Edmure Tully's orders were passed down.
The entire army formed ranks and advanced toward the direction of the Targaryen army reported by the scouts.
In his heart, he still harbored a sliver of fantasy, thinking the two armies could face each other fairly in an open field.
He deployed his fifteen thousand men to show the enemy that The Riverlands were not entirely without the power to strike back, hoping to use the opportunity to stall for Robb's reinforcements.
As for the dragon... perhaps the enemy wouldn't use it lightly? At least not at the very beginning?
"To rashly drag the entire army onto the plains to face the enemy head-on? You're putting your neck right under their blade!" Brynden the Blackfish spoke, his voice cold and his face as dark as the bottom of a pot.
"Even if Stone Hedge cannot hold everyone and we cannot defend the castle, we should have found a high ground, a riverbank, or the edge of a woodland to hold a strategic position and stall for time!"
"Instead of deploying our forces on an open, unobstructed plain like this, waiting to be overrun!"
Edmure's patience had finally reached its limit.
The pressure of the past few days, combined with his uncle's repeated public rebukes and questioning, caused his last bit of reason and restraint to snap.
He turned his head sharply, his face flushed red with agitation and shame, as he growled at Brynden:
"Enough! Ser Brynden!" His voice was hoarse, and he intentionally used the formal title to emphasize his status. "I! Am the Lord of Riverrun! I! Am the supreme commander of this army!"
"Now, please execute my orders. Go take command of the left wing, organize the ranks, and prepare to meet the enemy! Instead of standing here, criticizing my every decision!"
The air seemed to freeze.
The surrounding officers and guards held their breath, their gazes shifting between the furious Lord and the grim-faced Ser Blackfish.
Brynden looked into his nephew's eyes, which burned with rage but were deeply hidden with bravado; the muscles in his jaw tightened.
He said nothing more, only giving a slow, extremely slight nod.
He turned his horse around without a word and rode off toward the left wing with his guards.
The Riverlands coalition moved forward, various banners fluttering in the wind.
Aside from the prominent red and blue trout banner in the center, they were surrounded by the red stallion of House Bracken, the ravens and weirwood of House Blackwood, the silver eagle of House Mallister, and the black dragon and eyes of House Vance...
Dozens of different sigils, large and small.
Even petty knights who had brought only dozens of men in response to the summons could fly their own banners.
The Soldiers' armor was even more varied, ranging from the polished plate and mail of noble knights to the worn leather and studded doublets of levies, and even peasants wearing nothing but an iron helm.
In Edmure's eyes in the past, this sight might have symbolized the unity of The Riverlands nobility and the rallying power of House Tully.
But when he could finally see the enemy ranks appearing on the horizon clearly, the bit of pride in his heart was instantly crushed to pieces.
Black.
What first met his eyes was an endless expanse of black.
Not the black of night, but a grim and heavy black tide formed by steel, cloth, and banners.
The opposing army stood silently on the field, spread out horizontally with dense depth.
The Soldiers were all dressed in black armor and surcoats, reflecting a uniform and cold luster under the sun.
There were no messy house sigils, no uneven equipment; as far as the eye could see, there were only banners fluttering in the wind at the front of the formation.
Uniform black backgrounds embroidered with ferocious Three-headed dragons in scarlet silk thread.
Oppressive. Solemn.
Like a frozen black ocean.
Edmure reflexively looked back at The Riverlands coalition behind him, with its fluttering banners and many houses gathered around.
The grandeur and popular support that had once made him proud now seemed so scattered and garish in contrast to the monolithic black army opposite him...
He shook his head vigorously and rode his horse to the front of the army.
He straightened his body, clad in ornate plate armor.
He imagined that next, the commanders of the two armies would come forward for a confrontation and parley in accordance with noble tradition, displaying eloquence and dignity, and perhaps stalling for some time...
However, what he waited for was not the rumored Aegon Targaryen, nor any enemy general coming out to parley.
The black, airtight army opposite him suddenly moved.
The front-line Soldiers holding tall tower shields moved to the sides silently and swiftly, as if they had practiced it a thousand times.
The originally strict and tidy line was slowly torn open in the center as if by a pair of invisible hands, revealing a widening gap.
It was as if the center of the black ocean had suddenly collapsed into an entrance to the abyss.
Edmure was stunned, watching the scene in confusion.
What kind of new formation was this? Luring the enemy in? But they hadn't even entered archery range...
Wooooo—!
A low, heavy horn blast, sounding as if it came from deep within the earth, suddenly rang out from behind the gap, drowning out all other noises on the battlefield.
Immediately after, Edmure felt his horse shifting its hooves uneasily.
No, it wasn't just the horse... the ground beneath his feet began to vibrate clearly.
At first, it was very slight, like distant, faint thunder, but it quickly became intense, dense, and heavy!
It was as if countless heavy hammers were frantically pounding the earth at the same terrifying frequency, making the gravel dance on the ground.
Edmure looked up in horror, gazing once more at the gap in the black army.
A blinding crimson torrent, like lava erupting from the Earth's core, surged out from that deep gap!
No, that wasn't lava; it was cavalry!
It was cavalry... both men and horses... completely encased in thick, scarlet plate armor!
The sunlight hit the rapidly moving blood-red armor, reflecting a cold and blinding murderous intent, creating a heart-wrenching contrast with the black army.
They were silent, their lances lowered like a forest, tips pointing forward in unison, forming a steel forest of death.
Their charge was so violent that the air in the front seemed to be compressed and distorted, carrying a dull howl.
This... what kind of army was this?
Cavalry composed entirely of noble knights?
Edmure's thoughts came to a complete standstill at that moment, his mind going blank.
He had never seen, nor even imagined, such a scene.
In Westeros, even the wealthiest lord could not arm such a large-scale, uniform Heavy cavalry!
This was hardly an army; it was a group of moving, steel-clad mountains, crushing toward him and the scattered Riverlands coalition behind him with a posture that would destroy everything!
"Back to the formation! Back to the formation!!" Extreme terror instantly seized Edmure's throat.
He let out a distorted roar that he didn't even recognize as his own, suddenly turned his horse, and fled in panic toward his own center army.
He screamed his orders: "Shield wall! Form a shield wall! Stop them! Stop them—!!!"
But it was too late.
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