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GOT Chapter 77: The Lion’s First Blow
🕑 Added 2025-08-17 04:42:30 +0000 UTCThe sudden assault sent chaos rippling through the Riverlords’ host, half-settled in their encampment at the foot of the mountain. “Enemy at
The sudden assault sent chaos rippling through the Riverlords’ host, half-settled in their encampment at the foot of the mountain.
“Enemy attack!!!”
The guards on watch outside the camp froze for only a few heartbeats before recovering from the shock of seeing the flood of cavalry surging toward them.
[Dang! Dang! Dang—!]
Voices rose, shouting warnings. From the heights, a watchman struck the bronze gong at his waist, sending out sharp, urgent notes that cut the air.
But in the panic, with confusion smothering sight and sound alike, only one signal pierced through the din—the long, lingering blare of the warhorn.
To its call, as they faced the downhill charge, the Riverlords’ army seemed to behold a flood bursting down upon them, impossible to resist.
Red and gold colored that flood.
Within the torrent of riders, the crimson banners bearing the golden roaring lion snapped in the wind, their presence radiating endless killing intent.
The distance, pressed forward by time, was like a hunter’s knife sliding clean through the throat of its prey.
And the camp at the mountain pass below, like flesh meeting steel, was cut ever more swiftly, ever more easily, the deeper the blade drove.
“Run!”
“Run, now!”
“If you don’t, there’ll be no chance left!”
Faced with the Westerlands host’s dishonorable, sudden ambush, the Riverlords’ noble lords—faces drained of blood as the cavalry thundered down—reacted quickly.
For only a few stunned seconds did they stand frozen, before realizing their army could never withstand this flood of iron.
So in the very next instant, they made their choice.
The nobles, whose eyes had suddenly cleared with realization, wasted no time. In an instant they were dragging the still-dazed Edmure Tully with them, shouting for their squires and guards. Together they skirted the very edge of the camp and rushed toward the rear.
Fortunately, they had been waiting for Lord Vance’s “triumphant return,” so they had not remained inside the half-finished camp.
Thus, when the enemy struck, they had more time and space to react.
Taking advantage of the chaos, they circled around the camp, now a tangled mess, and grabbed whatever horses they could find without a second glance.
Mounting hastily, the lords had no thought for their armies. With heads bowed low, they spurred their mounts and fled for their lives.
They cared only for escape, never daring to look back at the carnage behind them.
No.
It was not battle.
It was slaughter.
One-sided slaughter.
Within the flight, Edmure Tully only truly regained his senses once he had mounted a warhorse. The jolting rise and fall of the animal beneath him brought him back to himself.
But by then, pressed in by the others, he had already been swept along the edge of the valley, circling the sprawling camp of several thousand men, carried all the way to the rear of the column.
He saw that they had escaped the most dangerous, most chaotic place.
And yet, even as he pulled free of that mire, Edmure could not resist. His eyes, bloodshot with grief, turned back.
What met him was blood that stung his vision, the cries of the dying shrieking into his ears.
“Ride, Ser Edmure, ride! We must go back!”
“Tywin has gone mad—he struck without warning, this was planned from the start!”
“He means to kill us all! He’s already slain Lord Vance!”
“He won’t let anyone live—he’ll drag every last one of us to die with him!”
Noticing Edmure still looking back, Clement Piper, Lord of Pinkmaiden, bellowed at him hoarsely.
Then he drew the sword at his hip and drove it into the rump of Edmure’s horse.
Staring at the face of the Lord of Pinkmaiden, tears burst from Edmure’s eyes.
Blinded by grief, he was forced to turn away, wiping his tears as he bent low, spurred his horse hard, and galloped down the River Road like a man possessed.
...
Meanwhile, atop the battlements of Golden Tooth Castle—
Compared to the chaos below in the valley, here all was calm, save for the distant noise rising upward.
Lord Tywin still wore his crimson velvet, embroidered with the golden lion in relief.
The sun shone overhead, yet on him it cast a cold, harsh gleam.
His gaze was steady, untouched by the turmoil below. He looked upon the battlefield with not the slightest flicker of emotion, never once lowering his chin.
But as he watched, a trace of doubt crept into his voice. He turned to the guard standing beside him and asked: “Is the heir of Riverrun truly such a fool?”
Hearing Lord Tywin’s voice, tinged with doubt, the guard at his side tilted his head slightly toward the figure kneeling on the ground, hands bound tightly behind his back.
Nearby, three headless corpses lay sprawled, their shoulders pouring crimson, blood soaking into the stone of the battlements.
The guard gave no reply.
For he knew well the Lord was not speaking to him.
Tywin watched in silence for less than two minutes, calmly taking in the sight of the one-sided slaughter unfolding below.
At last, he rested a hand upon the stone wall before him, his cold eyes sweeping toward the edge of the battlefield—where a knot of barely a dozen men was circling the camp and fleeing into the distance.
His voice remained as steady as steel: “Tell the pursuers—I want those men alive. Every last one. If even a single one dies, they will pay for it with their own heads.”
His tone was calm, yet laced with a chill sharp enough to freeze the blood.
Having spoken, Tywin seemed to lose all interest in watching the butchery below. He cast one last indifferent glance over the valley before turning away, expression unchanged, to return to his chambers and resume the unfinished work awaiting him.
That the Riverlords had been foolish enough to present themselves here—brazen, defenseless, almost as if daring him—Tywin could hardly comprehend.
And that they had even sent men to “humiliate” him? That, too, he found beyond understanding.
Yes, wars among nobles usually observed certain courtesies.
But what did that matter to him?
He had no qualms about striking the first blow, nor did he care how others might judge him for it.
As for his forces within the castle, they had long been prepared. Tywin had seen to that as soon as the news of the Riverlords’ march reached him.
Their army of several thousand had come weary from a forced march—only to dare set up camp in full view of Golden Tooth Castle, flaunting their presence before him.
To be blunt, Tywin could not refuse such an invitation—laid out before him like a woman with her legs spread wide.
With the Westerlands’ troops lying in wait, and the advantage of the high ground, the Riverlords’ host never stood a chance of mounting a defense.
This did not surprise him.
Here, with cavalry unleashed from above, cutting through an unprepared army in the open valley was as effortless as driving a blade through flesh.
It was no battle, but a one-sided slaughter. Nothing in it stirred the least interest.
But that was of no consequence.
What mattered was this: since the Riverlords had delivered such a gift into his hands at first meeting, he had no reason not to accept it.
And so, for Lord Tywin, the only thing left was to adjust his plans.
For next, he would strike directly at the heart.
Riverrun—Riverrun was to be the keystone in his design.
...
Lord Tywin Lannister, who had just crushed the first line of defense in the Riverlands and won the opening move of his campaign, had not expected things to go so smoothly.
It had come without effort, almost too easily.
The victory, achieved without the slightest strain, even forced him to adjust part of his original plan so that this advantage—gained with almost no cost—could be spread further across the board of his greater strategy.
Once he had finished carrying out his work according to the current situation, the great host of Riverlands lords led by Edmure Tully was whittled away piece by piece, massacred in an uneven slaughter, until at last Edmure himself, worn down to exhaustion by the relentless pursuit of Lannister cavalry, was taken captive.
The result was exactly as Tywin had foreseen.
Although there had been minor setbacks here and there, everything was unfolding steadily in his favor.
But by the time Edmure Tully finally stood before Lord Tywin Lannister, five days had already passed since the bloody battle at Golden Tooth.
He had not made it back to Riverrun. The Lannister riders hounded him night and day, never giving him a chance to slip away.
Only when their horses dropped dead beneath them, and the men themselves collapsed in exhaustion and hunger, did the lions bare their fangs in truth.
This time, the captives were not cut down on the spot like Lord Vance.
Instead, Edmure Tully and the vassals of his father were herded together into a heavy iron cage, wide enough that it needed four horses to drag it along.
They had sat in that cage for five days, with no one speaking to them, fed only scraps of cold leftovers tossed in at dusk to keep them alive.
And as the cage rolled along with the advancing Lannister host, Edmure realized that they were headed home. The army was marching toward Riverrun.
