The Riverlands, the eastern shore of Gods Eye Lake. Night.
The moon had risen to its highest point; silver moonlight scattered across Gods Eye Lake, and silver ripples on the water's surface gently swayed in the wind. On the flat ground to the east of the lakeshore, over five thousand exhausted Westerlands soldiers huddled together, shields beside shields, spears beside spears. Throughout the military formation, sighs came and went—some prayed quietly, some wept softly, some gripped their sword hilts.
Surrounding them were the allied armies of the North and the Riverlands.
On the northern hill stood over four thousand northerners; the grey direwolf banner snapped in the night wind. Torches were linked like a serpent, winding from one end of the hill to the other, two miles long. The torchlight illuminated the faces of these northerners—most were bearded, with disheveled hair and sharp eyes. Most wore mail or leather armor, but the long axes and swords in their hands were polished to a gleam. They were the vanguard of the North, and at this moment they stood on the high ground, watching the Westerners trapped by the lake like wolves watching their prey.
On the southern hills stood over eight thousand Riverlands soldiers; the blue trout banners of House Tully intertwined with the banners of Riverlands noble houses such as Blackwood and Mooton. Their dense figures swayed in the moonlight. Their equipment was far better than the northerners'—half-plate armor, iron helms, spears and shields. They were the sons and soldiers of the main Riverlands houses, fighting to defend their homeland and the Riverlands.
To the east lay the forest—the road the Westerlands army had just come from—and at this moment, countless archers hid in the shadows of the dark trees.
As for the rear of the Westerlands army, it was Gods Eye Lake, the largest lake in Westeros, dark and bottomless.
Now it was surrounded on two sides...
Lord Lafford stood in the center of the line, on horseback, looking around. His face showed no expression, but his hands trembled slightly—not from fear, but from exhaustion. The lord had slept poorly for several days; those Riverlanders had harassed him by day and attacked by night; he could not eat or sleep properly, and his steps were unsteady. His eyes had sunk into their sockets, his cheekbones stood out, his lips were cracked, and his entire body had lost a great deal of weight. His left arm was wrapped in a bandage, soaked with dark red blood, giving off a foul smell.
The night before last, he had been shot by a stray arrow. The arrow had barbs; when it was pulled out, it tore away a large chunk of flesh, causing him nearly to faint from pain. But at this moment, as the decisive battle began, he felt somewhat calm.
He thought of his lord, Jason Lannister—proud, arrogant, the duke who listened to no one. He also remembered the young envoy, remembered the Iron Throne's decree, remembered the phrase: "Either perform your duty as vassals to the Targaryens, or it is treason." He had obeyed. They had come. And then they had been trapped here.
Lord Lafford smiled bitterly, lowered his head, and looked at his trembling hands. These hands trembled. Not because he feared death, but because he knew that he might not be able to preserve the fire of these Westerlands men. When these elites, trained for years, disappeared, he did not know what the future of the West would be. But he knew that when a lion lost its teeth, everyone would prey on it...
"Uncle." His nephew and guard, Ser Joffrey, rode up to him, nervously looking north. "The northern wolf banner has moved."
Lafford, who had been in a daze, looked up at the sound. He saw the torches on the northern hills begin to move, like a burning serpent, winding down the slopes. The torches grew denser, like a flowing river, flowing from the mountaintop to the foot of the mountain. The torchlight illuminated every stone, every tree, every northern face on the hill—those faces wearing smug smiles, the smiles of hunters watching their prey fall into a trap.
The banners to the south also moved—just as dense, just as fast. The Riverlands ranks stretched from the hills like a bird spreading its wings, ready to encircle from both flanks. Their spears gleamed coldly in the moonlight; their shields were locked together as a wall; their footsteps grew closer and louder.
They were about to attack.
Lafford drew a deep breath—he could not order a retreat to the east. If he did so now, the entire Westerlands army would collapse immediately. The cold lake wind rushed into his lungs like a knife. He felt the cold spread from his chest to his limbs, to his fingertips, to the depths of his soul.
Lord Lafford opened his mouth and roared with all his might:
"Steady! Shield wall! Long spears! Prepare for battle!"
The Westerlands soldiers moved. Their movements were slower; the constant harassment and exhaustion had made their bodies heavy as lead. But they still moved. The entire Westerlands army began to raise their shields and lock them together into an iron wall; the edges of the iron-plated wooden boards clashed against each other, making a dull thudding sound. Spears began to rise; the shafts rested on the shoulders of their comrades holding shields in front. These densely packed spears resembled a hedgehog's spines; the spear tips gleamed coldly in the moonlight.
Over five thousand Westerlands soldiers gathered together, facing the lake and facing the enemy advancing from above and below.
Some began to whisper prayers to the Seven; some called out their mothers' names. Some lords and officials of the Westerlands looked repeatedly toward the east. The forest to the east was dark and seemed to hold many men in ambush. It seemed to be the weakest line of defense. But they knew very well that it was a trap—a gap deliberately left by the northern and Riverlands armies.
Lafford rode his horse, patrolling behind the line. His horse was also very tired; its hooves slipped, it breathed heavily, foam at the corners of its mouth. He patted the horse's neck; it snorted and continued forward.
"Steady!" Lafford's voice was somewhat hoarse but firm. "Sons of the West! As long as we hold steady, no one can defeat us!"
A young soldier looked at Lord Lafford as he passed; his lips trembled, his hands shook.
"My lord," a note of weeping in his voice, "will we die?"
Lafford glanced at him and wanted to say "no." But he could not say it. Because he knew it would be a lie.
"Many may die..." the lord finally said calmly. "But you may not. Survive—I will take you home."
The young soldier heard the comfort and nodded. His lips no longer trembled, his hands no longer shook; he gripped his spear, looking at the enemies drawing closer and closer.
Lafford continued forward. Behind the lord, someone had already begun to sing softly. It was a folk song from the West, about a knight bidding farewell to his beloved before an expedition.
More and more voices joined; the song grew louder and louder.
"The west wind blows across the golden fields,
The maiden's hair shines like the sun.
The knight's sword gleams in the sunlight;
He said: When I return, I will marry you..."
The song echoed across the lake, over the hills, and into every heart.