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The blaring horn of the charge sounded with a deep and mournful cry. Two cavalry detachments that had already crossed into the southern banks of the Tumblestone River launched their assault at the exact same moment, moving with a seamless coordination that spoke of their unspoken understanding.
The sudden roar of hooves startled the birds resting on the branches. With flurries of wings, they rose into the sky, fleeing from the land that was about to be transformed into a battlefield of fire and blood.
Since the land to the south of Riverrun stretched into a vast and unbroken plain, flat and open with no obstacles in sight, it provided the Northern cavalry with ample room to build momentum. By the time they surged toward the Lannister encampment, their steeds had already reached full speed.
The entire army had abandoned their heavy lances. These weapons, typically used in formal knightly duels, held little value in a raid on a military camp. They would only hinder the speed and mobility required for such swift and brutal tactics.
Instead, every soldier of the Northern host drew their longswords. They waved them high, shouting war cries, either for Cray or for the North. From all directions, they descended upon the unsuspecting Lannister camp, a storm of steel and fury.
They came with such swiftness that the moment they reached their attacking positions, all the Lannister scouts and messengers who had tried to return to the camp and warn their comrades were already lying dead under the vanguard's blades, regardless of rank or identity.
Thus, when the banners of the North suddenly appeared before the panicked Western lords scrambling out of their tents, none of them had even received a warning. It was only the seasoned Lord Crakehall, a veteran of many battles, who sensed something amiss from the vibrations in the earth.
A desperate and harrowing cry tore through the southeastern camp of the Lannisters.
"Enemy attack!"
But by then, it was far too late.
The Lannister army had established three large camps during the siege of Riverrun, and their original design had been solely for surrounding the castle. Consequently, all of their defensive fortifications faced Riverrun.
The other three sides of the camps were protected only by a thin line of wooden chevaux-de-frise. Not even a shallow trench had been dug.
It seemed the Lannisters had never even considered the possibility of an assault from the rear, let alone one led by a vast cavalry force.
When the Western lords saw the overwhelming tide of Northern cavalry charging toward them like an avalanche, they closed their eyes in bitter resignation. For even the most foolish among them understood in that moment that the battle was already lost.
Before a single blow had been exchanged, the outcome was clear. This fate had already been decided.
…
"Charge! Once you break into the camp, do not waste time fighting the infantry. Shatter their resistance as fast as you can. Within half an hour, I want to see their central command trampled under the hooves of your horses!"
Leading the elite cavalry at the forefront of the charge, Lord Hormwood still heard Cray's orders echoing in his mind. The severity in his voice before the assault had begun was unlike anything Hornwood had ever witnessed.
Unlike their previous battles, the commander's aim this time was not to inflict the most casualties first. His foremost goal was to use the iron hooves of the North to utterly crush the will of the Lannister army.
The shock of cavalry was an unstoppable force. Once it broke into their formation, the four thousand Lannister soldiers would fall into disarray, their organization completely shattered. And infantry that had lost its formation and leadership was nothing more than lambs awaiting slaughter before the charge of horsemen.
Of course, Clay was determined to annihilate all ten thousand of these foot soldiers, but in his eyes, this battlefield was merely the beginning. From Riverrun to the Golden Tooth, the entire expanse would become a vast stage for relentless pursuit and mortal struggle.
With a single charge, the elite cavalry under his command had already smashed through dozens of hastily formed Lannister infantry phalanxes, leaving them scattered and broken.
They had chosen to attack in the afternoon, a time when soldiers were drowsy and sluggish after lunch. This made their sudden assault all the more effective.
As they charged, the objective was to cut down commanders and seize banners. Since no commanders could be found, then the banners would fall.
Lannister soldiers stumbled out from their tents in disheveled clothing, still unsure of what was happening. Before they could grasp the situation, blades had already cleaved through their bodies.
Blood burst into the air like a crimson fountain, splashing skyward. Before it could even fall to the ground, their corpses had already collapsed into the muddy earth. All that remained was the sickening, muffled sound of steel slicing through flesh.
Riding at full speed, Clay struck like a serpent. His swordpoint flashed with deadly precision as he easily cut open the throat of a trembling Lannister soldier whose legs had gone weak with fear.
They had already reached the middle of the vast camp, their advance smooth and uninterrupted, with no force capable of halting the ferocity of the cavalry's charge.
To speak more accurately, the Lannister camp under assault had already fallen into total chaos. Though the Northern swords had yet to claim many lives, the sheer terror had driven the enemy into a mad and panicked flight. Many were trampled and crushed beneath the feet of their own comrades, dying not by the hands of the Northmen, but under the chaos of their own collapse.
"My lord, the Lannisters are in total disarray. At this rate, give us ten more minutes and we'll be able to cut clean through this entire camp from one end to the other!"
Christen, riding at his side, spoke with excitement. When they had first charged in, they had expected a fierce battle, especially since the fighting was taking place right in the Lannisters' own territory. Yet contrary to those expectations, the enemy, despite having a fortified camp to rely on, had shown less resolve than even the two thousand cavalry they had dispatched earlier.
Christen had not seen the slightest glimmer of resistance on any Lannister soldier's face. There was nothing there but fear. Fear of death and nothing else.
"Do not lower your guard. Do you see that banner, Christen? That is where the heart of the Lannister camp lies. I would wager we will finally encounter real resistance there. Remember, if the tide turns against us, the Quen Sign will save your life."
Clay's gaze locked onto the Lannister banner flapping in the wind atop a tall flagpole not far ahead—the roaring lion, bold and proud. His instincts told him that it must be the central command of the Lannister southeastern camp. If they could completely crush the resistance gathered there, the outcome of the battle in this direction would be all but decided.
"Charge! Whoever brings down the Lannister banner shall be rewarded with five hundred gold dragons!"
That proclamation acted as the strongest catalyst imaginable amid the charge. The sheer purchasing power of the gold dragons set the hearts of the Northern soldiers ablaze. Bringing down the banner and surviving to return home would mean a lifetime free from worries about food or shelter for any common farmer.
The cavalry surged forward once more behind their commander. As they thundered past a row of smaller tents, Clay and his riders caught sight of a cold gleam up ahead.
It was the sunlight glinting off suits of armor.
Two full rows of Lannister soldiers stood before them, clad head to toe in armor, weapons gripped tightly as they braced to meet the Northern onslaught.
The front row was composed of sword-and-shield infantry whose armor shone brightly. At this moment, they had planted their long iron shields into the ground and pressed their bodies against them, each man holding a short stabbing sword in his other hand.
Behind them stood another row of soldiers wielding tall, gleaming iron spears, each as long as a man's height. These were the deadliest weapons against charging cavalry. No living creature was without fear, and when confronted with a dense wall of spearheads, even trained warhorses would hesitate or veer away by instinct.
"Brace for impact! Keep your spears forward!"
The raspy shout of command only heightened the tension among the Lannister troops.
Clay could see clearly that the man giving orders wore an ornate suit of armor and a lavish cloak. However, the sigil on his chest was not the roaring lion of House Lannister.
It seemed he belonged to another noble house from the Westerlands. Clay could not immediately place which one, but that did not concern him. They would sort that out later.
At least this man still had his wits about him. He understood that abandoning the army and fleeing alone would likely lead to his capture, whereas staying to resist offered a greater chance of survival. Clay's forces were entirely cavalry, and this pampered nobleman would never be able to outrun them on foot.
However, to think that this meager line of defenders could halt their charge was naive at best. Clay would never allow things to go according to the man's hopes.
Very well, then. Let him witness for himself what a true cavalry assault looks like!
Clay's cavalry were like treasured jewels. Naturally, he wanted to minimize any unnecessary losses. That was why, for this crucial assault on the front line, he had brought forward the three hundred heavy cavalry from House Manderly.
These elite cavalrymen, armed from head to toe, were at their most fearsome when executing a concentrated charge against infantry formations. Due to the urgency of the situation and the chaotic nature of the battlefield, Clay had not arranged his three hundred heavy cavalry into a formal wedge formation.
But even so, the thundering charge of these armored riders was far beyond what this fragile Lannister line could endure.
Within the span of just two breaths, the first wave of soldiers had already slammed into the enemy line with tremendous force. In an instant, bodies were thrown through the air, though not a single horse was brought down.
The sheer impact of the charge sent the Lannister sword-and-shield soldiers flying. The iron shields they clung to, which had given them an illusion of safety, served more as a source of psychological comfort than as actual protection against the force of the charge.
As the warhorses thundered past, the following ranks of cavalry surged forward through the breach that had been torn open. They pressed the advantage, relentlessly tearing into the fragile formation and bleeding the Lannister line from within.
By the standards of warfare in this age, unless some extraordinary event intervened, the collapse of morale would inevitably begin when a force lost close to twenty percent of its strength. Despite the fine arms and armor of the Lannister troops, they were clearly not immune to this unyielding truth.
Then came the rout. Men began to flee, casting aside their only means of defense as they screamed and ran toward the rear. Each fleeing soldier left a gap behind, and those gaps, one by one, widened the holes in the line and hastened its total disintegration.
After holding out in desperation for ten agonizing minutes, the Lannister forces left behind to defend the central command tent of the southeastern encampment finally collapsed. Screaming and breaking ranks, they scattered in all directions. But how could infantry on two legs ever hope to outrun cavalry mounted on four?
One by one, they were cut down as they fled. Northern swords struck from behind, ending lives mid-stride. Scarlet blood spilled freely, soaking the already muddy earth and turning it into a mire of blood and muck.
When the final charge came to an end, Clay's three hundred heavily armored cavalry had, at the cost of five sons of White Harbor, utterly swept away the last defenses before the central command tent of the Lannister southeastern camp.
"Lord Clay, Lord Hornwood has sent a messenger," announced Christen, who stood before Clay's horse like a gourd cracked open and drenched in blood. A Northern cavalryman, equally soaked in crimson, accompanied him and gave the report.
"He's broken through the Lannister camp from both flanks. His riders have regrouped on the western side of the encampment, near the banks of the Red Fork."
"At present, nearly all of the Lannister troops in the southeastern camp have been driven westward by our forces. Once Lord Clay captures the central command camp, we can drive the entire Lannister force toward the Red Fork."
Clay gave a slight nod, satisfied. The plan was unfolding smoothly. The Northern cavalry had surged in from the southeast in a sweeping maneuver, and with the aid of the two fast-flowing rivers, the northwestern flank of the encirclement would soon be completed.
Clay did not mind at all if those Lannisters, soon to be herded toward the riverbanks, had a taste of the Red Fork's rushing waters.
If they could survive the raging current, he would not deny them the chance to crawl away with their lives.
Unfortunately for them, Lannister soldiers were made of flesh and bone, and the laws of nature remained cruelly impartial.
With another nod, Clay turned his eyes to the messenger and issued a calm command.
"Go back and tell Lord Hornwood to carry out the plan without hesitation. Seal the gap tightly. He need not concern himself with my end. Within fifteen minutes, my banner will rise on the eastern bank of the Red Fork."
"Yes, my lord!"
The messenger, his spirit lifted, shouted his response and galloped off. Clay watched him go, then turned his gaze toward the central tent that stood ahead of him.
"Let us go," he said, his tone growing sharper. "It is time to see just how many fat fish we have caught in this net. If we don't find at least two lords in there, all this trouble would hardly have been worth it."
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[Chapter End's]
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