Dusk, three days later.
South of Riverrun, west of Pinkmaiden. Tywin Lannister's command tent sat on a hill overlooking the River Road, a massive crimson banner snapping in the wind. Tywin himself sat in a pine chair, staring down at the dust clouds kicked up by his army.
A small cavalry unit was trotting in from the southern woods, trailing a line of wagons overflowing with grain and livestock. Leading them was Gregor Clegane, the Mountain and his collection of human garbage. They'd spent the afternoon "foraging" (read: butchering) villages near the Red Fork.
A long pine table was set up in front of Tywin, covered in a gold cloth and loaded with enough wine and meat to feed a small village. The high-ranking knights and lords of the West sat around him, but the mood was far from celebratory.
"Brother, we're about a day's ride from the Golden Tooth," Ser Kevan said, looking over the logistics reports. Since Count Lefford had "accidentally" drowned, Kevan had taken over the army's food supply. "We've got plenty of grain and more livestock than we can herd."
Tywin had ordered the Mountain to probe the Riverlands lords on the way. The result? Total silence. Every castle was shuttered. No one came out to fight. They just watched from the walls while the Lannisters burned their peasant villages.
"It's too normal, Kevan," Tywin said, his voice flat. "Where are the 'heroes'? Where are the righteous fools who usually come out to die for a farm?"
"Maybe they're all at Lannisport," Kevan offered. "Davos's reports say the entire Northern host is there. It makes sense that the Tullys would be too terrified to breathe while we've got twenty thousand men in their backyard."
Tywin didn't look convinced. He took a sip of wine. "And the scouts ahead? Has Harys Swyft reported back from the Tooth?"
"Not yet," Kevan said, looking a bit embarrassed. "He didn't set off until this afternoon. He's likely planning to spend the night in the castle and send word in the morning."
Tywin gave Kevan a look of pure disappointment. He knew Harys Swyft was a lazy old man, but Kevan had a soft spot for the guy since Harys was his father-in-law. Given that Kevan had just lost a son, Tywin didn't press it. He just sat there, the bad feeling in his gut growing into a dull ache.
The next morning, the mist was thick and bone-chilling.
The Lannister horns blared, a sharp, urgent sound that cut through the silence. Tywin hadn't slept. That "bad feeling" had turned into a full-blown premonition of disaster. He wanted his army at the Golden Tooth now.
The soldiers grumbled, packing up their tents and strapping on their leather armor. The archers checked their bowstrings, and the heavy cavalry gathered under the lion banners. They began to move along the River Road in a long, steel-tipped column.
The Mountain led the vanguard, a few thousand irregulars and conscripts. He was brandishing his six-foot greatsword, screaming at anyone who couldn't maintain the pace.
"Move it, you trash! Or I'll leave your heads for the crows!"
Behind them came the heavy infantry, ten thousand spearmen and swordsmen led by Kevan. They moved in a dense, discipline-heavy block. Tywin himself rode in the center, surrounded by the most elite knights in the West. His golden armor shimmered in the rising sun, making him the most conspicuous target on the field.
By noon, the scouts were late.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
The drums started first. Not Lannister drums.
Suddenly, the hills, the forests, and the ravines were crawling with life. Thousands of figures emerged from the tree lines, covering the landscape like a flood.
The "Running Wolf" was everywhere. But it wasn't just Stark. I saw the white sunburst of the Karstarks, the Mormont bear, the Manderly merman, and most insultingly the twin towers of House Frey.
The horns of the North sounded a low, terrifying blast that sounded like a winter storm.
Gregor Clegane's eyes narrowed as he realized he was being surrounded on three sides. "CAVALRY! ON ME!" he roared. "INFANTRY! CHARGE!"
He didn't wait for orders. He knew if his conscripts just sat there, they'd be trampled. He spurred his massive horse into a gallop, leading a suicidal charge against the Northern riders who were already accelerating down the slopes.
A hedge knight named Besk tried to slow down, sensing the trap. Gregor didn't even hesitate, he swung his greatsword and literally split the man and his horse in half.
"THOSE WHO RETREAT, DIE!" Gregor screamed, blood spraying his visor.
Tywin watched the chaos from a high point on the hill. His gold-flecked eyes scanned the field, calculating the numbers. Eight thousand cavalry. Maybe seven. He saw the Frey banner and felt a surge of pure contempt. Rats, he thought. The Freys are rats who only bite when they think the cat is dead.
"Ser Adam!" Tywin called out.
Adam Marbrand, a sharp young commander in black plate, rode up instantly. "Sir!"
"Take two thousand riders. Go around the eastern plain and support Gregor. If they break too fast, pull back. Don't throw good lives after bad."
"On it," Marbrand said, leading his men into the fray.
Tywin sat his horse, his mind racing. He knew he'd been baited. Lannisport was a lie. The messages were fake. The "wolf cub" had captured the Golden Tooth and was now trying to swallow his entire army.
What an appetite, Tywin thought, a cold, dark respect flickering in his mind.
Just then, a scout galloped up, his horse lathered in white foam. "MY LORD! DUKE!"
"Quiet!" Tywin snapped. "Speak clearly."
"Sir... there's movement behind us! A massive host!"
"How many?"
"At least a thousand cavalry in the lead, but behind them... there are formations stretching for miles. Banners from the North and the Riverlands. They're saying it's twenty thousand men, My Lord. Maybe more!"
Tywin's mask of indifference finally cracked. He looked back toward Riverrun.
Twenty thousand in the rear. Eight thousand in the front. He was caught in a thirty-thousand-man pincer, and the "back door" of the Golden Tooth was already locked.
The Old Lion was trapped.