As the sun sank behind the distant hills, the Red Fork glimmered in a warm, rosy glow. The river flowed languidly from the north, its waters transforming into a gentle maiden at the shallows, inviting soldiers to cross without resistance. Some troops splashed through quickly, mostly cavalry, while others lingered along the banks, waiting their turn.
Duke Tywin Lannister sat astride a tall warhorse, sweat streaking his stern face as he surveyed the scene from a gentle slope. His banner, a roaring golden lion, caught the dying light, seeming to emit a faint, fierce glow. For a moment, he allowed himself to consider the danger: he was surrounded—or at least, the young wolf cub from House Stark thought he had trapped him.
But Tywin was proud, cunning, and far from foolish. He would not throw himself into a desperate engagement merely because the North tried to hem him in. To do so would betray the seasoned lion he had always been. That little wolf cub wanted to see him cornered, unable to advance or retreat, floundering in struggle and bloodshed. Tywin would not grant him that satisfaction.
He gave decisive orders. "Abandon all baggage that slows our march! Infantry, strip off your iron armor while on the move—keep only your weapons!"
The Lannister army obeyed. Soldiers dropped tents, packs, and even some provisions, keeping only their spears, swords, and shields. They moved with a precision born of discipline, each man aware that survival depended on speed and order.
Tywin reached the shallows just ahead of the pursuing Northmen. But even as his forces crossed the water, he knew that facing a pincer attack meant a single misstep could turn retreat into rout. Only a calm, experienced commander could inspire his soldiers to abandon everything and break through an encirclement. Tywin's mind was steel; fear or hesitation had no place in it.
"Tell Lyns Leyton to have his men move faster!" he barked.
"Inform Tybolt Crakehall; the Crakehall army can prepare to cross immediately!"
"Ser Kevan must be ready for battle at all times. Send the word!"
Dispatch riders raced across the riverbanks, horses straining, hooves pounding against wet sand. One by one, armies from the West Bank, their banners snapping in the wind, crossed to the East Bank in careful order. There were no collisions, no scrambling chaos. The entire operation was conducted with quiet precision: only the sounds of armor brushing, weapons clashing, and water splashing filled the air.
Any who disobeyed Tywin's commands would be left behind as pawns. Count Sethbarton Farman, the Lord of Fair Isle, had been reckless, attempting to preserve his strength and leave first. Now, he knelt bound hand and foot, eyes wide with terror, the resentment he felt buried deep in his heart. His son, Ser Vivant, had no choice but to lead the family army under Ser Kevan's guidance, forming a defensive line to cover the crossing. This was the cost of challenging the Duke of Casterly Rock.
In the distance, three light cavalrymen galloped forward, their orange-burning tree banners marking them as Marbrand. They dismounted and knelt, faces etched with fear and sorrow.
Tywin's eyes remained cold as he asked, "Ser Senno, how is Ser Adam?"
The officer bowed. "My brother was caught by men from House Umber while intercepting the enemy. I only saw him fall from his horse—I could not confirm if he lives or dies."
Tywin said nothing, merely gesturing for the three to cross with the Crakehall army. His gaze shifted toward the distant hills, where banners suddenly appeared. Running Wolf Flags fluttered in the wind, silver trout leapt from the water on the Tully banner, and the Flayed Man of House Bolton tore across the horizon.
Atop the hills, a thousand-strong West Bank cavalry, tenacious and skilled, held back the pursuing Northern cavalry. Their commander, Ser Adam of Marbrand, led them with resolve and courage.
Robb Stark's eyes burned with determination. He pointed his longsword forward and bellowed, "Advance!"
Thousands of North cavalry surged forward in coordinated small units, moving like a hunting wolf pack across the uneven terrain. They circled Ser Kevan's hedgehog-like formation, composed of long spears bristling outward, remaining just beyond the reach of the Lannister longbowmen. They sought to intimidate and to probe for weaknesses.
Yet Robb knew the truth: Tywin had crossed the river safely. Even if the North sacrificed every cavalryman, the enemy's spear wall at the shallows was formidable—massive, impenetrable, and deadly. The old lion had abandoned the wounded, left behind brave soldiers to die, and forced a retreat with those who remained. Tywin's ruthlessness confirmed Eddard's warnings.
Robb's mind raced, calculating his next moves. Even without defeating Tywin completely, he could weaken the Lannister forces, retain as many enemy soldiers as possible, and follow Tywin's retreat toward King's Landing. There, he could pressure King Joffrey into releasing Sansa Stark and signing a truce. A rare glimmer of relief crossed Robb's face.
Eddard, beside him, studied the battlefield with the precision of a seasoned observer. At the narrow crossing, Tywin had deployed at least three thousand spearmen in a crescent-shaped shield wall. Spears gleamed coldly in the twilight, interlocked with shields forming a formidable barrier. Behind them, two thousand longbowmen stood in tight rows, arrows already nocked, ready to punish any rash advance.
The North cavalry could harry them, but breaking the formation was another matter. Light cavalry lacked the power to smash through a spear wall; any foolhardy charge would result in impalement. The standoff was tense, silent but deadly.
Eddard muttered to himself, scanning northward. Through the fading light, banners appeared: the silver Trout of Tully, the Flayed Man of Bolton, the comforting Sunburst of House Karstark. The twenty-thousand-strong army of the North and Riverlands had finally arrived, led by cavalry, forming neat and organized ranks.
Yet Eddard's expression darkened. He remembered that House Karstark had brought only three hundred cavalry and two thousand spear-and-shield infantry from Winterfell. Rickard Stark and his sons had crossed Twin River City alongside Robb, fighting with skill and suffering fewer than fifty casualties. Now, only slightly over a thousand Karstark infantry remained under the Sunburst banner.
The loss at the Green Fork River had been brutal. Eddard's half-brother was captured at Harrenhal, and many soldiers had died. Rage and sorrow burned in his heart. "Dog-eating trash," he muttered under his breath.
He scanned the banners of other houses. Grim determination crossed his face as he rode toward Greatjon Umber, who had sent his son, Smalljon, in his stead due to a minor injury sustained at Golden Tooth. Most lords and family heads had similarly abstained; they knew no decisive engagement would occur before the infantry arrived.
Greatjon's gaze was fixed on the battlefield when Eddard praised the bravery of Last Hearth's soldiers. "Count Jon, your warriors can fight ten men at once. Seeing them today has broadened my horizons."
Greatjon's rough features froze. Praise from someone as skilled as Eddard Karstark was rare. A broad grin spread across his face. "Our men from Last Hearth fight for the North, for Winterfell, for Stark. They fear neither injury nor death!"
Eddard nodded, adding, "Your House Karstark is strong, but the Bolton family's soldiers from Dreadfort are even more formidable."
Jon Umber frowned. "Their men don't seem impressive; their master is cunning, but who knows what tricks they have?"
Eddard shook his head. "At the Green Fork River, House Karstark lost over half their soldiers, the Umbers a quarter, Mormont a fifth, and Deepwood Motte also a quarter. Yet the Boltons suffered minimal losses—perhaps mere dozens—remaining at full strength. That proves the warriors of Dreadfort are stronger than all others present."
Jon Umber's eyes widened. "Is that so?"
Eddard's gaze remained steady, taking in the disciplined, well-positioned soldiers, each house's banner a testament to the North's resilience. The standoff at the Red Fork was far from over. Both sides waited, poised for the decisive moment when strategy, strength, and courage would clash in bloody reckoning.
The river glowed in the dying light, yet beneath the serenity lay the tension of an impending storm—soldiers and commanders readying themselves to dig a hole in the fate of the Riverlands, each aware that this night could change the course of the war.
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