Men began to rush about in confusion. Someone shouted for a horse, another was searching for his company…
Jaime vaulted into the saddle, rose in the stirrups, carefully surveyed the surroundings, and then turned to me.
"I'll take everything we have—the Holy Order, Honor and Valor, and all the reserves—and try to throw the Boltons back, or at least stop them. If they push us off the road, that's it. Our song is over. They'll surround us and finish us off."
"And what should I do?" The suddenness of it caught me off guard, and I found myself instinctively looking for advice from someone more experienced and level-headed.
"Help our men hold back the Freys and the Blackfish. Nothing more is required of you. Just do that, Joff!"
"I will." I swallowed hard, forcing the lump in my throat down. Now they were going to start killing us…
"Take care of yourself." He snatched up his sword, turned to the men, and shouted at the top of his lungs, "Forward! Let's show those fucking bastards what we're made of!"
The men took up his cry, and the riders galloped toward our right flank. For a brief moment I managed to admire the superb training and equipment of the Holy Order and our other units before turning to the stewards.
"Snow—bring him to me, now. Archmaester and Jacob, keep an eye on Turquoise. And forward!"
Damn you, treacherous bastard, Roose Bolton! We — Kevan, Jaime, Tyrion and I — suspected he might screw us over, but after sober reflection we still concluded that it would not be to his advantage. Tywin Lannister had given him Winterfell and placed the title of Warden of the North into his hands. I myself had signed the decree legitimizing his bastard son. We all had supported Bolton—again and again—and promised that we would help him keep his power if the northern lords rebelled. We gave him Arya Stark—even if she was a false Arya. But who truly cares about that? People believe those who hold power—and we gave him that power.
And still he betrayed us…
What could Littlefinger possibly have offered him to make him turn? Arya Stark? Perhaps. But how would he prove she was the real one and not another dressed-up puppet? What secret was hidden there?
These thoughts flashed through my mind in vivid bursts…
Leaping into the saddle, I pulled the men with me. At first we were few—Kingsguard, Orm, Tyrek, and a dozen men led by Lancel whom Ser Hasty had left with me. We galloped toward the left flank, where the Frey warriors were pouring down from the hill like a flooding torrent. They already felt victory in their grasp, jeering and shouting with wild delight that our end was near.
I saw how our formation—which only moments before had seemed so solid and unbreakable—began to sag and slowly fall back. More and more often the soldiers turned their heads, glancing behind them, searching for a chance to save their skins and trying to understand where their king and commanders were.
The turning point had come…
I drove my spurs into Snow's ribs. The horse snorted in pain and indignation and lunged forward. Clods of turf flew from beneath his hooves.
"Hold! Hold!.. Hold the line!" I drew my sword and, shouting without pause, rode along behind our formation. "The king is with you!"
"The king is with us!" a dozen voices echoed my cry, and I saw how the warriors' spirits lifted. Their eyes followed me as I passed, and confidence slowly returned to their hearts.
Arys Oakheart rode slightly ahead. He raised a horn to his lips and blew a long, powerful blast. Everyone knew what it meant—the King was charging into battle and calling all the loyal to follow him!
Garth Greysteel and Balon Swann surged forward. Cafferen and Tyrek covered my left, while Orm rode half a horse's length behind me.
A minute later Swift joined us with his personal retinue of twenty men, followed soon after by Erik Silveraxe and his warriors.
We had gathered a good pace. Skirting our own formations, we broke into the open field, described a wide arc, and then spurred into a gallop.
A minute later our cavalry crashed into the enemy with shouts and howls.
The slaughter began…
***
Roslin Tully
"King Joffrey has ordered me to return to Riverrun and suppress the rebellion," Edmure Tully said as he entered the chambers where he lived with his wife and newborn son. He tossed his cloak onto a chair and walked over to the cradle. There was a note of suppressed irritation in his voice.
The little boy, with his wrinkled face and faint fuzz of hair, had recently eaten well and was now sleeping sweetly. They had named him Grover, and Edmure adored his son.
"And why would that be a bad thing?" The pretty young woman with thick chestnut hair and large brown eyes lying on the bed beside the baby raised her eyebrows in surprise. She was Roslin Tully, née Frey. Now she looked at her husband in confusion. "This is our land, Ed. What grievances could there possibly be?"
"It's not about grievances. I'm just sick to death of this whole war," he said. Leaning down, he pressed a long kiss to his wife's lips, then stepped away to the table and poured himself some wine. "Seven hells, I'm so damn tired of all this shit!"
On the table stood a large crystal bowl filled with beautiful fruits from the Summer Islands—a gift from Margaery Baratheon. She and her king often showed Roslin little signs of attention. Thus,when Margaery learned that the young woman was fond of music, played fairly well, and had a beautiful voice, she presented her with a magnificent harp. And when the boy was born, the king gave him an expensive sword and a copy of The History of Westeros, saying that not only the hand must be trained, but the mind as well, and that a sword and a book were the two virtues of a true lord.
Such gifts—and such royal attention—were pleasant. Very pleasant. And now Roslin regarded the royal couple quite differently than she had when she first arrived at the Red Keep. Everything had changed. And changed for the better—at least, that was how the young woman saw it.