Chapter 255 241: The Battle of Stone Hedge 4

The color that had just returned to the faces of the newly rallied Soldiers drained away instantly, their eyes once again submerged in boundless fear.

The defensive line that had just stabilized for a moment wavered violently again, collapsing even faster and more thoroughly than before.

Brynden watched the blood-red tide crushing toward them once more, then looked at the hundreds of faces behind him filled with despair.

Finally, his gaze fell on Edmure, who was supported by guards and whose face was as pale as a ghost.

He took a deep, deep breath.

That breath was so long and so deep, as if he wanted to suck all the blood, dust, and despair on the battlefield into his lungs.

Then, slowly and with a calm that bordered on relief, he exhaled.

He knew it was over.

The situation was decided; there was no turning back.

With that terrifying cavalry there, any attempt to reorganize order was futile.

Wherever they charged, that was where the collapse began.

And now, those black infantry phalanxes of the Targaryens that had been holding their positions also began to advance slowly, like death's iron pincers slowly closing.

Unless there was a cavalry of equal scale to entangle those red monsters, defeat was certain.

And The Riverlands no longer had such cavalry.

He turned and strode back to Edmure, his movements surprisingly fast.

"Listen, boy," Brynden's voice was low but exceptionally clear, with an unquestionable tone of command, "we've lost this battle."

"Lost it completely."

"Now, the only thing you have to do is survive. Preserve the bloodline of the main branch of House Tully."

"Now, take off that damn, flashy armor of yours."

Edmure looked at Brynden blankly, watching him start to unfasten his own old leather and chainmail.

"Uncle... what, what are you doing? Let's... let's take this chance and escape together? Maybe there's still time!" Edmure's voice trembled.

"Escape?" Brynden paused and glanced at him, his gaze like he was looking at an irredeemable fool. "On this plain, can two legs outrun four-legged warhorses?"

"Leaving this chaotic army, you'd be the most conspicuous target!"

He pointed to the blood-stained and dusty old armor he was taking off, then to the magnificent plate armor on Edmure.

"I'll put on yours and stay here to draw attention. You, put on mine and escape among the routing Soldiers. There might still be a glimmer of hope." His tone was decisive, leaving no room for discussion.

Edmure was stunned and shook his head violently: "No! Uncle! No! We go together! There must be a way..."

"The way is to do as I say!" Brynden roared suddenly, interrupting him, his eyes filled with the fierce finality of an ultimatum, "What use are you staying here, other than adding another corpse in magnificent armor?! Get out! Get out of here now!"

He ignored Edmure and ordered the two most trusted guards beside him:

"You two, help him strip his armor! Then, escort him off the battlefield. Go find Robb Stark. If he still acknowledges this uncle."

"Yes!" The two guards did not hesitate, stepping forward to roughly but quickly unfasten the complex buckles of the magnificent armor from the dazed Edmure.

The armor was soon removed, revealing the sweat-soaked silk shirt underneath.

Brynden also took off his own old armor, revealing a lean, sturdy torso covered in old scars.

He quickly donned Edmure's exquisite lining with the trout pattern and chainmail, then laboriously donned the magnificent but heavy plate armor piece by piece.

It didn't fit perfectly, as the armor wasn't made for him.

Urged by the guards, Edmure hurriedly put on Brynden's old leather and chainmail, which were stained with blood and smelled strongly of sweat and gore.

He watched his uncle put on the ducal armor that originally belonged to him, shining in the sun. It looked a bit tight on Brynden's more robust frame.

But the battle-hardened ferocity seemed to finally give this costume-like armor a hint of the aura of slaughter a true set of armor should have.

"Uncle..." Edmure's lips quivered, and tears finally flowed uncontrollably, mixing with the blood and grime on his face in a pathetic mess.

Brynden had already put on the helmet decorated with red and blue feathers and a visor.

Through the slit in the visor, he took one last look at his incompetent nephew.

No matter how useless, this was his elder brother Hoster's only son, the brother of Catelyn and Lysa, and the rightful heir to House Tully.

Catelyn and Lysa had long since married into other families; Edmure was the last bloodline of the main Tully house.

He could not die here.

Let him, this childless "Blackfish" who has wandered all his life, perform one last act of loyalty for House Tully and ward off one last disaster.

"Go." From beneath the visor came Brynden's muffled, final word.

Then, he stopped looking at Edmure and suddenly drew his longsword.

Turning, he faced the red cavalry that was accelerating again like a tide of red death, straightening his back clad in the magnificent armor.

"Those loyal to Tully! Those who aren't dead yet! Follow me and hold them back—!!!"

Edmure was gripped tightly by the two guards and dragged toward the rear flank where the flow of routing Soldiers was relatively thin.

The last thing he saw was his uncle Brynden's resolute and lonely figure in the magnificent armor, sword raised to face the red steel tide, and the red and blue Trout Flag still fluttering vigorously amidst the blood and smoke.

In the next second, he was swallowed by the tide of routing Soldiers, and both the figure and the flag disappeared.

Only the thunderous sound of hooves, fighting, and screams remained behind him.

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