The first wave of Westerlands infantry began to move toward the river.
It was 1,500 men, all the most elite infantry of the West. They wore armor with surcoats embroidered with the lion sigil, iron helms on their heads showing only their eyes and mouths. They carried spears with tips pointing upward, densely packed like a forest of steel. They held rectangular shields, wrapped in iron sheets and painted with golden lion heads. They marched with neat steps, step by step, their boots crunching on the pebbles, creating a steady rustle.
The drums beat. The horn sounded.
"First column, advance!" The commander's voice rang out.
The first column of soldiers entered the river. The Red Fork rose above their ankles—cold and biting—but no one flinched. They continued walking, and the river rose above their calves, past their knees, past their thighs.
"Second column, advance!" The second column also entered the river.
"Third column, advance!" The third column followed.
Fifteen hundred men, formed in neat ranks, stepped across to the other side. They held their shields high, braced for possible arrows, and looked at the provocative northerners on the opposite shore. The river flowed around them, bitterly cold, but all pressed forward in silence.
On the opposite shore, the northerners' jeers gradually diminished. They watched the army—the neat formations, the gleaming armor, the straight spears, the fierce lion crests—and the contempt on their faces slowly gave way to solemnity. But they did not flee, waiting quietly.
Jason rode on his horse, watching his army cross the river, a satisfied smile on his face.
"Lafford, you are too timid."
Beside him, Lord Reyne smiled and interjected. "How about calling him 'Timid Lafford' in the future?"
Lord Jason heard this and just smiled. Such an insulting title was still too harsh, after all, Lafford had served him for many years...
But Lafford was silent. He simply watched the fleeing northerners on the other side of the river, watching the changes in their expressions, and his unease grew heavier and heavier.
The northerners, who had been laughing and provoking just moments ago, suddenly fell silent. What were the northerners waiting for? He did not know. But he knew it was certainly not good.
---
The first wave of Westerlands infantry crossing the river reached its midpoint.
The river water reached their waists; the cold water soaked their clothes, and the heavy armor grew heavier; each step required great effort. But they still advanced—the ranks were neat, the shields still held high, the spears still straight.
On the other side, the northerners suddenly moved.
They began to retreat—but not in flight, in an organized manner. They retreated to the riverbank, to the water's edge, to the edge of the forest, and stopped. They began to form several lines, raising their weapons and preparing defensive formations.
Lord Jason frowned.
Not running? A defeated army would not form such a formation.
But before he could think further, a horn suddenly sounded from the forest on the other side. The horn was low and long. From the forest, a large northern army began to emerge.
Jason's face grew serious.
It seemed the northerners were going to fight him to the death.
And those northern soldiers who had been fleeing, still afraid, still panicked, suddenly seemed like different men. Their bodies straightened, their eyes lit up, and their faces took on a terrible expression—madness, frenzy, bloodlust. Their eyes were red.
"To the North!"
No one knew who let out the roar, and all the northern soldiers roared:
"For the North! For Stark!" "Winter is coming!"
The roar shook heaven and earth, drowning out the sound of the horn, the river, the drums, everything. This roar carried a thousand years of hatred, the northerners' contempt for the southerners, and their contempt for death.
Then they began to charge.
The northerners in broken leather armor, the northerners with broken weapons, the northerners who had been fleeing in confusion just moments ago—like a pack of mad beasts, they now rushed toward the Westerlands infantry in the river.
They charged into the river; water splashed everywhere. They carried axes, longswords, war hammers, some even clubs. They shouted slogans, sang battle songs through their teeth, and had only enemies in their eyes.
The Westerlands infantry crossing the river was caught off guard.
But the well-trained Westerlands elite did not panic.
"Steady!" The commander's voice rang high. "Steady! Raise shields! Spears!"
The soldiers in the first row immediately crouched and planted their shields diagonally on the ground, forming a shield wall. The soldiers in the second row placed their spears on the shoulders of the first row, tips pointing forward, densely packed like hedgehogs. The soldiers in the third row raised their spears, ready to throw.
On the riverbank, the Lannister soldiers drew their bows and aimed at the enemies rushing forward.
The whole process took less than a minute.
And the first wave of northerners crashed into them.
They slammed into the shield wall with a loud crash. Some men were run through by spears and fell into the river with screams. Some chopped at the shield with axes, leaving deep marks. Some bypassed the first row and charged straight into the second row.
"Strike!" The commander roared.
The spears of the second row thrust out simultaneously, running through several more men.
But the northerners were mad.
A man who was run through held onto the spear shaft with his dying breath, allowing his comrades to charge over him. A man who was cut down grabbed a Westerlands soldier's leg before he fell, dragging him down into the river.
Blood began to spray; the river slowly turned red.
A Westerlands infantryman had just run through a northerner, and before he could withdraw his weapon, another northerner was already upon him, swinging an axe at his shoulder. The axe cut through the mail and bit into bone. The Westerlands soldier screamed and fell into the river; blood gushed out, staining the surrounding water red. His comrade hastily raised his shield to block, but the northerner did not dodge at all, simply hacking away frenziedly—once, twice, three times—until the shield was chopped to pieces, until the man was hacked to death.
Another Westerlands infantryman was besieged by two northerners. He blocked a sword with his shield but was wounded in the leg by another axe. He fell to his knees in the river, and immediately a sword pierced his throat. He struggled, convulsed; blood gushed from his throat and mixed with the river.
The third, fourth, fifth...
The Westerlands infantry fought back desperately, but the northerners were too mad. They no longer ran; at this moment, they were not afraid of death. They seemed not to care whether they died—they only wanted to kill one more, and one more.
A northerner was stabbed in the belly; his intestines spilled out. He looked down, then raised his head, smiled, and swung his axe into the face of the Westerlands soldier. They fell into the river together; their blood mingled, impossible to tell whose was whose.
Another northerner was run through by three spears simultaneously; he spat blood and still crawled forward.
Another northerner, his hand cut off, grabbed a Westerlands infantryman's neck with his other hand and held on until death.
---
On the riverbank, Jason watched in disbelief as these northerners, now with such high morale, fought to the death with his elite in the river. He muttered in confusion.
"This... what is happening?"
Lafford's voice sounded in his ears—low and heavy.
"My lord, this is clearly a trap..."