Branches rustled in the gentle night breeze, and the moon traced its path slowly across the sky, casting a cold, silver light over the Northern army. Silence dominated the forest, a deceptive calm that made every snapping twig sound like a herald of war. The only sounds were the distant rustling of leaves and the faint hooves of scouts returning from patrols.
Suddenly, from the north bank of the Tum Stone River, a series of torches erupted into the darkness like fiery serpents, winding through the Lannister camp. Flames licked at the tents, igniting them one after another. Screams of panic and shouts of combat rang across the night, echoing like thunder through the valley.
Eddard's sharp eyes immediately recognized the signs of a night raid. Ser Brynden "Blackfish" had seized the opportunity while the enemy slept. His raiders had breached the outer defenses, cutting down fences that obstructed cavalry, and armed with swords and torches, they swarmed into the camp. The Westerlands soldiers, caught completely unprepared, barely lifted their weapons before falling under the swords of the Northern raiders. The slaughter was swift and merciless—a one-sided display of Northern fury that left Eddard grim but unsurprised.
He could not see the western camp clearly from his position near Riverrun; the castle itself obstructed his view. He had to wait. Ten minutes later, distant shouts carried over the river, mingled with the booming of trebuchets. Reinforcements had arrived to assist the defenders of Riverrun, and with the Lannisters now caught in a pincer attack, victory for the North seemed inevitable.
Yet, even as flames and chaos unfolded, a dark cluster of figures emerged from Ser Foeller's camp. They split into two units, riding swiftly toward the battlefield and returning a few minutes later. Their movements were precise, disciplined, and cautious, but the signals were clear: the western flank had already been disturbed. The camp was alight with torches, shouts, and panic—the night raid was working perfectly.
Eddard's eyes scanned the approaching enemy. Soldiers in gold and crimson armor began assembling in disciplined ranks, forming a massive square formation. Pikemen in iron-studded leather held shields forward, their pikes raised. Archers crouched behind them, ready to rain death upon anyone who approached. The formation resembled a giant hedgehog, tense and alert in the darkness. Its weakest point lay hidden to the west, vulnerable to a cavalry charge.
Eddard calculated silently. Two thousand pikemen could not fully protect two thousand archers if charged at their flank. A properly timed cavalry wedge could pierce the thin outer line, leaving the archers exposed. The pikemen would need to form a crescent-shaped wall, constantly adjusting as the cavalry struck. Archers would need to rotate swiftly, drawing their bows in perfect synchrony. Ser Foeller's current formation was almost textbook in execution, but Eddard knew its limits.
The formation hesitated at the camp gate before moving slowly toward the southern farmlands. A banner suddenly fell. Tyrosh mercenaries had defected on the spot. Eddard's lips pressed together. Whether mercenaries or Ser Foeller, the choices mirrored the original timeline. His precautions in the eastern forest were simply that—precautions. The main force of attack remained his "cheap father."
Then, from the east of the Red Fork, a thunder of hooves shattered the quiet. A cavalry unit surged toward the ford, their hooves drumming against the earth like an approaching storm. Eddard's eyes widened. This was unexpected. No, not just unexpected—impossible according to the original plan. His father could not have amassed so many reinforcements, nor would he act so recklessly.
If the enemy was driven toward them by cavalry, the illusion of hundreds of ambushing archers might fail. The forest tactic of "every bush a soldier" would have little effect on desperate soldiers fleeing for their lives. Eddard's chest tightened. Could six riders and a hundred archers face four thousand trained men alone? The thought was madness.
Still, there was no time for fear. The golden and crimson ranks drew closer. Eddard gave the signal. Warhorses surged forward, dragging ropes tied to their saddles. The ropes swept through the underbrush, setting branches and bushes in motion, rustling leaves like the advance of unseen soldiers. A flock of startled birds erupted into the night sky, their wings beating furiously against the darkness.
The hidden archers loosed their arrows in rapid succession. Dozens of Westerlands soldiers fell under the sudden assault. Some, protected by armor, were merely wounded, but the cries of pain and alarm echoed through the ranks. The enemy paused, disoriented and panicked. Archers drew back, scanning the darkness for attackers who were not there. The illusion of hundreds of hidden troops in the forest was complete.
Ser Foeller, for once, was caught off guard. His mind raced, trying to reconcile the movements of his soldiers with the reports he had received. The Northmen army, he thought, must number twenty thousand, bolstered by Frey forces, night raiders, and ambushers. The numbers alone should paralyze even the bravest. He knew nothing of Tywin's victory over Roose Bolton, and the mental fog of misinformation clouded his judgment further.
From the ford, Northmen cavalry thundered forward, hooves striking the earth in unison. The Westerlands pikemen braced themselves, eyes wide under the moonlight, unaware that chaos was closing in from multiple directions. The distance between their ranks was slight; retreat was cumbersome. A single misstep could trigger disaster. When the first archers and pikemen collided, others tripped over them, spreading panic down the line.
Ser Foeller shouted desperately, "Maintain formation! Keep your lines!" His personal guard roared instructions, trying to stem the growing disorder. But it was too late. A chain reaction had begun, turning the meticulously drilled hedgehog formation into a chaotic porcupine of raised pikes, scattered soldiers, and tumbling men. Some pikes struck their own comrades; some fell uselessly to the ground.
Even so, Westerlands soldiers were veterans. Panic gripped them, yes, but training and discipline forced them to continue fighting. Fallen comrades were helped up; short swords replaced lost pikes. Ser Selin, deputy officer of the army, barked orders: "Ser Foeller! Staying here will lead to a three-sided attack! We must break through!"
To the east lay the dark forest, a potential death trap. To the north surged the Red Fork, impassable. South lay open ground, yet Northmen cavalry waited. And west, the primary attack force was invisible but lethal. Any hesitation would be fatal.
Ser Foeller's eyes hardened. With the Northmen cavalry advancing, he made a decision. "Advance into the forest!" he ordered. The square formation pressed forward, seeking cover, slowing their pace to navigate the trees. The forest restricted cavalry movement, preventing a full-speed charge, yet the Westerlands soldiers still faced danger from unseen enemies.
Eddard cursed under his breath. The bluff had failed. The planned ambush might be ineffective. It was a gamble now. Yet opportunity presented itself. From the south, a black banner emerged, catching the moonlight. The emblem of House Karstark glimmered starkly amidst the chaos.
"Charge!" Earl Rickard bellowed, spear thrust forward. Young cavalrymen surged with him, forming the point of a wedge. The horses thundered across the open ground, a black tide breaking upon the gold and crimson formation. Spears struck, swords cut, and warhorses overturned anyone in their path.
Archers, trapped between Northmen cavalry from the west and hidden ambushers in the forest, screamed and scattered. Ser Foeller's banner, once the centerpiece of command, now stood exposed, flanked by few loyal soldiers. The chaos of the night, the panic of misjudged numbers, and the sudden Northmen assault had transformed the battlefield into an unrecognizable scene.
Eddard's heart surged with excitement. Seeing his father seize the moment, riding boldly into the fray with House Karstark's cavalry, he felt a fire ignite within him. Retreat? There was no need. Opportunity was rare, and the enemy, disoriented and exposed, offered a chance to strike decisively.
"Brothers!" Eddard shouted to Karas Snow, Lando, Dita Kalander, Mam, and Abel Qashtak. "See that banner? Charge! Follow me!"
Warhorses surged forward, cutting through the underbrush, weapons raised. Eddard's lance leveled at Ser Foeller, who gleamed under the moonlight in chainmail and plate, a mark of arrogance and wealth.
"Today, you will learn that under the lance, all are equal!" Eddard roared, spurring his horse forward, joining the fray of death and fury. The night erupted into the clash of steel and the roar of hooves.
The battle had begun, and Eddard Stark would not retreat.
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