"Save the king!" Orm shouted to those around us as he helped me climb into the saddle. The survivors began gathering around us. I didn't see Swyft or Tyrek. Lancel managed to fight his way to us with two riders.
Herald vaulted into the saddle, took my horse by the reins, and began pulling it away, guiding us out of the fighting.
"Stop." I halted the horse when we had moved about a hundred paces from the battle. Settling more firmly in the saddle, I took several deep breaths—the dizziness was fading. A sharp pain kept me from moving my left arm, the entire right side of my face was covered in blood, and a piece of an arrow jutted out from my left shoulder. How and when it had slipped between the joints of my armor and pierced the mail, I couldn't remember.
Looking back, I realized that our charge, which had nearly brought us victory, was now fading. The men realized that the king was on the verge of death, and they were beginning to think about retreat.
I was needed there. And although I felt so awful that words couldn't describe it, and could barely remain in the saddle, I understood—retreat was impossible. If I withdrew, our entire left flank would collapse.
I didn't know what was happening with Jaime, but knowing his character and strength of will, I understood that he would fight to the end. A lion never retreats. Jaime always said it was better to be a dead lion than a living dog. And of course, he was right…
"We're going back," I said, turning my horse and looking over my warriors—less than half of them remained.
"You might die," Lancel tried to object.
"Forward, damn it," I snapped, wheeling the horse around. "All who are loyal—follow me. The rest can save their hides."
I spurred Cafferen's horse and, for some reason, never doubted that none of them would retreat…
Sometimes our entire life comes down to a single simple decision, and—as cliché as it may sound—that decision shapes the rest of our lives.
A king may be an excellent fighter and a superb swordsman. That is certainly important, and men are willing to follow such a king into fire and water—Robert Baratheon proved that. But far more important is that the king is, in essence, the symbol of his realm. He is its banner, the guiding star that burns and helps people decide their purpose and their actions.
And when a king is not afraid to die and rides into battle, it is hard for a loyal man to stand aside…
We smashed into the enemy once more. After some time they could no longer hold and began to fall back. My troops, realizing they had not been abandoned, that they were not alone, that the king appeared here and there across the field, found a second wind and felt that anything was possible.
I managed to appear first in one place, then another—supporting one detachment, arriving at the most critical moments, then pulling away from the fight again. My horse was wounded beneath me, and I changed mounts. Tyrek Lannister turned up with a couple of horsemen—during the battle we had been scattered in different directions, but now we found each other again.
Men burst out of the fighting from all sides and just as suddenly disappeared into the chaos. With my broken arm I could not fight properly. But that wasn't what was required of me. At this stage of the battle, the mere presence of the king was enough.
We drove the enemy back and nearly wiped out the Freys and the Blackfish's men. I did not see them personally, but their soldiers faltered and began retreating toward the river.
Jaime had not failed against the Boltons and the northerners either. Not only did he prevent our right flank from being driven off the road and surrounded—he pushed the enemy back himself. The Boltons and their men withdrew and took up position on the very hill that had recently been held by the Freys and the warriors of the Vale. In essence, Jaime and his men had accomplished a genuine feat.
And yet we had to stop. We no longer had the strength—moral or physical—to finish off the enemy.
The battle slowly died down. Here and there isolated clashes continued, but everyone had had more than enough for one day…
That day we did not manage to win. But far more important was that we did not lose. And that, in itself, was already a victory. Many factors contributed to this outcome: Jaime's incredible bravery and skill as a commander; the fact that the Boltons had rushed to the battlefield and marched nearly a day and a half without rest; how close we had come to crushing the forces of the Freys and the Blackfish; and, of course, my own influence played no small part…
Dusk slowly descended upon the battlefield, and the chill crept in clearly from the water. We withdrew to the forest and began hastily preparing temporary fortifications—raising a palisade and digging ditches. Most of this work fell to those who had guarded the baggage train and had not taken part in the battle, as well as to those who had not been wounded and still had strength left.
In the tent, Archmaester Marwyn extracted the arrowhead from my wound, washed it, and bound it—then bandaged my face as well. A splint was set on my broken arm. All of these procedures, performed without any kind of anesthetic, were extremely painful. I nearly shouted aloud as the arrow was cut out of living flesh, and I felt utterly miserable.
Afterward, Marwyn attended to Jaime and the other high lords. The maesters and simple field surgeons who accompanied us treated the rest.
Jaime Lannister hovered between life and death. His lung had been pierced, three ribs broken, and his entire body badly cut. His once handsome, manly face had become a bloody mess.
And yet he was in no hurry to die and clung to life with all his strength.