[The Westerlands, Oxcross, 5th moon, 299AC]
Lord Roland Crakehall did not like the camp.
It looked impressive, but therein lies the problem.
Young commanders trusted what looked impressive. Bright banners, full wagons, long rows of tents, knights in polished mail, horses stamping in the lines, cooks shouting over fires, squires running with shields and spears. A host could look invincible from a hilltop and still be rotten once a man walked through it.
And that was exactly what he had done.
He had seen boys too young to shave carrying spears too tall for them and greybeards leaning on shields instead of holding them. He had seen horses tethered too close together, wagons blocking lanes, and knights drinking before sunset because they thought the worst of the war was somewhere far away.
He had seen enough to make him uneasy.
That was the trouble with age. It gave a man too many memories.
He rode slowly through the outer camp with two Crakehall men behind him and his helm under one arm. Men made way when they recognized him. Some bowed, others saluted, a few even stared too long at the boar of Crakehall on his cloak, perhaps wondering if his sons, Lyle or Tybolt, were with him.
They were not.
Tybolt and Lyle had gone east with Tywin's host, bold as ever and laughing when they rode away. Roland had watched both of them go and told himself he was proud.
He was proud, his sons left, accompanying their liege lord to win glory in battle and experience true war, like many Crakehall men before them.
That did not mean he slept well.
A groom struggled with a chestnut destrier near the horse lines. The beast tossed its head, eyes rolling, teeth snapping inches from the boy's face.
"Give him more rope," Roland called.
The groom looked over, startled. "My lord?"
"More rope, lad, not enough that he tangles himself, but enough that he can move without feeling trapped. And separate him from the palfrey beside him before he bites its ear off."
The boy blinked at him.
Roland sighed. "Do it now, lad."
"Aye, my lord."
One of Roland's men snorted behind him. "You command horse boys now?"
"I command whoever is doing something stupid in my sight."
"That must keep you busy," the other man added with a low chuckle
"It does," Roland replied, his tone telling them that was enough
The men wisely said no more.
Farther in, two knights argued near a wagon loaded with arrow shafts. One wore the colors of House Brax. The other had the three lion heads of House Jast on his cloak. Neither looked old enough to remember Robert's Rebellion properly, but both shouted like lords at council.
Roland rode past without stopping.
Let Stafford untangle that mess.
Stafford liked councils.
He liked discussion.
He liked hearing men call him lord and commander.
Roland did not dislike Stafford. The man was pleasant enough at table, courteous to ladies, generous with wine, and fond of laughter. None of those traits made him fit to command twelve thousand men.
Stafford Lannister's pavilion stood near the center of camp, surrounded by too many banners and not enough guards. That irritated Roland too. A commander's tent ought to be easy for his own officers to find and hard for the enemy to strike. Stafford had managed the first half well enough.
The second was another matter.
Stafford came out as Roland approached, smiling beneath a trimmed golden beard, dressed in fine mail that looked as though it had not yet learned the filth of mud. A servant followed with a cup of watered wine.
"Lord Roland," Stafford said warmly. "There you are. I was beginning to think you had taken half the camp on inspection and meant to keep the better half for yourself."
"If I kept the better half, you would still have too many wagons and not enough pickets."
Stafford laughed.
Roland did not.
The laugh faded a little.
"You are troubled," Stafford said.
"I am cautious, the Northmen and that King of theirs have enjoyed unprecedented success in this war."
"Bah, perish the thought of those northern savages, they wouldn't dare attack us within our own lands. You are just being needlessly cautious, Roland." Stafford said with a hearty laugh, downing another cup of watered-wine
"Cautious men make sure an army can't be taken by surprise, along with any possible entry and exit routes near us."
Stafford glanced around the camp as if those exits might be standing in plain sight. "And have you counted ours?"
"Too few, if we are surprised." He grumbled, his words yet again falling on deaf ears
"We are in the Westerlands, Roland. If a man cannot sleep safely here, where can he?"
"In a more secure camp with better scouts, and better men."
Stafford sighed, though not angrily. That was one of his better qualities. He could take rebuke without reaching for insult. "You sound like my good-brother and cousin. Tywin would have me dig trenches around every cookfire and hang a man for sneezing too loudly."
"Lord Tywin would know where every road leads, how many riders watched each one, and why three patrols have failed to return."
That caught Stafford's attention.
Only briefly.
"Three?"
"Three that I know of. Perhaps more that no one has thought to mention because half the officers think a missing scout means he found an unattended wineskin."
Stafford frowned toward the western hills. "There are raiders in the country, that much we know, Alaric Stark leading his savages in plunder and chaos, but from what we know they number too few to face us. Do you mean to say he might chance a surprise attack on us?"
"No, likely not," Roland said. "But if he did, that is exactly what we would say before he cut our throats."
Stafford studied him for a moment.
Then he clapped him lightly on the shoulder. "You need rest, my lord. You have spent too long imagining Tywin's scowl in every shadow. We are not marching blind. We have outriders, and most importantly, we have numbers; the most he could've brought with him west is 10,000 men, and from our reports, they split into smaller contingents to raid. Besides, the Stark boy is too busy plundering the northern hills and chasing frightened holdfasts. If he means to fight us, he will have to come south and east, and when he does, we will know."
Roland looked past him toward the ridges.
The roads were too quiet.
The thought had been with him all day. No merchants. Few farmers. Fewer travelers than there should have been. War emptied roads, yes, but not like this. Not in the west. These hills fed on movement. Ore carts, herds, peddlers, lordlings, smiths, septons, whores, messengers, and most of all, miners. Now silence lay across the roads like snow.
He did not like it.
"Tywin would double the outriders," Roland said.
Stafford's mouth tightened at that.
Not much, but enough to know he had struck a nerve.
"Tywin is not here," Stafford grumbled, his face darkening, "He is east, finishing matters in the Riverlands."
Roland looked at him.
Stafford believed that, he truly did.
Roland wanted to believe it too. Tywin Lannister had been winning wars since before half this camp was born. He had broken the Reynes and Tarbecks, ruled as Hand, taken King's Landing, beaten enemies older and cleverer than Alaric Stark. Men like that did not simply vanish into the mud.
Yet no raven had come.
No clear word.
Only rumor, and rumor was a poor source of information.
Stafford took a drink and lowered his voice. "When Tywin returns, I would rather he find an army formed and moving than one still cowering under Lannisport's walls. We have delayed long enough. The west must see we are not afraid."
Roland almost answered that armies did not exist to prove courage.
He held his tongue.
There were men nearby.
A lord could correct another lord in private.
Not before servants and squires.
"As you say," Roland said.
Stafford smiled again, relieved to hear agreement where none truly existed. "Come tonight. Share wine with me. Ser Rupert Brax will be there, and Ser Damon Jast. We will speak of the march, of the roads, and of how best to drive these wolves back through the Golden Tooth."
Roland nodded. "I will come."
He rode away with his unease still sitting heavy in his gut.
That evening, the wine was better than the council.
Ser Rupert Brax sat stiff-backed near the brazier, a long-faced man with deep-set eyes and a voice that never rose above polite concern. Ser Damon Jast had maps spread across his knees and ink on his fingers. Stafford was in fine spirits, though he had agreed to send more riders in the morning, which was something.
Roland accepted a cup and listened more than he spoke.
"We should consolidate near the stream crossings," Damon said. "The land opens there, and if the northmen strike from the hills, we'll have room to form."
Stafford waved a hand. "We are not sitting in fear of raiders. We move at first light. The men need confidence. They have heard too many dark tales."
"They have heard too little truth," Brax said quietly.
Stafford looked at him.
Brax took a slow drink before continuing. "We do not know where Lord Tywin is. We do not know where Stark is. We do not know why villages ahead of us are emptying before our outriders reach them. Lord Roland is right to worry about the scouts."
Stafford's patience thinned. "I did not say he was wrong to worry. I said worry must not become paralysis. We have twelve thousand men."
"Numbers matter," Roland said. "Until they do not."
Stafford turned to him. "And when do they not?"
"When your men are asleep, your horses are scattered, and wagons are burning. When no one knows where his captain is, and every shouted order contradicts the last. Twelve thousand men in daylight on open ground is an army. Twelve thousand men waking in the dark is merely a target."
The tent went quiet.
Stafford stared into his cup.
For a moment, Roland thought he had reached him.
Then Stafford smiled faintly.
"Gods, you are a cheerful man."
Brax did not laugh.
Damon Jast gave a thin smile because he was expected to.
Roland drank.
Stafford leaned back in his chair. "Tell me of your sons, Roland. Tybolt wrote to you last, did he not? You said he had distinguished himself in the Riverlands."
"Aye, Tybolt writes like a man filing accounts. PrHe told me little except that the fighting was hard and Lord Tywin had matters in hand."
Stafford laughed. "That sounds like Tybolt."
"It does."
"And Lyle?"
Roland's mouth twitched despite himself. "Lyle writes like a man trying to win a tourney with ink. Every skirmish becomes a heroic charge. Every wound is mortal until it stops bleeding. Every man he kills was seven feet tall and as powerful as the Mountain."
That won a warmer laugh from the tent.
Roland let himself smile.
"Still, he has courage," Stafford said.
"Too much."
"There are worse faults in a son."
This time the laughter was honest.
Roland held the smile a moment longer than he felt it.
Tybolt would inherit Crakehall one day. He would do it well. He had always had patience, even as a boy, always watching before acting. Lyle would never inherit unless half the world died first, which suited him. He had no taste for accounts, harvests, or disputes over mill rights. He wanted tourneys, war, good wine, and someone to cheer when he hit another man hard enough to dent steel.
Roland missed them suddenly.
Not in the soft way singers made of such things. He missed their voices. Their arguments. Lyle's laugh. Tybolt's quiet disapproval whenever his younger brother said something stupid. He missed the noise of them.
"Lord Tywin will have use for both when he returns," Stafford said.
Roland looked up.
"Aye," he said. "I expect he will."
The words tasted strange.
Outside, a horse screamed.
Not a brief whinny.
A scream.
Roland stood before anyone else moved.
Stafford frowned. "What was that?"
"A horse," Roland said, already reaching for his sword belt.
"I know it was a horse."
"No," Roland said. "Horses do not just scream like that for no reason; something is amiss."
He left the pavilion before Stafford could answer.
The camp outside looked normal at first.
Fires burned low. Men moved between tents. A pair of squires led a nervous gelding near the horse lines, cursing softly as it tossed its head. Farther off, another horse kicked against its rope. Then another.
Roland walked toward the lines.
The smell hit him first.
Fear.
Horses had a smell when fear took them. Sharp, hot, sour. He had learned it in his first battle, when a spooked destrier crushed a groom's skull under one hoof and tore through three tents before dying with a spear in its chest.
A handler bowed quickly. "My lord, they've been restless half the night. Something in the hills, mayhaps. Wolves, the boys say."
"Wolves?"
"Aye. Heard them howling earlier."
Roland stopped.
"When?"
"Not long ago. North of the camp. Then west. Hard to tell. Sound travels strangely here."
Roland turned slowly, listening.
The camp was too loud now. Men laughing, coughing, snoring, armor clinking, horses stamping, cooks scraping pots. Ordinary noise, the kind that hid danger.
Then he heard it.
A howl, long and low
Not close, but not far enough to bring him peace of mind.
Another answered from a different ridge.
Then a third.
The horses reacted before the men did.
Heads snapped up, ropes strained, while hooves stamped in the dirt. A mule began braying wildly. A young handler laughed nervously and said something about northern dogs.
Roland grabbed him by the collar.
"Wake the line captains, double the guards at the horses and cut wider lanes between the tethers. Do it now, boy!"
The boy stared.
Roland shoved him. "Now!"
Men began moving.
Too slowly for his liking.
Roland strode toward the command pavilion, anger rising with every step. Stafford had to be roused properly. If they tightened quickly, or at least formed before whatever this was came down on them, they might still—
A shape moved between the horse lines.
Roland stopped.
At first he thought it was a dog.
Then it stepped into firelight.
It was no dog, far too large for one at that.
It was a wolf, black fur and huge, with eyes that flashed an eerie blue in the dark. It moved low between the horses, silent until it opened its jaws and snarled.
The line exploded.
Horses screamed and reared, pegs tore from the ground. A handler went down beneath hooves and did not rise. Another horse kicked backward through a tent, dragging half its tether line behind it. Men shouted. Someone fell into a cookfire. Sparks flew upward.
Then came another wolf.
Gray and white, prowling silently
It appeared on the far side of the lines like a ghost made flesh, and the horses there panicked harder than the first.
Roland's blood went cold.
Direwolves.
The stories were true.
Another shape streaked through the gap near the remounts, and three horses broke loose at once. A reddish-brown wolf drove a pack of panicked mules straight through a row of sleeping men. Somewhere beyond the nearest fires, something larger howled, deep enough that Roland felt it in his ribs.
This was no mere coincidence, hells, there wasn't any chance that a direwolf, much less several, were in their camp. No, the north had come.
This was the beginning of an assault.
"Form ranks!" Roland roared. "Get away from the horses! Shields! Shields, damn you!"
Some men obeyed.
Most did not hear him.
The camp had begun to tear itself apart.
Horses thundered through tents. Men woke screaming. Half-dressed soldiers stumbled into the dark with no idea where to go. A knight ran past carrying a sword and no shield, shouting for a squire who was already dead beneath a collapsed canvas.
Roland seized a Crakehall man by the shoulder.
"Find Lord Antario Jast and tell him to form on the eastern wagons. Tell Ser Lymond Vikary to clear the road south. Move!"
The man ran.
Roland turned toward Stafford's pavilion.
Stafford emerged in a padded coat with his sword half-buckled and confusion plain on his face.
"What in seven hells is happening?"
Roland reached him in three strides. "We're under attack."
"By wolves?"
"By northmen, you fool. The wolves are the horn before the charge."
Stafford stared past him toward the horse lines.
A massive red-brown direwolf stood atop an overturned wagon, muzzle wet with blood, amber eyes burning in the firelight. For one absurd moment, the camp seemed to still around it.
Then the northern horns sounded.
One from the ridge.
Another from the west.
Then many more followed, sounding from all directions.
The sound rolled down into the camp, causing men to freeze.
Roland looked up.
Torches moved along the dark ridges.
Not scattered like unorderly raiders.
No, they were uniform, and ordered.
Lines of them.
Mounted shapes appeared against the night sky. Banners lifted. Direwolves howled again, and the remaining horses lost whatever sense they had left. The northern riders began to move, slow at first, then faster, coming down the slopes toward the half-woken camp.
Stafford's mouth opened.
No words came.
Roland understood then with a clarity that made him almost calm.
The scouts had not deserted.
The roads had not been empty by chance.
Alaric Stark had found them, measured them, and chosen his moment.
Roland drew his sword.
Around him, the camp screamed itself awake.
"Get your guards around you," he told Stafford. "Now. If you want to command this army, this would be the time to begin."
Stafford looked at him, pale in the firelight.
Above them, the northern vanguard hit the outer camp.
The first screams followed a heartbeat later.
And there, leading the charge, was a large man in full armor, wielding a blade with speed unbecoming of a blade so large.
Alaric Stark and his wolves had finally come for them.