Edmure Tully and the Riverlands lords, who had been anxiously waiting for Lord Vance to return with news of his parley, never imagined that the only "message" they would receive were three severed heads hurled from the battlements of Golden Tooth City.
From afar, the heads looked no larger than walnuts—crimson, dripping, and tossed down as casually as scraps thrown to a hungry dog.
The sight hit the gathered Riverlands nobles like ice water. Hatred flooded their faces; disbelief twisted their features. Tywin Lannister had killed envoys—a crime as grave as open war.
But before any of them could react or even comprehend the enormity of the insult, the mountain-top fortress answered their shock with violence.
The massive gates of Golden Tooth City swung open with a booming groan.
A moment later, the valley erupted with the thunder of hooves.
Charge.
Charge.
Charge.
Not far—too close.
The Riverlands lords understood instantly that with the advantage of height and momentum, the Lannister cavalry would reach their half-formed camp in less than three minutes.
Three minutes they did not have.
Panic swept the foothill camp like wildfire. The Riverlands host had been in the middle of pitching tents, unpacking supplies, settling horses. Nothing was ready—no barricades, no spear lines, no shields raised.
A sudden ambush was the last thing they had expected.
"Enemy attack!!!"
"Clang! Clang! Clang—!"
"Toot! Toot!"
The outer guards finally recovered from their shock. Someone screamed the warning; others hammered desperately at the brass gongs hanging from their belts, sending shrill, urgent alarms slicing through the confusion.
But even those warnings were drowned beneath the harsh, triumphant Lannister horns echoing down the mountain pass.
From above, the red-gold tide of cavalry descended—an avalanche of steel and fury. Their polished armor gleamed like flame in the afternoon sun. The crimson banner bearing the golden roaring lion whipped in the wind, its snap echoing like the crack of a whip.
The killing intent that followed was suffocating.
The ground trembled beneath the sheer weight of the charge. It felt less like an army and more like a flood—unstoppable, merciless, devouring everything in its path.
"Run!"
"Run! We must run!"
"If you don't run now, you'll never get another chance!"
The Riverlands nobles, pale-faced and shaking, spent only a heartbeat frozen in horror before instinct took over.
They could not hold.
They could not fight.
They could barely even form ranks.
Only one thing remained—survive.
Several lords grabbed Edmure Tully, who was still rooted to the spot in shock, and dragged him toward the camp's edge. Their retainers, scattered in panic, stumbled behind them.
Luckily, the lords had not yet entered deep into the camp. They had been waiting for Lord Vance's "glorious return," which ironically now saved their lives, giving them just enough room to maneuver.
Using the chaos as cover, the nobles slipped around the disordered tents to the camp's outer perimeter. Without even checking which horse belonged to whom, they seized whatever mounts they could find.
And then—they fled.
They did not look back.
They did not call for their troops.
Their only thought was to escape before the Lannisters reached them.
Behind them, the screams began.
Edmure finally snapped back to awareness as his stolen warhorse jolted beneath him. The sheer terror of the retreating herd brought him fully back to his senses.
But then—against all instinct—he turned his head.
What he saw made his heart shatter.
The valley behind him had become a slaughterhouse.
Men screamed. Horses fell. Blood sprayed across tents and dirt.
Lannister riders cleaved through unarmored Riverlands soldiers like farmers cutting down wheat.
A massacre. A complete, one-sided massacre.
"Ride, Edmure!" hollered Clement Piper, face ghost-white with terror. "Ride! If you look back again, I'll strike your horse dead!"
To his shock, Clement drew his sword and jabbed it into the rump of Edmure's mount. The beast shrieked and bolted, fear adding wings to its hooves.
Tears blurred Edmure's vision. The screams behind him echoed like knives.
He wiped his eyes, leaned forward, and kicked hard, galloping after the fleeing column toward the River Road.
---
On the battlements of Golden Tooth City
While chaos raged below, the top of the fortress was eerily calm.
Tywin Lannister stood there, expression carved from ice. He wore crimson velvet embroidered with a three-dimensional golden lion, the sunlight glinting cruelly along the fine threads. His green eyes swept the valley with chilling indifference.
He did not blink.
He did not flinch.
He merely observed.
After a moment, he spoke.
"Is the heir to Riverrun truly such an utter fool?"
The guards beside him exchanged nervous glances but gave no answer. Tywin's tone made it clear he wasn't seeking one.
Beside them, the three headless corpses knelt on the stone floor, their hands bound behind them. The blood trickling from their necks seeped between the stones, inching toward Tywin's boots.
He did not spare them a glance.
Instead, his gaze followed the dozen or so nobles who managed to slip around the carnage and flee into the distance.
"Tell the pursuit riders," Tywin said coldly, "I want every one of those men brought back alive. If even one dies, the man responsible will lose his own head."
The order carried no emotion—only absolute authority.
With that, Tywin turned away. The battle bored him. A slaughter was not a challenge. It was simply… necessary.
The Riverlands troops had been exhausted from marching. They had chosen the worst possible location to make camp—directly beneath a fortress held by the most ruthless commander in Westeros.
And then they dared to insult him with a pathetic attempt at intimidation.
If they wanted to spread their legs wide open before a lion, Tywin Lannister would not decline the invitation.
War etiquette meant nothing to him.
Honor meant nothing.
Victory meant everything.
And now the Riverlands had gifted him the perfect excuse to continue his campaign with overwhelming force.
He left the battlements to return to his work—not because the battle was unimportant, but because he already knew its outcome.
His plans merely needed… adjustment.
For next, Tywin intended to strike directly at the Riverlands' heart.
Riverrun.
The Tullys had invited war to their doorstep.
Now the Golden Lion would answer.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)