over a hundred horse archers tasked with harassing pursuit.
If Tywin broke our infantry before we disengaged, the slaughter would be unimaginable.
The plan remained unchanged. Robb Stark's five thousand were reduced now to mere hundreds. Our infantry had survived mostly intact, but his five hundred heavy riders would join the butcher's bill. Perhaps some few might escape northward towards Riverrun, where Robb had already shattered Jaime's host.
I raised my hand from horseback draped in stark black livery and shouted, "Full retreat!"
The banners beside me bore only the direwolf of House Stark. My own sigil was absent by design. Tywin needed to believe Robb himself commanded this field. Let him think he'd cornered the Young Wolf, only to discover the trap too late.
And so the field burned behind us, the thunder of hooves and screams blending with the crackle of pitch and the whine of arrows. Honor would not win this day, guile and sacrifice would buy us the hours we needed.
For a moment longer I watched the clash of horse against horse, a storm of dust, shattered lances, and splintered shields, and prayed that Tywin Lannister wouldn't take out retreat and completely pursue.
But that was a pipe dream as he knew the lion lord would. His pride dictated a complete victory.
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