The waters of the Green Fork turned red.
The river carried broken spears, shattered shields, tattered banners, and even more broken bodies as it flowed downstream.
The riverbank had long since lost the color of its original sand, painted a hideous dark maroon by blood, mud, trampled entrails, and layers of fallen corpses.
The air was thick with a nauseating stench—the metallic tang of blood mixed with the smell of excrement from the dying, so heavy it wouldn't dissipate.
It took only a single day for this riverbank to become a meat grinder of flesh and blood.
From the first light of dawn piercing the morning mist to the blood-red setting sun sinking into the western mountains, for an entire day, two armies nearly equal in strength and composition tangled, bit, bled, and died here.
At first, there were tactics; the Northern light cavalry pounced on the flanks like a pack of wolves, attempting to tear a hole in the Targaryen infantry lines, but every time, they were violently hammered back by the silent, iron-wall-like Bloodsworn Heavy Cavalry.
The heavy cavalry had also tried to charge, attempting to pierce the Northern center with thunderous momentum, but they were repeatedly harassed and delayed by the nimble Northern light cavalry, unable to reach maximum speed and eventually forced to retreat in frustration.
All maneuvers of flanking, probing, and pulling were exhausted after a few clashes.
Thus, the war returned to its most primitive and cruelest form. The main infantry forces of both sides collided violently under the blinding afternoon sun.
Shield walls pressed against shield walls, spears thrust through gaps, and battle-axes and swords swung and hacked overhead.
Angry shouts, heavy breathing, and dying wails filled the air.
There was the dull thud of metal cutting into bone and flesh, and the ear-piercing noise of armor being smashed.
Man pressed against man, blood splattered against blood, as the living crawled forward over the bodies of the dead and the dying.
The battle lines were like two intertwined giant pythons, twisting and squeezing repeatedly on the narrow riverbank; every inch of land contested left behind piles of corpses.
It wasn't until the daylight had completely faded that the sounds of slaughter finally, with great difficulty and reluctance, began to subside like a receding tide.
Both sides were too exhausted to fight further, and neither had any intention of continuing this mutually destructive attrition in the darkness.
Across that mountain of corpses and sea of blood, the survivors gasped for breath, dragging the remains or broken bodies of their comrades as they slowly retreated toward their respective camps.
There were no victors. Only survivors.
...
The temporary camp of the Northern Army, the main command tent.
The tent flap was lifted, and an air mixed with sweat, blood, iron, and dust rushed in.
Robb walked in first, followed by several Northern lords and generals.
He removed his helmet; his silver-grey breastplate was covered in sword nicks and dried, blackened bloodstains. His young face showed unmistakable exhaustion, but his ice-blue eyes remained as sharp as a wolf's under the candlelight.
During the day's battle, he had personally led cavalry charges several times to try and break the stalemate, his valor once again earning the respect of all his generals.
More importantly, as of today, his original plan seemed to be moving toward realization step by step.
The group took their seats in silence; for a moment, the only sounds in the tent were heavy breathing and the light clatter of armor plates.
A stifling atmosphere pervaded, as the day's brutality still weighed heavily on everyone's hearts.
Wylis Manderly sat below Robb; he had sustained several minor injuries, and his bracers had deep dents.
His gaze swept over the tired and tense faces of everyone in the tent, and he took a deep breath, breaking the silence.
"Your Majesty, as of today, the plan has shown results. We took the initiative to step into the Targaryen ambush and turned their own scheme against them, winning the first battle."
"By now, Aegon Targaryen must have received the news."
Robb nodded.
Yes, everything was moving forward according to plan.
Ten thousand Targaryen Soldiers were pinned down at Riverrun, while two other forces were firmly drawn here to the banks of The Trident by him.
The main Targaryen force had been tied down,
And their rear must be empty. Now, he only had to wait for the biggest 'fish,' Aegon and his dragon, to be lured here by the situation of the battle.
Once the dragon arrived, Greatjon Umber would have no more scruples behind enemy lines; the fires he lit would become the flames that incinerated the Targaryen foundation in The Riverlands.
Cutting off their grain and destroying their supplies, leaving this army of tens of thousands with nothing to rely on—this was the opportunity for victory, and the only one.
But this opportunity was fragile.
It was built on a cruel premise.
Their main force, acting as bait, had to endure long enough under the dragon's gaze and in the bloody melee with the enemy.
Long enough for Greatjon to completely throw the rear into chaos, and long enough for the Targaryen army to collapse before they did.
Robb was not afraid of Aegon Targaryen.
He was even somewhat looking forward to it.
He had heard of the terror of that Three-headed Dragon, the thunderous breath that destroyed the walls of King's Landing.
But so what?
As long as the two armies were completely locked in combat, with man and horse indistinguishable, the dragon would have no place to strike unless Aegon Targaryen was heartless enough to turn his own elite troops into ash as well.
No matter how sharp a sword is, it depends on who holds it and how it is used. This was his response, and his only shield in this desperate situation.
However, this shield was forged of flesh and blood; it would tire, and it would break.
They could hold out for a day or two at most, perhaps even less.
Every minute and every second would be paid for with human lives.
He thought of Roose Bolton, who had yet to send any word, and a shadow loomed in his heart.
If Bolton's troops could create more chaos in the enemy's rear, perhaps they could share some of the pressure... one could only hope.
"Your Majesty." Wylis's voice sounded again, pulling Robb back from his thoughts.
"Since we have achieved our goal and successfully pinned down two of the main Targaryen routes here, their rear is empty. We only wait for the dragon to appear, and then Lord Greatjon can strike straight at their vitals."
"Now, the final risk is the moment that dragon arrives."
He paused, looking directly at Robb, his words earnest: "Your Majesty is the King in the North and should not continue to take risks in this place of certain death. Your Majesty should lead the cavalry and withdraw in advance."
Robb shook his head decisively: "It is precisely because I am the King in the North that I should be here, sharing the risk with all of you. If I were to abandon my Soldiers to death just for my own safety, why would I have come south, and why would I have shed so much blood in The Riverlands?"
These words caused the expressions of the several Riverlands nobles present to turn solemn; they stood up one after another, expressing their gratitude and vows of undying loyalty to the young king.
Wylis spoke again, his tone even more determined: "Your Majesty, the plan is set. When the time comes, our army must charge into the enemy ranks and engage in a chaotic melee to make the dragon hesitate to strike for fear of hitting its own."
"But this is extremely perilous. Once three thousand cavalry are caught in a surrounded melee, they lose all advantage and instead become a burden. Rather than that, it would be better for Your Majesty to personally lead these three thousand elite riders for another purpose."
He leaned forward slightly, the candlelight casting shifting shadows on his face:
"Reinforce Riverrun to lift the siege there. Or... reinforce Lord Greatjon."
"Your Majesty, the key to this plan lies in time. Every day our army delays here, Lord Greatjon gains more ease and certainty in the rear."
"If he can have Your Majesty's personal leadership of the cavalry to assist him, we can destroy the Targaryen supply lines more quickly and thoroughly! Only by cutting off the Targaryen army's food and causing them to fall into chaos before our own army collapses will there be a chance for victory in this war!"
Time.
Wylis had precisely pointed out the most fragile and critical link of this plan.
Robb fell silent.
He naturally knew how dangerous it was to stay here as bait; it meant that once entangled with the enemy, there would be no way back, only a fight to the death until exhaustion or being forcibly split by the enemy, and then facing the dragon.
But he had never thought of leaving first.
However, Wylis's words woke him up.
Staying here and fighting a bloody battle alongside thousands of Soldiers was courage and responsibility, but perhaps not the wisest choice.
If his departure could accelerate Greatjon's actions and cut off the Targaryen lifeblood even a few hours earlier, then what would be saved would be thousands of lives here, and it might even turn the entire tide of the war.
A king's duty was not just to live and die together, but to lead everyone toward a path of survival.
He looked at Wylis, whose eyes were open and steady, without the slightest hint of retreat, containing only considerations for the overall situation and loyalty to his king.
The tent was silent, except for the crackling of the burning torches.
Everyone's eyes were focused on Robb.
After a long time, Robb slowly let out a breath.
He stood up, walked to Wylis, and firmly pressed the other's shoulder.
"The loyalty and courage of the House Manderlys will forever be remembered by House Stark."
His voice was low and clear, "This place is now in your hands, Ser Wylis. I will go find Greatjon and burn the Targaryen supplies with the utmost speed."
Wylis knelt on one knee and bowed his head: "I shall not fail my mission."
Robb helped him up and swept his gaze over the generals in the tent: "Pass the order: have the cavalry eat their fill and prepare for a night departure. Before that..."
He looked at Wylis: "I need you to cooperate and launch a feint to draw the enemy's attention and cover the cavalry's withdrawal."
"As you command, Your Majesty." Wylis cupped his hands.
The generals solemnly took their orders and filed out of the main tent to prepare. Robb took one last look at the location of The Trident marked on the map, then looked toward the southeast, the area where Greatjon should be operating.
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