The first wave of Westermen infantry began moving toward the river.
There were fifteen hundred of them, the finest infantry the Westerlands had to offer. They wore armor covered by surcoats embroidered with the lion sigil. Iron helms concealed their faces, leaving only their eyes and mouths exposed.
They carried long spears held upright, their points raised skyward, forming a dense forest of steel.
Their shields were rectangular, iron-rimmed, and painted with golden lion heads.
Marching in perfect formation, they advanced one step at a time. Their boots crunched across the river stones with a steady, rhythmic rustle.
Drums thundered.
War horns blared.
"First rank, forward!" the commander shouted.
The first rank stepped into the river.
The waters of the Red Fork rose over their ankles, icy and biting, yet not a single man hesitated.
They continued forward.
The water climbed over their shins.
Over their knees.
Over their thighs.
"Second rank, forward!"
The second rank entered the river as well.
"Third rank, forward!"
The third rank followed.
Fifteen hundred men advanced toward the opposite bank in neat, orderly lines, one step at a time.
Shields raised against any possible volley of arrows, they kept their eyes fixed on the taunting Northmen across the river.
The freezing water flowed around them, but every man marched on in silence.
On the far bank, the mocking laughter of the Northmen gradually faded.
They looked at the approaching army—the disciplined formations, the gleaming armor, the straight ranks of spears, the fierce lion banners.
The contempt on their faces slowly gave way to solemnity.
Yet they did not retreat.
They simply waited.
Lord Jason sat astride his horse, watching his army cross the river with a satisfied smile.
"Lefford, you're too timid."
Beside him, Lord Reyne smiled and interjected.
"Perhaps from now on we should call him 'Lefford the Coward'?"
Lord Jason merely chuckled.
Such an insulting nickname was probably unnecessary. After all, Lefford had served him faithfully for many years.
Lefford, however, said nothing.
He only stared at the Northmen across the river—the men who had been fleeing moments ago—and watched the change in their expressions.
The unease in his heart grew heavier and heavier.
Just moments earlier, those Northmen had been laughing and provoking them.
Now they had suddenly gone quiet.
What were they waiting for?
He did not know.
But he knew it could not be anything good.
The first wave of Westermen infantry had already reached the middle of the river.
The water rose to their waists.
Their soaked clothing clung to them beneath the freezing current, and their armor seemed to grow heavier with every step.
Yet they continued forward.
Their formation remained orderly.
Their shields remained raised.
Their spears remained straight.
Then the Northmen on the opposite bank suddenly moved.
They began to withdraw.
But it was not the retreat of a routed army.
It was an organized withdrawal.
They fell back onto the riverbank.
Then to the edge of the shore.
Then to the edge of the forest.
And there they stopped.
They began forming ranks, raising their weapons and settling into defensive formations.
On the western bank, Lord Jason frowned.
They're not running?
A broken army would never form ranks like that.
But before he could think further, a horn suddenly sounded from within the woods across the river.
The call was deep and lingering.
Large numbers of Northmen began emerging from the forest.
Jason's expression turned grave.
So the Northmen intended to fight him to the death after all?
And the Northmen who had moments ago been fleeing in panic and fear suddenly seemed like entirely different men.
Their backs straightened.
Their eyes lit up.
A terrifying expression appeared on their faces—a mixture of fanaticism, madness, and bloodthirsty hunger.
Their eyes turned red.
"For the North!"
Someone let out a furious roar.
At once, every Northman soldier joined in.
"For the North! For Stark!"
"Winter is Coming!"
The roar shook the heavens and the earth.
It drowned out the war horns.
It drowned out the sound of the river.
It drowned out the drums.
It drowned out everything.
That roar carried thousands of years of hatred, the Northmen's contempt for the people of the south, and their scorn for death itself.
Then they charged.
Those Northmen in battered leather armor.
Those Northmen wielding worn and battered weapons.
Those Northmen who had been fleeing in disarray only moments ago.
Now they charged like a pack of rabid beasts straight at the Westermen infantry in the river.
They splashed into the water, sending spray flying in every direction.
Axes were raised.
Longswords were raised.
Maces were raised.
Some even carried spiked clubs.
They shouted battle cries and roared war songs, their eyes fixed on nothing but the enemy.
The Westermen infantry crossing the river were startled.
But the well-trained Westerlands veterans did not panic.
"Form ranks!" the commander's voice rang out from the rear. "Hold fast! Raise shields! Set spears!"
The soldiers in the first rank immediately crouched, planting their shields at an angle to form a shield wall.
The second rank braced their spears over the shoulders of the first, the spearheads pointing forward in a dense hedge of steel.
The third rank raised their spears, ready to throw them.
On the riverbank, Lannister archers drew their bows and aimed at the charging enemy.
The entire process took less than a minute.
Then the first wave of Northmen hit them.
They slammed into the shield wall with a thunderous crash.
Some were skewered by spears and fell into the river with screams of agony.
Some hacked at the shields with axes, leaving deep gouges in the wood.
Others vaulted over the first rank and hurled themselves directly at the second.
"Thrust!" the commander bellowed.
The second rank drove their spears forward in unison, piercing several more men.
But the Northmen were completely insane.
One man who had been run through still clung to the spear shaft as he died, preventing it from being withdrawn and allowing the warriors behind him to rush forward.
Another who had been cut down grabbed a Westerman's leg before collapsing, dragging him into the river.
Blood began to spray.
The water slowly turned red.
One Westermen infantryman had just skewered a Northman and had not yet managed to pull his spear free when another Northman charged him and buried an axe in his shoulder.
The axe split through chainmail and bit deep into bone.
The Westerman screamed and collapsed into the river, blood pouring from the wound and staining the water around him crimson.
One of his comrades quickly raised a shield to protect himself.
But the Northman did not even try to dodge.
He simply hacked away like a madman.
One strike.
Two strikes.
Three strikes.
Until the shield was shattered.
Until the man behind it was dead.
Another Westerman found himself surrounded by two Northmen.
He blocked a sword strike with his shield, only to have an axe smash into his leg from the side.
He dropped to one knee in the river.
A heartbeat later, a sword pierced his throat.
He struggled.
Convulsed.
Blood gushed from his neck and mixed with the river water.
A third.
A fourth.
A fifth...
The Westermen fought desperately, but the Northmen were too crazed.
They were no longer running.
Nor were they afraid of death.
They seemed utterly indifferent to whether they lived or died.
All they wanted was to kill one more enemy.
Then another.
And another.
One Northman was run through the stomach, his intestines spilling out into the river.
He looked down at the wound.
Then looked back up.
Grinning.
With a single swing of his axe, he split the face of the Westerman who had speared him.
The two men fell into the river together, their blood mingling until it was impossible to tell whose was whose.
Another Northman was pierced simultaneously by three spears.
Blood spilled from his mouth, yet he still crawled forward.
Another had his arm severed, but he used his remaining hand to seize a Westerman by the throat and refused to let go.
On the riverbank, Jason stared at the Northmen in disbelief.
Their morale had surged, and now they were locked in a savage struggle with his elite soldiers in the middle of the river.
Unable to understand what he was seeing, he muttered: "What..."
"What's going on?"
Lefford's voice sounded beside him, low and grave.
"My lord, this is clearly a trap..."
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