Dusk settled three days later over the rolling hills south of Riverrun, west of Red Pink City.
On a hill not far from the western bank of the Red Fork, Duke Tywin Lannister's tent stood proudly, a crimson banner fluttering against the wind. Inside, Tywin himself sat on a sturdy pine chair, surveying the River Road below with an intense, calculating gaze.
A small cavalry unit approached slowly from a path through the southern forest, followed by a long line of wagons laden with grain. The leader of this advance party was none other than Ser Gregor Clegane, known throughout the Westerlands as the Mountain, accompanied by his notorious band of henchmen. Earlier, they had traversed a shallow ford on the Red Fork, plundering villages near Red Pink City for supplies.
In front of the Duke, a long pine table was set with a golden tablecloth, fine wine, and well-prepared dishes. Around it sat Tywin's most trusted knights and vassals from Casterly Rock, their armor polished and gleaming even in the dim light.
"Brother," Ser Kevan Lannister reported, bowing slightly, "we are at most a day's march from Golden Tooth, with ample grain and a large surplus of livestock."
Since Count Lyford had drowned in the Red Fork, Ser Kevan had taken over the responsibility of managing the army's supplies. Along the way, he had ordered Ser Gregor and his men to ride ahead to plunder the surrounding villages, both to gather resources and to test the loyalty of the Riverlands lords. Tywin had ordered the maneuver; Kevan was simply executing his brother's command.
The results of the probing were disappointing. Every castle of the Riverlands lords remained closed, refusing to fight. Only a few scattered soldiers watched nervously as Gregor's party burned and plundered. No reinforcements arrived.
Tywin frowned. "It's too quiet. There should have been at least one lord unwilling to stand by while his lands were pillaged. Where are the so-called righteous men?"
Kevan's expression remained calm. "Ever since we passed Riverrun, scouts from House Tully have been trailing us at a distance. When we drive them off, they retreat immediately. According to intelligence from Davos, most of the Riverlands army is besieging Lannisport. The Tullys' caution is understandable—they have twenty thousand enemy troops marching through their lands."
Tywin considered his brother's words. Indeed, it seemed reasonable that the Riverlands had left their territories lightly defended. Perhaps only Roose Bolton's ten thousand men remained behind. He recalled a letter from King's Landing regarding Old Flayer: he had married Walder Frey's granddaughter in Twin River City, selecting the fattest bride and receiving silver equivalent to her weight. That Northern lord was likely enjoying his pleasures, indifferent to the war. Tywin's green-gold eyes flickered with a trace of contempt. "Bumpkins," he muttered under his breath.
He reached for his wine, then paused. "Kevan, have the scouts sent ahead to Golden Tooth returned?"
"No, My Lord. Ser Harys Swyft set out this afternoon; he likely won't return tonight."
Tywin sighed. Originally, Ser Adam Marbrand would have been sent, but Ser Harys, Kevan's father-in-law, had insisted on taking the task himself. Tywin had anticipated this and let it pass. "Ser Harys is old. Don't assign him such arduous duties again."
Kevan inclined his head, a hint of shame in his eyes. "Yes, My Lord."
"Eat," Tywin commanded. He often feasted the lords and knights during long marches, not out of generosity, but to ensure loyalty. "When someone kneels, help them rise. Otherwise, no one will submit again."
The night was clear, the stars sparse. Campfires burned across the hills where the Lannister army had encamped. The distant sounds of revelry and the occasional scream of pleasure mingled with the neighing of horses. Elite scouts patrolled tirelessly, torchlight flickering in the darkness, ever vigilant.
At dawn, a pale mist rose from the forest, carrying a bone-chilling cold. Horns blared, urgent and insistent, signaling the army's departure. Tywin, restless all night, had ordered the horns as soon as light touched the horizon. A bad premonition gnawed at him; he wanted to reach Golden Tooth before anything went wrong.
Soldiers emerged from tents, grumbling as they packed up and donned light armor. Archers adjusted bowstrings, cavalry mounted steeds, and the wealthiest knights strapped on heavy plate. Slowly, the Lannister army moved forward along the River Road.
At the front, irregular troops—untrained and reckless—formed a loose vanguard of four or five thousand men. Ser Gregor cracked his whip, forcing farmers and novice warriors to keep pace. "Besk, if you can't march properly, I'll kill you!"
Besk, a middle-aged man with a full beard, lowered his head to hide his resentment. As a veteran, he recognized the danger but knew disobedience would mean immediate death. Still, he hesitated, hoping others might fall first. But the Mountain's greatsword struck him down without warning, bisecting horse and rider in a single, horrifying blow. Besk's desperate screams echoed as he tried, in vain, to contain his spilling entrails.
"Those who disobey, die! Those who retreat, die!" Gregor roared, his voice like thunder.
The Lannister infantry, led by Ser Kevan, spread out behind the irregulars. Spearmen formed a dense front line, archers stayed behind, and lightly armored men awaited the cavalry's advance. The elite knights moved in circles around Tywin, ready to respond to any threat.
Tywin spurred his horse to a hilltop, observing the battlefield below. Chaos reigned. Cavalry clashed, spearmen braced, and the deafening clash of steel rang out across the plain. Tywin's eyes flicked across banners—Stark's Running Wolf flags, Karstark's white sunbursts, House Mormont's black bears, House Glover's shining armor, Manderly's white mermaids, Raventree Hall, and even the Freys' grey-and-blue twin towers.
Horns sounded, echoing like a cold northern wind. Hooves thundered, dust rose, and suddenly, Tywin's front lines were surrounded on three sides. The enemy, positioned on higher ground, began their charge.
"Cavalry, rally to me!" the Mountain bellowed. "Infantry, charge!"
The irregulars surged forward, reckless and uncoordinated. Besk's fate had become a grim lesson; those unwilling to fight would perish.
Tywin's own soldiers moved to meet the ambush. The enemy's main cavalry approached from the southwest, where a slope led down to the plains. Light cavalry emerged from forests to the northwest. Small clusters of enemy archers appeared near the Red Fork. Total numbers were estimated below seven thousand, but their strategic positioning was deadly.
Tywin's eyes narrowed as he saw House Frey's banner among the enemy. How dare that treacherous clan defy the Lion after receiving favors? He bared his teeth in silent fury.
"Ser Adam," he called.
"I'm here, My Lord!" replied the young knight, clad in black plate and a gray cloak, his sigil a burning tree with orange flames.
Tywin's command was sharp: "Take two thousand cavalry. Ride east around the plain and support Ser Gregor's forces. If they collapse too quickly, abandon the action and return immediately."
"Understood."
Ser Adam nodded, gathering his elite riders, and within minutes, they thundered away, dust rising in their wake.
The Lannister infantry formed a steel wall behind the irregulars. Spearmen braced for the charge, archers stood ready, and lightly armored men filled the ranks. Tywin observed, a cruel gleam in his eyes, fully aware that despite his troops' preparedness, they had been lured into a trap.
Golden Tooth had fallen. The young wolf of House Stark had used cunning deception to capture the fortress, setting the stage for an ambush that now threatened the Lannister army.
Tywin's mind raced. He cursed the enemy's boldness but also acknowledged their skill. The Westerlands soldiers were well-equipped and disciplined; even in a trap, they could fight.
A scout galloped up, urging his horse, sweat soaking his armor. "My Lord! Duke!"
"Quiet!" Tywin snapped. When the scout drew near, he demanded, "What is it?"
"My Lord, over a thousand cavalry have appeared behind us! Behind them… at least twenty thousand strong, judging by the banners—Northern and Riverlands lords!"
Tywin's normally composed face darkened. Twenty thousand troops surrounding his army from all sides. The trap was complete.
The battlefield below had become a crucible of chaos, and for the first time in this campaign, Tywin Lannister felt the full weight of danger pressing down upon him.
Füll bōøk àvàilàble óñ pàtreøn (Gk31)