Howland Reed walked back from the river with mud freezing on his boots and Robert Baratheon's voice shaking the bare branches.
"I'll crack his skull like an egg," Robert said, swinging the warhammer one-handed as if it weighed no more than a tankard. "The water will turn red when I'm done. I'll—"
"Robert," Jon Arryn said, calm as a winter pond, "save your breath for the charge."
They crested the bank and the rebel camp swallowed them as men donned armor and assembled by house. The Trident hissed behind them like a blade being quenched.
"We have numbers," Arryn went on, "and we'll use them. Seventy-five thousand. Almost ten thousand archers from the Riverlands alone. The enemy holds the crossing and has better horse. Fine. Then we break them where the horse cannot run."
"Leave the white cloaks to me," Robert said, still hot. "I'll take any of the three, or all if they come together."
"No," Arryn said. "No one tries them alone. If a white cloak is to fall it will require teamwork. Trying to duel swordsmen of legend is foolhardy." He turned to Tytos Blackwood. "Lord Blackwood, the bow is yours. Ten thousand under your command. Make us gaps before our foot arrives."
Tytos inclined his head. "Aye, my lord. They can't match us at a distance."
"The Blackfish takes the Riverlands foot," Arryn continued. "Hold the ford once it's ours. Ned, you'll lead the North at our center."
Ned looked up, startled. "Jon—"
"You are better at commanding than you think," Arryn said in a voice meant for Ned and no one else. "I need someone behind Robert who can keep the men in order, we both know he is no strategist."
Robert snorted. "Give him a nursery if you like, but he rides near me."
"Fine. Ned, keep our claimant to the throne alive." Arryn ordered. He turned to Lyn Corbray. "Ser Lyn, the Vale foot is yours. Keep your line and do not chase. I'll take the horse against their sand steeds. We must pin their Dornish riders or Robert will be eating lance tips for lunch."
All eyes came back to the ford as defenders lined up. Smoke lifted where the royalists boiled pitch. White cloaks moved along the line like knives set on a table.
"I'm bashing that prince myself," Robert said, quieter now. "You hear me."
"We heard you," Arryn said. "You'll have support."
Howland felt Ned's glance and fell in beside him as the knot of commanders broke apart.
"You think this is right?" Ned asked under his breath. "Dogpiling a knight is not honorable."
"Honor is keeping your word," Howland said. "No one promised those three we would meet them alone in a fair ring."
Ned's jaw worked once. He nodded.
They found the North's command at the edge of a willow copse. Men cleaned mail with greased rags and passed the skin in steady turns. Ethan Glover checked buckles for Martyn Cassel. Theo Wull stood like a boulder, wool hood rimed with frost. Mark Ryswell swung his sword in long, easy arcs to warm the shoulder. Willam Dustin sat his grey gelding and grinned at Ned as they approached.
"You look like you just ate a crate of lemons," Willam said.
"I just think this battle hard to stomach," Ned answered, managing a thin smile. "Bring your best, this won't be an easy victory."
Howland touched the weirwood charm at his throat and heard Thistle's good counsel echo in his head. Use lessons of the past to succeed in the future. He looked for Blackwood and found him already at work: runners passing, flags signaling, ranks of archers shifting along the low rise to their left.
"Tytos," Howland called as the lord rode by. "The white cloaks."
Blackwood reined in. "What of them?"
"Put enough arrows into one and the rest of the army will feel it," Howland said. "Ask your singers for the tale of Daemon Blackfyre."
Tytos's mouth crooked. "My great-uncle Bloodraven certainly knew strategy. I'll see what the string remembers." He wheeled his horse and was gone, already carving lanes between units.
As Howland rejoined the other northern lords, Jon Arryn's horn blew three long notes. Across the ford, another horn answered, higher and thinner. The Trident narrowed its voice to a fast whisper as men stepped into it.
"Loose!"
The air turned into a storm of black feathers. Yet the arrows did not spread evenly over the host. As they flew, the projectiles narrowed into three separate streams. At the center of each stream rode a lone figure dressed in white. Shields rose around the knights, and the remaining missiles bounced off plate with a melody like rain on a smith's awning.
As the barrage ceased, the white figures near the standards of Mooton's salmon and the sun and spear of Dorne stood unbroken. However, a lone splinter poked from the eye slit of a white rider below a lighthouse banner.
"How it must be," Howland murmured to himself. "Down you go, Ser Gerold."
The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard toppled into the ford. The Reachmen who had looked to him wavered as if a pole had snapped in their tent. The northward archers cheered without breaking rhythm.
"The White Bull has fallen!" A Piper man shouted, and with his voice 20 thousand men broke formation.
"Honor guard," Ned said, turning his mount. "With me. Glover. Dustin. Cassel. Wull. Ryswell. Howland, you'll watch our left. We keep the path safe and let Robert hammer his way forward."
Robert brought his bay around, eyes bright under the rim of his antler helm. "Keep up if you can," he said, and spurred.
The world shrank to the slope and the river below. Howland counted breaths and bunched the frog spear in his fist. He was small on his marsh pony, lost in a crowd of tall men on tall horses, but he kept his place at Ned's left knee.
They hit the shallows in a roar of spray and steel. Near-freezing water seeped through boot leather and climbed Howland's calves. The first rank of royal pikes braced. Arryn's horse slid right to bait the Dornish. Corbray's banners dipped and surged.
"For the North!" Ned shouted, and they crashed into the line where the shock had made it thin.
Robert was already through. The hammer rose and fell. When it met a man, the man stopped being a shape and became meat.
Howland kept to Ned's side. He struck with precision, where mail coats ended, where a joint opened. As each man fell, he looked for the next place his spear should go.
"Cassel, left," Ned called. "Glover, watch the flank."
They pressed. The ford became a churn of men, mud, and broken wood. Somewhere to their right a dragon banner fell. Somewhere to their left a man screamed for his mother until the river took the last of his breath.
Yet the momentum of the charge waned as their front ranks met a low run of barbed cattle wire. Stakes hid in the froth of the ford. A northern bay reared, a warhorse went to its knees, a rider flew. The men behind had no room to gather speed, so the line piled and stalled.
On the far side, a bright figure came through the press on foot. Arthur Dayne. His cloak had taken on the river and turned rust-dark. He moved like a man harvesting grain, economical in movement. Dawn rose, Dawn fell, and men toppled before Ser Arthur like blades of grass.
Robert was out ahead where the river ran shallow. Naturally, he had chased a glimpse of black armor and red silk until no one was at his side. Dayne angled for him with the gaze of a hawk spotting a rabbit.
"Stop him!" Ned's voice cut the din. He saw the wire, saw the stakes, and saw the only viable choice. "Dismount!"