At the Golden Tooth, the Lannister camp.
Sunlight spread across the plains outside the Golden Tooth. Thousands of tents stood packed together in neat rows, like a white sea stretching across the land.
Golden lion banners snapped in the wind. Cavalry patrols rode along the camp's perimeter, while the ringing of blacksmiths' hammers echoed from every direction.
This was the camp of the Lannister host.
More than eight thousand elite soldiers from the Westerlands were gathered here. Including craftsmen, laborers, and merchants accompanying the army, their total numbers exceeded fifteen thousand.
They had marched from Lannisport through the Golden Tooth and were now preparing to advance on Harrenhal.
According to Lord Jason's plan, they would join forces with other Green supporters at Harrenhal before marching north and crushing the rebels who supported the Blacks.
But an uneasy atmosphere hung over the camp.
Inside the command tent, Lord Jason Lannister sat at the head of the table, his face dark with fury.
Before him knelt a scout on one knee. The man kept his head lowered, his voice still trembling.
"Say that again."
The words squeezed through Jason's clenched teeth.
The scout swallowed hard before speaking.
"My lord... the Northmen... the Northmen's vanguard cavalry attacked fourteen villages east of the Golden Tooth two nights ago."
"And then?"
"They... they took all the grain. Then... then they killed everyone."
Silence filled the tent.
Jason rose to his feet.
Bang!
His fist slammed into the table.
Rage blazed in the lord's eyes, hot enough to set the entire tent aflame.
This was a naked provocation—a direct challenge to his authority as Lord of the Westerlands.
"Everyone?" Jason asked through gritted teeth, forcing himself to stay calm. "The old? The women? The children?"
The scout dared not look at the furious lord.
"Y-Yes, my lord. They left no survivors."
Bang!
Jason smashed the table again.
The entire thing jumped.
Maps, goblets, and candlesticks crashed onto the floor.
"The North!" Lord Lannister roared.
"Those savages!"
"Those honorless beasts!"
He strode to the entrance of the tent and threw aside the flap, staring at the ranks of soldiers assembled outside.
Sunlight gleamed off his golden armor and illuminated a face twisted with fury.
"Pass the order!"
His voice rang across the camp.
"The entire army forms up immediately!"
"We march at once!"
"I'll personally slaughter those northern bastards!"
"My lord!"
A voice called from behind him.
Jason turned and saw a man in his forties entering the tent.
The newcomer wore dark blue armor beneath a cloak embroidered with three ships on a blue field—the sigil of House Farman of Fair Isle.
Lord Lefford Farman, Lord of Fair Isle and head of House Farman.
He was Jason's cousin and one of the wealthiest lords in the Westerlands.
In his early thirties, Lefford was of average build, with a lean face and a neatly trimmed goatee.
He was known for his steady temperament and was one of the few men around Jason willing to speak honestly.
"My lord," Lefford said as he approached, lowering his voice. "I beg you to calm yourself."
"This matter requires careful consideration."
Jason looked at him and let out a cold laugh.
"Careful consideration? Those northern animals murdered my people and burned my villages, and you want me to think it over?"
Lefford sighed.
"My lord, I understand your anger."
"But that is precisely why we must remain calm."
"The Northmen clearly have a purpose."
"They want to provoke you. They want you to lose your reason and rush after them."
Jason narrowed his eyes.
"You think it's a trap?"
"Very likely."
Lefford nodded.
"Cregan Stark may be young, but by all accounts he's a capable man."
"For him to bring several thousand vanguard troops deep into the Westerlands, he must be confident of something."
"Burning villages and stealing grain—he's trying to make you pursue him."
"And then?"
Jason asked.
"And then he'll be waiting somewhere with an ambush, ready for us to walk straight into it."
Jason fell silent for a moment.
Then he suddenly laughed.
The smile was cold and mocking.
"Lefford," the lord said dismissively, "do you know your problem?"
Lefford frowned.
"My lord..."
"You're too cautious."
Jason cut him off.
"The Northmen?"
He snorted.
"Those barbarians dressed in leather armor?"
"They don't even have knights."
"You think they're capable of laying ambushes? Of plotting schemes?"
He walked over to Lefford, patted him on the shoulder, and said in a tone that was almost pitying, "Lefford, my cousin, you've spent too long on Fair Isle."
"You don't know what the Northmen are really like."
"They're just a bunch of barbarians living in a frozen wasteland, hardly any different from wildlings."
"They have no chivalry and no sense of honor. All they know how to do is this sort of lowborn, underhanded business."
Lefford's frown deepened.
"My lord, the Northmen may be poor, but they're fierce fighters."
"The Starks are all hard men."
"When Aegon the Conqueror marched against the North, Torrhen Stark surrendered, but only because he knew he couldn't defeat dragons—not because he was weak."
Lord Jason waved a dismissive hand.
"Dangerous?"
"How dangerous can a bunch of peasants be?"
"One charge from our Westerlands knights would slaughter them to the last man."
He returned to the table, picked up the fallen map, and spread it across the surface.
"Look here."
Jason pointed to the Red Fork on the map.
"The northern vanguard should be somewhere around here by now, near the border of the Riverlands."
"They've stolen grain, which means they'll be retreating."
"If we move now, we can intercept them before they cross the river."
Lefford studied the map and shook his head.
"My lord, even if we intercept them, then what?"
"They're only the vanguard. There could be an ambush waiting behind them..."
"If we pursue too far and they pin us down, then when their reinforcements arrive—"
"Then we'll smash those too!"
Jason cut him off, excitement flashing in his eyes.
"Lefford, think about it. If we can crush both the northern vanguard and the Riverlands' main force in a single blow, what would that mean?"
"The entire Seven Kingdoms would sing of Lannister glory!"
"The Starks, the Tullys—they'd all be nothing more than chickens and dogs before us!"
Lefford fell silent.
Looking at the lord's flushed face, red with excitement, he felt a deep sense of unease.
He knew that the eight thousand elite men the Westerlands had gathered were indeed excellent soldiers and knights.
But he also knew his cousin all too well.
Jason Lannister, Lord of the Westerlands.
He had been spoiled since childhood. He saw himself as a lion. Aside from the Targaryens, he considered no one his equal.
And he never listened to advice—especially when he believed he had been challenged.
"My lord," Lefford tried one last time, "we could march through Deep Den and follow the Gold Road to King's Landing."
"That was the Regent's command."
"If we join forces with the Regent's army first, then deal with the Northmen afterward, wouldn't that be the safer course?"
At that, Jason looked at him with open mockery in his eyes.
"Prince Regent Aemond?"
He snorted.
"That seventeen-year-old boy?"
Lefford's expression changed immediately.
"My lord, mind your words!"
Jason waved him off impatiently.
"Yes, yes, I know he's formidable. He has a dragon. He can kill people."
"But when it comes to strategy, he's still green."
He walked to the entrance of the tent and pulled back the flap once more, looking out at the soldiers assembled outside.
"Lefford," he said, "remember this."
"I am a Lannister."
"I am a lion."
"A lion doesn't concern itself with the opinions of sheep."
"Those northern savages want to provoke me? Then I'll show them what real war looks like."
He turned around and looked at the knights awaiting his orders, his gaze unwavering.
"Pass the order. The army marches."
"Leave the Golden Tooth, pass through Riverrun, and make for Harrenhal."
"If we happen to encounter those northern savages along the way, we'll deal with them as a matter of convenience."
Half an hour later, the Lannister host was on the move.
Eight thousand elite warriors of the Westerlands formed a vast column and marched east from the Golden Tooth.
Golden lion banners streamed in the wind.
Warhorses whinnied.
The marching feet of thousands of infantry shook the earth.
Under the sunlight, armor gleamed brilliantly. Spears stood thick as a forest. Swords and shields formed walls of steel.
Jason Lannister rode at the very front of the column.
Behind him trundled two lions confined within iron cages.
The beasts lay lazily in the sunlight, occasionally letting out a deep, rumbling growl.
Jason glanced back at them and smiled.
Once they reached Harrenhal and the war was won, he would release those lions and let them taste northern flesh and blood.
That would be entertaining indeed.
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