The Red Fork, noon.
The lower reaches of the Red Fork were at their deepest only up to a grown man's waist, and at their shallowest, even less than a calf's. The river was muddy, carrying silt from upstream, and flowed slowly southward. On both sides of the river were wide river beaches, covered with pebbles of various sizes—large ones like fists, small ones like knuckles, crunching underfoot. Further beyond was a sparse forest of poplars, willows, and oaks, their leaves beginning to yellow. Further still were rolling hills stretching endlessly toward the sky.
The midday sun shone directly on the water, a blinding light like countless shattered mirrors.
Lord Jason Lannister reined in his warhorse and stopped on a high slope on the western bank of the river. His mount was a tall Andal destrier, snow-white without a single stray hair; the saddle was inlaid with gold thread and rubies, glittering in the sun. He wore gilded plate armor with a lion embossed on the breastplate; every detail was polished to reflect a man's shadow. His helm was shaped like a lion, with a golden mane flaring outward, revealing only his standard blue-green eyes.
Behind Jason, the eight thousand elites of the Westerlands arrived continuously.
First came the scout cavalry, divided into squads of fifty, with four squads deployed for reconnaissance in all four directions. Then came the heavy cavalry—over a thousand men, both men and horses armored, formed in neat lines; their hooves trod on the river beach, rumbling low. Over two thousand Lannister archers had already spread along the riverbank, watching the opposite shore intently. Then came the infantry phalanxes—over four thousand men, divided into four thousand-man commands, each with its own banner and commander. Finally came the baggage train—hundreds of wagons filled with grain, fodder, arrows, tents, and various supplies.
The golden lion banners rustled in the wind—dozens of large and small standards, each embroidered with the Lannister sigil. The sun shone on the reddish armor of the Lannister army, on the gleaming tips of their spears, on their neat formations; the entire river beach seemed covered with a layer of flowing gold.
On the opposite side of the river, the defeated northern army fled in disarray. They had just crossed the river in chaos—some on horseback, some wading, some having simply thrown away their weapons and crawled into the forest on the other side. The banners of these grey wolves were crooked; some had fallen to the ground and been trampled. Their leather armor was ragged; some did not even have leather armor, wearing only thin linen tunics.
"My lord," Lord Lafford Reyne rode forward, pointing at the more broken troops on the other side, "they have already crossed the river."
Jason nodded, a smug smile playing on his lips. He saw it. Those northern savages were running as fast as rabbits. They had been pursuing them for three days, winning four battles and killing over a thousand men. The first time had been on the plain east of the Golden Tooth, where a thousand northern cavalry had been routed by them, leaving behind over three hundred corpses. Now these wailing dogs had been driven east of the Red Fork. Seeing them like this, if they chased them across, they could completely drive them away.
"Herald," the Lord of Lannister raised his hand to look at the cavalry herald, "the army is ready to cross the river."
"My lord!" Lafford's voice rang out as he rode before Lord Jason. "My lord, you can pursue no further!"
Jason's smile cooled slightly, and he looked coldly at Lafford.
"Why?"
Lafford pointed to the other side. "Look, it's forest. Our cavalry will not be able to deploy after crossing the river. If there is an ambush in the forest..."
"Ambush?" Jason interrupted and sneered. "Are you saying that these dogs, who have lost four battles in a row, will set an ambush? These northerners run faster than rabbits when they see us—would they set an ambush?"
Lafford shook his head. "My lord, that's not what I meant. I mean, we have been pursuing for three days and fought four battles; the soldiers are already very tired. The terrain on the other side of the river is complex. In case they really have an ambush..."
"Enough." Jason's voice grew quieter. "Lafford, you are full of 'in case.' What if this, what if that? How can there be so many 'what ifs' in war?"
Lord Jason Lannister rode around Lafford, took a few steps forward, looked at his bannermen, and shouted, "Everyone!"
All the bannermen looked at him.
Jason raised his hand and pointed to the other side.
"Do you see those northern savages? They are now on the other side of the river. If we chase them across again, we can completely annihilate them!"
The Westerlands soldiers burst into applause. Jason nodded approvingly and was about to order the river crossing when suddenly noise came from the other side.
All looked up and saw that the fleeing northerners had already run to the river beach on the other side, where they had formed up. They stood in sparse ranks, raised their weapons, and waved them toward the river. Then they began to shout:
"Lions of the West, you can only follow behind!" "Come on! Come on!" "Let's see how powerful you are!" "Lannister soft eggs, do you dare cross the river?"
The sounds carried clearly across the river. Immediately after, a chorus of jeers and mockery rose, mixed with crude gestures and unbearable curses.
Lord Jason's face darkened. Beside him, several generals' faces also changed. A northern soldier even unfastened his trousers and urinated into the river, laughing and running away. Another northern soldier picked up a stone and threw it toward the river—he couldn't even throw it that far.
"My lord!" A young knight from Casterly Rock rode forward, his face flushed. "Let me lead the troops—I will slaughter those bastards with my own hands!"
The bannermen looked at the defeated men on the other side cursing and swearing, all suppressing their anger.
Jason raised his hand and gestured for everyone to be silent.
He looked at the provocative defeated men on the other side of the river, at their triumphant faces, and the anger in his heart slowly kindled.
"My lord," Lafford spoke again, a pleading note in his voice, "you see, they are deliberately provoking you. They want you to cross the river, want you to chase—it must be a trap..."
"A trap?" Jason turned his head to look at him, his eyes flashing with danger. "Lafford, do you think I am afraid of traps?"
Lafford was stunned.
"I have brought eight thousand elites," Jason said, word by word, his voice growing louder and louder. "I have the best equipment, the best training, the best commanders. Those northern savages, in broken leather armor or mail, with broken weapons, can't even fill their stomachs. Those bastards—even if there are traps there, so what? Can they stop my army?"
The lord had already drawn his sword and held it high; his body gleamed in the sun.
"Lions of the West!" he roared. "Let those northern dogs see clearly what true strength is!"
"First wave across the river! Infantry in front, knights behind! Kill them all!"
Then the Lannister army's horns sounded.
Waaaah!
The horn's sound was low and majestic, echoing across the Westerlands army. Immediately after, the drums began: Boom, boom, boom... boom.