Chapter Text
Chapter Two: Flight and Fire
The night air was thick with the stench of the river, mingling with smoke and the iron tang of blood. Ned Stark’s breath came in ragged gasps as he stumbled forward, his wounded leg barely holding beneath him. The Mud Gate was a chaos of shouts and steel—golden-cloaked guards pouring through the streets, torchlight flickering across their drawn swords. The ship was ahead, bobbing in the dark waters of Blackwater Bay, its sails already loosened to catch the wind.
They had to reach it.
Barristan Selmy strode beside him, Oathkeeper gleaming in his hands, the greatsword lighter than it had any right to be. Though older, the former Kingsguard moved with deadly grace, his every step measured, his every swing precise.
Then the Goldcloaks came.
They poured out of the alleyways like rats from a sinking ship, steel flashing in the torchlight. A dozen men at least, some with Lannister red on their cloaks, others simple city watchmen eager for a royal bounty. They blocked the way forward, and behind, another wave surged, closing them in.
Ned had no time to think.
His fingers tightened around Ice’s hilt. The sword felt familiar, almost comforting in his hands. He had wielded it a hundred times in battle, in training, in justice. Now, it was his salvation.
A Goldcloak lunged forward, a short sword thrusting for Ned’s gut. Ned twisted, his wounded leg nearly buckling, but he caught the attack on Ice’s broad blade, steel screeching against Valyrian steel. He turned his block into a counter, sliding Ice down the man’s sword before hacking across his chest. The blow split mail and flesh alike, sending the man staggering back, gurgling as blood poured from the gash.
Another enemy charged in—this one faster, a sellsword in dark leather, his dagger flashing toward Ned’s throat. Ned barely had time to react. He pivoted on his good leg, bringing Ice up with both hands. The dagger missed by a hair’s breadth, slicing through the air where his neck had been. Before the man could recover, Ned rammed his pommel into his face, feeling the crunch of bone beneath his strike. The sellsword reeled back, spitting blood and teeth, just in time for Ice to carve a deep line across his ribs.
More came.
Barristan fought beside him, a whirling specter of death. Oathkeeper danced in the old knight’s grip, cutting down men as fast as they came. One Goldcloak tried to rush him—Barristan sidestepped, his blade flashing in a downward arc, shearing through the man’s arm at the elbow. The guard fell back with a scream, clutching the bloody stump as he collapsed to the ground. Another came from behind, but Barristan was faster. He turned, his foot sweeping out, knocking the man off balance before driving Oathkeeper through his back.
Ned was barely keeping pace. His leg burned with every step, but he gritted his teeth and swung Ice in great, punishing arcs, forcing the enemy back. One man raised a shield, trying to block his strike. Ned put all his strength into the next blow. Ice cleaved through wood and steel alike, cutting the man down in a single stroke.
Blood sprayed across the cobblestones.
Still, the Goldcloaks came.
A fresh wave surged toward them, too many to fight at once. Ned saw one of his Northmen—a grizzled veteran from the Dreadfort—stab his spear into a Goldcloak’s side, but before he could withdraw, another guard ran him through. The Northman choked on his own blood, his eyes wide with shock.
Then a cry from the side.
“The docks!” one of the guards shouted. “They’re trying to escape! Kill them before they reach the ship!”
More men appeared, outflanking them. They were boxed in. If they hesitated, they would be overrun.
Then the world erupted in fire.
A bottle smashed against the street, and suddenly flames surged high, licking at the walls and blocking the Goldcloaks’ advance. A second bottle followed, shattering at the feet of another Lannister man, setting his cloak ablaze.
From the shadows, a figure moved—a smuggler’s grace in every step.
“Thought you could use a bit of help,” said a voice, familiar and easy.
Davos Seaworth.
The Onion Knight stepped forward, his face half-lit by the flickering flames. He wore no armor, only a simple cloak, but his sword was already drawn, the blade reflecting firelight. Behind him, a handful of men—his own crew, perhaps, or other allies in the city—moved swiftly, cutting down the nearest Goldcloaks before they could react.
“There’s a boat waiting,” Davos said, barely sparing a glance at the bodies falling around him. “But we need to move now.”
Barristan did not argue. With a final stroke, he cut down another Lannister man and turned toward the docks. Ned, gritting his teeth against the pain in his leg, pushed forward.
The ship loomed ahead, moored at the very edge of the dock. The gangplank was down, figures moving aboard—Northmen, men loyal to House Stark.
But the enemy was not done.
A horn sounded from the city walls. More torches appeared in the distance, the glow of approaching soldiers moving swiftly through the streets.
“They’re coming,” Ned muttered, forcing himself forward.
“They’re always coming,” Davos said wryly. “But so long as I’m breathing, we’ll be going.”
As they neared the dock, an arrow streaked past, embedding itself in the wood beside them. Another followed, then another. A Goldcloak, perched atop a nearby rooftop, was loosing shafts as fast as he could draw.
Barristan raised Oathkeeper, ready to charge—but before he could move, an arrow took the archer in the throat. The man crumpled, falling forward off the roof, his body landing with a sickening thud.
Ned turned sharply. Arya.
She was there, crouched low behind a barrel, her small hands gripping a stolen bow. Her face was pale, her breath coming fast, but her aim had been true. She lowered the bow only when she was sure the man was dead.
“Arya,” Ned breathed. Relief and something close to sorrow filled his chest.
“No time, my lord,” Davos interrupted. “We need to be on that ship.”
Barristan grabbed Arya, lifting her easily as she struggled. “You did well, girl,” he told her. “But now you must run.”
The last of the Northmen cut a path through the remaining Goldcloaks, and then they were at the dock. More arrows flew from the battlements, some striking the water, others sinking into the wood of the ship’s hull. Men shouted aboard, urging them to hurry.
Davos was the first up the gangplank, followed by Arya, then Ned, his leg screaming in protest as he climbed. Barristan was the last to board, Oathkeeper still in his grip. As soon as his boots hit the deck, the ship lurched away from the dock. The ropes were cut, the sails unfurled, and they drifted into the dark waters of Blackwater Bay.
From the city walls, a horn sounded again. More figures gathered at the edge of the docks—Lannister men, watching, waiting.
Cersei Lannister stood among them.
Even from the ship, Ned could see the expression on her face. Not rage, not panic. Calculation.
—
The raven arrived at dawn.
Robb Stark read the words once, then twice, his breath catching in his throat. His hands trembled slightly as he lowered the parchment, but he forced himself to still them. His father was alive.
The lords of the North sat around him in Moat Cailin’s great hall, their faces shadowed in the flickering torchlight. The air was thick with tension, the heavy scent of damp stone and burning tallow candles. His mother stood beside him, her face pale with worry, her hands clasped tightly before her.
He looked up, his grey eyes sweeping across the gathered men—Greatjon Umber, Roose Bolton, Rickard Karstark, Maege Mormont, Wyman Manderly, and others. The strongest houses of the North, the men who had ridden south for vengeance.
“The Old Wolf lives,” Robb said, his voice steady but quiet.
The hall remained silent for a long moment. Then the Greatjon let out a booming laugh, slamming his meaty fist onto the wooden table. “By the gods, the Lannisters must be pissing themselves!”
Rickard Karstark’s lips curled into something that was almost a smile, but his eyes still burned with grief. “Joffrey will not take this lightly. He will send an army north. He will come for our heads.”
“Then we must strike first,” Roose Bolton said smoothly, his pale eyes gleaming. “Lord Tywin will not forgive the insult of Eddard Stark’s escape. His army at Harrenhal will march sooner rather than later. We must not wait for the lions to come to us.”
Robb’s hands tightened into fists on the table. The war had changed. He had marched south to free his father, to avenge his men. But now, Ned Stark was returning home. That did not mean the war was over. It was time to prepare.
“They will come for my father,” Robb said. “They will come for the North. We cannot sit idle and wait for them.” He turned to Maester Luwin, who stood quietly near the chamber doors. “Send the ravens. Call the banners.”
The hall murmured with approval, and Maester Luwin inclined his head, disappearing through the door.
The North would rise once more.
The ravens took flight that very night, black wings cutting across the grey skies. They carried a simple message, inked in a firm, steady hand:
The North rides to war. Every man who has ever sworn fealty to Winterfell will answer the call. We ride for our homes. We ride for the Starks. The wolves will not kneel.
And answer they did.
From the Frostfangs to the White Knife, from the towering mountains of the Vale’s border to the deep pine forests of Bear Island, the banners of the North were lifted.
At Castle Cerwyn, Lord Cley Cerwyn gathered what men he could, his father slain at the Trident. At Deepwood Motte, Alysane Mormont armed her warriors, sending fifty women with her to fight beside their brothers. White Harbor, the largest city in the North, saw Lord Wyman Manderly marshal his knights and spearmen, his ships preparing to sail south. The Dreadfort’s forces moved, silent as ghosts, marching under Roose Bolton’s pale flayed man.
By the time the host had gathered at Winterfell, it was no mere army. It was the wrath of the North made flesh.
They stood beneath the high walls, thousands upon thousands, their breath misting in the frigid air, their banners snapping in the wind. House Stark’s direwolf flew highest among them, but it was not alone—Karstark suns, Umber chains, Manderly mermen, Mormont bears, all gathered beneath one cause.
Robb stood at the head of them all, his wolf Grey Wind pacing at his side. His father’s shadow loomed large over him, but he did not waver.
“I called you here because the war is not yet won,” Robb said, his voice ringing over the gathered warriors. “The Lannisters sought to murder my father. They cut down our men in King’s Landing. They thought the North would break. That we would kneel.”
A murmur ran through the army, low and fierce.
“They were wrong.”
A roar of approval swept through the crowd, fists and weapons raised high.
“They will come for us,” Robb continued. “Joffrey will send his armies. Tywin Lannister will march. But we will not wait for them to come and burn our lands. We will strike first. We will show them what it means to make war upon the North.”
Another roar, louder this time.
The Greatjon was the first to kneel, dropping to one knee, slamming his sword into the frozen ground. “There sits the only man I mean to follow,” he growled, voice rough with wind and war. “The Young Wolf.”
Others followed. Karstark, Mormont, Glover, Hornwood, Cerwyn.
“The Young Wolf!”
“Young Wolf!”
“Young Wolf!”
Robb Stark swallowed past the lump in his throat. The moment was heavy, his father’s shadow long. He had been called his father’s heir, but now he had to prove himself capable of living up to House Stark.
The war had changed. It was no longer about freeing his father. It was about the North’s right to rule itself.
And he would see it done.
The North rode south once more, but this time, they did not march as vassals of a foreign king. They rode as wolves, unchained, answering only to their own. The winds howled across the land, carrying word of their fury.
Jaime Lannister’s army was the first to feel it.
For weeks, the siege of Riverrun had tightened, Jaime Lannister’s forces dug in along the Red Fork, confident in their dominance over the battered Riverlords. Edmure Tully’s host had been shattered and scattered, his men reduced to desperate raiders striking at Jaime’s supply lines, but they were no real threat to an army of fifteen thousand Lannister soldiers. Tywin Lannister sat further south, a host of twenty-two thousand strong, blocking the way to the heart of the Westerlands, while Jaime pressed his siege undisturbed. He had no reason to expect an attack.
—
The North had crossed the Twins.
Thirty-five thousand men had marched across the Green Fork beneath banners of white direwolves on a field of gray. The toll had been paid in Frey blood—a betrothal, a promise, a deal struck with a man none of them trusted. The price of crossing had not been measured in coin, but in oaths, and oaths were brittle things in the hands of men like Walder Frey. He had let them pass, yes, but Robb Stark knew that his loyalty was not bought, only rented for as long as it served him. That meant they could not afford to waste time.
The war had already begun.
The Riverlands lay in ruin before them. The Lannisters had burned their way through the Trident, their retribution swift and merciless. Villages lay blackened and abandoned, corpses hanging from trees, the banners of House Tully torn down and replaced with crimson lions. The land stank of death, of conquest. Even the roads had been turned into graveyards, the bodies of dead men left unburied in the sun, their armor stripped, their throats slit, their eyes pecked out by crows.
The men of the North saw it all. They said nothing, but their anger grew with every burned farm, every charred skeleton. They had not come south to fight for the Riverlords. They had come for vengeance.
But vengeance alone would not win this war.
The North had numbers, yes, but numbers alone did not decide battles. The men who followed him were warriors, but they were also farmers and hunters, boys who had never seen a real battle before, men whose fathers and brothers had been called to war before them and never returned. The Lannisters were seasoned. They had fought battles, broken armies. Tywin Lannister had crushed the last rebellion in a single day. If Robb rode straight at him, if he let the battle be fought on his enemy’s terms, they would lose.
So they would fight like wolves.
In the war tent, the lords of the North gathered around a heavy wooden table, a map of the Riverlands spread before them. The candlelight flickered as the wind howled outside, but inside the tent, the air was still, charged with tension. The Greatjon loomed beside Robb, his arms crossed over his chest, a hungry grin on his face. Rickard Karstark stood opposite, his face hard as stone. Helman Tallhart, Galbart Glover, Wyman Manderly, Roose Bolton—each of them waited for Robb to speak. In the corner, Ser Jonos Bracken stood watching, his expression unreadable.
Robb leaned over the table, his fingers pressing against the worn parchment. "Tywin Lannister sits at Harrenhal with twenty-two thousand men. Jaime Lannister lays siege to Riverrun with fifteen thousand. We have thirty-five thousand. But if we strike at either force head-on, we fight on their terms. We don’t have the luxury of a fair fight."
Karstark frowned. "We could still crush Jaime before his father moves."
"Not without losing half our strength," Robb said. "And if we fight Jaime, we give Tywin time to march north, cut us off, pin us between two Lannister hosts. We don’t let them do that."
"So what do we do?" Galbart Glover asked.
Robb’s eyes did not leave the map. "We divide our strength."
That got their attention. The Greatjon let out a low chuckle, but Karstark’s frown deepened. "Divide our numbers? We have the advantage."
"And we’ll keep it," Robb said. "We send the bulk of our forces south. Twenty-five thousand men will march down the Kingsroad, directly toward Tywin."
Karstark’s eyes narrowed. "To fight him?"
"To make him think we’re coming for him."
A pause.
"Decoy," Helman Tallhart murmured.
Robb nodded. "Tywin is waiting for us. If we march on Jaime, he’ll move to cut us off. If we march on him, he’ll hold his ground, thinking he has the advantage. That’s what I want. He’ll keep his men at Harrenhal, expecting a battle that will never come."
"And while he waits, you take another force west," Ser Jonos said.
Robb met his gaze. "Yes."
Karstark’s frown did not fade, but he did not argue. He had fought enough battles to understand the logic of it. "Who leads the southern march?"
"You do," Robb said. "You’ll take the main host—our foot soldiers, our main supply lines. Move slow. Let them see you coming. Give the Lannisters the battle they expect to see."
Karstark nodded. His sons still rode beneath his banner, but loyalty was not a matter of gain or loss. If Robb told him to march into the mouth of a lion, he would.
The Greatjon grinned. "And while he marches, we take the real fight to Jaime."
Robb nodded. "Ten thousand men, moving west. Three thousand Northern cavalry, three thousand Riverlords, a thousand freeriders, and three thousand Freys." His voice did not waver, but his eyes flicked toward Stevron Frey. He did not trust the Freys, but their men had been part of the deal. And for now, their swords were his to wield.
“Jaime is the greater threat," Robb continued. "He’s sitting in the Riverlands, but his army isn’t a single force. He’s split into three camps. Five thousand men in each. His cavalry is concentrated in one, his foot soldiers and archers divided between the others. If he had his full force together, we’d never break him. But he doesn’t."
Ser Jonos smiled faintly. "So you mean to take him piece by piece."
"Yes," Robb said. "His knights are his greatest weapon. They’re also his greatest weakness." He turned the map toward them. "Edmure’s men are still raiding his supply lines. Not enough to hurt him, but enough to be an irritation. He’s already been sending his cavalry out to chase them off. If they push harder, he’ll send more men. Maybe even ride out himself. That’s what I need."
Karstark’s eyes narrowed. "You mean to set a trap."
"Jaime Lannister is the best swordsman in Westeros," Robb said. "He’s never lost a duel. He doesn’t believe he ever will. He won’t sit behind siege lines while his men are being bled in the woods. He’ll take his knights, he’ll chase them down. And when he does, we take them from him."
The Greatjon laughed. "And without his cavalry, his siege is nothing."
Robb nodded. "We strike in the Whispering Wood. Lord Karstark's outriders will screen our movements. We let Edmure’s men bait them in. We let them think they’re winning. Then, when they’re deep enough, we strike. Jaime’s knights are surrounded before they know it. We crush them, capture Jaime if we can. Then, with their cavalry gone, we move on the siege camps. One at a time, before they can regroup."
Silence fell.
It was a gamble. But no more than marching to war at all.
At last, Karstark nodded. "We ride south, then. Let Tywin see us coming."
The council continued for another hour, refining the plan. They would march in the morning. Karstark would take twenty-five thousand men east, banners high, a great wave of steel and fury moving toward Harrenhal. The Lannisters would see it. They would send their scouts, their messengers. Tywin would believe he had his battle. He would wait.
Robb Stark and his army would be gone.
They moved west, slipping into the forests, hidden by the hills, the mists rolling over the rivers, their banners furled, their movement screened by Karstark's outriders. The Kingslayer would never see them coming.
For days, they rode unseen. The trap was set.
—-
The forest stank of blood and sweat and horseflesh. Jaime Lannister reined in his stallion and wiped the sweat from his brow, his golden armor gleaming dully beneath the dappled sunlight filtering through the canopy above. The Whispering Wood stretched out before him, still and silent save for the rustling of leaves in the wind. There was no sign of the enemy, no banners in sight, no war horns sounding through the trees. It was almost peaceful.
He did not like it.
For days now, the remnants of Edmure Tully’s broken host had been raiding his supply lines, striking at baggage trains, ambushing small patrols, setting fires to his camps before slipping away like ghosts in the mist. It had been a nuisance at first, nothing more than the desperate last gasp of a force that had already lost. But the raids had grown bolder, the attacks more frequent. Jaime had sent outriders after them, but few returned, and those that did came back with nothing but empty hands and fearful whispers of men moving unseen through the trees. His scouts had seen no sign of a Northern force in the Riverlands. Tywin had made certain of that.
Which meant that whoever these raiders were, they were few in number. That was what Jaime told himself.
And yet something about this felt wrong.
The Kingslayer sat tall in his saddle, surveying the forest ahead with sharp, suspicious eyes. Beside him, his standard-bearer rode with the golden lion of House Lannister fluttering behind them, the cloth rippling with every gust of wind. Behind them rode two thousand knights in red cloaks, the finest cavalry in the realm, each armored in steel, each armed with lances and swords that had seen battle before. These were no green boys fresh from training yards. These were veterans, battle-hardened killers who had fought in the Westerlands, in the Riverlands, at King’s Landing, in Robert’s Rebellion before that. They were confident, eager for the fight.
Jaime should have felt the same.
Instead, he felt uneasy.
A Lannister outrider came galloping toward him, breathless. “We’ve spotted them, my lord. Just ahead, moving toward the ridge.”
Jaime nodded, his grip tightening on the reins. “How many?”
“A few hundred at most. Looks like Edmure’s men, maybe some Mallisters. They’re running.”
Running. Again.
Jaime sighed, glancing over his shoulder at his knights. He did not need to give the order. His men were already shifting in their saddles, already hungry to charge. These Riverlords had been a thorn in their side for too long. It was time to put an end to it.
He raised his sword. “We ride.”
The Lannister column surged forward, armor clanking, lances raised, hooves pounding the dirt as they galloped after their fleeing quarry. Jaime led them, golden armor flashing in the light, his warhorse moving swiftly beneath him. He could see the enemy now, their banners barely visible through the trees, the shapes of their riders darting through the underbrush, moving fast but not fast enough.
He grinned. They would run until they could run no more, and then they would die.
The first arrow flew from the ridge above and buried itself in the throat of the knight beside him.
A scream tore through the ranks. A second arrow followed. Then a third. Then a dozen.
Jaime barely had time to react before the sky darkened with shafts of death, raining down on his men from unseen archers in the trees. The sound of impact was a horrible symphony—steel striking steel, flesh tearing, men gasping, horses shrieking as they toppled. Some knights raised their shields, some turned their horses aside, others simply fell where they rode. Jaime pulled his stallion to a halt, his head snapping toward the ridgeline above.
A warhorn blew.
Then another.
Then another.
The forest erupted.
The enemy was not fleeing. The enemy had never been fleeing.
The enemy had been waiting.
From the north, Karstark horsemen poured down the hillside, lances glinting in the dim light, their banners snapping in the wind as they thundered toward the trapped Lannister column. From the west, Greatjon Umber led his riders in a devastating charge, their greatswords raised high, their destriers barreling through the trees like battering rams of flesh and steel. From the south, the Freys came, cutting off retreat, sweeping through the underbrush like a tide of vengeance.
The trap had closed.
Jaime bared his teeth, whirling his horse to face the oncoming onslaught. “Shields up! Form ranks! With me!”
His knights moved to obey, but the Karstarks crashed into them before they could finish forming their line. The sound of impact was deafening. Lances broke against shields, swords flashed, men screamed. Horses collided and tumbled, crushing their riders beneath them. The Lannisters fought back, hacking at their attackers, but they were surrounded, outnumbered, caught in a killing field where they had no space to maneuver, no room to retreat.
Jaime cut down a Karstark spearman, wheeled his horse, struck another rider from his saddle. Everywhere he turned, the battle was collapsing. His knights were dying in droves, their golden armor painted red with their own blood. The Karstarks pressed from one side, the Greatjon from the other, the Freys filling the gaps in between.
The Lannister cavalry had been the hammer in every battle they had fought before this. Now, they were the anvil, and the wolves were the hammer.
A warhorse shrieked nearby, rearing up before crashing down on its rider, snapping bones beneath its weight. A Frey rider swung at Jaime, his blade whistling through the air. Jaime caught the strike on his shield, twisted in the saddle, and drove his own sword through the man’s gut. He yanked it free just in time to block another strike. His instincts took over. Cut, parry, turn, strike. He moved like a man possessed, fighting to carve a path through the chaos.
But there was nowhere to go.
A knight in Lannister crimson rode up beside him, his visor lifted, his face streaked with blood. “My lord, we must retreat!”
“There is no retreat!” Jaime snarled. He turned his horse toward the ridgeline, scanning for a break in the enemy lines. He saw none. The Karstarks were closing in from the north, the Greatjon’s men from the west. The Freys had sealed the south. Only the eastern path remained open, but it was too late. The wolves were tearing through his knights, cutting them down before they could regroup.
Another volley of arrows streaked from the trees. Jaime raised his shield, felt the impact of shafts burying themselves into wood and steel. He looked to his left—more Lannisters falling. He looked to his right—another man dragged from his horse, his throat opened before he hit the ground.
This is a massacre.
He had been in battles before, had fought in skirmishes, sieges, rebellions. He had seen men die, had killed his share. But this was not war. This was slaughter. His knights were screaming, their horses collapsing, their golden banners trampled into the mud.
The Kingslayer gritted his teeth. He would not die here. Not in some cursed forest, not in an ambush. He kicked his heels into his horse’s sides, driving the beast forward, cutting down an Umber rider in his path. He saw a break ahead—small, but enough. If he could reach it, if he could rally the last of his men, they might still escape.
—
Jaime knew they had lost.
He gritted his teeth, forcing his horse forward, hacking his way through the mass of bodies. If he could break through to the ridgeline, if he could rally what was left of his men, if he could just—
Grey Wind came out of the shadows like a phantom.
The direwolf moved faster than any warhorse, stronger than any man. It leaped, jaws wide, sinking its fangs into the hindquarters of Jaime’s stallion, ripping flesh, tearing through muscle. The horse reared, screaming in agony, and Jaime barely had time to throw himself clear before it collapsed beneath him, legs kicking weakly in the dirt.
He hit the ground hard, the impact knocking the breath from his lungs. He rolled onto his back, sword still in hand, gasping for air.
And then Robb Stark was standing over him.
The boy was taller than Jaime had expected. He wore black steel, his shoulders broad, his posture firm, his face hard in the flickering light of the burning trees. He did not smile, did not sneer. His expression was unreadable, his grip on his sword steady.
Grey Wind circled behind him, pacing, growling, its yellow eyes locked onto Jaime, watching, waiting.
Jaime coughed, spitting blood from his mouth. "I thought you’d be taller."
Robb didn’t react.
Jaime laughed, shaking his head. "So that’s it, then? You going to kill me, Stark?"
Robb didn’t answer.
Jaime smirked. "You should. I would."
Robb raised his sword, then, in a single motion, brought it crashing down.
Jaime flinched, expecting the bite of steel.
Instead, he heard a sharp crack.
He opened his eyes. His sword lay in two pieces on the ground.
Robb had broken it.
Jaime stared at the shattered remains of his blade, then up at Robb, and for the first time in a long time, he felt something close to fear.
Robb’s voice was calm, steady. "You’re worth more alive."
Jaime laughed again, though this time there was no humor in it. "You think this changes anything?" His voice was softer now. "My father will come. The gold will come. You should have killed me, boy."
Robb’s grip on his sword tightened. He said nothing.
Behind them, the battle was over. The Lannisters were dead, captured, or fled. The wolves had won.
—
Jaime Lannister knelt in the mud, his golden armor dulled by blood and dirt, his sword shattered before him. The wolves had come, and the Kingslayer had fallen. The sounds of battle still echoed through the forest, the dying cries of men caught in the jaws of a trap they had never seen coming. Around them, the last remnants of the Lannister cavalry were either slain or captured, their banners trampled under Northern boots, their once-proud ranks scattered like autumn leaves in the wind. The Whispering Wood belonged to the North.
Robb Stark stood above his defeated foe, his blade steady, his expression unreadable. The boy who had marched south was gone. In his place stood a man who had won his first true battle, a king who had taken his first prize of war. But there was no time to dwell on victory, no time for speeches or celebration. Jaime was not the war. He was only a piece of it. The real battle had yet to come.
The Lannister host still lay encamped outside Riverrun. Thousands of soldiers surrounded the last stronghold of House Tully, their siege lines stretching along the banks of the Red Fork, their banners raised high, confident in the strength of their position. They had been waiting for their commander’s return, unaware that he would never come. And now, as dawn broke over the Riverlands, they would face not only the men trapped within the walls of Riverrun but also the wolves who had hunted their leader through the woods.
The trap was still closing.
Robb turned to his commanders, his voice calm but firm. "We move now. Before they realize what’s happened."
The Greatjon grinned, blood still fresh on his sword. "Let’s smash their camps and send ‘em running."
Ser Stevron Frey, his face drawn but determined, nodded. "Their lines are strong, but their command is broken. Without their cavalry, they won’t be able to react in time."
Robb’s eyes flicked to the distant silhouette of Riverrun. Smoke still curled from the burned fields beyond its walls, the damage of the siege evident even from this distance. He thought of the Blackfish, of the men still holding the castle, waiting for relief that had never come. They would not have to wait much longer.
He turned to one of his messengers. "Ride for Riverrun. Tell my uncle to ready his men. When they see the signal, they ride out."
The man nodded and spurred his horse west.
There was no more need for words. The time for talking was done.
The North moved swiftly. Robb’s army descended from the hills, their banners hidden, their approach masked by the morning mist that clung to the riverbanks. Scouts moved ahead, ensuring that the Lannisters had not yet noticed their presence. The siege lines were still intact, but without Jaime, without their cavalry, the enemy was blind. Their only outriders had been part of Jaime’s force. The men left behind had not expected battle. They had expected a siege.
Robb would give them neither.
The Lannister camps were divided. The northern camp was the largest, positioned closest to Riverrun, manned by the bulk of their infantry and archers. The eastern camp was across the Red Fork, its position meant to guard the river crossings and prevent escape or reinforcement. The southern camp was smaller, protecting the road to the Golden Tooth and their remaining supply lines. Each was independent, meant to maintain control of the siege from multiple angles, but now, with Jaime gone, they were isolated.
The attack had to be swift and brutal.
Robb led his riders toward the northern camp, where the bulk of the Lannister foot soldiers lay sleeping, still unaware that their world was about to collapse. The Greatjon and the Freys rode with him, their cavalry moving in silent formation, their swords wet from the battle in the woods. As they neared, Robb raised his hand.
A flaming arrow streaked across the morning sky.
And Riverrun came alive.
The portcullis groaned open, the sound like a beast rousing from its slumber, and the men of House Tully poured from the gates. They came as one, a flood of steel and vengeance, years of fealty owed now repaid in blood. Ser Brynden Tully, the Blackfish, led the charge, his armor gleaming in the early morning light, his sword raised high as he thundered down the hill with the last fighting men of Riverrun at his back. The gates had held through siege and starvation, but now they swung wide to let the Riverlands take back what had been stolen.
The Lannister northern camp turned in confusion, the first cries of alarm rising as men abandoned their morning duties, still groggy from restless nights spent waiting for an attack that had never come. This had been the safest camp, the one closest to the castle yet least likely to be attacked. Riverrun had been broken, its men spent. That was what they had believed.
They did not believe it anymore.
The first ranks had barely turned to face the charge when the sound of hooves hammering against the earth echoed behind them. The earth itself seemed to shake. It was a sound that any veteran of war knew, a sound that sent shivers through the spine and weakness into the limbs. The sound of a cavalry charge.
They were trapped.
By the time they realized what was happening, it was too late.
The North smashed into their unprepared lines, cutting through men still struggling to form ranks. The Greatjon tore through them like a storm, his greatsword cleaving through shields, armor, and flesh alike, his laughter booming over the cries of the dying. A Lannister sergeant tried to raise his spear, but the Greatjon caught it mid-thrust, yanking the man forward with sheer brute strength before driving his blade into his chest, twisting it until the life fled from his eyes.
The Frey cavalry struck from the side, lances lowering in unison as they speared through men still fumbling for their weapons, driving them back into their own ranks, tangling them in their own confusion. Some of the Lannisters tried to hold, to form a shield wall, but the momentum of the Northern riders was too great, the force of the charge smashing men off their feet, trampling them beneath iron hooves.
And then the Blackfish’s men were among them.
The Tully riders crashed into the chaos, their charge breaking what little resistance remained. The men of Riverrun fought with a fury born of siege and starvation, of weeks spent trapped behind their walls, watching their lands burn, their kin slain. They had not come for prisoners. They had come for revenge.
The Lannister northern camp collapsed.
Some men tried to rally, forming small knots of resistance, but there was no hope. Robb’s cavalry tore through them before they could set their feet. The momentum of the Northern charge was unstoppable, iron-shod hooves crashing against mud and flesh, steel flashing through the smoke-filled air. The Greatjon swung his greatsword like a reaper at harvest, cleaving through red cloaks with each brutal arc. Karstark riders drove their lances through the backs of retreating men, impaling them like cattle. The Northern foot soldiers waded in behind them, axes and swords rising and falling, cutting down those too slow to run.
Others did try to run, but they found themselves trapped between pikes and banners, the once-orderly siege lines turning into a slaughter. The Freys took no chances. They cut men down as they fled, spears and swords flashing in the firelight, their riders pursuing any stragglers who thought to escape across the fields. Some Lannisters fell to their knees, throwing down their weapons, hands raised, their voices hoarse with pleas. Some begged for mercy. Some begged to be taken as prisoners.
None were.
The massacre was complete. The once-organized camp had been reduced to ruin, its tents ablaze, its fortifications trampled beneath Northern boots, its banners shredded and burning. The Lannister standards, once proud and golden, now lay broken in the mud.
But it was not over.
Across the river, the eastern camp had seen it all—the smoke rising, the banners falling, the knights crushed beneath Northern steel. Panic rippled through their ranks as Lannister commanders barked desperate orders, their men scrambling to move. They had to reinforce their comrades. They had to cross the Red Fork.
The order came too late.
They had made one fatal mistake.
They had to cross the river to reach them.
The first ranks waded in, armor clanking as they splashed forward, their boots slipping on the slick stones beneath the rushing current. The river was high from the past weeks of rain, the water cold, fast-moving. Still, they pushed forward, knowing that if they reached the far bank in time, they might be able to turn the tide.
Then the arrows fell.
From the hills and riverbanks, Northern archers loosed volley after volley, their shafts hissing through the air like angry wasps. Arrows struck shields, found gaps in armor, buried themselves deep in flesh. A Lannister knight, halfway across the river, jerked back as an arrow punched through his throat, his cry turning to a gurgle before he collapsed into the current, dragged under by his armor. More men followed, their bodies sinking, vanishing beneath the frothing red waters.
The Red Fork ran red.
More men pushed forward, but they were exposed, caught in the middle of the crossing, their heavy armor dragging them down, their shields near-useless against the storm of arrows. Some abandoned their weapons entirely, clawing at each other as they tried to reach the far bank, only to be cut down as soon as they reached the shore. Others turned back, but retreat was just as deadly as advance.
The bridge was held.
The Blackfish’s men had reached it first, shields locked, spears planted, forming a solid, unbreakable wall that stretched from one side of the river to the other. These were the same men who had held Riverrun under siege for weeks, who had fought and bled and suffered while Jaime Lannister’s forces surrounded them. They would not yield now. They would not take another step back.
The Lannisters had no way forward, no way back.
Some tried to force their way across the bridge, charging headlong into the Tully shield wall. They were cut down with merciless efficiency. The first Lannister knight to reach them took a spear to the gut, the force of the blow driving him backward into the men behind him. Another had his legs hacked out from under him, his screams lost in the roar of the battle.
The bridge turned into a killing ground.
Men drowned in the Red Fork, their bodies tumbling through the current, smashing against the jagged rocks. Others fell where they stood, arrows jutting from their backs, their hands scrabbling at their wounds as they choked on blood. The eastern camp never truly fought—it simply fell apart, torn apart by panic, by the merciless precision of the Northern assault.
Only the southern camp remained.
From their vantage point along the road to the Golden Tooth, they had watched the northern camp collapse under the weight of the combined Northern and Tully assault. They had seen their comrades cut down by cavalry charges before they could even form proper ranks. They had seen the Freys driving lances through the backs of retreating men, the Greatjon cutting men in half with sweeps of his massive greatsword, the Tully riders pouring from Riverrun like a tide of vengeance. They had seen the Red Fork itself turn red as their countrymen drowned beneath the weight of their own armor, their desperate attempts to cross turning the river into a killing ground. They had seen the eastern camp’s final desperate charge break against the Blackfish’s shield wall, their last screams swallowed by the clash of steel and the roar of the river. They had seen all of this, and they knew.
No one was coming to save them.
The commander of the southern camp, a Tyroshi sellsword whose name had been spoken often in the halls of Lannister command but would never be spoken again, had seen enough. As the first banners of House Stark appeared on the ridges above, as the distant cries of the dying reached his ears, he made his choice.
Gold was no use to a dead man.
Without a word, he turned his horse, kicked its flanks, and galloped southward into the night, taking only a handful of personal retainers with him. The men he left behind, the men who had served under him, were given no orders, no direction. No hope.
The soldiers in the southern camp were not the veterans who had ridden with Jaime. They were not the knights who had fought in the Whispering Wood. They were archers and spearmen, hired sellswords and fresh recruits, men who had believed themselves safe, too far from the heart of the battle to be in true danger. Now, as they watched the fires of the northern camp burning, as they heard the screams of their fellow soldiers carried on the night wind, their courage bled from them.
Some clung to their weapons, shaking hands gripping sword hilts and spear shafts. Others cast fearful glances toward their commanders, searching for some word, some reassurance. They received none.
When the horns of the North sounded in the night, their knees went weak.
The Greatjon had wasted no time. His men had been bloodied and tired from the slaughter at the northern camp, but there was a fire in them now, an unbreakable, savage hunger. The Freys, ever eager to prove their worth, had ridden hard alongside them. Karstark’s men followed close behind, grim and cold-eyed. The banners of the direwolf and the twin towers of House Frey flew side by side, flanked by the blazing sunburst of House Karstark. And at their head, Robb Stark rode in silence, his sword strapped to his back, Grey Wind running just ahead, his fur matted with blood.
The first wave of Lannister soldiers tried to hold.
They formed a haphazard shield wall near the supply tents, their spears braced, their bows drawn. The captain who had taken command in the Tyroshi’s absence barked orders, but there was no conviction in his voice. The men who had just watched their comrades butchered across the river had no stomach left for a real fight.
The Northern charge shattered them like glass.
The Freys struck first, lances gleaming in the torchlight as they thundered forward. The impact was deafening—wood splintering, metal clashing, bodies folding beneath hooves. The shield wall buckled, the first line of Lannister spearmen crumpling beneath the charge, trampled into the mud before they could even scream.
Behind them, the Greatjon and his men hit the second line, smashing through what remained of the defenses. The Greatjon himself swung his sword two-handed, carving through flesh and steel with raw, brutal strength. A Lannister sergeant tried to stand his ground, bringing his sword up in a desperate block—the Greatjon’s blade smashed through it, splitting the man’s skull in half.
Robb rode behind them, watching as the chaos unfolded. He had no need to call orders. The men knew their task.
Karstark’s riders drove into the side of the camp, cutting off any hope of retreat. The men who tried to flee found only death at the edge of a Northern sword. The tents that had stood so orderly only an hour before were torn down, the wagons overturned, the supply lines cut apart in a storm of blades.
Some of the Lannister men tried to rally, to form a last desperate knot of resistance near the command tents. But they had no leader, no direction. The sellsword who should have been leading them was already galloping toward the Golden Tooth, a coward who would die nameless in a ditch somewhere, his gold lost, his name forgotten.
The resistance lasted only minutes.
A group of archers loosed a last, desperate volley into the oncoming tide of Northmen, their arrows finding gaps in armor, felling some—but it was too little, too late. The Greatjon smashed through them, his men cutting the archers down before they could fire another shot.
Some of the Lannisters threw down their weapons, dropping to their knees, hands raised, their voices hoarse with pleas. Some begged for mercy. Some begged to be taken as prisoners.
None were.
The massacre was complete.
By nightfall, the southern camp was reduced to ruin. The once-orderly rows of Lannister tents had been flattened, trampled beneath Northern boots. The wagons that had fed Jaime’s army were overturned, burning, their supplies stolen or destroyed. The gold, the food, the weapons—all of it gone.
The Lannister banners, once proud and golden, lay broken in the mud.
The last remnants of the siege had been wiped from the earth.
Robb dismounted, moving through the wreckage, stepping over bodies, his eyes sweeping across the battlefield. There was no joy in his face. No triumph. The Greatjon was roaring his victory to the night sky, the Freys were laughing and drinking already, Karstark’s men were still executing survivors—but Robb Stark said nothing.
His eyes turned toward Riverrun, its silhouette dark against the burning fields. The banners of House Tully now flew once more, the last light of the sun catching the silver trout that had been hidden behind Lannister lines for too long.
Ser Brynden Tully rode toward him, his armor bloodied but his back straight, his face unreadable. For a moment, the two men just looked at one another.
Then, slowly, the Blackfish nodded.
The North had done what they came to do.
—
At Harrenhal, Lord Tywin Lannister read the message in silence.
The candlelight flickered over his golden armor, his fingers steepled before his face as he took in the words. His mouth was a thin, hard line, but his pale green eyes betrayed nothing.
He had expected this, he had known the Starks would not crumble. But the news of Eddard Stark’s escape had sent a ripple through the realm, an insult greater than mere rebellion. A Lannister did not suffer humiliation.
“Jaime has been taken,” Kevan Lannister said, watching his brother carefully. “The Stark boy caught him in the field. The Karstarks demand his head.”
Tywin’s fingers tightened ever so slightly. “And what of King’s Landing?” he asked.
Kevan hesitated. “The city is… unsettled.”
Of course, it was. Joffrey had proven himself a fool yet again. His butchery had nearly cost them the throne once before. Now, with the Starks rising, the war was spinning out of their grasp.
Tywin exhaled through his nose, slow and controlled. “Send word to the Westerlands. Every sword, every horse. We march north.”
Kevan hesitated. “And Jaime?”
Tywin did not look at him. “He is my son. He knows what it means to be a Lannister. If the Stark boy thinks he holds the winning hand, he is mistaken.”
Kevan nodded, but the flicker of doubt remained. “And if Robb Stark marches on King’s Landing?”
Tywin Lannister’s lips curled into something that was almost a smile. “Then we best make sure he never reaches it.”
The North was rising.
The lions were gathering.
And in the shadow of the Red Keep, Cersei Lannister read her own reports, her mind already whirring with schemes.
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