Behind the Riverlands army stood the elite of House Blackwood—the Raven's Teeth. There were only three hundred of them, but each was a master archer, one in a hundred. They wore black armor and raven masks, revealing only cold eyes. In their hands they held special longbows made of weirwood, longer, stronger, and with greater range than ordinary bows. They formed ranks and began to loose arrows.
These arrows were fast and precise, aimed at the necks, armpits, and thighs of the Westerlands soldiers—where their armor could not protect them. The sound of arrows cutting through the air was sharp and piercing, like the scream of death.
A Westerlands soldier raised his shield, but an arrow struck him in the eye. He screamed and fell to the ground, writhing and convulsing. Blood gushed from his eye; he tried to cover it with his hand, but could not hide it.
Another Westerlands soldier was shot in the neck; blood sprayed out. He clutched his neck, making clucking sounds, fell to the ground, and died. His body still convulsed, his legs still kicked, but he was gone.
Third, fourth, fifth...
A young knight beside Jason—his distant nephew—was only nineteen and had just married. At that moment, an arrow struck his thigh; he fell to the ground. Before he could rise, another arrow struck his throat. He opened his eyes and died.
Jason saw a familiar face—Lord Clive Bamford, an old man who loved to drink with him. An arrow struck him in the face, through the eye socket and out the back of his head. He fell to the ground and died without even a scream.
"No!" Lord Jason roared.
He led his men toward the Raven's Teeth but was stopped by a group of Riverlands soldiers. He swung his sword and hacked away frantically, one after another. But there were too many of them; kill one, two more appear; kill two, four more.
At this moment, they were like ants, endless.
"My lord!" The voice of his guard captain, Conrad, sounded beside him. "Retreat! Retreat quickly! Retreat to the other side of the river!"
Jason, already mad with rage, ignored him. He continued to hack and kill like a madman. A Riverlands soldier was killed by him, then another, then another. His sword was stained with blood, his body with blood, his face smeared with blood; he could no longer tell whether it was enemies or his own.
At some point, his helm had fallen off; his fair hair was red with blood, sticking to his face in strands. But the guards around the lord were growing fewer and fewer.
Those Westerlands soldiers who had crossed the river fell one by one under the assault of the Riverlands archers and the northerners. The formations shrank, the shield walls crumbled, the resistance weakened.
---
At that moment, someone rushed out from the side.
It was a young squire in primitive leather armor, with several holes in it. In his hand he held a spear—an ordinary spear, the shaft wooden, the tip iron, already slightly rusted. His face was still very young; he looked under twenty. His name was Pate, from a village. He had followed his master into battle; he was only a squire. He had never killed anyone, never seen such a scene.
But at this moment, he saw the man in splendid armor frantically slaughtering his comrades. He saw the man kill his companion—the friend he had grown up with—with a sword. He saw the man run his sword through his master—the master who had been very kind to him.
He did not know who this man was. All he knew was that this man had to die.
He rushed forward, raised his spear, and thrust it with all his might.
The spear pierced Jason Lannister's neck.
Pate did not know how he stabbed him. He just stabbed instinctively, and then thrust.
Jason's body froze. He felt a sharp pain in his neck, a coldness, then a burning wave, something gushing out—hot, very, very strong. He lowered his head and saw the shaft protruding from his neck; the spearhead had been driven in, the puncture deep, only slightly visible. He wanted to scream, but could not. A hissing sound came from his throat, as if something were blocking it. He wanted to swing his sword, but his arm would no longer obey. The sword fell to the ground and stuck in the river.
The Lord of Lannister turned his head to see the man who had stabbed him. It was a young man with a face full of fear, eyes full of horror and a flicker of confusion. He opened his mouth to say something, but could not.
Then Jason fell.
Into the water, into the blood, into the river where his blood mingled with the blood of others. He tried to rise, but his body would not obey. He opened his eyes, looked at the blurred light on the water, watched the legs of those people running around, looked...
Then there was nothing.
---
"My lord!" "The lord is dead!" "Lord Lannister is dead!"
The guards cried out and fell into utter chaos.
The man who had stabbed him, Pate, still stood there, staring blankly at his hand, at the spear, still covered in blood.
A voice rang out—sharp and piercing, drowning out everything:
"Lord Lannister is dead! Lord Lannister is dead!"
It was Aly Blackwood, on horseback, riding across the battlefield, shouting again and again:
"Jason Lannister is dead! Westerners, your lord is dead!"
Her voice was sharp as a knife, piercing the heart of every Westerlands soldier.
On the battlefield, all involuntarily looked for the location of the Lannister lord.
Then the Westerlands army began to break. Not a slow collapse—an instantaneous collapse.
They heard the woman's shout again and again, like a curse. The lord was dead. Their lord was dead. The lord who had led them into battle for twenty years. The lord who never flinched. The lord who had said he would lead them to victory and take them home. He was dead.
"The lord is dead!" "Run!" "Run!"
They began to flee. They ran into the river, toward the friendly forces on the other side. On the river beach, in the river, people ran everywhere. They pushed and trampled each other; some fell and could not rise. A knight was trampled into the river; dozens of men stepped over him. He tried to rise, but as soon as his head broke the surface, it was pushed down again. In the end, he was trampled alive and never rose again. His body floated with the river and mingled with the other corpses.
A young infantryman ran into the middle of the river and was struck in the back by an arrow. He plunged into the water, struggling, convulsing; blood stained the surrounding river.
An officer tried to organize resistance, waving his sword and roaring, "Stop! Stop! Don't run! If you run, you'll die!" But no one listened to him. He was knocked down by the fleeing soldiers and stepped on several times. He stood up and roared, but soon was knocked down again, and this time did not rise.
"Run!" "Help!" "Don't step on me!"
Screams, wails, and cries for help mingled together. The river was full of people; corpses were everywhere, blood everywhere. This blood stained the entire Red Fork red and flowed downstream.
---
Across the river, Cregan Stark rode on his horse, watching as the Lannister guards pulled Lord Jason's body out. Around him, the northern and Riverlands soldiers cheered joyfully and celebrated victory. They waved their weapons and shouted slogans; some knelt to thank the old gods, some embraced their comrades and wept bitterly, some searched the corpses for loot.
Cregan did not move.
He simply watched the tragedy in the river, the fleeing Westerlands soldiers, the warriors who still fought, the floating corpses.
Jason was dead... That proud lion was dead. Killed in this Red Fork, by a squire's spear.
Over three thousand elites of the Westerlands had crossed; now less than a thousand fled back. The others were either killed, wounded, or surrendered. On the battlefield, at least three thousand corpses lay. Westerners, northerners, and Riverlanders mingled together; it was impossible to tell who was who. The river was stained red—from here to there, all red. The air was thick with the strong smell of blood, feces, and urine, so heavy it took one's breath away.
"My lord," Riley Karstark said excitedly, riding up to him, "we have won! Jason is dead! The Westerlands army has collapsed! Shall we pursue?"
Cregan was silent for a moment, then shook his head.
"We cannot pursue."
Riley was stunned. "Not pursue? My lord, now is the perfect time to pursue! They cannot form an army—we can..."
Cregan ruthlessly interrupted him. "We have killed and wounded only about three thousand of them." He pointed to the opposite shore. "They still have over five thousand men."
Then Cregan paused and watched the Lannister army regroup across the river.
"Jason is now dead; the Westerners have lost heart. We cannot press too hard—that would only unite them again. We need to follow them like a wolf pack, harassing them day and night... Then they will panic, fall into chaos, and eventually fight separately... When they are completely scattered, we will gradually pick them off."
Riley thought for a moment and nodded. "My lord is wise."