(An image for Ser Jory Cassel, Commander of the Greycloaks --->)
[The Riverlands, South of Rushing Falls, 4th month, 299AC]
Rain fell across the Riverlands without end.
Not the violent storms of summer, but cold, steady rain that soaked cloaks, ruined roads, and turned fields into endless stretches of churned mud.
Jory Cassel rode beneath dark pines south of Rushing Falls while wet branches scraped against shields and horseflesh alike. The woods were quiet except for the distant sound of water crashing somewhere ahead and the occasional snort of restless mounts picking their way through mud and roots.
The men moved carefully.
Not in fear of some would-be Westermen ambush, but because of the simple fact that they were tired.
Weeks of marching and engaging in minor skirmishes with Westermen scouting parties and foraging groups had hardened the eastern host into something more than the proud army that first rode south from Winterfell beside Alaric Stark. Men spoke less now. They wasted less movement. Even the younger soldiers had stopped boasting around campfires.
War had burned that out of them, as it had a tendency to do.
Jory pulled his horse to a halt near a ridge overlooking the cobbled road below. Beside him sat Harrion Karstark beneath a dark wool cloak soaked nearly black from rain, while farther down the slope Ser Wylis Manderly argued quietly with one of the Greycloak outriders about patrol routes through the forest.
Lord Roose Bolton sat his horse a short distance away, saying nothing as usual.
The rain slid from his pale cloak in thin streams.
Jory still disliked having the man near him.
Useful as Bolton was, there remained something wrong about him. The other northern lords fought with anger, pride, or plain old loyalty. Roose fought like a man conducting some private calculation no one else could see.
Despite his unease toward the Leach Lord, Bolton had yet to do any act that warranted such feelings, not counting his grim countenance. The Lord of the Dreadfort had been nothing but dutiful in his duties, even more so after they had heard word of their king's capture of the Golden Tooth.
Pulling his attention away from his grim companion, Jory noticed movement from the tree line behind them, with a rider soon emerging moments later.
"Movement on the road, Commander," the outrider called quietly. "Westermen."
"How many?" Harrion asked.
"sixty or seventy mounted men. Scouts mostly. Some knights."
Screening forces.
Jory expected as much.
Tywin had begun pulling west faster over the past several days, abandoning much of the territory he once bled for. The Old Lion still moved cautiously, though. Every column remained shielded by outriders probing roads and forests alike, trying to make certain the Northerners were not waiting ahead.
The truth amused Jory slightly.
Because they were.
Just not where Tywin thought.
"Distance?" Jory asked.
"Half a mile north."
Jory nodded once before looking toward the men around him.
"Signal the outriders."
The rider wheeled away immediately.
Harrion shifted in his saddle. "You think this is the main screen?"
"No, most likely a small force sent to check for any ambushes."
"Advance riders then," the Karstark heir finished with a wolfish grin on his face, eager for more bloodshed, no doubt.
Roose finally spoke from the edge of the ridge.
"Which means the larger body follows behind them somewhere."
Jory glanced toward him.
"Aye."
Roose's pale eyes drifted southward through the rain.
"They're nervous," he concluded, his tone almost unimpressed now.
"They should be."
That drew the faintest hint of amusement from Bolton, though it vanished quickly.
Jory looked back down the muddy road. Somewhere farther north-west, Tywin marched with what remained of his battered army, trying to claw his way back toward the Westerlands before Alaric sank his teeth too deeply into them.
Although the Old Lion had gained more numbers through the cowardly Crownlander Lords, those greenboys and untrained men would do him no good against strong northern steel.
He would certainly not find the roads west easy.
The first horn sounded quietly through the woods.
Then another farther east.
The Greycloak companies moved quickly after that.
Men emerged silently from the trees in dark cloaks and muddied mail while mounted outriders circled through the forest paths toward the road below. They had become quite good at this over the past months.
The eastern host no longer fought like feudal levies.
Now they hunted like the wolves they adorned their armor.
Jory unsheathed his sword slowly.
"Keep pressure on them," he ordered. "Do not overextend."
Harrion frowned.
"We could crush them, hells, even hundreds of riders at that."
"Aye, we could," Jory agreed calmly. "And in doing so, we would lose the larger host while doing it."
That shut down further argument.
The younger lords always wanted a decisive battle.
Jory understood why.
Men liked certainty.
Battle offered certainty. One field. One clash. One answer.
But this war had moved beyond that.
The rain thickened as they descended through the trees.
Below them, the western outriders had begun slowing near the river crossing south of Rushing Falls. Jory spotted crimson cloaks through the mist alongside gold-painted shields and mounted crossbowmen scanning the tree line nervously.
Good.
They were already expecting something, that uneasy mindset would be what wins them the battle.
The first arrow came from the trees to the west.
One of the crossbowmen toppled backward from his saddle immediately, the shaft of an arrow poking out from his throat as he gurgled his last breath. Before the westermen fully reacted, Greycloak riders burst from the forest edge in two separate groups, slamming into the screening force from both flanks.
The clash became chaos instantly.
Mud exploded beneath hooves while riders crashed together along the narrow river road. Men shouted over the roar of the falls nearby as arrows vanished through rain and mist alike.
Jory drove his horse forward alongside Harrion as one westerman knight attempted to rally near the center of the road. The knight lowered his spear too late.
Jory cut the shaft aside and drove his sword into the man's throat hard enough to throw him backward from the saddle.
Another rider crashed into Harrion moments later.
Steel rang loudly.
Karstark split the man's helm nearly in half.
The westermen began breaking almost immediately afterward.
Retreating from the growing number of northern riders.
Exactly as intended.
"Push them northwest!" Jory shouted.
The Greycloaks obeyed instantly.
Instead of surrounding the screening force, the Northerners deliberately pressured one side harder than the other, driving the surviving westermen away from the roads and deeper toward the northwest crossings.
Toward Sherrer, and even Mummer's Ford.
The trap tightening one skirmish at a time.
One of the westermen attempted to wheel northward through the trees, only for a mounted Greycloak to slam an axe into his horse's neck. The beast collapsed, screaming into the mud while its rider vanished beneath pounding hooves.
Further south, Ser Raymun Snow, Captain of the 1st Company of Greycloaks, led mounted outriders through the fog in a wide arc that cut off another retreat route entirely.
The Westermen soon noticed their situation.
Panic spread quickly after that.
"Back!" one knight shouted desperately. "Back west!"
'Good, continue along the planned path, you bastards.' He thought as he cut down a man who was too slow to change the direction of his mount.
Jory soon reined in near the road while the surviving western outriders withdrew through rain and mud.
He made no effort to pursue further.
The men around him noticed immediately.
One younger Riverlord, Ser Berold Shawney, second son of Lord Shawney, rode up looking furious beneath his dented helm.
"We had them!" the man snapped. "Another charge and we'd have broken the lot!"
Jory wiped rainwater from his face.
"And then?"
The Man frowned.
"Then we kill them."
"And their larger host turns south again while we waste half the day chasing riders through the woods."
He opened his mouth again, only for Harrion to cut him off.
"Commander Cassel gave an order."
Ser Berold wisely shut his mouth after that.
Jory looked north toward the retreating westermen.
They were moving exactly where he wanted.
Not because they were fools.
Because every other route westward was slowly being denied to them.
The rain continued falling.
By the time they returned to camp near dusk, the roads had become nearly impassable rivers of mud. Horses steamed in the cold while cooks struggled to keep fires alive beneath patched canvas coverings.
Jory entered the command tent dripping wet.
Inside, several men already waited around the map table. Leaning on a wooden beam, Lord Bolton gazed toward the map. Harrion Karstark stood near the entrance, waiting for him, no doubt, the two having become friends as they fought side by side since the hosts split.
Ser Wylis Manderly stood off to the side of the table, talking with Ser Raymun Snow about their supplies and other logistical matters. Sers Oliver Woolfield and Ulrich Umber, Captains of the 2nd and 3rd Companies respectively, stood together, leaning over the map and marking past skirmish locations.
The captains of the Greycloaks had grown smarter over the war, harder, and enriched through true experience.
They were men who spent more time sleeping in armor than in beds now.
Jory removed his gloves slowly before studying the map spread across the table.
Pins marked various locations along the chosen path that they funneled Tywin's host onto, starting with Harrenhal, and leading west with places such as Sherrer Village, Acorn Hall, Stony Sept, Lychester, and the Mummer's Ford also being marked.
Roose studied the board quietly.
"You pushed them north."
"Aye."
"And they accepted it? I suppose Lord Tywin's mythos isn't well-founded now, is it?" Lord Bolton remarked
"Well, they didn't have much choice in the matter."
Wylis Manderly rubbed one hand through his growing beard. "They'll realize eventually."
"Tywin will," Jory replied with a shrug. "But it would only serve to worsen their morale if the other lords and their men figured it out as well."
Tywin Lannister remained dangerous precisely because he adapted quickly. Jory respected that, but not even the famed orchestrator of the Rains of Castamere could pull himself out of this hole, not without an act of the gods at least.
Harrion leaned over the map.
"If he realizes what we're doing before reaching the crossings?"
"Then he turns south."
"And?"
Jory pointed toward the northern roads.
"Then he runs into empty ground, flooded rivers, burned villages, and no supplies."
Roose's pale eyes lifted slightly.
"You've already stripped the country."
"Aye, he also runs the risk of meeting some minor Reacher host. Sure, they could win the engagement against those summer knights, but he would no doubt take losses, and in their situation, they need every man they can keep."
Leaving the thought of the Reach to the back of his mind, Jory once more turned to the letter outlining just how much they had stripped the lands clean of anything the Westermen host could get their desperate hands on.
Food stores had been moved east weeks ago, bridges had been weakened, and livestock had been relocated wherever possible.
The Riverlands could barely feed themselves now, but they would survive nonetheless.
Tywin's retreating host, however, would not fare any better.
Ulrich Umber grinned wolfishly.
"We're hounding the bastards."
That word lingered.
Hounding.
The Riverlanders had begun calling the retreat exactly that already, "The Hounding of the Lions."
Not because Tywin had been broken, that would come in due time, but rather, because he was being driven toward ruin.
Roose noticed Jory's silence.
"You dislike the name."
"It sounds almost too triumphant."
"Mayhaps," Roose said softly. "But men enjoy believing powerful enemies can bleed."
Jory looked back down at the map.
The truth was less glorious.
This campaign had become one long effort to exhaust Tywin until mistakes became inevitable.
No grand battles.
No heroic charge.
Just pressure.
Constant pressure.
A horn sounded outside the tent, pulling all of their attention away from the map sprawled out on the table.
Moments later, another scout entered, covered in mud nearly to the waist.
"Riders from Acorn Hall," the scout announced.
Jory straightened slightly.
"Bring them."
Ser Rickard Ryswell, Captain of the 6th Company, entered moments later, still wearing riding leathers slick with rainwater. Mud covered half his cloak, while one sleeve had been sliced open during fighting.
He looked exhausted.
Yet he also looked pleased.
"We found more of the bastards near the southern roads," Ryswell said immediately. "About sixty riders. Mostly mounted scouts with some knights."
"And the result, Ser?" Jory asked, his smile showing that he already could tell the outcome of the engagement.
Ryswell grinned in response.
"We bloodied them hard enough."
The men around the table leaned closer.
Rickard pointed toward the map near Acorn Hall.
"They attempted to secure a route south once again, no doubt trying for a road leading west that wasn't the River Road. We hit them twice along the hills here and here."
His finger tapped two muddy points.
"They tried pushing around us afterward, but we collapsed the road behind them with felled trees and wagon wreckage."
Ulrich barked a laugh.
"So where'd they run?"
Ryswell pointed northwest.
Exactly where Jory expected.
Toward the crossings.
Toward the traps awaiting their arrival.
Wylis Manderly looked impressed despite himself.
"I've heard of herding sheep, but never lions," the large man laughed boisterously, his great belly jiggling up and down as he did.
Jory found the humor in how accurate his words had been.
It reminded him all too much of wolf hunts in the North.
A pack of hungry beasts cornering prey, driving it toward the kill zone, and never letting it rest long enough to think clearly.
Roose Bolton studied him carefully from across the table.
"Most commanders seek battle," Bolton said quietly. "Few think to shape one, admirable job, Commander Cassel."
Jory nodded at the compliment, still a little uneasy near the man.
Praise from Roose Bolton felt too close to being studied.
He quickly looked toward Ser Rickard.
"And what of your osses?"
"Eight dead. Twelve wounded."
"And the Westermen?"
"More, much more."
The rain hammered harder against the tent overhead.
Jory studied the map again while the others argued quietly over roads, crossings, and scouting patterns.
Somewhere farther west, Tywin Lannister still believed he controlled his retreat.
That illusion would not survive much longer.
Later that night, Jory walked alone beyond the camp perimeter while rain drizzled steadily through the trees.
The Riverlands smelled rotten now.
Too much death.
Too many burned villages.
Sherrer Village lay westward, one of the chosen spots of interest for its ford that allowed western crossing.
He had ridden through it back when they had first begun concocting their plan, leaving his men near the Ruby ford to make some noise as to keep the Westermen's eyes on them as he did so.
The village still looked half-dead from Gregor Clegane's earlier raid, burned homes, collapsed roofs, shallow graves behind the sept, and children staring silently from ruined doorways whenever soldiers passed.
One old woman had recognized Stark banners and openly wept while clutching his hand with trembling fingers, she had been a descendant of a Northman who found a bride and stayed in the Riverlands following the Widow Fairs held following the end of the Dance of the Dragons by Alysanne Blackwood.
Jory stood beneath dripping trees, thinking about that while distant campfires flickered behind him through the rain.
This war had stopped being some petty dispute long ago for the Riverlands.
Now it was pure unadulterated vengeance and survival.
And somewhere beyond those rivers and roads, Alaric marched deeper into the Westerlands beneath the old Crown of Winter.
Jory felt no jealousy.
Only responsibility.
Alaric could plunder the West because the East still held.
And the east still held because Tywin had not escaped them yet.
Footsteps approached behind him.
From the sounds of them, it was Harrion Karstark no doubt.
"You should sleep."
"So should you."
Karstark snorted softly.
"Never liked sleep much, especially following the birth of my boy Errold, his cries could wake an entire keep," the man laughed a tired yet longing laugh, no doubt missing his son and wife.
Jory laughed in kind, remembering those days, missing his own two boys, Martyn and Lonnel, along with Jonelle, his beautiful wife.
For a moment, they simply stood listening to the rain.
Then Harrion spoke again.
"You think Tywin knows?"
"Im not sure to be honest, knowing the Old Lion, there's no doubt he suspects something at least."
"And when he fully realizes?"
Jory looked westward through the darkness.
"Then he chooses which crossing he wants to bleed at."
By dawn the next day, another raven arrived from Stony Sept.
Medger Cerwyn's message was brief, the fortifications had been completed, with the lands around secured, and scouts in position.
Mummer's Ford awaited the lion's arrival.
Later that afternoon, another rider arrived, confirming Halys Hornwood's men had concealed themselves successfully near Lychester.
Sherrer awaited too.
The trap stood ready now.
All that remained was seeing which road Tywin chose, a large part of him hoped he chose both, letting them envelope two smaller hosts as opposed to one large one.
That evening, Jory stood once more over the map table while rain drummed steadily overhead.
The command tent smelled of wet leather, smoke, and damp wool while exhausted officers moved around him discussing roads and troop movements.
Ser Rickard Ryswell's successful skirmish near Acorn Hall had pushed the great westermen host northwest again.
Exactly as planned.
Jory stared at the map for a long moment.
Then finally, he spoke, looking around the assembly of lords and captains.
"Now… we see which road Lord Tywin chooses, let's go hunt a lion, shall we?"