The night before the battle was a restless one. The camps along the Green Fork hummed with the murmurs of men sharpening blades, tightening straps of leather, and whispering prayers to their gods old or new. The smell of horses, smoke, and fear hung heavy in the air.
In the crown's camp, the banners of the lion and the rose rippled in the soft night wind. Jaime Lannister moved with restless energy, pacing between the tents of Lords. His golden hair caught the firelight as he cast his eye across the assembled lords of the Westerlands and the Reach, as he did find something missing.
"Where are Tarly and Rowan?" Jaime asked, his voice cutting through. He turned to Lord Mace Tyrell, who sat smugly upon a cushioned chair as if the entire affair were beneath him.
Mace puffed out his chest. "I saw fit to keep them at Harrenhal. A fortress that size needs strong men to garrison it."
The words hung in the air like someone had called Arbor Gold piss water. For a heartbeat, none replied. Then came the looks shocked, uncertain, disbelieving. Even the Westerland lords, loyal to Tywin and no friends to the Reachmen, shifted uneasily. Randyll Tarly, one of the few men to best Robert Baratheon in open battle. A general known for discipline, ruthlessness, and sharp command. And Mathis Rowan, no fool himself, respected for steadiness and cunning. To keep them behind walls while green lords and untested knights filled the battle line was folly, and every man in the tent knew it.
Jaime's face betrayed little, but his eyes told another story. He masked his disdain with a wry smile. "Then we shall fight without them," he said coolly. "Tomorrow, we meet wolves."
The Westerland lords exchanged glances, unease now gnawing at them. But Jaime pushed them to the map, pointing to the flanks, the fork and the crossings. He would make do, as a Lannister always did.
Across the river, in the camp of the North, Robb Stark bent over his own map. Grey Wind sat by his side, eyes glowing in the torchlight, his low growls a constant presence in the dark. Around the table gathered Lord Roose Bolton, his expression grim and calculating, Greatjon, loud and eager as he always is and Brynden Tully, the Blackfish, his voice sharp with experience.
"They'll try the fork at dawn," Brynden said, tapping the map. "If I were Jaime, I'd strike hard and fast with encirclement, force us into the water to keep us off balance."
Robb nodded, listening. He was young, but there was a weight in his gaze that reminded the older lords of Eddard Stark. He pointed to the flanks. "Mallister and Piper take the cavalry wings. Small forces of Dustin and Ryswell will ride with them, to strengthen their lines but keep them light enough to move fast. If the lions try to encircle us, they'll find steel waiting."
The Greatjon slammed his fist to the table, making the cups rattle. "A solid plan. The lion will learn the North is not as soft as they think."
Robb's lips curved into the smallest of smiles. "Tomorrow we'll see if the Lannister bleeds gold."
Dawn came with a red sky and the cry of horns. The earth trembled beneath thousands of boots, the clash of steel and shields rising as the two hosts advanced upon one another. At the ford, the banners of the lion and wolf met in a storm of arrows and screams. Men clashed in the shallows, the water churning red as steel cut into flesh.
Jaime Lannister rode at the head of the vanguard, his sword flashing, cutting down men with a swiftness gained with both exceptional talent and a dedicated hard work ethic. He moved with grace striking men in a clean, efficient, and merciless way. Just in few minutes of battle golden lion on his breastplate gleamed bright with blood.
Opposite, Robb Stark rode with the northern lords, Grey Wind bounding at his side. The direwolf tore through Lannister lines as Robb's sword rose and fell.
The Greatjon's booming war cries carried across the field, while Karstark cut down foes with bitter fury, his long blade rising and falling like a headsman's axe. The Piper and Mallister banners wheeled their cavalry upon the right and left flanks, crashing into Lannister knights with thunderous force.
Steel rang, shields shattered, and the Green Fork ran red.
Far from the din of war, the island of Driftmark lay cloaked in sea mist. High Tide's walls glowed in the morning sun, the great keep of the Velaryons filled with voices hushed in awe.
In Monford Velaryon's solar, the lords of the Narrow Sea sat with wide eyes and talking in hushed tongues. The red dragon's roar from last day still echoed in their bones, and their gazes returned again and again to the boy who stood before them. Aemon Targaryen, son of Rhaegar and Lyanna, heir to blood both dragon and wolf, standing before them with Ghost, his direwolf, vast as a pony, seated by his side his crimson eyes unblinking.
Then came the knock.
The doors of the solar creaked open as a soldier stepped inside, his eyes darting between the gathered lords and his liege lord before him, before fixing his eyes on white haired boy.
"You Garce… a boy waits outside. He gives his name as Jojen Reed. He says he seeks an audience with… with you."
The room fell into a hush. Lords of the Narrow Sea, who moments ago had been discussing about the dragonlord seated among them, now turned their eyes to him once more. Aemon's gaze sharpened at the name, but a faint smile tugged at his lips.
"Send him in," he said simply.
The soldier gave a short nod and stepped back out, leaving the lords exchanging curious looks, none more puzzled than Monford Velaryon, who wondered what business a crannogman's son might have with a prince of dragons.