It was an ordinary field a few leagues from Rosby. Flat as a table, bordered to the south by groves and orchards, and to the north by a range of low hills. There are thousands of such serene, nameless places throughout the Seven Kingdoms. Once, the Field of Fire and the Redgrass Field had been just like this...
Daven Lannister smirked at his thoughts, stroking his beard. His eyes watered from the sharp gusts of wind, which did not prevent him from discerning the crowned direwolf on the fluttering banners of the first Stark detachments.
Of course, one could have tried to attack them on the march, but the Young Wolf was not to be underestimated. He never neglected reconnaissance, so Daven did not even hope to sneak up on him unnoticed and take him by surprise. However, for all the Stark boy's talents, he and his army were doomed to fall in a forced battle.
Daven's smile grew wider. Everything was going strictly according to Lord Tywin's plan...
"...What distinguishes Robb Stark as a commander?" his uncle asked, not lifting his eyes from the map.
This happened after another war council in the Small Hall, so the stamp of irritation had not yet faded from his face. Daven himself had long realized that the Hand had long planned the further course of the war and needed no one's advice. All these councils and discussions were required only to convey to subordinates the most necessary information about their role in future events, throwing them to them like a bone to hungry dogs.
"Boldness, decisiveness," Daven drawled after a pause.
"Answering with general phrases, you force me to be disappointed in you," Lord Lannister's voice grew cold. "Think."
"Swift, unexpected attacks," Daven finally said after some hesitation. "He is like a needle striking suddenly and at the most vulnerable spot."
"And just like a needle, he is easy to break," his uncle picked up his thought. "He is arrogant to the extreme, constantly rushing ahead at the head of the cavalry, leaving infantry and baggage trains far behind. Therefore, he is fast, sudden, but also vulnerable."
"You want to provoke him and cut him off from the main army," Daven began to understand what they wanted to convey to him.
"For a week now, my people have been spreading a rumor throughout King's Landing that the army of the Reach has already moved out and is about to arrive in the Crownlands."
Daven noted several things for himself. Firstly, Lord Tywin is certain that the Young Wolf has people in the capital and they will hear his message. Secondly, he did not involve the Master of Whisperers and his little birds. A rather obvious conclusion suggested itself: the Hand trusted no one.
"What is required of me?"
"You will march with an army to Rosby, allegedly to join with Garlan Tyrell's detachment," now everything became clear: he was assigned the role of bait. "You will have five thousand infantry and two thousand horse," enough to attract attention, but not scare him off.
"A few days after that, another army will move out to Rosby," Lord Tywin continued. "Only, unlike yours, it will not go along the main road."
Daven looked at the map. Two golden lions bared their jaws at the wolf, tiny against their background. One pressed from the south, threatening the enemy with predatory claws, the other froze in a deadly leap from the northwest, cutting off the possibility of escape to the Riverlands.
"Who will lead the second army?"
"I will," his uncle pursed his lips, as if displeased with his own decision.
In recent months, he had not left the capital for a day so as not to lose control over it. Apparently, for the sake of Stark's final defeat, he was ready to change his rules.
"Tyrell will have to be taken along: better to keep him under supervision," said his uncle, grimacing.
His feelings were understandable: what was conceived as a beneficial alliance for the Lannisters turned into a notable headache. The main value of the Tyrells was their army, the largest in the Seven Kingdoms and not yet tired of constant battles, capable of shaking the established balance by its mere appearance. For its sake, Lord Tywin made great concessions during negotiations, satisfying almost all the Tyrells' wishes. And what followed the conclusion of the alliance? An attack by the Ironborn, due to which the expectation of reinforcements from the Reach stretched indefinitely. Of course, it would be foolish to blame the Tyrells for this—after all, they did not invite the Crow's Eye and his fleet for a glass of Arbor gold—but the sediment of unjustified expectations remained.
"With whom do you plan to leave the capital?"
"Addam Marbrand," Lord Lannister did not hesitate for a second. A very expected choice—to appoint his capable nephew castellan of King's Landing. "He will also look after the Red Keep together with Genna."
Daven nodded understandingly. In the last few weeks, the already not-so-warm relations between the Hand and the Queen had sharply deteriorated. And the reason was again unwittingly served by the Tyrells.
Lady Margaery, who was to become queen and inextricably link the two houses, was insanely sweet and easily won the hearts of the inhabitants of King's Landing. Admittedly, even Daven himself succumbed to her charm, although he understood perfectly well that he had no chance. Somehow this Highgarden beauty even managed to achieve Joffrey's favor, although Daven knew from Tyrion that he liked to torment ladies more than walk arm in arm with them and have conversations.
It would seem the perfect time for a wedding, but two days before the celebration, during a walk along the Blackwater, Lady Margaery's boat capsized. Daven remembered well how he pushed aside onlookers on the pier and tore off his cloak to jump into the water himself, but the brother of the future queen was faster. Ser Loras pulled her ashore, huddled and breathing heavily, and carried her into a carriage standing nearby.
It was not surprising that after bathing in ice water, Lady Margaery was bedridden with a severe illness. However, the Queen saw everything in a different light. Once Daven accidentally heard her, not mincing words, convincing Lord Tywin that "the little bitch is just pretending" and "the descendants of stewards are plotting treason."
Lord Tywin could not ignore such a statement:
"If these descendants of stewards were not feeding the entire capital, the mob would have rebelled long ago and would be storming the Red Keep now. If not for these descendants of stewards, who lent the crown two hundred thousand in gold when it was needed, the Faceless Men would have come for our souls long ago, and the detachments hired by the Iron Bank would have rushed to help Stannis Baratheon. So save your fantasy for fairy tales for children..."
That is why Lord Tywin was afraid to leave the capital.
Watching him, not taking his eyes off the map and toying with a lion figurine, Daven noted with amazement how much he had aged over the past year. How grey his face had become, how dull his eyes, how hunched the formerly impressive figure. This is the last war in the lifetime of this Old Lion and, Daven had no doubt, he would finish it no less grandiosely than all previous ones...
Looking through a spyglass ordered in Myr for fabulous money, Daven could not hold back a jubilant smirk: a rider wearing a crown over his helmet rode before the first line of Northerners. The trap had snapped shut.
More than anything in the world, Greatjon Umber hated waiting. Everyone who knew him well knew this. And therefore watching the lions slowly, as if even lazily, form a battle formation was comparable to torture. With every moment of forced waiting and delay, rage boiled in his chest stronger. Very soon they will fall upon the whole pack, will press with all their might, but his people will not move a step and will cover this field with the bodies of Lannisters. He will not fail Robb Stark and will prove that he was not mistaken in entrusting him with the right flank...
News of the Tyrells' victory over the Crow's Eye found Jon in the Great Hall during dinner. When the servant sent by the maester, shaking a letter, announced this news, Umber felt the excellent pork stick in his throat like a lump. Washing it down with a generous gulp of Dornish, he looked around. An anxious silence hung in the hall.
The chair at the head of the table was habitually empty. Once again, Robb did not appear for dinner. After what happened in the square, when Robb Stark, familiar over the years of war, overnight became His Grace Robb the First of His Name, he seemed to have set a goal to drive himself completely into the ground. Sometimes it seemed that he had several doubles at once to manage absolutely everywhere and solve all the multitude of problems that any advancing army faces.
Umber would not remember even under torture how he ended up at the doors of the royal chambers. Apparently, instinct in this case proved stronger than reason. Judging by the hurried steps behind his back, everyone who was with him in the Hall followed his example. The King should have been informed of everything first, and any moment he himself should have gathered them for a war council.
Jon had known Robb Stark for a long time and expected to see him pacing the chambers from excitement and thirst for action. Opening the door after a short knock, he found a strange scene. The youth sat with a map of the Trident spread out before him and, like an experienced cyvasse player, moved figures on it, considering each move. He was so absorbed in his occupation that he did not pay attention to those who entered, and only when his vassals crowded before the table, was distracted from his occupation and looked around at the gathered people in surprise, as if he had managed to forget about everything in the world.
Having greeted everyone, the Young Wolf moved the figures again. Walking around the table, Umber realized that the Battle of the Green Fork was before him.
"When Tywin Lannister planned this battle, he counted on our entire army, not a part of it," the King stroked his chin thoughtfully. "What do you think, Robett, if the Lannisters did not have numerical superiority, but the course of the battle remained the same, would we have had a chance of victory?"
"I doubt it," Glover, who had just entered, spoke after a pause. Surely remembered the month in Lannister captivity, poor fellow.
"And what does Uncle Brynden think?"
"No," the Blackfish did not doubt for a moment. "There would have been only more killed and captured."
"I think so too," Robb lifted a figure located by the very river. "When Galbart Glover decided to attack the deceptively unprotected left flank of the Lannisters, the outcome of the battle was already predetermined."
Leaning back in his chair, he looked around at his vassals. Greatjon Umber caught his gaze for only a second, but that was enough to understand: the Young Wolf was more confident in his abilities than ever and knew what he was doing.
"For several days in a row, I have been taking apart all the Old Lion's military campaigns bone by bone and revealed a certain pattern. Tywin Lannister plays with his opponent like a predator with prey. He intentionally leaves a gap in his defense and waits for the enemy to fall into the trap himself. It has always been so, even during the Reyne rebellion."
"And in which battle did Tywin pull the red lion's whiskers?" Jon could not contain his skepticism. With all due respect, Robb's theory was far-fetched.
"When he chose the Tarbecks as the first target and wiped this house off the face of the earth in two days, he already ensured his victory," the King's gaze wandered over the map and he spoke as if to himself.
"But your grace, that was only the beginning of the rebellion?" Clay Cerwyn spoke with a share of embarrassment. Jon agreed with him: because of the boastful song, every boy in any corner of the Seven Kingdoms knew the details of Tywin Lannister's exploits.
To this remark, Robb Stark only smiled.
"Roger Reyne was a good brother, which was used against him. At that moment, the forces of his house were much greater than those of the Lannisters. He could have gathered them all and destroyed the unexpected threat, but," the King made a meaningful pause, "he was too good a brother."
"Exactly," Theon spoke enthusiastically. "Instead of a full army, he brought hardly a quarter of his warriors to Tarbeck Hall because he was rushing to help Ellyn Tarbeck. Tywin Lannister was able to force a battle on him on his own terms."
"And not only that," added Robb. "After the Second Battle of Tarbeck Hall, no one in the Westerlands had illusions about whose claws were sharper and stronger."
A thoughtful silence hung.
"With his other battles, it is largely the same to a greater or lesser degree. I am sure he developed the battle plan at the River Road too, although he was thousands of leagues away. Attacks on convoys with gold, pursuit of the remnants of Rupert Brax's detachment, ambush on a mountain pass, strike from the rear by Kevan Lannister's cavalry. A huge success, Lord Blackwood, that you managed to break the encirclement."
Blackwood did not react to the praise in any way. Jon knew that for most participants this defeat became a palpable wound to pride, so it was rarely remembered among Robb Stark's vassals.
"And now I am thinking about the Tyrells' recent victory and trying to understand what Tywin Lannister wants from us."
"But why shouldn't he wait for Tyrell reinforcements and achieve multiple superiority over us?" asked the bewildered Olyvar No-Longer-Frey.
"This man has ruled the realm for many years and, I think, plans to rule it in the future through his untalented grandson," the Blackfish answered him. "He could take his time in summer, but not in winter."
All true. Even with all its wealth, the Reach will not be able to feed all Seven Kingdoms at once. The Riverlands are ravaged by Clegane's efforts, the Westerlands suffered less, but winters there are harsher. The echo of war will resound over Westeros for a very long time anyway, but the consequences of a severe winter, for which no one managed to prepare, may turn out to be many times worse.
"It is in both his and my interests to finish everything quickly," Robb declared with a relaxed smile, "so we will wait for his next move..."
They collided, furiously and swiftly, like two predators in a fight for life. Sweat obscured his eyes, but Jon Umber paid no attention to it. His people held on, fertilizing the field with the blood of Lannister dogs.
Feeling unprecedented elation, the Greatjon turned his head and froze, involuntarily lowering his sword. The center was crushed. The ranks mixed. Robb Stark's soldiers were fleeing.
They ran and Daven pursued them like a lion a herd of antelopes. His sword worked tirelessly, his horse trampled dead and wounded Northerners. Lord Tywin with the main army should arrive very soon and strike them in the rear—a message was sent to him a few hours before the start of the battle—but first Daven wanted to catch his main prey.
Learning that Stannis Baratheon burned his father alive, Daven swore to the Seven that he would do the same to the bastard, and meanwhile, as a reminder of this, would not cut his hair or shave his beard. Unfortunately, Robb Stark got to him first, so he had to settle for him.
He was already close, a wolf trying to break out of the trap set for him. Daven searched for him among the Northerners trying to fight back and felt excitement originating in the center of his chest. Did Robert Baratheon feel the same when he scoured the banks of the Trident in search of the Last Dragon?
A golden gleam flashed nearby, and Daven rushed forward, leaving the finishing of the Northerners to his men. The Young Wolf, having lost his horse in the heat of battle, was successfully fighting off three opponents. Judging by the battered visor and stiffness of movements, he had received a heavy blow to the head.
While Daven fought his way to him, scattering opponents standing in the way, Robb Stark managed to deal with Daven's soldiers and almost managed to disappear from sight, but the crown hanging on the battered helmet betrayed him like a torch in the night.
Daven rode up to him and, hesitating for a moment, dismounted: he did not want whispers about the dishonesty of his victory behind his back all his life.
They clashed, exchanging blows and slipping on the ground turned into mud. Daven immediately noted the skill with which Stark parried his attacks. Daven himself, although inferior to his cousin, was one of the strongest swordsmen of the Westerlands. Since this Stark, despite a protracted battle and an obvious wound, could fight him almost on equal terms, his fame was justified.
Despite the cold and piercing wind, Daven felt feverish heat and breathed heavily: the wolf cub managed to tire him out. It was time to finish with him. Lord Tywin is about to arrive, and Daven did not want to give him the glory of the conqueror of Robb Stark. For him it is a trifle, but for Daven it will ensure a brilliant future and honor that Lannisters from younger branches have never seen.
The armor on Stark was good, which is not surprising: Daven would like to see a king in a leather cuirass or chain mail of a hedge knight. Despite all efforts, only a couple of scratches appeared on the breastplate. However, this armor still had a weak spot.
Daven unleashed a hail of blows on the opponent and, choosing the moment when the Young Wolf's hand jerked to the side, directed the sword higher, to the head. At the last moment Stark managed to dodge, but lost his balance and ended up on the ground. The helmet rolled off his head: the straps burst. The boy was lucky: the sword only grazed the helmet, and did not take off half the skull. However, he delayed his end briefly.
Daven put the sword to the throat of the fallen enemy. What did he expect? Pleas? Promises? Curses? The Young Wolf was silent and only looked at Daven through the veil of dark hair stuck to his face. Looked fearlessly, with laughter. Looked with brown eyes.
As if waking from a magical sleep, Daven looked around and went cold. His army no longer resembled a single formidable fist. It stopped the pursuit and scattered into individual warriors in scarlet cloaks binding prisoners or collecting trophies from the dead. This laxity and lack of discipline were not surprising. Lord Tywin and Ser Jaime selected the best warriors of the Westerlands into their armies. Daven gathered and led to the capital everything that remained. And he himself is no better. Fell for this false Stark like a fool and lost control of the battle.
Lord Tywin's reinforcement was still not there. Where is he, Stranger take him?!
From the place where Daven ended up in the heat of battle, it was not visible what was happening on the left flank, but it was perfectly noticeable how Umber's regiments were regrouping. The considerably thinned infantry retreated back, giving way to cavalry. There was no time to wonder how it managed to increase in number so much since the beginning of the battle. Daven rushed between his men, trying to organize at least some semblance of formation, bitterly realizing the senselessness of his efforts.
...And the false Stark kept smiling with a broken mouth.