"Toot! Toot! Toot—!"
The blaring war horns shattered the fragile calm of dawn at the Trident River crossing. Their sharp, urgent cries tore through the morning mist, stirring men and horses alike from restless sleep.
Time was running out.
Scouts had already reported it—the Northerners were only a few miles away, advancing swiftly under the fading cover of night. A confrontation was no longer avoidable.
"Move!"
"Faster!"
"Form ranks!"
The Lannister camp erupted into motion.
Knights rushed to mount their restless warhorses, armor clanking as they moved. Infantry scrambled to fasten belts, grab shields, and form up into their assigned units. The sounds of shouted orders, neighing horses, and clashing steel filled the air.
This was no ordinary engagement.
After receiving intelligence of a Northern force moving south, Tywin Lannister had acted immediately. From Harrenhal, he had dispatched nine thousand troops to secure the Trident crossing, determined to prevent any enemy from crossing the river.
And yet—
Something about this battle felt… wrong.
Tywin stood outside his tent, his attendants fastening the last pieces of his gleaming golden armor. His expression remained calm, but his eyes were sharp with calculation.
"How many men?" he asked coldly.
Ser Addam Marbrand, commander of the scouts, stepped forward and bowed slightly.
"My lord, no more than four thousand. Likely fewer. They approached under cover of darkness. We had expected a noon engagement."
Tywin frowned.
"So few?"
His voice carried both disbelief and irritation.
"Are those two boys sending men to die for nothing?"
He paused, then added quietly:
"I will devour them."
But doubt lingered.
Baratheon's bastard held Riverrun. With Northerners, Riverlanders, and Gendry's growing forces, they had the means to field a much larger army.
So why—
Why send only a few thousand men?
Why not commit to a full-scale battle?
Tywin's mind raced.
He had already miscalculated once. His assumption that House Frey would remain loyal—or at least neutral—had proven disastrous. Riverrun had fallen, and the consequences were still unfolding.
Now, this…
This felt like striking at empty air.
"Perhaps they intend to cross the river and disrupt our campaign in the Riverlands," Ser Kevan Lannister said, stepping beside him. "But with so few men, they cannot hope to break through our defenses."
Tywin narrowed his eyes.
"That boy Gendry is not as simple as Robert," he said. "He does not rely on brute force alone."
"This… is bait."
Kevan fell silent.
"A vanguard sent to die," Tywin continued. "To distract us… while something else unfolds."
"Then should we wait?" Kevan asked. "Let them cross, exhaust themselves, and strike afterward?"
Tywin shook his head.
"No."
His voice was firm.
"Our army is assembled. If we refuse to fight, morale will suffer. We must crush them quickly—decisively."
There was no more time for hesitation.
"Deploy as planned," Tywin ordered.
The army moved.
The Lannister formation took shape with practiced precision.
The left flank was composed of irregular troops—levies, mercenaries, and lightly trained fighters. It was a weak point, intentionally or otherwise.
The center, commanded by Ser Kevan, was the backbone of the army—disciplined infantry arranged in tight formations, supported by archers and heavy cavalry.
The right flank, under Ser Addam Marbrand, consisted of heavily armored cavalry, ready to deliver crushing charges.
Tywin himself took position on elevated ground with the reserves, overseeing the battlefield like a calculating predator.
This was his style.
Steady.
Structured.
Unyielding.
Across the field, the Northern army emerged from the mist.
Their banners fluttered in the wind—direwolves, stags, dragons, bears, and more. Each represented a house, a story, a cause.
But today—
They all marched toward death.
At their head rode two figures.
Rickard Karstark, old yet unbroken.
Maege Mormont, fierce and unyielding.
"My name honors House Karstark," Rickard said, his voice steady. "I fight for Lord Eddard… for the North… and for the future of these young kings."
Maege laughed, gripping her spiked morningstar.
"We are old, Rickard—but not yet finished."
Their eyes met briefly.
No more words were needed.
They both understood.
This would be their last battle.
"Charge!"
Rickard raised his greatsword.
The Northern force surged forward.
They were known as the "winter wolves"—warriors who had no intention of returning home. Old men, hardened veterans, desperate souls…
All marching willingly toward death.
Arrows darkened the sky.
"Take cover!" Rickard shouted.
The first volley struck.
Men fell.
The second followed.
More screams.
The Northerners pressed on.
They ran faster.
They roared louder.
They refused to stop.
"Kill them all!" Rickard bellowed.
As he advanced, his sharp gaze swept across the battlefield.
Then he saw it—
The Lannister left flank.
Weak.
Disorganized.
A decoy.
"Maege!" he shouted.
She turned.
"The left flank is vulnerable. Take it. Break them."
"And you?"
"I'll strike the center."
He paused briefly.
"If you survive… take care of my children."
Maege nodded once.
"And you—don't die too easily."
They split.
Maege led her forces into the left flank.
It collapsed almost instantly.
Farmers, untrained recruits, and mercenaries broke under the assault. Maege's warriors tore through them like wolves among sheep.
Her morningstar rose and fell.
Each strike crushed bone, shattered armor, and spilled blood.
The ground quickly became a river of red.
Meanwhile—
Rickard charged straight into the Lannister center.
"FOR THE NORTH!"
The clash was immediate and brutal.
Spears pierced horses.
Men were thrown, crushed, trampled.
Still—
Rickard pressed forward.
His sword cut through armor and flesh alike. Behind him, Northerners followed, carving a bloody path through disciplined ranks.
But the Lannisters held.
Their formations did not break.
Reinforcements poured in.
Heavy cavalry moved to encircle.
Rickard's forces dwindled rapidly.
Half were gone.
Then more.
Still—
He did not stop.
A knight rode toward him, morningstar raised.
"Old man! This is where you die!"
Rickard laughed.
"I came here to die."
They clashed.
Steel met steel.
The morningstar struck Rickard's helmet, denting it deeply. Blood filled his vision.
But he endured.
Then—
A moment.
The weapon caught.
The knight hesitated.
Rickard struck.
His dagger plunged into the weak point beneath the arm.
The knight screamed.
Both fell.
Rickard tried to rise—
But it was too late.
Spears surrounded him.
They struck.
Again.
And again.
Rickard Karstark fell.
"Rickard is dead!"
The cry spread across the battlefield.
On the left flank, Maege heard it.
She closed her eyes briefly.
Then—
"Retreat!"
Her horn sounded.
The remaining Northerners pulled back, fighting as they withdrew.
Arrows rained down once more.
More fell.
Few remained.
From the hill, Tywin watched.
"Advance."
His reserves moved.
Five hundred knights charged forward, sunlight glinting off their armor.
The battle was over.
The "winter wolves" had been destroyed.
But Tywin felt no satisfaction.
Because deep down—
He knew.
This victory…
Came at a cost.
And worse—
It was only the beginning.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)