Tyrion and Bronn rode up the high ridge as the horns faded, replaced by the clamor of shouting men and screaming horses.
"I see infantry from Riverrun," Tyrion said. "But little cavalry—they don't seem to be here. Who commands the northern host?"
"Scouts say Roose Bolton. The Flayer of the Dreadfort," Tywin Lannister answered.
Before more could be said, the northern army advanced into bow range.
On the right, the archers flanking the Kingsroad loosed a storm of arrows. The northerners broke into a run, shouting to steel their courage.
But the Lannister volleys fell like hail—hundreds, thousands, a downpour of death. Men dropped in droves, their brave cries turning to screams of pain. Even as they fell, a second volley rained down. At Uncle Kevan's command, his banner waving high, the archers already had their third arrows nocked.
Toot! Toot! Toot!
The horns sounded again. Tyrion saw Ser Gregor on the left lower his visor, raise his greatsword, and roar an order.
A thousand voices roared in answer.
The Mountain spurred ahead, leading the ragged left wing in a charge. From the high ground, Tyrion could see the plan unfold: the left's assault angled the line across the field, while the right, with its elite cavalry, held back. Once the northerners pressed deeper, they would be trapped.
Straight ahead, northern spearmen locked shields in a crescent, like a giant porcupine's rump thrust forward. Tall oak shields, painted with the sunburst of House Karstark, bristled with spearpoints.
At the sight of the hedge of spears, half the horses swerved aside at the last instant to circle the flanks. Others, uncontrollable, drove straight in, impaled on the spears, dying in moments. Tyrion saw a dozen men fall that way.
The Mountain's own horse took a glancing cut across the neck, reared up screaming, its iron-shod hooves lashing out. Maddened, it plunged into the shield wall. Spears jabbed from every side, but the weight of beast and rider shattered the defense like cracking ice.
Northerners stumbled back from the animal's death throes. Soon the warhorse crashed down in a spray of blood. The Mountain rose from the dust unscathed, both hands gripping his monstrous blade, and laid about him in a frenzy.
A single sweep hacked three or four spearheads away. A backhand stroke sent northern heads rolling.
The shield wall split like butter under a hot knife. The clansmen's ragged cavalry poured through the gap, their infantry pressing behind.
The central archers shifted fire away from the left—lest they kill their own—halving their field but doubling the storm upon the right.
Every step the northerners took toward Marbrand's position cost them dearly.
"I see no flayed man banners," Tyrion said. "Roose Bolton isn't here?"
"Not that I've seen," Bronn replied. His eyes were sharp; if even he hadn't spotted Bolton, then the man was not on the front lines.
"I need to find his position," Tyrion said. "Father, give me a company of horse. I'll swing behind them."
"Too dangerous," Tywin said at once. "I won't risk my heir."
"I won't risk my life either," Tyrion countered. "I value it far more than you think. I only mean to locate the Dreadfort men. Trust me—unless the odds are five to one, I won't charge."
Tywin hesitated, then gave a curt nod. He allowed Tyrion to take a thousand riders from the reserves and circle behind the battlefield to seek the missing northerners.
Sunlight slanted across the river, the rippling water glittering like a scatter of jewels—an unreal beauty upon a field of carnage.
Tyrion's gaze cut through smoke and chaos, fixing on the winding flow of the river.
The river, source of life and witness to war, had seen countless heroes rise and fall. Within the hour, it would be running with corpses and blood.
The Lannister horse thundered after him, their armor flashing cold and bright beneath the sun. Their momentum surged, and in their eyes burned a fire that would not die.
Tyrion's hand rose and fell like a conductor's baton, each gesture steering the column clear of the fiercest clashes, as though moving pieces across a vast and perilous chessboard, step by step toward the enemy's stronghold.
"There." Bronn pointed across the river, where several banners fluttered—the flayed man of House Bolton.
Tyrion was surprised. The fighting was all on his side of the river, so why were the Bolton banners flying on the opposite bank?
Clever Lord Roose Bolton. A well-played move. Tyrion's hopes of crushing the Dreadfort men and seizing hostages to bargain for Jaime had just slipped away.
He urged his horse forward until he reached the riverbank.
"Where is Lord Bolton? I have words for him!" he shouted.
"Lannister, today you have the victory!" came the reply from across the water. "But if you dare to cross in pursuit, I swear, the moment you step into the river, our arrows will turn you into a hedgehog!"
Across the Green Fork, more than two thousand infantrymen stood in ranks. This was surely the main strength of the Dreadfort.
Tyrion glanced back at his own cavalry. Were it not for the river, his men would already have been cut down. Roose Bolton was indeed shrewd and cautious.
His horse seemed to sense his thoughts, its hooves striking the ground in steady rhythm, as though lending him silent support.
A cool breeze swept across the water, carrying the river's clean, crisp scent. Tyrion drew it deep into his lungs, as if to drink in that calm strength and steel himself for what lay ahead.
The Battle of the Green Fork was nearing its end.
Raising his voice across the rushing river, Tyrion bellowed:
"Lord Roose Bolton, and all the lords and knights of the Dreadfort—if you come across my brother Jaime, see that he is well treated!"
"Keep him whole, and you shall have gold in return! Remember—A Lannister always pays his debts!"
Breathless from the effort, Tyrion turned his horse and spoke to Bronn.
"That's all we can do for now. Time to turn back and tend to the field. Be sure to seize as many noble prisoners as you can—I'll need them to ransom back my brother."
At his command, a thousand riders formed into a wedge and thundered off along the riverbank in the opposite direction.
...
If you'd like to support my work and unlock advanced chapters, you can follow me on P@treon.
[Upto 50 chapters ahead for now]
[email protected]/BlurryDream