His tactic had worked, but as all things it had its consequences, and now it fell onto him and those arround him to face those consequences.

While it did not come to him in those exact words, a similar thought crossed Mychel Arryn's mind as his father's knights succeeded in pushing the foul creatures towards the Tyrell and Tarly pikes and surrounding them. Their foes lashed out as their inhuman minds realized their predicament, intent on taking as many lives as they could before they were cut down. That was a truly fearsome sight, and the young Arryn allowed himself a shudder in between stabs and slashes, his Valyrian steel dagger now utterly coated in the reeking blood of those monsters. Has it not been for the panic that kept him moving forward, his sensations all but numb, he would have noticed that his own face was also splattered with that blood, the dark fluid soaking into his hair.

It was just as he plunged his blade between the eyes of a short scaled monster, that Mychel saw the one consequence of his tactic that the gods had devised just for him. This monster in what could only be described as a crab-like armor was charging towards him with a mad and hateful look in its dark eyes, and its large claws seemed sharp and eager to butcher the youth. Mychel's blue eyes widened, and he took a frightened step back, but his grip on his dagger did not falter as he kept it pointed at the creature's neck, his lips a firm and thin line.

They clashed in one cry, Mychel's full of unshaking passion, the monster's full of murderous hunger, and as Talon broke past the shell on its chest one of those sharp claws scraped past his own neck. Mychel did not feel the blood that dripped out of the shallow wound, but he knew that it was there, and he responded in kind, striking again and again in desperation. In a moment of carelessness, with his dagger lodged in a fresh new wound in the creature's stomach, it caught him, lifting him off the floor with one of its claws by his arm. This time, as the claw cut through the sleeve of his armor and dug into his flesh, Mychel felt the pain and screamed. He screamed, and then he growled, lowering his tears-filled eyes to the abomination and glaring at it with his own visceral hatred.

As the creature pulled its other claw back, clearly meaning to stab him in the stomach with all its strength, Mychel swung back and forth under its grip, gaining momentum, and kicked its face with as much force as he could muster. Together with the motion of Mychel's weight, it caused the creature to stagger and stumble, falling on its back with a surprised gurgle. Its claw released Mychel's wounded arm, and once he fell to the ground on his knees, he wasted no time in retaliating. He quickly crawled towards the creature and, in one swift and decisive motion, pulled his dagger out of its body with his left hand and stabbed its repulsive face with it. The Valyrian still slid all the way into what looked like its crab-like mouth, and was bathed in fresh monster blood. With a scream, Mychel stabbed it again, this time in the eye.

It was with its dying gurgle, pitiful yet nevertheless horrifying, that the creature made one final attempt to inflict harm upon him. It raised its claw, pincers spread, and closed them around Mychel's left wrist. The fabric protecting Mychel's skin parted under their pressure, and so did his skin. They cut deep, deeper than any other wound Mychel had ever suffered, and the heir to the Vale screamed once more. Tears rained from his eyes and down his pale, comely face, washing away some of the blood.

And yet Mychel did not let go of his dagger. Instead, he pushed harder on it, drove the blade as far inside the creature's skull as he could, and then twisted it just as hard. As the life finally left his foe's eyes, he spat on it and cursed it and punched its head.

It took many gasping breaths before he finally paid attention to the claw still closed around his wrist, and by then his own warm red blood had covered its surroundings. With some struggle he set it free, but took no time to inspect the wound. Instead, the young Arryn rose to his feet, Talon once more in his right hand, and moved to stand behind one of the Winged Knights as he examined the still raging battle around him.

"Knights of the Vale! My brave men! Our foes are fearful! They know that death is upon them!" He shouted at the Winged Knights, and the strangest, widest grin crossed his delicate features as his voice filled with pride, exhilaration and no small amount of relief. "Keep fighting! Victory is within our grasp!"