Blood and ice chips mingled in the mud of the River Road, congealing into a horrifying dark red.
Stephen Haytall felt as though his lungs would burst. Every breath tasted of blood.
His terrified warhorse had thrown him. He dared not look back and could only run for his life on his own two legs.
Behind him, the tremors from every step the Frost Giant took traveled through the earth and into his marrow, reminding him that this was no nightmare.
His five thousand vanguard troops, the pride of the Westerlands, had melted away in moments amid that man-made ice age.
"My lord, we..."
One of his Personal Guards spoke in a violently trembling voice, his teeth chattering, whether from cold or fear.
"Shut up! Run!" Stephen roared.
He did not yet know that he had survived not because he was fast, but because that monster... had let him go.
On a distant hillside, Mance Rayder sat on his horse, watching those few scarlet figures flee in panic, a strange smile on his face.
"We're just letting them run? The lads haven't had their fill of killing yet."
Tormund came over and asked in bewilderment.
"If we don't cast the bait, how will we catch a big fish?"
Mance looked away, turning toward the Frost Giant, who had sat down again and disguised himself as an iceberg.
"Have the men clean up the battlefield. Don't leave a single corpse behind. We don't want disease breaking out."
Inside Tywin Lannister's command tent, the atmosphere was as heavy as iron.
Stephen Haytall knelt on the ground, covered in mud, incoherently describing the one-sided slaughter.
"...A mountain, my lord! It was a mountain! A moving mountain of ice!"
"With one sweep of its hand, dozens of men turned into shards of ice!