On the heights.
The confidence and composure on Ser Nestor Royce's face had vanished, replaced by a grim pallor.
He had seen it.
As his finest knights descended into chaos, the Northern army that was supposed to be "routing" stopped.
They turned and re-formed their ranks.
On either flank, the forces led by Greatjon Umber and Rickard Karstark clamped down like two enormous iron pincers, sealing off their retreat.
A perfect encirclement.
And it was closing fast.
"We've been tricked..."
Nestor's lips trembled.
That young wolf pup had been putting on an act from beginning to end!
With a feigned ambush and a feigned rout, he had dragged Nestor's finest knights straight into the mire!
The slaughter began.
Robbed of their speed, the heavily armored knights were little more than lumbering tin cans before the nimble Northern infantry.
The Northmen wasted no movement.
Their swords, battle-axes, and maces struck the gaps in the armor with precision and efficiency.
They hacked through horses' legs, throwing the knights to the ground.
Then three or four frenzied Northmen would swarm over each fallen knight, howling as they drove their swords through the slits in his visor or the joints at his neck.
Blood seeped through the gaps, gathering into winding streams of dark red across the muddy ground.
Some cornered Vale knights tried to organize resistance.
They swung their swords, desperate to carve a bloody path out.
But they faced an endless tide of Northern soldiers.
For every Northman who fell, two more immediately took his place.
There was no fear in their eyes, only an almost numb madness.
This was the fury of the North!
"Break out! Break out to the south!"
A Vale nobleman screamed himself hoarse, trying to rally the remaining troops.
His answer was a battle-axe flying in from