This was the eastern quarter of Stone Hedge, where shadows gathered like pools of spilled ink.
In the chaos that had consumed the rest of the town, Ser Jon Fossoway had managed to concentrate what remained of his forces in this momentarily peaceful corner. It represented the last desperate measure of a commander watching his army dissolve around him.
Time had been his greatest enemy.
Enemy cavalry had struck from north and south, while more poured across the western river, shattering his outer defenses like a hammer through glass. Stone Hedge was no great fortress—its narrow streets and modest buildings could not long delay mounted warriors bent on destruction.
Everyone roused from sleep had witnessed the slaughter spreading through their midst like wildfire, understanding with awful clarity that soon this violence would reach them as well.
Stone Hedge was merely a market town, prosperous but unfortified. Beyond the small keep at its heart—now reduced to rubble—what could stand against the thunder of charging destriers?
The defenses beyond the walls had already crumbled to dust.
Death's approach was sudden and merciless.
Had the enemy not launched their magical illumination into the sky, banishing the terrible uncertainty of darkness, the great host would likely have shattered entirely, scattering like leaves before a hurricane.
Even so, collapse remained only a heartbeat away.
Ser Jon recognized this truth and had abandoned the narrow confines of the castle, plunging instead into the press of frightened humanity. Only by maintaining some semblance of command could he hope to salvage victory from the jaws of defeat.
Twenty thousand men still drew breath, after all.
By now, survivors had instinctively fled toward what seemed the safest ground—the eastern edge of town, farthest from the enemy's initial assault.
Ser Jon seized upon this natural movement, gathering his scattered forces like a shepherd collecting wayward sheep.
Though the low houses and winding dirt roads could not long delay mounted enemies, in this moment between life and death, even a single breath's reprieve was worth any sacrifice.
The enemy's proclamations filled the sky like thunder, their magical images painting accusations against the very stars.
Ser Jon ordered every horn blown and every messenger dispatched with desperate purpose.
The noise would hopefully drown out the enemy's calls for surrender, steadying hearts that wavered on the knife's edge of panic. More importantly, his commands were clear: troops already engaged should hold their ground at all costs, while those not yet committed should race eastward to join the final defense.
Ser Jon could not know whether his first order bore fruit.
But the second took effect with gratifying speed.
Soldiers poured in from west, north, and south—sometimes alone, sometimes in small groups, their formations scattered like grain before the wind.
The preliminary battle line nearly collapsed under this influx of panicked humanity.
Fortunately, the enemy had not yet arrived in force.
The formation opened gaps to channel these "reinforcements" toward the rear, where they might catch their breath and prepare for what was to come.
It had to be done thus.
These newcomers looked more like fleeing deserters than soldiers ready for battle. Their armor hung askew, terror marked every face, and many had abandoned their weapons entirely in their haste to escape the slaughter.
Where had their officers gone? How could men fight in such a state?
Ser Jon's expression darkened with each passing moment.
At least the eastern quarter boasted an armory of sorts.
The quartermaster quickly organized the steadiest men available, maintaining what order they could while distributing swords and bows to the weaponless.
Then the cavalry arrived.
Fortunately, several thousand soldiers had managed to reorganize themselves into something resembling a battle line.
Ser Jon immediately ordered his formation to take the defensive while calling upon the stragglers behind to ready themselves for support at need.
The terrain favored them, or so he told himself.
Stone Hedge's streets ran narrow and crooked, denying large cavalry formations room to deploy their full strength. Infantry could make better use of such confined spaces.
Moreover, they held overwhelming numerical superiority.
At least fifteen thousand men had gathered here, while the attacking horse numbered perhaps a few thousand at most.
Even accounting for those others...
Ser Jon peered through the magical illumination toward the hills beyond the town's eastern edge.
Several thousand cavalrymen sat their mounts in three ordered ranks, motionless as statues. Behind them, hundreds of small dark shapes clustered—the source of the lights that had transformed night into day.
If this represented the enemy's full capability, hope yet remained.
Twenty thousand against one thousand—acceptable odds, even in their current desperate state.
Threats pressed from every direction, making retreat impossible.
Ser Jon weighed his options with a commander's cold calculation.
They must weather the impact of these few thousand cavalry and buy precious time. Everyone knew that horses tired faster than men on foot.
Similarly, several thousand more of his soldiers remained scattered beyond the town, men who might yet rally once the initial shock wore off.
Time would allow them to recover courage and remember their oaths of loyalty.
Steel waited at their sides—they needed only glimpse victory's possibility.
But then the enemy did something unexpected.
The main force halted, leaving only a few hundred to continue forward in what appeared to be a suicidal charge.
And then those things happened.
Now...
"Surrender and live!"
The Blackfish rode at the vanguard's head alongside his Holy Warriors.
Beneath the weight of the sky-borne proclamations, the cavalry on horseback smashed through the first shield wall and spear formation without meeting serious resistance.
These soldiers had lost their will to fight before the battle truly began.
But the stragglers in the rear had partially recovered their fighting spirit, and they had not yet witnessed the Holy Warriors' terrible power.
Officers barked strict commands.
In the chaos and confusion that followed, many soldiers leveled weapons at the advancing cavalry and drew their bowstrings taut.
Artillery pieces swiveled to face the new threat.
Bang!
Bang! Bang!
Solid iron spheres carved crimson furrows through the military formation, scattering scarlet flesh and white bone fragments like grotesque confetti under the magical light.
The explosive shells proved even more horrifying.
With thunderous roars, steel fragments flew in all directions like maddened birds, piercing armor and flesh until they buried themselves deep in soil and stone.
Within each cloud of white mist lay a perfect circle of death.
The shock waves shattered internal organs, blood leaked from mouths and noses, while searing heat roasted silent or screaming flesh, brewing a stench that sent countless survivors to their knees in violent retching.
The cannons fired only once.
Every soldier cast down his weapons, even the strictest officers they had feared most standing beside them with expressions of absolute terror.
The officers themselves had lost all sense of direction.
All eyes turned toward Ser Jon Fossoway, commanding from his elevated position...
The earth grew soft as after summer rain, the air warm as a midsummer afternoon.
The cavalrymen strolled leisurely among countless soldiers, and none dared offer resistance.
Once again, the "candles" in the sky guttered and died.
Deep, unknowable darkness always bred unease, especially this time, accompanied by strange sounds and brief, sharp cries.
Whoosh—
Light returned.
Countless faces showed terror, eyes grown dull as stones.
They saw blood.
"No!" Ser Caryl Vance screamed in rage, his eyes bloodshot with grief.
He tumbled from his saddle and ran toward a corpse lying in a spreading pool of crimson.
An ordinary dagger protruded from the dead man's throat.
It was his father—Lord Corentin Vance of Wayfarer's Rest.
His was not the only voice raised in anguish.
House Piper, House Bracken, House Mooton—grief echoed from every throat.
"Who played false with surrender and struck from shadow?" Ser Alton Mooton's voice trembled with barely contained fury. "Who murdered my brother? If any honor remains in you, show yourself! I demand single combat!"
Alton Mooton gripped his longsword with white knuckles, studying every Reachman soldier with suspicious and vengeful eyes.
The cavalry grew restless, hands drifting toward sword hilts.
The Blackfish frowned deeply and commanded all men to hold their positions.
The "candles" died again.
Subtle sounds rose and fell in the darkness, the scent of blood spreading like perfume, lives ending in silence.
When next the light blazed forth, few of the Reach knights remained among the living.
Their own forces had suffered casualties as well.
The Blackfish felt horror grip his heart and immediately roared: "Take prisoners! The battle is ended!"
The light did not fade again.
The battlefield returned to an awful stillness.
Gazing upon the surviving Jon Fossoway, Littlefinger sighed inwardly.
Be grateful that your wife is Janna Tyrell, and that she lacks the ambition that consumes men.
All primary targets eliminated.
He submitted the completion of his mission.
Many of the Holy Warriors paused in their advance, as though responding to some unheard command.
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