The Riverlands, eastern shore of the God's Eye, night.
The moon had climbed to its highest point, silver light spilling across the vast waters of the God's Eye. The lake's surface shimmered like scales of silver, rippling gently beneath the breeze.
On the flat ground along the eastern shore, more than five thousand exhausted Westermen were packed tightly together, shield against shield, spear against spear.
Throughout the formation, the sound of ragged breathing rose and fell. Some men whispered prayers. Some cried quietly. Others gripped their sword hilts so hard their knuckles turned white.
All around them stood the allied armies of the North and the Riverlands.
To the north, more than four thousand Northmen occupied the hills. Their grey direwolf banners snapped in the night wind. Torches stretched across the ridgeline like a winding serpent, running from one end of the hills to the other for nearly two miles.
The torchlight illuminated their faces. Most wore thick beards, tangled hair, and fierce expressions.
Most were clad in mail or leather armor, while the edges of their axes and longswords gleamed brightly in the firelight.
They were the Northern vanguard.
Now they stood on higher ground, looking down upon the trapped Westermen by the lakeshore like a pack of wolves studying its prey.
To the south, more than eight thousand Riverlanders occupied the rolling hills. House Tully's blue trout banner flew alongside the banners of Houses Blackwood, Mallister, and many other noble Riverlands houses.
Countless figures shifted beneath the moonlight.
Their equipment was far superior to that of the Northmen—half-plate armor, iron helms, spears, and shields in abundance.
They were the household troops of the Riverlands' great houses, fighting to protect their homeland.
To the east lay the forest—the very road by which the Westerlands army had arrived.
Now, countless archers lurked within those pitch-black shadows.
And behind the Westerlands army lay the God's Eye itself, the largest lake in Westeros. Its dark waters were unfathomably deep.
Now, they had already been encircled from two sides...
Lord Lefford stood in the center of the line atop his horse, surveying the battlefield.
His face was expressionless, but his hands trembled slightly.
Not from fear.
From exhaustion.
He had not slept properly in days.
The Riverlanders harassed them by day and raided them by night. They could neither eat nor sleep well. Some men could barely walk straight anymore.
His eyes were sunken deep into their sockets. His cheekbones jutted sharply from his gaunt face. His lips were cracked. He had lost a frightening amount of weight.
A blood-soaked bandage was wrapped around his left arm. The cloth had turned dark red and carried the stench of infection.
A cold arrow had struck him two nights ago.
The arrowhead had barbs. When it was pulled free, it tore away a large chunk of flesh, and the pain had nearly made him black out.
Yet now, with the final battle at hand, he felt strangely calm.
He thought of his liege lord, Jason Lannister—the proud, arrogant, and conceited lord who had looked down on everyone around him.
He thought of that young messenger.
He thought of the decree from the Iron Throne.
And he thought of those words:
"Either fulfill your duty as a sworn bannerman and obey the Targaryens, or commit treason."
He had obeyed.
They had come.
And now they were trapped here.
Lord Lefford let out a bitter laugh and lowered his head to look at his trembling hands.
They were shaking.
Not because he feared death.
But because he knew he might not be able to preserve the last embers of the Westerlands.
These elite soldiers had been trained over many years.
If they were lost in a single battle, what future would remain for the Westerlands?
He did not know.
But he did know one thing.
Once a lion lost its teeth, everyone would dare to bully it...
"Uncle."
His nephew and sworn shield, Ser Joffrey, rode up beside him and looked nervously toward the north.
"The wolf banners are moving."
Lefford, dazed and distracted, raised his head at the words.
He saw the torches on the northern hills begin to move, like a burning serpent winding its way down the slope.
More and more torches appeared, growing denser by the moment, like a flowing river of fire pouring from the hilltop toward the foot of the hill.
The flames illuminated every rock, every tree, and every Northman's face.
Those faces wore satisfied smiles—the kind hunters wore when they saw their prey caught in a trap.
The banners to the south moved as well, just as numerous and just as swift.
The Riverlanders' formations spread out from the hills like a bird unfurling its wings, preparing to envelop them from both flanks.
Their spears gleamed coldly beneath the moonlight.
Their shields formed an unbroken wall.
The sound of their marching grew closer and louder with every passing moment.
They were about to attack.
Lefford drew a deep breath.
He could not order a retreat toward the east. If they retreated now, the entire Westerlands army would collapse immediately.
The cold wind blowing off the lake filled his lungs like knives.
He felt the chill spread from his chest through his limbs, into his fingertips, and deep into his soul.
Lord Lefford opened his mouth and roared with all the strength he had left: "Form ranks! Shield wall! Spears! Prepare for battle!"
The Westermen began to move.
Their movements were sluggish. Days of constant harassment and exhaustion had left their bodies feeling as heavy as lead.
But they moved nonetheless.
Across the entire Westerlands army, shields were raised and locked together into an iron wall. The iron-rimmed wooden shields interlocked along their edges with dull, heavy clacks.
Spears were lowered into position.
The men braced their shafts over the shoulders of the comrades holding shields in front of them.
The dense forest of spears resembled the quills of a giant hedgehog, their tips gleaming coldly beneath the moonlight.
More than five thousand Westermen stood packed together, their backs to the lake and their faces turned toward the enemies converging upon them from above and below.
Some quietly recited prayers to the Seven.
Others called out their mothers' names.
A number of Westerlands lords and officers kept glancing toward the east.
The forest there was pitch-black.
It seemed likely that a great many men were hidden within it.
At first glance, it appeared to be the weakest section of the encirclement.
But they all knew better.
It was a trap.
A deliberate gap left by the armies of the North and the Riverlands.
Lefford rode along behind the line, inspecting his men.
His horse was exhausted as well. Its hooves slipped on the ground. It breathed heavily, white foam gathering around its mouth.
Lefford patted its neck.
The horse snorted and continued forward.
"Hold steady!" Lefford shouted, his voice hoarse but unwavering.
"Sons of the Westerlands!"
"As long as we hold our ground, no one can defeat us!"
A young soldier looked up at the passing lord.
His lips trembled.
His hands shook.
"My lord..." His voice carried the edge of a sob. "Are we going to die?"
Lefford looked at him.
He wanted to say no.
But the words would not come.
Because he knew they would be lies.
"Many men may die..." the lord finally said calmly.
"But that doesn't mean you will."
"Stay alive, and I'll take you home."
The young soldier heard those words of comfort and nodded.
His lips stopped trembling.
His hands stopped shaking.
Tightening his grip on his spear, he faced the enemy drawing ever closer.
Lefford continued riding forward.
Behind him, someone had begun singing softly.
It was a folk song from the Westerlands, about a knight bidding farewell to the girl he loved before departing for war.
More and more voices joined in.
The song grew louder and louder.
The song echoed across the lake.
It echoed across the hills.
And it echoed within every heart.