Chapter 268 254: The Battle of the River Road

Wendell Manderly sat atop his horse as a cool wind blew across his young yet already resolute face.

Behind him, a contingent of two thousand five hundred men marched grandly along the River Road toward Harrenhal.

At least, it appeared so.

To create the illusion of being the main force, this contingent displayed everything they could openly.

A banner was raised for every ten Soldiers, and the sigils of the various Northern noble houses fluttered chaotically in the wind: the Direwolf, the Iron Fist, the Moose, the Flayed Man, the merman, the giant bear...

There were even a few of House Frey's twin tower flags.

At the rear of the column, a specific group of men had been assigned to drag bundles of branches along the dry road, kicking up clouds of dust so that from a distance, it appeared as if thousands of troops were on the march.

Wendell knew this sight wouldn't fool a skilled scout for long, but as long as it could draw attention from the direction of Harrenhal for even a moment longer, it would buy time for the other four armies.

Under his command, besides the five hundred Stark elite infantrymen Robb had assigned to him, the remaining two thousand were all "reinforcements" sent by House Frey.

These Soldiers were poorly equipped, had low morale, and certainly lacked loyalty to the Stark family.

The true purpose of this operation was naturally kept secret from them, but with such a grand display heading straight for the enemy's nest, even the most dull-witted among them could smell danger.

Unease spread through the ranks like a plague, with men whispering and their steps faltering; had it not been for the Stark elites keeping order, chaos would have likely broken out already.

In fact, according to Robb's instructions, the goal of drawing attention had basically been achieved by the time the army reached this point. Now, they should be considering how to withdraw safely.

But Wendell's hand tightened on the reins, his gaze fixed firmly on the southern horizon.

He remembered the solemnity in Robb's eyes when he patted his shoulder before leaving the main camp, and he remembered the words, "Come back alive."

He wanted to do more; he wanted to buy more time and create a greater opportunity for those four armies and for Robb.

Even if... the danger doubled.

Suddenly—

A low, muffled thrumming came from the earth, faint at first, then quickly becoming clear and powerful, like countless giant drums beating beneath the distant horizon and rapidly approaching.

Wendell's heart skipped a beat, and he looked toward the sound.

At the edge of his vision, a flash of piercing blood-red abruptly emerged.

It was not the dawn, nor was it banners.

It was armor.

Both men and horses were covered in plate armor as crimson as blood, reflecting a cold and sinister light under the rays of the rising sun. They were like a torrent surging from hellish magma—silent, orderly, and carrying a momentum that could crush everything—sweeping across the fields toward them at a terrifying speed!

They were too fast!

Wendell's pupils shrank, and a chill instantly shot from the soles of his feet to the top of his head.

It was that cavalry! The Blood-red Heavy Cavalry that had defeated Jaime Lannister in The Crownlands and was rumored to have broken the Riverlands Allied Forces in a single day in The Riverlands! How could they have arrived so quickly?!

"Form ranks! Engage the enemy!!" Wendell's roar cracked; he desperately tried to steady himself, commanding the troops to turn and organize a defense.

But it was already too late.

The moment that blood-red flood appeared, those two thousand Frey rabble lost half their souls.

As the thunderous, nearing sound of iron hooves beat against their chests and that boundless expanse of crimson hit their eyes, fear washed over them like ice water, instantly shattering what little discipline they had.

"Run! It's the Targaryen Devils!"

"Devils! They are devils!"

"Move! Get out of the way!"

Screams of terror, wails of despair, and angry shoving and cursing instantly erupted.

Those at the front of the column tried to turn around, those in the back hadn't reacted yet, and those on the flanks desperately tried to squeeze into the middle.

The commander's orders were completely drowned out.

Some dropped their weapons, some jumped off the road to try and flee into the wilderness, and even more ran about like headless flies.

The formation collapsed completely within a few breaths, and the self-trampling had already begun.

Henry led the charge, his cold eyes beneath his blood-red visor locking onto the chaotic array ahead, which resembled a frightened flock of sheep.

He could even see the twisted fear on the Soldiers' faces.

There were no shouts, no roars, only the deathly drumbeat of iron hooves striking the earth.

He suddenly raised his right fist.

The officers beside him immediately understood, and the command was quickly passed down through concise gestures and short shouts.

The three thousand Bloodsworn Cataphracts, acting like a gargantuan monster with a single shared will, began to make subtle and precise adjustments mid-charge.

The front of the originally thick formation quickly narrowed and protruded while the flanks swept back slightly; a perfect Wedge Formation, designed to pierce through enemy lines, formed instantly while they galloped.

The blood-red edge slammed into that chaos of men and horses without any fanfare.

There was no sound of a violent collision, only a series of tooth-grinding, muffled sounds of piercing and tearing.

Like a red-hot knife cutting through cold butter.

The four-meter-long heavy lances, bolstered by terrifying speed, easily pierced through thin leather armor, fragile chainmail, and even hastily raised wooden shields.

Bodies that were run through were tossed and flung aside like tattered ragdolls.

Those not hit directly by the spears were violently knocked flying by the barded warhorses, their bones shattered.

Iron hooves ruthlessly trampled over the bodies on the ground, whether they were dead or alive.

The blood-red flood did not slow in the slightest; like a plow turning over soil, it pierced straight through the entire chaotic army.

Wherever they passed, they left only a wide, crimson path paved with flesh, shattered weapons, blood-stained banners, and viscera.

The thick smell of blood rose to the sky, mixing with the dust in a nauseating way.

Wendell's eyes were nearly bursting with fury.

Beside him, the five hundred Stark elites demonstrated the fierce bravery of Northern warriors.

They did not flee; instead, they spontaneously gathered around him, quickly forming a tight circular formation with a forest of spears pointing outward, attempting a final stand.

They were the hardest rocks under Robb's command, and even in a desperate situation, they sought to buy one last moment for their commander and for the honor of Stark.

However, in the face of an absolute disparity in power, courage sometimes only serves to increase the tragedy.

The Bloodsworn cavalry did not even bother to adjust their formation for them.

The forest of spears was snapped and swept aside like stalks of wheat before the longer heavy lances and the even more violent force of the impact.

The warhorses, carrying thousands of pounds of force, crashed into the crowd; the sound of shattering bones and dying screams were drowned out by the thundering hooves.

The circular formation was instantly torn open by several massive gaps, then completely submerged and trampled by the following iron hooves.

Wendell brandished his longsword, parrying a lunging lance; the impact split the webbing between his thumb and forefinger, and the sword nearly flew from his hand.

He stumbled back, seeing the Soldiers protecting him fall row by row like harvested wheat.

Familiar and unfamiliar faces alike twisted and vanished in the blood-red light.

He saw a Bloodsworn Knight turn his horse's head, and from behind the slit of the crimson visor, a cold gaze seemed to glance at him.

The next moment, a sharp pain came from his chest.

The tip of a blood-stained heavy lance had pierced through his chest.

Wendell looked down and saw his armor shattered; blood was gushing from that hideous wound, quickly staining his breastplate and tunic red.

His strength drained away rapidly with his blood, and his vision began to blur and darken.

The last things to enter his vision were the blood-red knight's unhesitating motion of withdrawing the lance and that ferocious Three-Headed Dragon Flag, still flying silently amidst the blood-red torrent.

Immediately after, endless darkness and cold consumed him.

Almost at the same moment, dozens of miles away from the River Road, upon another piece of land that had just been baptized by the fires of war.

Robb reined in his horse, the tip of Ice pointing diagonally toward the ground as dark red droplets of blood slowly trickled down the ripples of the Valyrian Steel.

Behind him, three thousand three hundred Northern cavalrymen stood in silent formation, their horses snorting and breathing out white mist.

At their feet was a small camp that had just been destroyed; several tents were still burning, sending up billowing smoke.

Over a hundred bodies were scattered on the ground, most of them Targaryen Auxiliary Forces wearing only surcoats and equipped with shortswords.

It had been a clean and efficient raid.

They had encountered no significant resistance.

But this was far from enough.

This was merely an insignificant node used by the Targaryens to control The Riverlands; uprooting it was nothing more than an itch to the dragon perched in Harrenhal.

Robb frowned slightly as an inexplicable feeling of heart palpitation struck without warning.

He instinctively turned his head and looked toward the River Road.

There was only the open wilderness and a leaden sky; he could see nothing.

But his heart felt as if it had been squeezed by an invisible hand, sending a brief and sharp sting through him.

His fingers tightened around the hilt of Ice, his knuckles turning white from the excessive force.

Grey Wind seemed to sense something as well, letting out an uneasy low growl, his emerald eyes scanning the surroundings warily.

After a moment, that feeling of palpitation receded like a tide, leaving only an indescribable sense of emptiness and chill.

Robb took a deep breath of the cold air, which smelled of smoke and blood, and forcibly suppressed the unease in his heart.

The war had only just begun; he had no time for hesitation, and even less right to be swayed by emotion.

He withdrew his gaze and looked no more in that direction.

His eyes swept over the mess of the camp, falling on the dead auxiliary Soldiers, then over the faces of his own cavalrymen, which were stained with dust and blood but still burned with the will to fight.

"Mount up!"

Robb's voice rang out in the cold morning wind.

He cleanly flicked the remaining blood from his blade and sheathed the sword with a smooth and steady motion.

"Target: the Acorn Water Shallows Outpost to the southeast. Full speed ahead!"

"As you command, Your Majesty!"

He was answered by the friction of armor and the neighing of horses.

The Northern cavalrymen mounted their horses once more, like a gray whirlwind kicking up dust as they galloped toward their next prey.

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