False Battle

Tywin shifted in his saddle, his expression carved from stone as his sharp gaze fixed on the distant horizon. At long last, the Stark host had finally appeared—black banners marked with the silver direwolf crest rippling against the morning light. The windswept plains of the Ruby Ford stretched far and wide before them, the river gleaming like a winding serpent in the golden dawn.

It had been five days.

Five damnable days of waiting in place for this moment.

It was absurd.

Tywin had expected the Stark host to arrive within two days, three at most after breaking camp at the Twins. That was how long a properly led force would have taken to reach the ford after their encampment dispersed. Instead, the boy Stark had hesitated, lingered, delayed. The reality of war had clearly shaken him, and Tywin did not bother to hide his disgust.

He had assumed the young wolf was green and inexperienced, but this? This was proof of his incompetence. War was not a game where one could afford to hesitate. Indecision bred defeat. Robb Stark had already lost this battle before it had even begun—he just didn't know it yet.

Tywin's gloved fingers tightened around the reins of his warhorse. Flags ready to be raised to issue orders where Kevan Lannister and Ser Addam Marbrand, commanders of the left and right flanks respectively would carry them out. Beyond him, the mass of the Lannister host stood prepared—20,000 strong beneath crimson banners, their polished steel catching the light of the rising sun.

Tywin knew exactly how this battle would play out.

This would not be a fight—it would be a lesson.

A lesson in how little Robb Stark understood war.

Tywin's eyes flickered across the battlefield, analysing it with the ruthless precision that had made him Warden of the West, the Old Lion of House Lannister. The Ruby Ford was an ideal position—flanked by hills on one side and the river on the other, it forced an approaching army into a bottleneck. There was only one way forward for the Starks, and that was through his men.

Tywin lifted his hand in a sharp gesture, his voice cold and commanding as he gave his first order. "Have the left flank prepare themselves to move out and meet the Starks." Flags were raised and immediately the left flank under the command of Kevan Lannister began to march. "Inform Gregor on the right flank to push forward and bloody the Starks."

Once more, flags were raised and the Mountain That Rides led the vanguard force out from the right flank. No more than a thousand men, but with Ser Gregor Clegane at the helm they would be a dangerous blunt instrument. He was a battering ram made flesh, the perfect tool for breaking through a disorganized, hesitant, fearful enemy.

This was how he would test the boy Stark.

Gregor would charge headfirst into their ranks, shatter their formations, and force Robb Stark to react. There the questions would be answered. Did Robb have the discipline to hold the line? Would his men stand their ground? Would the lords take charge? Or would he break like every other green boy leading men into battle for the first time?

Tywin already knew the answer.

He sat tall and unmoving, watching as the first war horns split the morning air, signaling the Mountain's charge.

The battle had begun.

Robb Stark was about to learn why he was no match for Tywin Lannister.

-X-

Roose Bolton sat astride his grey horse, his cold, pale blue eyes fixed on the horizon beyond the Kingsroad. The slow journey south from the Twins had been a deliberate maneuver, a calculated ploy meant to keep Tywin Lannister focused on the wrong target. But now, as the thunder of hooves filled the air and the distant banners of House Lannister's vanguard grew closer, Roose's mind remained as calculating as ever.

He would freely admit, if only to himself, that he had been wary of Robb Stark's command since the beginning. Not out of fear of treachery—no, Robb was his father's son, honorable to a fault. That was not what concerned Roose. Folly was often the result of youth, and he had seen many young lords eager to prove themselves, only to die screaming on the battlefield for their arrogance. A boy barely past fifteen summers, leading the entire North into war? That should have been a disaster waiting to happen.

Yet, Roose had found himself reevaluating the young wolf.

The more he observed Robb Stark, the more he had to acknowledge that the boy was not as foolish or reckless as he had initially assumed. His plan had been bold, ambitious, and deceptively simple in principle—staging a mock siege at the Twins while secretly ferrying five thousand men across the Blue Fork to seize the Riverlands when no one was looking.

The boy had embraced his enemies' perception of him—an untested, inexperienced, glory-seeking child—and used it as a weapon. The illusion of incompetence had made it so that not a single Lannister scout had even suspected a trick.

A brilliant strategy.

Roose would never allow himself to fully trust anyone—it simply wasn't his nature. To trust was to place oneself at the mercy of another, and Roose Bolton had never placed his fate in another's hands. He was not a fool. He kept his options open, always. But he would be a greater fool if he ignored what he had seen so far.

If Robb succeeded in liberating Riverrun, then the boy would have truly proven himself worthy of command. If Robb's gamble paid off, Roose might even consider throwing his full weight behind the young Lord Stark for the remainder of this war. The tides of war were ever-changing, and Roose always positioned himself to move with them.

For now, that meant playing his role.

His cold gaze shifted as he watched the Lannister vanguard break off from their left flank, a sea of crimson banners and polished steel thundering toward them. At its head, towering above all others, rode the Mountain That Rides, Ser Gregor Clegane. The brute had been let loose like a rabid beast, sent to test the North's forces and drive them into disarray.

But there would be no battle.

Not today.

Roose barely lifted his hand, his voice calm, almost bored as he gave the order. "We're to fall back."

His men obeyed instantly, no hesitation, no resistance. The Northmen turned their horses and began to pull back in an orderly withdrawal, just as they had been preemptively ordered to. The five-day march had served its purpose—to keep Tywin occupied. By now, the men Robb was commanding should be in place at Riverrun, if they hadn't already begun their attack.

There was no advantage to be gained by allowing Tywin Lannister a battle here.

A lesser man might have insisted on making a stand.

They might have called it cowardice to retreat without shedding Lannister blood.

Roose knew better.

War was not about honor.

It was about strategy, survival, and power.

For now, the most profitable course was to march in the direction of Robb Stark.

But the moment the young Lord Stark ceased to be profitable?

Roose could just as easily turn in another direction.