As the sun dipped toward the horizon, the Red Fork was bathed in a warm, bloody glow. Usually, the river rushed down from the north like a wild animal, but here at the shallows, it was shallow enough for a retreating army to scramble across to the East Bank.
By the time we caught up, half of Tywin's army was already across. Most of them were cavalry. Duke Tywin himself stood on a gentle slope, his tall horse drenched in sweat, his lion banner catching the fading light like it was made of actual gold.
Tywin was a lot of things, but he wasn't a fool. The second he realized he was being squeezed between our cavalry and Edmure's infantry, he didn't double down. He ran. He ordered his men to ditch anything that slowed them down heavy tents, extra supplies, even their plate armor.
It was a cold, efficient retreat. Anyone who tried to argue or slow the pace was left behind or executed on the spot. Lord Farman of Fair Isle had tried to cut in line to save his own hides, and now he was tied up like a pig in the dirt while his son was forced to lead their men into a suicide-watch position on the front lines.
Three riders in Marbrand colors galloped up to Tywin. They looked like they'd just crawled out of a grave.
"Ser Ceno," Tywin said, his voice flat. "Where is Adam?"
"My brother... he was cut off by the Umbers," the young officer rasped. "I saw him fall, My Lord. I don't know if he's still breathing."
Tywin didn't even flinch. "The three of you, get across the river with the Crakehalls. Now."
He turned his eyes back to the hills, where the "Running Wolf" banners were finally appearing in force.
Robb Stark's eyes were like ice. He pointed his sword toward the river and shouted, "ADVANCE!"
Thousands of our riders surged forward in small, disciplined teams. We were circling the Lannister rearguard like a real wolf pack, staying just outside the range of their longbowmen.
Robb saw the same thing I did: Tywin was mostly safe. He'd set up a massive pike "hedgehog" at the water's edge, a crescent-shaped wall of spears that looked like a forest made of needles. Behind them were two thousand archers with arrows already nocked.
If we charged that, we'd be skewered like kabobs.
Robb looked relieved that he'd at least caught the tail of the army, but I could see the frustration in the set of his jaw. He wanted to end the war today. Tywin, being the most ruthless man in the Seven Kingdoms, had traded his wounded and his "disposable" infantry just to keep his core veterans alive. He was choosing to live to fight another day.
I stayed on my horse, scanning the horizon to the north. "Where the hell is Roose Bolton?" I muttered.
A few minutes later, the main infantry host finally arrived. I saw the banners - the leaping wolf, the Tully trout, and the terrifying Flayed Man. But it was the white sunburst of House Karstark that made my blood run cold.
When we left Winterfell, my dad had two thousand shield-men. After the battle at the Green Fork the one Roose Bolton commanded. there were barely a thousand left.
I looked at the other banners. The Umbers were down a quarter. The Mormonts were missing a chunk. Every house that was loyal to the Starks had been bled white.
Then I looked at the Flayed Man. Three thousand Bolton soldiers, marching in perfect formation, looking like they'd just stepped out of a parade. They hadn't lost a single man.
The "Old Leech" had used the other houses as a meat shield while he sat in the back, preserving his own strength.
"Piece of trash," I hissed under my breath.
I tugged on my reins and rode over to the Greatjon. He was sitting his horse with his arm in a sling, looking bored because the King wouldn't let him charge the pikes yet.
"Lord Umber," I said, pulling up beside him. "I've heard the warriors of the Last Hearth are the bravest in the North. Seeing you guys today... man, it really puts things into perspective."
The Greatjon's hairy face lit up. He loved a compliment, especially from the guy who killed the Mountain. "That's right, Karstark! My boys fear nothing. We'll eat these Southerners for breakfast if the King just gives the word."
"True," I said, nodding solemnly. "Your house is legendary. But honestly? I don't think either of our houses can compete with House Bolton."
The Greatjon froze. He looked at me like I'd just insulted his mother. "Bolton? Roose is a snake. His men are just as creepy as he is."
I sighed, looking out at the Flayed Man banner. "Maybe so, Lord Umber. But look at the numbers. My family lost half our men at the Green Fork. You lost a quarter of yours. The Mormonts and Glovers took a beating too."
I pointed a finger at the pristine Bolton ranks. "But Roose? He's still got his full three thousand. Not a scratch on them. Doesn't that prove the Dreadfort warriors are just... better than us?"
The Greatjon's face went from pale to a deep, bruised purple. I could almost see the steam coming out of his ears as the realization hit him. He wasn't stupid; he just hadn't done the math yet.
"Is that so?" he growled, his voice dropping to a dangerous rumble.
I gave him a sympathetic shrug and rode away. The hole was dug. Now I just had to wait for Roose to fall into it.