Author's Note:
Hey guys, real quick, I just wanted to let y'all know that I am going to try to humanize Alaric more moving forward. That means more dialogue and even jokes and whatnot. I feel he has gotten too robotic and statuesque as of late, so I hope y'all like the change and let me know any feedback y'all have!
[The Westerlands, first day of the 5th Moon, 299AC]
By the time the third western holdfast opened its gates without a fight, Alaric knew fear had begun to do its work.
The castle was barely worthy of the name. A squat square tower, a timber palisade, a muddy yard, and a few outbuildings pressed against a low hill overlooking a road that fed into the wider country east of Oxcross. Its lord was not a great man. Alaric doubted most of the Westerlands even knew his name. Yet his granaries were full, his stables held forty usable horses, and his cellars contained enough salted pork to feed two hundred men for a fortnight.
That made him useful.
The lord came out beneath a white cloth tied to a spear.
Tempest walked at Alaric's left, silver-grey fur rippling beneath the wind, pale blue eyes fixed on the surrendering men. Cinder kept to his right, hackles raised in caution, red-brown fur dark against the mud, amber eyes moving from face to face. They did not growl. They did not need to. Men stared at them the way men stared at drawn swords.
Behind Alaric rode Robb with Grey Wind beside his horse, the young wolf nearly full-grown now and restless from too many days of marching without a proper kill. Jon sat nearby, Ghost at his heels, white and silent as bone. Dorren was farther back with Shadow, the black direwolf moving low through the grass like a patch of night come loose. Rickard Stark rode with Winter, the pale grey wolf watching the walls with more interest than the men upon them.
The lord of the holdfast swallowed when he saw them all.
Alaric almost pitied him.
Almost.
"Your Grace," the man said, bowing stiffly. "I yield my hall, my stores, and my men into your protection."
Lucion Lannister sat his horse a few paces behind Alaric. The western lord glanced at him once, then away again. They all did that now. Some looked at Lucion with hatred. Some with confusion. A few with hope. Alaric paid attention to which was which.
"You yield late," Alaric said.
The man's face paled. "We only heard of Lord Tywin this morning."
"That is what I mean."
Robb coughed into his fist. Jon looked down to hide a smile.
The western lord did not know whether that had been a jest. Alaric let him wonder for a heartbeat before waving one hand.
"Your people will not be harmed if your surrender is honest. Your weapons will be counted. Your horses taken. Your stores divided. Any man who hides arms after giving his word will hang from your gate by sunset. Any northern man who robs your smallfolk outside orders will hang beside him. Do you understand?"
The man nodded quickly. "I do, Your Grace."
"Good. Ser Lucion will speak with your steward. He knows your coin weights better than my men and will keep your steward from pretending three barrels of oats are worth ten."
Lucion sighed behind him.
"Your trust warms me, Your Grace." He said with a tired tone, that very 'trust' having made him a glorified quarter master as of late.
Alaric glanced back, a wry smile upon his face. "You're a Lannister. I trust you to know how to count grain when someone is lying about it."
Smalljon barked a laugh from behind the Winter Guard.
Lucion gave Alaric a dry look. "I am glad my noble blood has found its true purpose at last."
"Every man must serve where his talents are sharpest," Alaric replied with a small smile
"That was almost kind."
"Do not get used to it," Alaric said, turning back to the man, all amusement gone, now replaced with the usual cold, kingly look he offered his enemies.
The surrendering lord, to his credit, gave a nervous laugh, which was probably better than pissing himself in front of his own men.
The work began quickly after that. Ser Desmond Manderly took charge of the gates with the 1st Company of the Winter Guard. Ser Ellard Karstark saw to the armory. Lord Jorah Mormont inspected the stables and pronounced half the horses decent, a quarter poor, and the rest fit only for western lords who preferred dying slowly. Robb and Rickard rode out with scouts to check the roads. Jon and Dorren went with them, Ghost and Shadow ranging ahead while Grey Wind and Winter kept closer to the horses.
The wolves had become part of the army's rhythm. Men made space for them without orders. Scouts watched them. Guards trusted their ears. Even the western prisoners learned quickly that a direwolf staring into the dark was not a thing to ignore.
By afternoon the holdfast was stripped of what mattered and left standing.
Alaric had elected not to burn it, despite protests from certain cousins of his.
"Would've made a fine blaze," Derrick Umber said, disappointment evident in his tone.
"It would have," Alaric replied. "Then the smoke would warn every lord for ten leagues, and we would gain nothing except ash."
Smalljon scratched his beard. "Ash is useful sometimes."
"Only if you mean to grow turnips."
"I hate turnips," Smalljon replied, as serious as a man facing his death
"That explains much."
Derrick laughed first. Smalljon followed. Lucion looked as though he wanted to pretend he had not found it funny and failed, before getting back to counting Western coins, murmuring under his breath about unfair work conditions.
They made camp that evening along a ridge overlooking three roads and a shallow stream. The western hills rolled around them, soft and green and treacherous, dotted with villages, mines, orchards, mills, and the little towers of men who had thought war was something that happened to other people.
Alaric's tent was set near the center, but he did not enter it at once. He stood over the campaign table while reports came in by torchlight.
Maege Mormont had seized two herds and burned a wagon depot after removing the wheels, axles, and iron fittings. Lord Rickard Karstark had taken three minor holdfasts without a fight and sent back twenty-seven hostages, mostly sons and nephews of frightened knights. Galbart Glover had damaged a bridge on the northern road but left enough of it standing for their own riders to use if needed. Mountain clansmen had ambushed a convoy carrying arrow shafts, dried beans, and cheap spears toward Lannisport.
The west was bleeding now. Not from a great gaping wound, but from a thousand cuts.
Lucion stood beside the table with his arms crossed. "If you keep taking their horses, Stafford's army will march to you on blistered feet."
"That would be considerate of him," Alaric said. "I dislike chasing men who have good mounts."
Jorah grunted. "He still has numbers."
"He does," Alaric agreed. "And if he had Tywin commanding them, I would be more careful."
Robb looked up from the map. "You think Stafford will move?"
"I know he will."
Jon frowned. "Because of Tywin?"
"Because of pride. Tywin's capture only sharpens it." Alaric leaned both hands on the table, his eyes moving over the marked roads. "Stafford has spent weeks gathering men near Lannisport. Green boys, old men, household knights, stray garrisons, men who should have been left to guard roads and mines. He has been training them as if war will politely wait until he decides they are ready."
Lucion's mouth twisted slightly. "That sounds like Stafford."
Alaric glanced at him. "That familial insight is why I ask so much of you in this campaign."
"You didn't ask me anything."
"I looked at you."
"That is not asking."
"It worked."
Lucion stared at him for a moment. "You are impossible."
"Frequently."
The men around the table chuckled.
Alaric let it settle, then turned serious again. "Stafford believes he is safe because he is in the Westerlands. He thinks I am raiding the edges, plundering the north, making noise while he gathers strength. He does not understand that every road we cut, every mine we close, every herd we seize, and every nervous little lord who opens his gates makes his army weaker before it marches."
Robb studied the map with intent in his eyes. Grey Wind lay behind him, head on his paws, though his ears twitched at every raised voice.
"Where is Stafford now?" Robb asked.
"Still near Lannisport as of two days ago," Desmond said. "But the latest scouts say his outriders have been seen east of their main camps."
"Poor outriders," Jorah muttered. "Three men and a mule would be better security than most of what they've sent."
"They are careless," Alaric said. "Not helpless. Remember the difference. Careless men can still kill you if you ride at them haphazardly, with a dumb smile on your face."
Smalljon looked wounded. "But I like to smile in battle."
"You look constipated in battle."
Derrick slapped the table, laughing.
Smalljon pointed at Alaric. "That is a vile lie from my own blood."
"It is honest counsel from your king."
"Worse."
The laughter helped. Men listened better when they were not wound tight as bowstrings. Alaric had learned that long ago. Fear had use, but too much of it made men stupid.
A raven arrived before the council ended.
Not from the east.
From the north.
Alaric knew before Maester Kennet spoke. Tempest had risen outside the tent a few heartbeats before the bird came down, and Cinder had gone still beside the entrance, eyes turned toward the dark. Jon noticed. So did Lucion. Nobody said anything.
Kennet entered with the message already unrolled.
"From Torrhen's Square, Your Grace. The letter comes from Castellen Leobald Tallhart."
Alaric took it and read.
The room quieted.
Robb watched his face. Jon too. Dorren had returned by then and stood near the back with Shadow pressed close to his leg, the black wolf's eyes catching torchlight. Rickard leaned against one of the tent posts, half asleep and trying his hardest to stay awake.
Alaric finished the letter and handed it to Lord Mormont.
"Longships sighted off the western coast. Two fishing boats missing. One probing raid near a village south of the Saltspear. Beaten off by local men before they could do more than steal nets and kill three goats."
Smalljon frowned. "Ironborn?"
"Who else steals goats by sea?" Jon remarked, earning a chuckle from the Umber brothers
Jorah's expression had hardened. "They're testing the shore."
"Aye," Alaric said.
Robb looked up from the letter, having been given it following Lord Mormont's look over of it. "Leobald says Torrhen's Square has pulled in the outlying folk and strengthened the garrison. He followed your earlier orders."
"Good."
Another raven came an hour later, this one from Deepwood Motte. Lady Sybelle Glover and the steward both wrote in the same hand at different points, which told Alaric the message had been amended in haste.
More sails sighted. Fires seen on distant islands. No major landing. Villagers were still being brought inside walls or moved deeper inland. The Men were nervous but prepared.
Alaric read the letter twice.
Jorah was watching him closely. Of all the men in the tent, Jorah knew the Ironborn best. Bear Island had never been rich, but the Ironborn had never needed riches to justify murder.
"They're measuring us," Jorah said.
Alaric nodded. "Aye."
"They'll look for empty coasts, weak towers, slow ravens, frightened stewards, and lords too busy elsewhere to answer. If Balon smells weakness, he'll come harder. He always does."
"Balon Greyjoy could smell an open door from Pyke," Alaric said. "Then he'd call himself king for walking through it."
Jorah gave a rough laugh despite himself. "That sounds like him."
Robb leaned forward. "Do we turn back?"
"No."
The answer came quickly, but not coldly.
Alaric looked at Robb and let the silence hold for a moment before explaining. "If we turn back for sightings and goat thieves, Balon wins without risking a real landing. The west is open, Stafford is moving, and Tywin sits in chains because Ser Jory and Ser Raymun did their work. We will not abandon the campaign because the Ironborn are sniffing at our shore."
Jon crossed his arms. "But we answer."
"Aye. We answer before sniffing becomes biting."
He turned to Kennet. "Bring parchment."
The maester did.
Alaric dictated the first letter standing over the table.
"To Leobald Tallhart, Castellan of Torrhen's Square. You are to maintain all coastal watches, keep the smallfolk drawn into defended settlements, and deny the Ironborn easy plunder. Do not chase longships with men you cannot spare. Hold roads, towers, granaries, and mills. Send a rider to House Slate, and a raven to Flint's Finger confirming that all prior coastal precautions remain in force. Any landing force that moves inland is to be shadowed, harried, and denied supplies until proper strength can gather."
He paused.
"Add that if he loses Torrhen's Square to raiders while I am gone, I will be cross."
Kennet looked up.
"Your Grace?"
Alaric's mouth twitched. "Write it more politely if you must."
Robb laughed under his breath.
The second letter went to Lady Sybelle Glover and the steward of Deepwood Motte, confirming the same. Hold the people. Guard the stores. Fight only where strength favored them. Burn boats if they landed. Kill scouts when they could. Leave bait when useful.
The third letter was for Ser Benjicot Stark of the White Harbor Starks, who had been tasked with naval logistics as of late.
That one Alaric wrote himself.
Lucion watched him dip the quill and begin. No dictation this time. No courtly phrasing. Benjicot had lost a brother in King's Landing and had ships under his command now, northern ships built over years because Alaric had never trusted the Ironborn to remain beaten with their tail between their legs.
When he finished, he stamped the letter and sealed it.
"What did you tell him?" Jon asked.
"To take the fleet west as far as he safely can, patrol aggressively, and remind the Ironborn that the North has learned to put fighting men in the water."
Jorah smiled at that. "Benjicot will like that."
"He had better. I gave him new war-made ships for this very reason, the new designs should hold up splendidly against those primitive longships." Alaric said, thinking back to the designs of the Carrack and Hulk that he had implemented in the shipyards some years back.
The final letter went northeast, toward the Twins.
"To Benjen Stark," Alaric said to the maester, his voice changing slightly, not softer exactly, but more familial.
"Inform House Mallister that Ironborn activity along the western coast has increased. Seagard is to prepare its fleet, watch the rivers, and guard against raids along the coast and river mouths. The Twins are to remain stocked and ready to move food or men as needed. No panic. No assumptions. If Balon means only to test us, deny him success. If he means more, I want warning before his first serious oar strikes water."
Kennet wrote quickly.
Alaric added, "Tell my uncle that if he thinks I am giving him too much work, he may complain to me after the war."
Jon smiled. "He will."
"He always does."
The council lasted another hour after the ravens were sent. Reports continued. Scouts came and went. Tempest and Cinder remained near the tent, never sleeping at the same time. Grey Wind dozed against Robb's chair. Ghost sat in the shadows behind Jon, red eyes open. Shadow had vanished for a time and returned with blood on his muzzle from some unlucky hare. Winter never moved from Rickard's side.
Near midnight, another scout arrived from the south-western roads.
This one was young, muddy, and grinning like a fool trying not to.
Alaric noticed the grin first.
"You found something amusing, I presume."
The scout bowed. "Stafford's host, Your Grace. Not the full strength, but enough to mark the march. Their outriders are poor. Some drunk. Some barely riding ahead of the main body at all. They've begun moving east from the camps near Lannisport."
The tent sharpened around him.
Alaric leaned over the map.
"Where?"
The scout pointed. "Here, as of yesterday. Their pace is slow. Wagons heavy. They have boys carrying shields too large for them, and old men who look like they should be guarding gates, not marching."
"How many?"
"Hard to count from distance, Your Grace. More than ten thousand. Maybe twelve. Could be more joining behind."
Lucion exhaled through his nose. "Stafford always did like appearing grander than he was."
Alaric looked at him. "Will he guard his camp?"
"He will think he has."
"That is not the same thing."
"No," Lucion said. "It is not."
Alaric studied the roads, the hills, the streams, the settlements, the likely camps. His fingers moved across the map slowly, not tapping, not rushing. He asked first about water sources, then forage areas, the order of march, how far the outriders ranged, and whether banners were grouped properly or scattered by pride and family rank. The scout answered what he could.
Then Alaric went quiet.
Everyone waited.
Even Smalljon did not speak… for once.
Cinder stood and came to the table. The direwolf sniffed once at the edge of the map and then looked up at Alaric. Tempest entered a heartbeat later, too large for the tent and entirely unconcerned with that fact as he nudged his head into Alaric's arm.
Alaric looked at the map for a long moment more.
Then he smiled.
It was not a pleasant smile.
But it was human. Tired, sharp, and carrying just enough dark amusement that Robb straightened when he saw it.
"There you are, Stafford," Alaric said quietly.
Robb looked from him to the map. "Have you chosen where best to bring battle to them?"
"Aye, that I have. The man thinks he is marching through his own lands toward scattered raiders. He does not understand that he is already inside the battle."
Jon's face tightened. "Where?"
Alaric placed two fingers on the map.
"Oxcross, a small village, good flat land where an untrained and undisciplined host would scatter as fast as they could when faced with a proper enemy."
Lucion stared at the marked roads.
He knew the place. Not well, but enough.
"Stafford will not expect you there, it still lies too close to core Lannister holdings."
"No," Alaric said. "He will not."
Jorah grunted. "How soon do we move?"
"At dawn."
Smalljon finally grinned. "Good. I was beginning to miss killing men who deserved it."
"You always miss that," Derrick said.
"Aye. I'm a sentimental man."
Alaric rolled the map halfway closed, then stopped and looked around the tent. His gaze passed over Robb, Jon, Dorren, Rickard, Lucion, Jorah, the commanders, the wolves, the men who had marched too long and slept too little.
"When we move, we move light. No glory charges. No scattered hunting. No lordling nonsense. Stafford may be a fool, but fools can still have twelve thousand men at their backs, and twelve thousand men can kill you if you give them the chance. We hit his scouts first, then his camp, then his command. We take the horses if we can, burn what we cannot move, and break the host before it realizes what even hit them."
He looked at Smalljon and Derrick.
"That means no stealing chickens on the march."
Derrick frowned. "What if the chickens are enemy scouts?"
"Then question them first."
The room laughed, and some of the tightness broke.
Alaric smiled faintly, then turned back to the map.
Outside, the western wind moved through the camp. Somewhere beyond the hills, Stafford Lannister was marching east with boys, old men, proud knights, and all the confidence of a man who believed the worst of the war was far away.
Alaric Stark marked Oxcross with the edge of his knife.
"The plundering ends for now," he said. "Tomorrow, we hunt."