Daylight pierced the darkness once more, illuminating the land.
Luke's eyes were bloodshot as he forced himself to order the entire army into formation. Everyone was exhausted, their armor still on.
Last night, the northern army had suddenly advanced in force, their hoofbeats shaking the ground as they closed on the camp.
The entire army had gone on alert, but the expected night attack never came. Only the rumble of hooves receded into the darkness.
The Blood Oath Band's heavy cavalry could not catch them.
Luke had already suffered one ambush and dared not let his guard down.
He ordered the entire army to remain vigilant and doubled the sentries, forcing them through a long, tense, sleepless night.
Now, before the morning mist had dispersed, the northern army opposite them marched out of its camp again and deployed beside yesterday's blood-soaked riverbank.
The two sides faced each other in silence.
Between them lay the mountains of corpses and pools of blood left from yesterday, all the more gruesome in the morning light.
Only the scrape of metal and restrained breathing carried through the cold wind. Everyone knew that today would bring another grinding slaughter paid for in lives.
No one knew whether they would be the next to fall.
In that suffocating stillness, a strange sound suddenly came from the horizon, like cloth ripped apart by the sharpest blade, or rolling thunder grinding across the vault of heaven.
Then a dragon's roar, seemingly from an ancient age and powerful enough to shake the soul, crashed down from high above!
Everyone, northern soldiers and Targaryen troops alike, looked up in horror.
On the horizon, a pale golden shape hurtled through the sky at an impossible speed.
At first, it looked like a bird. In the blink of an eye, it blotted