Edmure Tully's orders were passed down.
The entire army formed ranks and advanced toward the Targaryen host reported by the scouts.
He still clung to a faint hope that the two armies could face each other openly on level ground.
He would deploy his fifteen thousand men and show the enemy that the Riverlands were not entirely defenseless, then use the opportunity to stall until Robb's reinforcements arrived.
As for the dragon... perhaps the enemy would not deploy it lightly? At least not right at the start?
"You're recklessly marching the whole army onto the plain to face the enemy head-on? You're putting your neck under their blade!" Brynden the Blackfish said, his voice icy and his face dark as thunder.
"Even if Stone Hedge cannot hold everyone and we cannot defend from within its walls, we should find high ground, a riverbank, or the edge of a wood! Use the terrain to hold them off and buy time!"
"Not spread ourselves out on open ground like this and wait to be overrun!"
Edmure's patience finally reached its limit.
The pressure of recent days, coupled with his uncle's repeated public rebukes and challenges, snapped the last threads of his reason and restraint.
He whipped his head around, his face flushed scarlet with agitation, shame, and anger, and snarled at Brynden:
"Enough! Ser Brynden!" His voice was hoarse, and he deliberately used the formal title to emphasize their positions. "I am the Lord of Riverrun! I am the supreme commander of this army!"
"Now, carry out my orders. Take command of the left flank, put the ranks in order, and prepare to meet the enemy! Instead of standing here criticizing every decision I make!"
The air seemed to freeze.
The officers and guards around them held their breath, their gazes shifting