Tyrion lay in the tent, holding the camp prostitute Bronn had found for him. He had originally intended to find one for Cole as well, but two days ago, Cole and his uncle Kevan had led their troops to Riverrun to reinforce Jaime.
The girl, Shae, slept soundly beside him, while Tyrion stared absently at the peak of the tent, lost in thought.
Cole had requested 400 additional horses, bringing his cavalry force to 1,000 strong. The rest of his men were left under the command of the one-eyed warrior known as the Red-Handed Man, who would follow the main army into battle against the Northerners.
As for Tyrion, he nominally commanded a force of 4,000 men. But he knew better—none of them truly answered to him. The only ones he had any real influence over were the Stone Crows, and even then, only just enough to keep them in line.
He had come to understand the tribesmen well. They were excellent at pillaging, looting, and picking fights over the most trivial matters.
His father had warned him more than once to keep them under control, or else the soldiers would be forced to teach them a lesson.
Tyrion knew this was more of a threat than a real promise—Tywin had no interest in dealing with internal strife on the eve of battle. The Stark army was less than a day's march away. Now was not the time for disorder.
On the night before the decisive battle, Lord Tywin hosted a feast for the knights and lords of his camp. Tyrion attended, though the experience left him in a foul mood. He hardly ate a thing before leaving.
And he was not the only one displeased—Cole was, too.
Ser Kevan had made his opinion of Cole abundantly clear, showering him with sarcasm throughout the march. If not for Cole's restraint, his hot-tempered Firemen would have already drawn steel against Kevan. Of course, the knights under Kevan's command were no easy prey—if a fight had broken out, Cole's men would have suffered as well.
Fortunately, they were close to Riverrun now. Their task was straightforward: deliver the news before the Young Wolf led his cavalry to strike the Lannister army, then gather the three forces besieging the city into a compact formation and hold out.
With tens of thousands of men in the camp, they could hold their ground for at least four or five days—possibly even drive the cavalry back.
As they crested a hill, Riverrun came into view in the distance. Fires flickered within the city, their glow blending with the stars in the sky.
Ser Kevan sneered. "By the gods, I daresay Stark's wolf cubs will wet themselves at the sight of those flames and go running back to their castles, crying for their wet nurses."
His gaze lingered on Cole, the insult barely veiled.
Cole ignored him. Ever since the old man had realized he couldn't beat him in a fight, he had resorted to empty words instead.
"Ser Kevan," Cole said with a faint smile, "grace in the face of one's enemies is a mark of nobility."
Kevan's face flushed red with anger. Compared to his brother Tywin, he was several steps behind—especially when it came to keeping his composure.
"I don't know what lies you told Tywin," Kevan said darkly, "but I won't hand over Lannister knights to a mere boy."
"You should have more faith in the Duke, Ser," Cole replied smoothly.
Kevan glowered. He had no idea what Tywin had seen in this upstart. His brother had simply ordered him to cooperate, without explanation. As Tywin's most trusted lieutenant, Kevan found it humiliating. He should have been leading an army against the North, not playing second to some foreign sellsword.
Still, he found some solace in the fact that he was marching to support Jaime's siege of Riverrun. Perhaps Tywin had simply sent him to ensure his nephew didn't make a mess of things.
Then, suddenly—
The fires at the northern edge of the Red Fork flared violently. In the eyes of Cole and Ser Kevan, they were like exploding stars, burning brighter and brighter by the second.
Kevan frowned. Were their own forces launching a night assault? That didn't seem right. And then—
Realization struck like a hammer blow.
It was their own camp that was burning.
They had been attacked. But how? Impossible!
Cole spoke abruptly. "It seems we'll have to move faster, Lord Kevan."
Kevan refused to believe it. But there was no denying the truth now—someone had struck the Lannister encampment.
Cole turned his horse, shouting orders to the men behind him, then spurred his mount into a gallop down the hillside.
Kevan followed, his heart pounding, as a tide of red steel surged across the wilderness outside Riverrun.
Cole's cavalry may have been small in number, but their charge carried the fury of fire itself.
Kevan stared at the figure ahead, his mind racing with questions. How did he know? Where had the force attacking the siege camp come from? Who was leading it?
He wanted nothing more than to halt this damned brat and interrogate him, but the urgency of the situation left no room for delay.
When they were just two or three miles from Riverrun, Cole suddenly pulled his horse to a stop, signaling for his cavalry to rein in as well. Then, in a voice brimming with authority, he turned and declared, "Lord Kevan, this is the moment Lord Tywin feared. From this point forward, I will take command of the battlefield."
Kevan fell silent, his jaw tightening. But after a brief hesitation, he bowed his head. "Yes."
A faint smile flickered across Cole's face.
They had reached a point just upstream of the Tumblestone River, where the Lannister camp stretched along the bank. To the north, the camp was bordered by a thick forest—now engulfed in chaos.
Jaime had divided the Lannister army of tens of thousands into three encampments. The northernmost camp was the one now being overrun by Northern cavalry.
Riverrun itself sat at the strategic convergence of two rivers. To the south of the city walls, the land was divided into three distinct sections, like pieces of a pie, cut apart by the rivers. This was where Jaime had positioned his three camps.
The central and northern camps were separated by the Tumblestone River. Now, that river teemed with men and boats—some Lannister soldiers flailing in the waters as they tried to escape from the north bank, while others struggled to cross from the south in a desperate bid to reinforce their comrades.
Cole shook his head. Fools. The commander of the central camp should have immediately consolidated his forces with the southern camp instead of blindly trying to reinforce the north.
The river was a natural barrier—cavalry and infantry alike would struggle to fight in water. Even if they managed to cross, they would only find themselves in a brutal and chaotic melee on the other shore.
The northern camp was ablaze, the flames reflecting off the surging waters. The Northern cavalry cut through the chaos, slashing their way through the disorganized Lannister ranks.
Cole activated the Eye of Time, his gaze sweeping across the battlefield. The Northern cavalry outnumbered them three or four to one. A direct charge would be suicide.
"Ser Kevan," Cole commanded sharply, "take a small force and secure the southern camp. Do not let it collapse."
Kevan opened his mouth as if to argue, but then thought better of it. Wordlessly, he handed Cole the banner and gestured for a few knights to follow him as he rode off.
Cole turned to Duoqi, one of the leaders of the Flame Guard, and whispered a quick order. "Gather the men. Start cutting trees."
Then he drew his sword, his voice ringing out like steel on stone.
"Flamemen (Beric Dondarrion)! Lannister warriors! With me! Charge!"
A roar erupted from the ranks as over 1,500 knights thundered down the riverbank, weapons gleaming in the firelight.
From within the smoke and flames of the burning camp, desperate voices rang out.
"Reinforcements! Reinforcements are here!"
The Lannister banner—its roaring lion emblazoned in gold—gleamed against the inferno, a beacon of hope amidst the chaos.
Behind the charging knights, the fire blazed high into the night sky—like a second sun, rising in blood and fury.
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