The little color that had just returned to the faces of the newly regrouped soldiers drained away in an instant, and boundless terror flooded their eyes once more.
The defensive line, steady for only a moment, buckled violently again, collapsing even faster and more completely than before.
Brynden watched the blood-red tide bearing down on them again, then glanced at the hundreds of faces behind him, all etched with despair.
Finally, his gaze settled on Edmure, supported by his guards, his face as pale as a ghost.
He drew a deep, deep breath.
It was so long and so deep that he seemed to be drawing all the battlefield's blood, dust, and despair into his lungs.
Then he let it out slowly, with a calm that bordered on relief.
He knew it was over.
The outcome was settled. Nothing could turn it around.
With that terrifying cavalry present, any attempt to restore order was futile.
Wherever they charged, the collapse began.
And now the black Targaryen infantry formations, which had remained motionless until then, began advancing slowly as well, like the iron jaws of death closing around them.
Unless a cavalry force of equal size could tie down that red monster of a force, defeat was inevitable.
And the Riverlands no longer had cavalry like that.
He turned and strode back to Edmure with startling speed.
"Listen, boy," Brynden said, his voice low but exceptionally clear, carrying an unquestionable command. "We've lost this battle."
"Lost it utterly."
"Now the only thing you need to do is stay alive. Preserve the bloodline of the House Tully Main Line."
"Now take off that damned, conspicuous armor."
Edmure stared blankly at Brynden as his uncle began unfastening his own worn leather armor and chainmail.
"Uncle... what, what are you doing? We... we should