The Red Fork, noon.
Downstream on the Red Fork, even its deepest stretches only reached an adult man's waist, while the shallowest sections barely covered a person's calves.
The water was muddy, carrying silt from upstream as it flowed slowly southward.
Broad riverbanks stretched along both sides, covered in pebbles of every size. The largest were as big as fists, the smallest no larger than knuckles, crunching beneath one's feet.
Beyond them stood sparse woods, a mixture of poplars, willows, and oaks. Their leaves had already begun to turn yellow.
Farther still lay rolling hills that stretched endlessly toward the horizon.
The noon sun shone directly overhead, making the river's surface blaze with harsh reflections like countless shattered mirrors.
Lord Jason Lannister reined in his warhorse atop a rise on the western bank.
His mount was a tall Andal destrier, pure white without a single blemish. Its saddle was decorated with gold filigree and rubies that glittered beneath the sunlight. He wore a suit of gilded full plate armor engraved with lion motifs. Every plate had been polished to a mirror sheen.
His helmet was shaped like a lion's head, its golden mane flaring outward, leaving only his pair of characteristic green eyes visible.
Behind Jason, eight thousand elite Westermen continued pouring in.
First came the scout cavalry. Four detachments of fifty riders spread out to reconnoiter the surrounding area.
Then came the heavy cavalry, over a thousand strong. Both horse and rider were armored, advancing in orderly ranks. Their hooves struck the riverbank with a deep, rumbling thunder.
More than two thousand Lannister archers had already spread out along the bank, watching the opposite shore with vigilance.
Behind them marched the infantry formations, over four thousand men divided into four battalions of a thousand each, every battalion bearing its own banner and commander.
Finally came the baggage train—hundreds of wagons loaded with food, fodder, arrows, tents, and every kind of military supply.
Golden lion banners snapped loudly in the wind. There were dozens of them, large and small, each embroidered with House Lannister's lion sigil.
Sunlight gleamed off the crimson-and-gold armor of the Lannister host, off countless polished spearheads, and off their perfectly ordered ranks. The entire riverbank seemed covered in a flowing sea of gold.
Across the river, the remnants of the Northern army were fleeing in disarray.
They had only just stumbled across the river in a chaotic rush. Some rode horses, some ran on foot, and some had simply thrown away their weapons and scrambled toward the woods on the far side.
The gray direwolf banners hung crookedly. Some had already fallen to the ground and were being trampled underfoot.
Their leather armor was tattered and worn. Some of the men had no armor at all, dressed only in thin linen garments.
"My lord," Lord Lefford Reyne rode forward and pointed toward the routed Northerners across the river. "They've already crossed."
Jason nodded, a smug smile curling at the corner of his mouth.
He could see that for himself.
These Northern savages ran as fast as rabbits.
The pursuit had lasted three days. They had already won four battles and slain more than a thousand men.
The first engagement had taken place on the plains east of the Golden Tooth, where a thousand Northern cavalry had been shattered, leaving behind more than three hundred corpses.
Now these beaten dogs had been driven east of the Red Fork.
At the rate things were going, one more push would be enough to wipe them out completely.
"Pass the order down," Lord Lannister said, raising a hand as he looked toward the nearby messengers.
"The army will prepare to cross the river."
"My lord!"
Lefford's voice rang out as he rode directly in front of Jason and blocked his path.
"My lord, we cannot continue the pursuit!"
The smile faded slightly from Jason's face as he fixed Lefford with a cold stare.
"Why?"
Lefford pointed toward the opposite bank.
"Look over there. That's woodland."
"Once our cavalry crosses the river, they won't be able to maneuver properly. If they're planning an ambush in those woods..."
"An ambush?" Jason cut him off with a sneer.
"You're saying these beaten dogs, who've lost four battles in a row, are setting an ambush?"
"These Northerners run the moment they see us—faster than rabbits. You think they're capable of an ambush?"
Lefford shook his head.
"My lord, that's not what I mean."
"What I'm saying is that we've been pursuing them for three days and fought four battles. The men are exhausted."
"The terrain across the river is complicated. If they really do have some kind of trap..."
"Enough." Jason's voice turned cold. "Lefford, all you've talked about this entire march is 'what if.'"
"'What if' this. 'What if' that."
"Since when does war have so many 'what ifs'?"
Lord Jason Lannister guided his horse around Lefford and rode forward a few paces. Looking at his bannermen, he raised his voice.
"My lords!"
All eyes turned toward him.
Jason lifted a hand and pointed across the river.
"Do you see those Northern savages?"
"They're right there on the opposite bank. One more push and we can wipe them out completely!"
A cheer erupted from the Westermen.
Jason nodded in satisfaction and was about to give the order to cross when a sudden commotion rose from the far bank.
Everyone looked up.
The fleeing Northerners had reached the opposite riverbank and were forming ranks.
They lined up in a few ragged rows, raised their weapons, and waved them toward the Lannisters.
Then they began shouting.
"The lions of the Westerlands only know how to chase from behind!"
"Come on! Come on!"
"Let's see how tough you really are!"
"Lannister cowards! Dare to cross the river?"
Their voices carried clearly across the water.
A chorus of jeers and mocking laughter followed, mixed with obscene gestures and foul insults.
Lord Jason's face darkened.
Several commanders beside him looked equally grim.
One Northern soldier even untied his breeches and began pissing toward the river while laughing uproariously.
Another picked up a stone and hurled it toward the western bank, though it didn't come remotely close.
"My lord!" A young knight from Hornvale rode forward, his face flushed red with anger.
"Give me some men. I'll slaughter those bastards myself!"
The bannermen stared at the defeated enemy across the river, listening to their taunts and insults. Every one of them was struggling to contain his temper.
Jason raised a hand, signaling for silence.
He looked across the river at those defeated foes, at their smug expressions and brazen provocations.
The anger inside him burned hotter and hotter.
"My lord," Lefford spoke again, his voice pleading. "You can see what they're doing. They're deliberately trying to provoke you. They want you to cross the river. They want you to pursue them. It has to be a trap..."
"A trap?" Jason turned to look at him, danger flashing in his eyes. "Lefford, do you think I'm afraid of a trap?"
Lefford froze.
"I brought eight thousand elite soldiers," Jason said, emphasizing every word. His voice grew louder and louder.
"I have the finest equipment, the finest training, and the finest commanders."
"Those Northern savages are wearing tattered leather armor and rusted mail, carrying worthless weapons, and half-starved besides."
"So what if those little dogs have a trap? Do you really think it can stop my army?"
The lord had already drawn his sword and raised it high overhead. Sunlight blazed along the shining steel.
"Lions of the Westerlands!" he roared. "Show those Northern whelps what real strength looks like!"
"First wave, cross the river!"
"Infantry first! Knights follow behind! Kill them all!"
A moment later, horns sounded throughout the Lannister host.
Wooooo—!
The deep, powerful notes echoed through the ranks of the Westerlands army.
Then the drums joined in.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
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