The Golden Tooth, the Lannister encampment.
Sunlight shone on the plain outside the Golden Tooth. Thousands of tents were densely arrayed, like a white sea. The golden lion banners rustled in the wind; the cavalry's warhorses galloped and patrolled around the camp; the clang of blacksmiths' hammers came and went.
This was the camp of the Lannister army. Over eight thousand western elites, together with the craftsmen, civilian laborers, and merchants accompanying the army, totaled more than fifteen thousand men. They had set out from Lannisport, passed through the Golden Tooth, and were preparing to march to Harrenhal.
According to Lord Jason's plan, they were to join the other Green supporters at Harrenhal, then move north to defeat the pro-Black rebels in one stroke.
But at this moment, a strange atmosphere hung over the camp.
In the great tent of the central army, Lord Jason Lannister sat in the high seat, his face pale. Before him knelt a scout, head bowed, his voice still trembling.
"Say it again," Jason's voice emerged through clenched teeth.
The scout swallowed and said with difficulty, "My lord, the northerners... the northern vanguard cavalry attacked fourteen villages east of the Golden Tooth last night."
"And then?"
"They... they looted all the food, and then... then killed everyone."
Dead silence fell over the great tent.
Jason stood and slammed his hands down. Bang! He struck the table.
At this moment, the lord's eyes burned with anger that nearly set the whole tent ablaze. This was an outright provocation—provoking his majesty as Lord of the West...
"Everyone?" The lord suppressed his anger and asked, word by word. "Including the old? Including women? Including children?"
The scout lowered his head, not daring to look at the enraged lord, and answered cautiously.
"Yes... yes, my lord. Not a single living soul was left."
Bang!
Jason struck the table again; the whole table jumped. Maps, wine glasses, and candlesticks were scattered everywhere.
"The North!" The Lord of Lannister roared. "Those savages! Those beasts without honor!"
He stood, walked to the tent flap, lifted the curtain, and looked at the neatly arrayed soldiers outside. The sun shone on his golden armor, on his face contorted with rage.
"Give the order!" he shouted. "Assemble the whole army! March! I want to personally slaughter those northern mongrels!"
"My lord!"
A voice came from behind. Jason turned and saw a middle-aged man of about forty entering the tent. The man wore dark blue armor and a cloak embroidered with three ships on a blue field—the sigil of House Farman of Fair Isle.
Lord Lafford Farman, Lord of Fair Isle, head of House Farman. He was a cousin of Lord Jason and one of the wealthiest lords of the West. Lord Lafford was in his early thirties, of moderate build, with a lean face and a neatly trimmed beard. He had always been known for his calm demeanor and was one of the few who dared to speak the truth.
"My lord," Lafford approached Jason and lowered his voice. "Please calm your anger. This matter needs to be discussed slowly, with a long-term plan."
Jason looked at him and said contemptuously, "Long-term plan? Those northern beasts killed my people and burned my villages—you want me to think long-term?"
Lafford sighed. "My lord, I understand your anger. But for that very reason, we need to be calmer. The northerners are clearly doing this with a certain purpose. They want to provoke you, to make you lose your reason and attack rashly."
Jason's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean, it's a trap?"
"Very likely," Lafford nodded. "That young Lord Cregan Stark, though not very old, is said to be very resourceful. He dares to lead thousands of vanguard deep into the West; he must have no fear. He slaughtered the villages and took the food to make you give chase, and then..."
"And then what?"
"Then set an ambush somewhere and wait for us to fall into the trap."
Jason was silent for a moment, then suddenly laughed. The smile was cold, with a hint of sarcasm.
"Lafford," the lord said dismissively, "you know, you are good at everything, but you are too cautious."
Lafford frowned. "My lord..."
"The northerners?" Jason interrupted. "Those savages in leather armor? They don't even have knights? Would they set an ambush? Would they play at intrigue?"
He walked to Lafford, patted him on the shoulder, and said almost pityingly, "Lafford, my cousin, you have been on Fair Isle too long. You don't know what sort of goods these northerners are. They are a pack of savages living in ice and snow, no different from wildlings. They have no chivalry, no sense of honor—that's why they only do these chaotic acts."
Lafford's brow furrowed even more. "My lord, though the northerners are poor, they fight fiercely. All the Starks are hard-boned. When Aegon the Conqueror attacked the North, though Torrhen Stark surrendered, it was because he knew he could not defeat the dragon, not because he was weak."
Lord Jason waved his hand, looking disapproving. "Fierce? How fierce can a pack of farmers be? Our western knights can slaughter them so thoroughly that not a single suit of armor remains in one charge."
He returned to the table, picked up the map from the floor, and spread it on the table.
"Look here," Lord Jason pointed to the location of the Red Fork on the map. "The northern vanguard should be here, near the border of the Elg. They took the food and will surely retreat. If we give chase now, we can intercept them before they cross the river."
Lafford looked at the map and shook his head. "My lord, even if we could intercept them, what of it? They are only the vanguard; there may be an ambush waiting behind... If we chase too deep and get entangled with them, waiting for reinforcements from behind..."
"Then we'll fight together with those behind!" Jason interrupted, his eyes shining with excitement. "Lafford, think—if we can defeat the northern vanguard and the main Riverlands forces in one stroke, what does it matter? All the Seven Kingdoms will praise the Lannisters' reputation! That Stark, that useless profit—they are all chickens and dogs before us!"
Lafford was silent. He looked at the lord's face, flushed with excitement, and a deep unease grew in his heart. He knew that the eight thousand elites assembled by the Westerlands were indeed excellent warriors and knights... But he knew this cousin too well. Jason Lannister, Lord of the Westerlands, had been spoiled since childhood, thought of himself as a lion, and paid no attention to anyone but the Targaryens. He would not listen to advice, especially when he felt provoked.
"My lord," Lafford tried one last time, "we could go to the Crag and follow the Gold Road to King's Landing. That is the Regent's order. Wouldn't it be safer to wait until we join the Regent's army and then turn back to deal with the northerners?"
Hearing this, Lord Jason looked at him with a hint of mockery in his eyes.
"Regent Aemond?" he said. "That seventeen-year-old boy?"
Lafford's face changed. "My lord, please be careful!"
Jason said impatiently, "Alright, alright, I know he's powerful; he has dragons, he can kill people. But strategically, he's a bit naive."
He walked to the tent flap, lifted the curtain again, and looked at the soldiers arrayed outside.
"Lafford," he said, "you must remember. I am a Lannister. I am a lion. Lions do not care what sheep think. Those northern savages want to provoke me—so I will show them what real war is."
He turned and looked at the knights waiting for orders, his gaze firm:
"Give the order: March. From the Golden Tooth, through Riverrun, to Harrenhal. If we meet those northern savages on the road, then deal with them."
---
Half an hour later, the Lannister army set out.
Eight thousand western elites formed a long column, powerfully leaving the Golden Tooth and heading east. The golden lion banners flapped in the wind; the cavalry's warhorses neighed; the infantry's footsteps shook the sky. In the sun, their armor gleamed, their spears were like a forest, their swords and shields like walls.
Jason Lannister rode at the head of the column.
Behind him followed two lions locked in iron cages. They lay in the cages, lazily basking in the sun, occasionally letting out low roars.
Jason looked back at the two lions, a smile on his lips.
When he arrived at Harrenhal, when the battle was over, he would release the two lions and let them taste the flesh and blood of the northerners.
It would surely be interesting.