Hundreds of heavily armed Northern cavalry glinted in the morning sun, their armor perfectly polished and the scales of their warhorses shimmering like blades of steel. They slowly formed a wedge formation, a compact, disciplined spearhead, followed by over a thousand elite cavalry, armored to the teeth, ready to strike at the heart of the Lannister forces.
"Charge!"
Jon Umber's roar echoed across the battlefield. He lowered his long spear, the Running Wolf Flag fluttering from its shaft, and spurred his warhorse forward. The wedge surged like a living mountain into the chaos of Lannister soldiers, who, disorganized and panicked, scattered under the impact. Hooves crushed, spears impaled, and swords slashed as the Northern cavalry plowed through the ragtag defenders.
There was no need for precision. The Lannister soldiers' confusion and fear made them easy prey. Many fled blindly into the spears of their own formation or were trampled underfoot. Those who attempted to resist were swiftly dispatched by the cavalry behind the point—throats slit, heads smashed, or impaled by long spears.
Jon Umber led his troops through the chaos, advancing hundreds of meters before reaching the hastily arranged spearmen commanded by Ser Kevan. The Western archers loosed a storm of arrows, thousands flying at once, darkening the sky like a hailstorm. Their target: the charging cavalry. Yet the Northern riders, trained and disciplined, slowed only slightly, their momentum barely impeded.
"Slow down! Turn!" Jon commanded. The wedge of a thousand cavalrymen executed a precise semi-circular maneuver, passing through the arrow storm and charging yet again at the remaining Lannister troops, trampling them under hooves and steel. The Northern strategy was simple: shatter the first line, tie down the enemy, and create chaos for Tywin's forces.
Gregor Clegane, the Mountain, remained at the center of the Lannister line, his enormous frame atop his massive warhorse. He did not attempt to stop the Northern elite directly; instead, he sent his ragtag cavalry to distract and buy him time. His focus was survival and killing as many of the attackers as possible, his hatred for the North evident in every swing of his greatsword.
Northern mounted archers in long, single-file formations responded with relentless volleys. Their arrows rained upon the enemy, skewering horses and men alike. The low slope where they gathered quickly became littered with bodies, punctuated by shafts sticking out of impaled soldiers.
Then, like a torrent of fire and steel, Ser Adam Marbrand appeared. Leading two thousand elite cavalry, he descended the slope in a golden-red surge, understanding Tywin's intention immediately: clear the mounted archers, rally the routed troops, and attack the enemy's remaining effective forces. His cavalry's purpose was clear: buy time for Ser Kevan's infantry to hold the line.
"Attack!" Ser Adam roared, spear leveled. The Northern archers hesitated, but Earl Glover, commanding the formation, signaled retreat. They fled up the slope to the southwest, abandoning their position to regroup, leaving their less experienced troops behind as bait.
Ser Adam sent a hundred men to gather the routed forces. He charged forward, blocking arrows with his shield, striking enemies with precise thrusts of his spear. His attendants stayed behind, herding the fleeing soldiers back into formation. Meanwhile, Ser Kevan's infantry had fully deployed. The spearmen, densely packed, braced for the cavalry charges while archers and lightly armored men positioned themselves behind the protective hedge of steel.
The battlefield was a chaotic mesh of movement. Gregor Clegane's ragtag cavalry clashed with the Northern light cavalry, blood and dust flying with every strike. He hacked and slashed, unaware of how many men had fallen to his blade, only noting the dwindling number of subordinates around him. One Northern cavalryman's spear pierced his horse, causing the beast to rear and throw him to the ground. Yet, the Mountain rose, unscathed, killing a nearby fallen enemy and locking eyes with Eddard Stark.
Eddard, riding with his long spear gleaming, had seen an opportunity to strike the Mountain himself. He pressed forward, shield at the ready, understanding that defeating this monstrous man could secure alliances and favor for the North, Riverlands, and even Martell.
Gregor's henchmen followed, their viciousness mirrored in the ruthless swings of swords and axes. Abel, Martin, Matthew, Paine, and McKenn struck down enemies with brutal efficiency. The battlefield was a slaughterhouse; the screams of men, the clash of steel, and the pounding of hooves formed a violent symphony.
Eddard closed in on Gregor. His spear shimmered with a rainbow-colored aura, a magical brilliance that made the Mountain hesitate. Confusion flickered across Gregor's face as the spear slipped past his shield, penetrating his chest armor, mail, and boiled leather, tearing into his lung. Steel and flesh alike failed to resist the force of the strike.
The Mountain's two-handed greatsword slammed against Eddard's shield, shattering its protective layer and sending him sprawling to the ground. Pain shot through his body, but Eddard rose quickly, drawing his battle-axe. He charged, evading a downward slash, moving behind the wounded giant, and delivered a crushing blow to the Mountain's leg. Chainmail splintered, bone snapped, and the Mountain fell to one knee, gripping his sword with weakened hands.
Eddard pressed the advantage. The rainbow-hued axe cleaved through armor protecting the neck, and Gregor Clegane's massive head tumbled to the grass. Eddard exhaled, holding the gruesome trophy in his hands. The Mountain had been harder to kill than most, but now, he was finally defeated.
The retreat horn sounded. Abel guided Eddard's warhorse back, while Matthew carried his fallen brother. McKenn and Paine moved the Mountain's remains onto a riderless horse. Konn and Doren cut down stragglers, ensuring the battlefield was clear.
Robb Stark had never intended for a full engagement with Tywin. His six thousand cavalrymen were sufficient for a sneak attack, not for a prolonged battle against the Lannister's twenty thousand. The Northern forces had achieved their goal: strike, inflict damage, and withdraw.
Tywin, observing from a distance, sounded the retreat horn as well. Pursuing the Northern cavalry would have risked overextending his forces, isolating his elite units from infantry support, and exposing them to ambush. Golden Tooth, likely already captured, made any reckless attack a potential disaster.
Ser Adam returned, disheveled and covered in blood. Kneeling before Tywin, he offered his longsword in submission, prepared to accept punishment for falling into the trap despite leading his elite cavalry with courage and skill. His pursuit of the Northern archers had cost him dearly, as hidden pits and pre-positioned ballistas decimated his forces.
Over a thousand Northern cavalry, guided by the sun-and-spear sigil, ambushed him, ensuring no retreat. The perfectly camouflaged terrain, combined with the ballista fire, inflicted massive casualties, yet Ser Adam's men charged on, disciplined and unyielding. The flat grasslands had been cunningly rigged with traps—holes, shallow pits, and debris—all invisible until too late. Horses fell, riders crashed, and chaos erupted, yet the Northern forces continued to press the attack.
Spears clashed against breastplates, axes shattered shields, and the torrent of cavalry collided with the Lannister elite. Golden-red armor clashed against the wolf banners, men and horses falling in equal measure. Every step, every clash, every swing of steel exemplified strategy, discipline, and the ferocity of the North.
Earl Rickard Karstark observed the battlefield with admiration. The knowledge to deploy traps, anticipate cavalry behavior, and integrate ballistas was ingenious, yet unfamiliar to him. Where had Eddard learned such tactics? The effectiveness was undeniable, and the retreat of Ser Adam's forces was a testament to Northern foresight and cunning.
As the sun climbed, the battlefield settled into grim silence. The Northern cavalry had achieved their objectives, the Lannister forces were shaken, and the first confrontation had ended with clear Northern superiority in strategic execution. The war had only just begun, but the cleverness and courage of the North had set the tone for the battles to come.
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