The sky after the rain was so gloomy it seemed ready to drip.
War boots trod through blood-red mud, treacherously slick underfoot.
The air reeked of rusty blood, damp earth, and the acrid smoke of burning timber.
The cries of battle had gradually faded, leaving only scattered clashes of weapons and the faint groans of the dying.
Aegon's black Valyrian steel armor was drenched in rain and blood, and his crimson cloak had been lost somewhere in the melee.
In his left hand, he held a black shield painted with a three-headed dragon, its edges caked with mud and blood.
His right hand gripped Autocracy, the Valyrian steel sword reforged from House Lannister's ancestral blade.
Blood still dripped from its edge, falling drop by drop from the tip into the mud beneath his feet.
He had just pulled the sword from a Westerlands soldier's neck. The soldier stared wide-eyed, clutched his throat with both hands, dropped to his knees, and fell face-first into the muddy water. After a few spasms, he lay still.
Aegon flicked the blood from his sword and swept his gaze across the battlefield.
Not far away, Oberyn Martell was fighting two men at once, his spear blocking the halberds of two Westerlands soldiers as they struck down together.
The clash of metal grated on the ears, sending sparks flying.
Oberyn snorted coldly. Using the force of the block, he spun, drew a short curved blade from his belt with his left hand, and swept it across one soldier's neck.
Blood gushed out. The soldier dropped his halberd, staggered backward clutching his neck, and collapsed.
But Aegon noticed that a Westerlands knight encased in heavy plate armor had slipped behind Oberyn.
The man held a heavy poleaxe. Taking advantage of Oberyn's focus on the fight ahead, he