The Ruby Ford, under a blood-red sunset.
The Northern army's camp was deathly silent.
Catelyn Tully stood in the center of the tent, staring at the cold corpse before her. It was her husband, Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North.
Just a few hours ago, she had been waiting with full anticipation for her youngest daughter Arya's return. She had thought that once her daughter ca back, she would hold her tightly and tell her how worried she had been all this ti.
What she received instead was news of her husband's death.
"Lady Catelyn…"
Soone tried to step forward to comfort her, but was forced back by the icy aura surrounding her.
Catelyn said nothing. She simply knelt slowly beside her husband and reached out, gently stroking his pale face.
His eyes had been closed, but the hideous wound across his throat still silently testified to what had happened.
"Ned…"
Her voice was very soft, like a whisper of wind.
"You said you would co back."
The tears finally spilled over.
Outside the tent, Robb Stark stood on a high platform, facing the vast Northern army.
There were no tear tracks on his face, but his grey eyes burned with raging flas.
He slowly drew the longsword at his waist and raised it high.
"Soldiers of the North!"
His voice rang out clearly across the entire camp.
"My father — your liege lord, Lord Eddard Stark — has been murdered by the Lannisters in the most despicable way!"
Angry roars erupted from the crowd.
"Lannister treachery!"
"Revenge for Lord Eddard!"
"Blood for blood!"
Robb pointed his sword toward Harrenhal.
"The entire army advances! Attack the Lannisters!"
"Kill!"
More than twenty thousand Northern soldiers surged out of the camp like a tide, charging toward the Westerlands army four miles away.
The Ruby Ford — The Battle Erupts.
This was a battle no one had expected.
It ca suddenly!
Nearly fifty thousand n were committed in total. Over twenty thousand from the North, twenty-five thousand from the Westerlands.
Battle cries shook the heavens. Once again, the land beside the Trident was soaked in thick blood.
This place had seen several great battles throughout history, each one leaving rivers of blood. This ti was no exception.
Robb Stark personally led the charge.
His direwolf Grey Wind fought beside him, every leap claiming an enemy's life.
The young Young Wolf seed to have gone mad, furiously cutting down every soldier wearing Lannister armor.
But Tywin Lannister was no diocre commander.
Seeing the Northern army charging with overwhelming montum, he imdiately adjusted his formation, focusing on defense while fighting a delaying action. His goal was clear: avoid a decisive battle, preserve strength, and retreat to Harrenhal.
He ruthlessly abandoned the newly conscripted "reserves," using them as rearguard!
The battle raged from noon until sunset.
When the last rays of sunlight disappeared below the horizon, Tywin finally managed to withdraw his entire army back into Harrenhal. The massive gates slowly closed, and the drawbridge was raised high.
The colossal castle of Harrenhal lood like a giant beast crouched on the hill, coldly overlooking the Northern army below.
Robb stood outside the walls, staring up at the towering battlents.
His sword still dripped with blood, his body covered in enemy gore, but his eyes burned with unwillingness.
A castle as strong as Harrenhal was not sothing he could take by assault.
"My lord," Roose Bolton rode up. "Night has fallen and our army is exhausted. We cannot continue fighting. Sound the retreat."
Robb gripped his sword hilt tightly, his teeth clenched and veins bulging, but he had no choice.
After a long mont, he slowly nodded.
"Sound the retreat."
The mournful sound of horns echoed through the night sky.
The Northern army slowly withdrew, leaving behind a field covered in corpses.
In this battle, over ten thousand n had died.
The North suffered more than eight thousand casualties.
The Westerlands suffered more than seven thousand.
Both sides paid a heavy price, but neither achieved a decisive victory.
The only difference was that the North had lost their lord.
Robb returned to his tent and knelt before his father's body, silent for a long ti.
Catelyn walked over and gently embraced her son's shoulders.
"Robb…"
Robb's voice was hoarse.
"Mother, I will avenge Father. I will make the Lannisters pay with blood for blood."
Catelyn said nothing, only held him tighter.
Outside the tent, Northern soldiers gathered around campfires, silently cleaning their weapons.
No one spoke.
But in every man's eyes burned the flas of hatred.
In a corner where no one was watching, Roose Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort, wiped his sword with a faint, almost imperceptible smile.
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