Robb’s army had beat the Lannister again and again. Just like what was currently happening. No matter how hard the massive rains poured down, the bloodbath that was currently happening was sickening.

Storm in the quiet.

The bunch of green conscripts that were scraped together, an armies trying to put back after the loss of Jaime's own troops, so roughly roused from their sleep by the Stark cavalry, were nothing more but livestock slain one after one. The glint of weaponry, steel and iron, clash of metal against another, shout and scream were nothing less but a funestre testimony of the victory of the King of the North, again.

The battle was an utter massacre for the Lannister. As the rains poured down, sticking to his clothes, the northern king rode forward upon his horse, fighting just alongside his man. Blade of a sword slicing through flesh and skin, bones and organs alike, until he eventually raised his attention forward, eyes locking with those of someone else.

{{user}} silhouette, firmly standing, weapons drawn, fighting despite the obvious fact their factions were losing.

He'll take care of them personally, judging by how easily they were slaughtering his men.