"They're like a whore with her skirts hiked up. All that's left for us is to drop our pants and get to work," Crakehall joked crudely.
All day we tried to throw the enemy off the hill. Skirmishes here and there grew into serious battles. Jaime led our troops in assaults twice—once at noon and again closer to evening—but neither attempt succeeded. During the last attack, I myself joined the assault, accompanied by the Holy Order and my bodyguards, clad in reliable armor and wielding Wind of Change. I even managed to take part in the fighting directly and struck down several men with my blade.
By some incredible stroke, the Blackfish managed to hold his position. He constantly organized sorties, striking with small detachments from various directions and wearing us down in every possible way. He was greatly aided by the heavy rain that had fallen the day before, soaking the ground through. Our men climbing uphill had a difficult time—their feet slipped on the wet grass. Within an hour the entire field had turned into a churned mixture of mud and water, a true quagmire where advancing properly was anything but easy.
Evening finally brought the battle to an end. The enemy withdrew even higher up the hill but had no intention of surrendering.
Jaime set numerous guards and blocking detachments. The wounded groaned. The Silent Sisters hurried to tend to them and to the dead. Smoke began to rise above the field kitchens.
The night was restless. The wind drove clouds across the sky, partially hiding the stars. Few people managed to sleep well. Somewhere deep in the forest wolves howled. A couple of times we repelled enemy sorties and attempts to catch us off guard. It was ordinary war—I was beginning to understand its peculiarities and nuances. The important thing was that nothing truly serious happened.
Early in the morning a crow arrived, bringing two pieces of news.
The first was that the Golden Company and the Gallant Men had finally begun their campaign and landed near Rain House on Cape Wrath. They seized the fortress immediately, and another part of their force managed to capture the island of Tarth. They also attempted to bring the island of Estermont—along with its principal castle, Greenstone—under their control. The Golden Swords there were led by Ser Marq Mandrake. He acted swiftly and decisively, but the Estermonts had long been prepared for exactly such a turn of events. They were determined, felt the support of the crown behind them, and had no intention of surrendering so easily. In addition, they had already sent their women, young children, grandchildren, treasures, and most valuable possessions to the mainland and were now ready to fight fiercely and bitterly.
Mandrake managed to capture the island itself fairly quickly, but he stalled beneath the walls of Greenstone. The Estermonts had stocked up on provisions, had no shortage of water, and were ready to endure a siege for an entire year if necessary…
That was the first piece of news.
The second was that Margaery had finally given birth to twins—two perfectly healthy and sturdy boys.
Just like that, I was now a father.
Although I had been expecting it, the news struck me like a blow and brought a childish, somewhat foolish smile to my face—one I could not get rid of for several hours. People began coming to me with congratulations.
I took the birth of the twins as a good omen!
And then the battle began. It unfolded according to the same pattern as the previous day. Jaime slowly and methodically fed our troops into the fight, grinding down the enemy forces. Individual units advanced, fought for about an hour, then withdrew, giving way to fresh troops. Officers shouted hoarsely, straining their voices as they urged their men to press harder and crush the enemy. The enemy yielded ground inch by inch. Victory seemed ever closer!
It was approaching noon when the scouts reported that the Bolton army was drawing near.
At last we saw them. On a small rise to the right appeared the first horseman, then another, and a moment later a mass of infantry began flowing toward us.
We saw the banners of the Dustins, Umbers, and Ryswells. Behind them, rising over the hill, appeared a huge banner depicting a red flayed man with countless drops of blood. An unpleasant sigil, no matter how you looked at it—I did not like it at all. It was the main banner of House Bolton, and somewhere near it stood Roose himself, Warden of the North.
Many horns began to sound. The northerners halted and formed ranks directly opposite us, so that the road slicing their formation in half and disappearing behind them. To their right lay the hill occupied by the Freys and the Blackfish.
Then the northerners began to advance. Straight toward the Freys' hill. The Boltons drew nearer… nearer… nearer…
"They're marching well, the sons of bitches," Jaime admitted.
He had no time to say anything else, because a horn suddenly sounded within their ranks, giving a new signal. Its tone was nasal and strangely unsettling. At that same moment, as if answering it, numerous horns sounded from the army on the hill.
The northerners suddenly wheeled half a turn to the left and surged toward our positions.
"Well, we're fucked," Jaime said. His Adam's apple jerked sharply as he clenched his left hand convulsively. He understood everything at once, in a single instant. The premonition of terrible danger sharpened his features, and a harsh gleam appeared in his eyes.
Shouting himself hoarse, he cried out:
"All reserves! Every free unit—form up on the right flank! Bring me my horse, quickly!"
While the steward rushed to obey, Jaime turned to me long enough to say:
"That's why the Blackfish came here instead of slipping back into the Vale. That's why he didn't hide in the Twins. The cunning old bastard—may he burn in Hell! It's a trap, and those goat-fucking Boltons have betrayed us. Do you understand? And now, if we don't stop them, we'll all fall on this field."
(End of Chapter)
P@treon: /SadRaven
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