The waters of the Green Fork had turned red.
The river carried broken spears, shattered shields, torn banners, and bodies more broken still downstream.
The riverbank's original sandy color had long since vanished, smeared into a hideous brown by blood, mud, trampled entrails, and layers of fallen corpses.
The stench in the air was nauseating. The metallic tang of blood mingled with the reek of shit and piss released by the dying, thick enough to choke on.
It had taken only a day to turn this riverbank into a mill of flesh and blood.
From the first light of dawn piercing the morning mist until the blood-red sun sank behind the western hills, two armies nearly matched in numbers and troop types had spent an entire day locked together here, tearing at one another, bleeding, and dying.
At first, there had still been tactics. The North's light cavalry had swept down on the flanks like wolves, trying to tear gaps in the Targaryen infantry formations, only to be driven back every time by the Blood Oath Heavy Cavalry, silent as a wall of iron.
The heavy cavalry had also tried to charge, seeking to punch through the northern center with thunderous force. But repeated harassment by the nimble Northern Light Cavalry had slowed them, keeping them from reaching full speed and ultimately forcing them to withdraw in frustration.
After several clashes, every maneuver, probe, and attempt to draw the enemy out had been exhausted.
And so war had returned to its most primitive and cruelest form. Beneath the glaring afternoon sun, the main bodies of infantry had crashed into one another.
Shield walls pressed against shield walls. Spears thrust through the gaps, while axes and swords swung overhead and hacked down.
Furious shouts, labored breathing, dying screams.
The dull sound