Once most of the northern soldiers had fallen to their knees, the war was over.
The remaining resistance was swiftly crushed, and the prisoners were gathered under guard. The Targaryen soldiers began silently clearing the battlefield.
In an age of such limited productivity, everything on a battlefield was a resource.
Scattered swords, spearheads, shields that had not been completely shattered, bloodstained leather armor, even the clothing and shoes of the fallen... all would be collected.
Iron could be reforged, leather repaired, and linen washed. The bodies of northern soldiers were stripped of everything usable and piled naked atop one another, forming a pale, cold heap of corpses awaiting the flames.
War stripped away everything, including life and the last shred of dignity after death.
Their own fallen, however, received different treatment.
Their bodies would be carefully gathered, their names recorded, and each buried separately beneath a simple marker.
Their families would receive compensation. This was the victors' privilege, and a necessity for maintaining the army's morale.
At the edge of the riverbank, beside a relatively clean boulder, a campfire crackled.
A small deer, skinned and cleaned, hung on a makeshift spit, sizzling over the coals. Dripping fat sent up little tongues of flame.
Aegon sat on the rock, slowly turning the wooden spit through the deer so the flames roasted it evenly.
Not far behind him lay the three savage rifts that had severed the Green Fork, and farther away, the heaps of corpses still being piled up, soon to be put to the torch.
The smell of blood mingled with the growing aroma of roasting meat, forming an unsettling mixture.
Aegon's expression remained unchanged, as though he had long since grown accustomed to it.
To bring the fighting to an end as soon as possible, he had risen at