Behind the Riverlands army stood House Blackwood's elite force—the Raven's Teeth.
There were only three hundred of them, but every one was an archer chosen from a hundred men.
They wore black armor and raven masks, revealing only a pair of cold, merciless eyes.
In their hands were specially crafted fishwood longbows. Longer, stronger, and with greater range than ordinary bows.
They formed a line and began to loose arrows.
The arrows were fast and deadly accurate, aimed specifically at places armor could not fully protect—the neck, the armpits, the groin.
The shrill whistle of arrows tearing through the air sounded like Death itself calling.
A Westerlands soldier had just raised his shield when an arrow pierced his eye.
He let out a scream and collapsed to the ground, writhing and convulsing.
Blood poured from his eye socket. He tried to cover it with his hand, but it was useless.
Another Westerlands soldier took an arrow to the throat. Blood sprayed from the wound. Clutching his neck, he made a choking gurgling sound before collapsing dead.
His body continued twitching. His legs still kicked, but the life had already left him.
A third.
A fourth.
A fifth...
Nearby was a young knight, a distant nephew of Jason's. He was only nineteen and had been married not long ago.
An arrow struck his thigh, knocking him to the ground. Before he could get back up, another arrow pierced his throat.
He died with his eyes still open.
Jason spotted a familiar face—Lord Clive Banefort, the old man who loved sharing drinks with him.
An arrow struck him in the face, entering through the eye socket and exiting through the back of his skull.
He didn't even have time to scream before he collapsed dead.
"No!" Jason roared.
Leading his household guard, he charged toward the Raven's Teeth, only to be blocked by a mass of Riverlands soldiers.
He swung his sword wildly, cutting them down one after another.
One slash, one kill.
One slash, one kill.
But there were too many of them.
Kill one, and two more appeared.
Kill two, and four more rushed forward.
At this moment, they seemed endless, swarming like ants.
"My lord!" Captain Conrad shouted beside him.
"Fall back! Quickly! Retreat across the river!"
Consumed by rage, Jason ignored him.
He kept cutting.
Kept killing.
Like a madman.
One Riverlands soldier fell.
Then another.
Then another.
His sword was covered in blood.
His armor was covered in blood.
His face was covered in blood.
He could no longer tell whether it belonged to his enemies or himself.
At some point, his helmet had fallen off.
His golden hair had been stained red, hanging across his face in bloody strands.
But the number of guards around him continued to dwindle.
The Westerlands soldiers who had already reached the far bank were falling one after another beneath the combined assault of Riverlands archers and Northmen.
The formation was shrinking.
The shield wall was collapsing.
Resistance was weakening.
Then, suddenly, someone rushed out from the side.
It was a young squire.
He wore crude leather armor riddled with holes.
In his hands was a spear—nothing special. A wooden shaft, an iron spearhead already flecked with rust.
His face was still youthful, looking no older than twenty.
His name was Pate, from Longleaf Village.
He had come to war following the knight he served.
He was only a squire.
He had never killed a man before.
He had never seen anything like this.
But now he saw that man in the splendid armor slaughtering his countrymen.
He saw him cut down one of his companions—a friend he had grown up with.
He saw him run another man through with his sword—his own knight, the lord he served, who had always treated him well.
He didn't know who that man was.
He only knew that this man had to die.
He charged forward.
Raising his spear, he thrust with every ounce of strength in his body.
The spear drove into Jason Lannister's neck.
Pate had no idea how he managed to hit him.
He had simply thrust on instinct.
And somehow, he struck true.
Jason's body froze.
A burst of agony exploded in his neck.
First cold.
Then burning hot.
Something was pouring out of him.
Warm.
So much of it.
He lowered his head and saw the spear shaft protruding beside his neck.
The spearhead had sunk deep into the flesh, so deep that only a tiny portion remained visible.
He wanted to shout.
But no sound came out.
Only a hissing noise escaped his throat, as though something were blocking it.
He wanted to swing his sword.
But his hand no longer obeyed him.
The sword had already fallen into the river, standing half-submerged in the water.
The Lord of Casterly Rock turned his head and looked at the man who had struck him.
It was a young man.
His face was filled with terror.
His eyes were filled with fear.
And a trace of confusion.
His lips moved, as though he wanted to say something.
But no words came.
Then Jason fell.
Into the water.
Into the blood.
Into the river where his own blood mixed with the blood of countless others.
He struggled to rise.
But his body no longer obeyed him.
He lay there with his eyes open, staring at the blurred light on the water's surface, watching feet running back and forth, watching...
And then there was nothing.
"My lord!"
"The lord is dead!"
"Lord Lannister is dead!"
The household guards erupted into chaos.
The man who had struck him—Pate—still stood where he was, staring blankly at his own hands and at the blood-dripping spear.
Then a voice rang out, sharp and piercing, drowning out everything else: "Lord Lannister is dead! Lord Lannister is dead!"
It was Alysanne Blackwood.
Mounted on horseback, she rode back and forth across the battlefield, shouting again and again: "Jason Lannister is dead! Westerlands men, your lord is dead!"
Her voice was shrill, like a knife stabbing into the heart of every Westerlands soldier.
Across the entire battlefield, everyone's gaze was drawn involuntarily toward the place where Lord Lannister had fallen.
Then the Westerlands vanguard broke.
Not a slow collapse.
An instant collapse.
They heard the woman's cries over and over, like a curse.
Their lord was dead.
Their lord was dead.
The lord who had led them in war for twenty years.
The lord who had never retreated.
The lord who had promised to lead them to victory and bring them home.
He was dead.
"The lord is dead!"
"Run!"
"Run for your lives!"
They began to flee.
They ran toward the river.
Toward the friendly forces on the opposite bank.
The riverbank and the river itself were filled with fleeing men.
They shoved one another.
Trampled one another.
Some men fell and never got back up.
A knight was knocked into the river and dozens of men ran over him.
He struggled to stand, but every time his head broke the surface, he was stepped on and forced back under.
In the end, he was trampled to death and never rose again.
His corpse drifted with the current, mixing with countless others.
A young infantryman reached the middle of the river when an arrow struck him in the back.
He pitched face-first into the water, struggling and convulsing as blood spread through the river around him.
One officer tried to rally the men.
Waving his sword, he roared: "Stop! All of you, stop! You can't run! If you run, you'll die!"
No one listened.
His own fleeing soldiers knocked him to the ground and stepped on him several times.
He climbed back up, roaring in fury, but was quickly knocked down again.
This time, he never got back up.
"Run!"
"Help me!"
"Stop stepping on me!"
Screams.
Cries.
Pleas for help.
All blended together.
The river was filled with people.
Filled with corpses.
Filled with blood.
The blood stained the entire Red Fork crimson as it flowed downstream.
On the opposite bank, Cregan Stark sat atop his horse, watching the Lannister guards recover Jason's body.
Around him, soldiers of the North and the Riverlands were cheering and celebrating their victory.
They waved their weapons and shouted battle cries.
Some knelt to thank the Old Gods.
Some embraced their companions and wept.
Others searched the dead for spoils.
Cregan did not move.
He simply watched the carnage in the river.
The fleeing Westerlands soldiers.
The warriors still fighting.
The floating corpses.
Jason was dead...
The arrogant lion was dead.
Dead in the waters of the Red Fork.
Killed by a squire's spear.
Of the more than three thousand elite Westerlands soldiers who had crossed the river, fewer than a thousand had managed to escape back across.
The rest were dead.
Wounded.
Or captured.
There were at least three thousand corpses on the battlefield.
Men of the Westerlands.
Men of the North.
Men of the Riverlands.
All mixed together, impossible to tell apart.
The river had turned red from one bank to the other.
The air was thick with the smell of blood and human waste.
The stench was so heavy it felt suffocating.
"My lord," Rylly Karstark said excitedly as he rode up beside him. "We won! Jason is dead!"
"The Westerlands army has collapsed! Should we pursue them?"
Cregan was silent for a moment before shaking his head.
"We cannot."
Rylly froze.
"Not pursue them? My lord, this is the perfect chance! Their formation is shattered. We could—"
Cregan cut him off mercilessly.
"We've only inflicted over three thousand casualties."
He pointed toward the opposite bank.
"They still have more than five thousand men."
Then he paused and looked at the Lannister army reforming across the river.
"Jason is dead. The Westerlands have lost the man holding them together."
"We cannot press them too hard. That would only force them to unite again."
"What we must do is act like a wolf pack—shadow them and harass them day and night..."
"In time, they'll panic. They'll lose order. Eventually, they'll start fighting as separate groups..."
"And once they've completely fallen apart, we'll deal with them at our leisure."
Rylly thought for a moment, then nodded.
"My lord is wise."