Jason Lannister felt his lungs scream with every breath he drew.
Heugh!
Heugh!
Heugh!
Around him, the world had long descended into slaughter.
Men screamed and cursed as steel hacked through flesh and bone alike. Horses shrieked in terror as they collapsed beneath spears and axes, crushing their riders beneath flailing hooves.
Limbs, bodies, shattered shields, and puddles of piss mixed with the mud of the Red Fork bank until the ground seemed to be made only of blood and filth.
War.
It was horrifying, cruel, and yet so commonplace that songs still found a way to glorify, nay, even praise it.
A knight stumbled past him, clutching what remained of his throat. Blood poured between his fingers in torrents before he collapsed face-first into the muck.
Nearby, two men wrestled in the mud like rabid animals. One managed to draw a dagger and drove it repeatedly into the other's neck until both disappeared beneath a crush of fleeing soldiers.
Everywhere Jason looked, banners that had once flown proudly now lay trampled beneath booted feet and dying men.
Gritting his teeth, he raised his blade just as an enemy swordsman lunged toward him.
Shrrrrrk!
Steel shrieked against steel as his arms ached from the blow. However, he knew he could not give up here.
His family, his honour, his everything counted on this war and by the Gods would he see to his victory.
With a snarl, Jason drove his pointed sabaton into the man's shin.
The boy cried out, stumbling forward as agony twisted his youthful features.
A boy.
Gods, he could not have seen sixteen namedays. For the briefest moment, their eyes met through the chaos.
Then…Jason thrust his blade, punching through the eye socket as it sank deep into the skull behind it.
The boy spasmed, writhing as he collapsed to the floor.
Meanwhile, blood, still warm, erupted across Jason's faceplate.
Some of it slipped through the gaps of his visor, splattering his cheeks and lips as he tasted iron instantly. The corpse slid from his blade and disappeared beneath the sea of struggling bodies.
Unfortunately, Jason himself was faring rather poorly, as for a moment, nausea threatened to overwhelm him.
Jason planted his sword into the earth and bent over it, desperately drawing breath.
Around him, his bannermen surged forward, forming a protective ring as the battle raged on all sides.
"Dammit, dammit, dammit!" Jason spat.
Disgust and frustration laced his every word.
This was not how it was supposed to be.
He had marched from the Westerlands with thousands at his back.
Veterans.
Knights.
Men-at-arms clad in good steel forged by Lannister gold.
They had come to the Red Fork expecting to sweep aside whatever resistance the Riverlords could muster.
After all, the orders from His Grace had been simple enough.
Cross the river.
Advance into the Riverlands.
March upon Harrenhal.
It was a straightforward campaign.
Instead, they had found hell. The crossing had become a slaughterhouse.
The riverbanks were so choked with dead men that fresh troops were being forced to climb over corpses just to reach the fighting.
Bodies floated downstream in such numbers that parts of the Red Fork had turned pink with blood.
Jason had expected frightened peasants and scattered levies.
Instead, every yard of ground had to be purchased with blood.
Lannister blood.
His gaze swept across the battlefield.
He saw golden lions falling into the river. Saw wounded men dragged beneath the water by the weight of their armour. Saw knights worth fortunes lying dead in the mud beside farmers armed with little more than rusted spears.
Closing his eyes for a beat, Jason steadied his breath before he screamed. "Fall back!"
"Fall back now! Pull away from the crossing!"
Trumpets echoed across the chaos after hearing him shout, slowly and painfully, order spread amongst his ranks.
While small knots of warriors continued hacking at one another amidst the mud and corpses, soon they too were dragged away by their comrades.
By evening, the air was fraught with mourning.
In the Westerlands camp, some men cried, some prayed, and many simply stared at the ground.
The rest? They were either dead or wished they were.
Jason removed his helm and drew in a long breath.
His golden hair clung damply to his forehead, and blood, some his, most not, painted his armour red.
"Lord Jason."
Jason turned to look.
Ser Adrian Tarbeck approached through the camp, his armour battered and streaked with mud. The knight looked nearly as weary as he felt.
"What news?" Jason asked.
"None of it good."
Jason snorted. "Then you're fitting right in."
Adrian managed a tired smile as he removed his helm, revealing a bright head that glinted in the evening rays. "We cannot keep throwing men at the crossing."
"I am aware."
"They are not letting up their position. We…have gained nothing in this battle."
"I am aware of that as well."
Adrian stepped beside him and studied the river.
For several moments, neither man spoke.
Eventually, Adrian broke the silence. "There may yet be another way."
Jason glanced at him sideways.
"Oh?"
"An ambush."
Jason raised an eyebrow, motioning Adrian to continue.
"A few hundred men. Perhaps less. We ditch our armour and cross farther north under cover of darkness. Find a ford. Circle behind the enemy camp."
Jason's gaze narrowed.
"And then?"
"We strike their rear while the main host assaults the crossing."
The knight pointed toward the distant tree line.
"They're concentrated here. Everything they have is focused on stopping us from crossing. If they're hit from behind..."
"They may panic."
"Exactly. And if they panic, this battle is a sure victory."
Jason folded his arms. The proposal was not without merit.
In truth, it possessed considerable merit.
Yet the risks were obvious. Painfully so.
A small force could easily become a dead force.
If Adrian failed to find a suitable crossing, they would be stranded.
If discovered, they would be surrounded.
If killed, Jason would lose one of his most capable men.
And for what?
A chance.
A gamble.
Jason Lannister disliked gambles as it often meant parting with his wealth, and Gods did he like his gold.
Still...remaining here achieved nothing.
Every day spent on the western bank was another day Ser Criston and his forces marched alone towards the Riverlands.
Another day, Harrenhal remained beyond their grasp.
Jason tightened his jaw, grappling with these possibilities.
Should he take the risk?
Or, should he wait and engage in a few more confrontations before deciding it is worthwhile to commit to the gamble?
Jason sighed as he paced about. "Decisions, decisions…" He murmured as he lifted his gaze toward the horizon.
Then…he froze.
Far to the south-east, against the bleak grey sky, something moved amongst the clouds.
Jason stared. And stared. And stared.
Then slowly, a smile twitched onto his lips.
In addition to Ser Criston Cole's forces from the Crownlands, he also had reinforcements arriving from Oldtown.
Well, a reinforcement. Unfortunately, it had slipped his mind. Fortunately, it was not too late.
"Lord Jason?" Adrian asked.
Jason's smile widened as he looked at him. "Proceed."
Adrian blinked. "Pardon?"
"Your plan. I'll give you a hundred good men. Just see to it you win this battle beautifully for me."
Realisation dawned across the knight's face. "You agree?"
"Is that not apparent?" Jason looked once more toward the distant horizon.
If Adrian succeeded, the Riverlords would find enemies on two fronts.
If he failed...
Well.
Jason doubted it would matter soon.
Either way, the balance of this hellish battle was about to shift.
***
Tristan Vance stood atop the embankment overlooking the crossing.
Beyond the Red Fork, thousands of campfires flickered to life across the western bank as red-gold banners snapped in the evening breeze.
Men moved between cookfires whilst smiths hammered dents from ruined armour and wagon trains carried fresh supplies from the rear.
Truly…a host fit for kings.
"Tsk. Golden twats, the lot of them." Shaking his head, Tristan recalled how he'd found himself tangled in this bloody mess.
One day, he had woken up atop his favourite whore. His favourite way to start the day.
The next second?
Sweet crimson death had descended from the skies in the form of a dragon large enough to swallow a horse whole.
He, Lord of Wayfarer's Rest, had very nearly shat himself that day.
Thankfully, The Stranger had decided that day was not his due. Unfortunately, surviving had left him sworn to a war he wanted no part of.
Gods, he hoped that fool had reached Harrenhal by now.
Knowing Simon Strong, the capture of the castle would be accomplished the moment the Rogue Prince appeared before its gates.
After all, the old castellan there was as brave as a fawn.
Tristan sighed heavily. If Harrenhal fell quickly, perhaps this farce would end before the Riverlands were bled dry. Before his forces were bled dry.
His attention shifted as footsteps approached.
"Lord Piper?" Tristan called.
"Aye, it is I." Lord Petyr Piper emerged from the gathering gloom. "How are the men? I doubt the lions let them off easy."
A shadow crossed Tristan's face. "They made only one push today. Scarcely an assault, more so them prodding at our defences."
"And?"
"We buried over three score men for their curiosity."
"Gods..." Petyr closed his eyes briefly.
The numbers were difficult to ignore. The disparity even harder.
The Lannisters numbered in the thousands.
They? They barely commanded a few hundred.
Losing sixty men in a single day's fighting was a wound they could ill afford.
"I can only hope Prince Daemon takes Harrenhal quickly," Lord Piper muttered. "Perhaps then the other Riverlords may finally grow a spine and join us."
"We can only hope."
Tristan's gaze drifted back across the river as he tensed up.
He saw it. Movement. And lots of it.
The Lannister camp was stirring with trumpets roaring to life as columns of men emerged from between the tents.
"What are they doing now?" Lord Piper muttered.
Tristan frowned. The western sky glowed orange beneath a blanket of dark clouds.
Daylight was fading fast. A sensible commander would be bedding down his men.
Not preparing them for battle.
Unless...
His stomach sank. "They're forming up."
Piper blinked. "At this hour?"
"Aye." Tristan spat into the dirt. "Seven strike me down, it can only mean one thing…they've got a plan."
The two men exchanged a grim look. Neither liked what that implied. Without another word, they turned and hurried back toward their own camp.
Tristan's voice rang out moments later. "Up! Up, you lazy bastards!"
Men looked up from cookfires.
Others stirred from bedrolls.
Some groaned openly as his words fell.
"The lions are moving!" Tristan bellowed. "Grab your bloody swords!"
Thankfully, that was enough as the camp roused into motion.
Steel rattled. Prayers were whispered. And amid the chaos, Tristan sauntered about barking at his men.
"Archers to the banks! The moment they try to cross, fill 'em with holes."
"The rest of you lot, move forward! Maintain formation, or I'll throw you oafs into the river myself."
His men obeyed quickly. Of course they did. These men all knew what awaited them if the crossing fell.
By the time Tristan reached the riverbank once more, hundreds of Riverlanders had formed ranks behind hastily erected barricades.
Across the Red Fork, the Lannister army emerged from the dusk.
Thousands of men.
Rows upon rows of shields.
Golden lions marching beneath crimson banners.
Tristan drew his sword.
The blade caught the last light of the dying sun.
"Here they come," he muttered, his heart hammering against his chest.
He knew well that even if they somehow repelled this assault, the outcome would remain unchanged.
Sooner or later, his men would be routed.
'Just not now! Not yet!' He grit his teeth.
He had to hold on.
Soon, the first ranks of the Lannister forces were nearing the crossing when a sudden uproar erupted behind them.
Tristan frowned.
What in the Seven Hells—?
His head snapped around.
By this point, panic had seized the camp.
Dozens of men burst from the darkness beyond the ridge.
Lannisters. A whole lot of them.
They crashed into the rear of the Riverlander position like wolves descending upon a flock of weary sheep. Men died before they even understood what was happening.
Ranks that had been facing the river suddenly twisted in confusion as warriors shouted a mess of orders.
"They're behind us!"
"Stop! We're meant to hold the crossing!"
"We're surrounded, you twat; we can't hold the crossing!"
"Form ranks, you bloody idiots!" Tristan roared.
Alas, there was only so little he could do in the chaos by his lonesome.
"Lord Piper!" He shouted.
The older lord spun toward him
"Hold the bloody crossing! I'll deal with these bastards!" Without waiting for a response, Tristan charged.
Steel rang against steel.
The first Lannister barely had time to raise his sword before Tristan's blade split open his face.
Blood sprayed, but Tristan cared little for it as his foe slumped to the ground in a bloodied mess.
Another lunged.
Tristan sidestepped and buried his sword beneath the fellow's ribs. Thankfully, these men wore little armour; it made cutting them open much easier.
Tristan ripped his blade free and spun.
A third man swung wildly. Tristan ducked beneath the strike and hacked through the attacker's forearm.
The severed hand flew spinning into the mud as the man screamed, clutching his arm that was spraying bursts of blood everywhere.
The man screamed. And screamed. And...screamed.
Until a second swing opened his throat.
One after another, they fell.
Yet for every man Tristan cut down, another seemed to emerge from the darkness.
A sword suddenly slashed across Tristan's abdomen as pain exploded through his side.
Hrk!
Warm blood immediately soaked beneath his surcoat as the attacker grinned an ugly smile, mocking him.
A mistake.
With a snarl, Tristan stepped forward and brought his sword down with both hands.
The blade crashed through the arrogant man's neck as his head tumbled from his shoulders and vanished into the mud.
The corpse remained standing for a brief moment before collapsing.
Tristan staggered, clutching his abdomen, which throbbed in warm, cruel pain.
But he remained standing.
Still breathing.
Still fighting.
And, as the moments passed, he found the pain lessening. Was he on the throes of death? Or had his mind numbed the pain?
He did not know. Nor was there time for him to care here.
His eyes swept the battlefield.
And there—
A massive bald warrior was carving a bloody path through his bannermen.
"Oh no, you don't." Tristan lowered his shoulder and charged.
The bald man saw him coming and grinned before meeting him head-on.
Steel collided. The impact nearly jolted Tristan's teeth loose. In a chaotic dance, the pair exchanged steel in furious blows.
Strike.
Parry.
Strike.
Parry.
Mud flew beneath their boots, yet both pressed forward relentlessly.
Then—
Something changed as the battlefield quietened.
Tristan parried another blow and risked a glance around.
His stomach dropped. His men weren't fighting. Many stood frozen. Like lambs to the slaughter, they stared skyward as pale terror gripped them, allowing the Lannisters to carve them open like mud.
Tristan felt fury rush in his veins at the sight, yet, before he could do anything…
A roar split the heavens.
A roar so vast that Tristan felt it in his bones. He…was shaking.
His every instinct screamed danger. Desperately begging him to escape.
With dread, he lifted his gaze.
And saw death.
A sapphire beast descended from the clouds. Shimmering blue scales shimmered against the darkening sky.
The dragon swept low over the battlefield, scanning the scene. Then…it opened its jaws.
Fire erupted in a violent torrent, consuming everything that stood before it.
Men vanished at its kiss, reduced to corpses in a heartbeat.
Tristan watched helplessly as entire ranks disappeared beneath dragonflame.
Screams filled the air. Horrible, horrible screams.
Men stumbled from the inferno, burning alive.
Those unfortunate enough to wear heavy armour suffered the worst of all as their steel glowed red and fused with their flesh.
Burning flesh.
Burning hair.
Burning…men.
It was all that filled his nose. It was all that clouded his mind.
Tristan's mind emptied.
What...
What was this?
How were they meant to fight this?
How were spears and swords supposed to challenge such a thing?
Around him, men threw down weapons and fled.
Others simply stood paralysed.
Some wept openly. Begging for all this to stop with their pathetic cries.
The dragon roared again as Tristan forced himself to move.
Forced himself to turn back toward his opponent.
Yet his foe was already upon him.
Steel flashed. Too fast. Far too fast.
Then—
Nothing.
For the battlefield began to spin around him in a dizzying breath.
Then…for one bewildering moment, he found himself staring at his own body.
It was there. Still standing.
Only…blood sprayed from the stump of its neck where his head had rested moments before.
His sword slipped from his now lifeless fingers as his body slumped into the mud.
Only then did it hit him.
Ah.
So this was death.
As darkness consumed him whole, one final thought crossed his mind.
This war…would visit horrors upon mankind not seen since Aegon's Conquest.
And before such horrors, men were little more than kindling.