Chapter 10: The Camps Crushed, Riverrun Freed, and a Crown Forged in War
The Whispering Wood fell silent behind them, the echoes of battle replaced by the grim sounds of its aftermath: the groans of the wounded, the hushed orders of men gathering their dead, and the clink of mail as prisoners were secured. Robb Stark, astride his weary destrier, surveyed the scene. The sun, now beginning its descent from its noon zenith, still poured its potent energy into him, but the initial savage joy of victory was giving way to the cold calculations of a commander. Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer, prized captive of the North, was being heavily guarded, his gilded armor now a tarnished symbol of Lannister arrogance brought low.
"Greatjon," Robb called, his voice still carrying the resonant timbre of command that Sunshine amplified. Lord Umber, his face spattered with blood (mostly not his own), his massive sword still unsheathed, lumbered over. "The Kingslayer is ours. Now, Riverrun. Send riders to your son and Ser Brynden Tully. Tell them we move on the siege camps at once. No rest until my grandfather's castle is free."
"Aye, Young Wolf!" the Greatjon roared, his eyes blazing with battle-lust and admiration. "We'll not leave a stone of their bloody camps standing!"
There was no time for savoring victory. Every moment counted. The Lannister forces besieging Riverrun, numbering over fifteen thousand before the Whispering Wood, would be confused and demoralized by the loss of their commander and a significant portion of their elite cavalry, but they were still a formidable host. Robb's plan relied on speed and shock.
He reformed his victorious but weary cavalry and the swiftest of his infantry. Food and water were quickly distributed. The wounded were given what aid could be offered before being sent back towards the Twins under a light guard with some of the less valuable prisoners. Jaime Lannister, however, traveled with Robb's personal retinue, a constant, glaring reminder of their triumph and a potent symbol to both their own men and the enemy.
The march towards Riverrun was a grim, determined push. They moved through the twilight and into the moonlit night, a column of tired but resolute warriors. Robb, despite the waning of Sunshine's peak physical effects, felt an almost inexhaustible wellspring of energy, a combination of Ban's innate resilience and the lingering dregs of solar power. His mind, however, remained preternaturally sharp, Tony Volante's strategic acumen fully engaged.
As they approached the sprawling Lannister siege lines in the pre-dawn gloom, scouts reported chaos within the enemy camps. Word of the Whispering Wood and Jaime's capture had indeed spread, sowing panic and dissent among the rank and file. Command had ostensibly fallen to Ser Forley Prester, but lesser knights were squabbling, some advocating for a tactical retreat, others for digging in, none truly in control.
This was the moment Robb had anticipated. "Theon," he called to the young Greyjoy, who had performed admirably with his scouts, his arrows accounting for several Lannister knights in the Wood. "Take your keenest eyes. Pinpoint their weakest sector, where their command seems most fractured. We hit them there, and we hit them hard."
Theon, flushed with the praise and the thrill of war, nodded eagerly. "As you command, my lord!"
Just before dawn, as the first pale light began to illuminate the eastern sky, Robb's forces were in position. To the north and east of Riverrun, the main body of his infantry, commanded by the Greatjon Umber and guided by the Blackfish, Ser Brynden Tully, who had slipped out of Riverrun as planned, lay in wait, ready to storm the Lannister siege works from that direction. Robb, with his cavalry and elite foot, prepared to assault the western camps, the very heart of Jaime Lannister's former command.
The sun's first rays touched Robb's face, and he felt the familiar, welcome surge of Sunshine's power begin its daily ascent. It was a slower build than the frantic rush before the Whispering Wood, but steady, invigorating, clearing away the last vestiges of weariness. He drew his Valyrian steel sword, its surface seeming to drink in the nascent light.
"Men of the North! Men of the Trident!" he roared, his voice carrying effortlessly over his assembled troops. Dacey Mormont was beside him, her shield bearing the black bear of her house, her eyes fierce. Galbart Glover and Maege Mormont commanded other sections of the line. "Before us lie the camps of those who have ravaged your lands, murdered your kin, and besieged your rightful lord! They are leaderless, their spirit broken! Today, we teach them the price of invading our lands! Today, Riverrun will be free!"
A thunderous cheer answered him. "STARK! TULLY! THE YOUNG WOLF!"
Then, the horns blew – a coordinated blast from Robb's force and, moments later, an answering call from the Greatjon's position. The Battle of the Camps had begun.
Robb led the charge, his destrier thundering across the dew-slicked fields towards the hastily erected Lannister barricades. Arrows from Lannister archers hissed past, but the Northern wave was too swift, too sudden. They hit the barricades like a tidal wave, Robb's Sunshine-enhanced strength allowing him to cleave through timber and shield alike. He was a whirlwind of destruction, his sword a flashing arc of silver, each blow delivered with superhuman force and precision. He didn't glow, he didn't perform overtly impossible feats of levitation, but to the men around him, friend and foe alike, he seemed more than human – a true avatar of war, his grey eyes blazing with an almost holy light.
He subtly used Snatch as he fought. A Lannister captain, rallying his men with a brave front, suddenly found his courage failing him, his voice cracking, as Robb Snatched that defiant bravery, feeling it as a brief, defiant spark within himself before he moved on. A hulking Lannister sergeant, his axe swinging in deadly arcs, found his mighty arms suddenly heavy, his strength inexplicably sapped, just as Robb's sword found an opening. These were fleeting, almost instinctive uses of his power, enhancing his martial prowess, turning the tide in small, localized engagements that collectively contributed to the larger rout.
The Greatjon Umber's attack on the northern camps was equally ferocious. The giant lord, bellowing war cries, smashed through the Lannister lines, the Blackfish fighting with grim efficiency by his side, his knowledge of the terrain invaluable. The Lannister soldiers, caught between two converging assaults, their morale already shattered, fought with the desperation of trapped animals, but their resistance was piecemeal, uncoordinated.
Sections of their army broke and fled, only to be cut down by pursuing Northern cavalry or run into the waiting spears of Rivermen who had been biding their time. The fighting surged through the sprawling camps, past burning tents and overturned siege engines.
By mid-morning, with the sun climbing high and Robb's power approaching its zenith, the battle was effectively over. The vast Lannister siege army had ceased to exist as a cohesive fighting force. Thousands lay dead or wounded, thousands more were captured, and the rest had scattered to the winds, pursued by vengeful Riverland horsemen. The Stark direwolf and the Tully trout now flew proudly over the captured Lannister encampments.
The siege of Riverrun was broken.
As Robb, spattered with mud and blood but radiating an almost palpable aura of triumph, rode towards the main gates of Riverrun, they creaked open. A delegation of Tully knights emerged, their faces alight with disbelief and overwhelming relief. At their head was a young man with auburn hair, his expression a mixture of joy and solemnity – Ser Edmure Tully, Robb's uncle and now acting Lord of Riverrun in his ailing father's stead.
"Robb! Cousin!" Edmure cried, rushing forward and grasping Robb's arm. "You've done it! By the gods, you've actually done it! Riverrun is free!"
Brynden "Blackfish" Tully, his stern face crinkled in a rare smile, clasped Robb's other arm. "You have your mother's Tully spirit, lad, and your father's Stark steel. A finer battle I've rarely seen."
Robb and his victorious commanders were escorted into the ancient castle, the cheers of its weary defenders echoing in the courtyards. Lord Hoster Tully, Robb learned, was confined to his bed, too ill to greet them, but he had been told of the victory and wept with joy. Robb made sure to visit him later, a brief but poignant meeting with the fading patriarch of House Tully.
Jaime Lannister, meanwhile, was frogmarched into Riverrun's deepest, most secure dungeon, the infamous 'Stone Crows' cells, his golden armor stripped from him, his pride in tatters. Robb visited him there once, briefly. The Kingslayer was defiant, spitting curses and threats of his father's vengeance.
"My father will ransom me, Stark boy," Jaime sneered from behind his bars. "He'll pay any price. And then he will destroy you."
Robb looked at him, his face impassive, though the power of the sun, now at its full noontime blaze, made him feel like a god looking down upon a particularly annoying insect. "Your father is welcome to try, Kingslayer. But you are not a guest to be ransomed. You are a prisoner of war, an attainted traitor who attempted to murder my brother, and a hostage against the life of my father, Lord Eddard Stark. Your fate will be decided by me, not by your father's gold." He turned and left, leaving Jaime to rage in the darkness.
News of the crushing Lannister defeat at Riverrun and the capture of the Kingslayer spread like wildfire. Riders were dispatched to Roose Bolton's force, urging them to press Tywin Lannister hard, knowing the Old Lion would be both enraged and potentially unbalanced by this disaster. Messages were sent to the Eyrie, though Robb held little hope for aid from his paranoid aunt Lysa. More importantly, the victory solidified the alliance between the North and the Riverlands. The lords of the Trident, inspired by the Young Wolf's victories and leadership, flocked to his banner, their forces swelling his army further.
That evening, in the Great Hall of Riverrun, a scene of jubilant celebration unfolded. Northmen and Rivermen feasted together, their earlier suspicions replaced by a newfound camaraderie forged in shared victory. Mead and wine flowed freely. Songs of Northern valor and Tully resilience echoed off the ancient stone walls.
Robb sat at the high table, flanked by Edmure Tully, the Blackfish, the Greatjon Umber, Maege Mormont, Jason Mallister, and other prominent lords. He was hailed, toasted, his name on every lip. He felt the weight of their expectations, their hopes, their fierce loyalty.
It was the Greatjon Umber, his voice hoarse from shouting and drink, who rose unsteadily to his feet, ale slopping from his massive horn cup.
"My Lords! My Ladies!" he bellowed, silencing the hall. "We've thrashed the Kingslayer! We've freed Riverrun! We've shown those bloody Lannister lions what happens when they mess with the North and the Trident!"
A roar of approval shook the rafters.
"But what now?" Greatjon continued, his gaze sweeping the room. "Do we bow to a Baratheon boy in King's Landing who's nothing but a Lannister puppet? A king who lets his false counselors imprison and condemn true men like Eddard Stark?"
"NEVER!" came the thunderous reply from hundreds of throats.
"Lord Eddard is a true man, but he bent the knee!" Greatjon roared. "I say to the Seven Hells with Robert Baratheon's corpse, and to the bloody Lannisters who poisoned him and stole his throne! Why should we bow to any Southern king? We're Northmen! We're Rivermen! We're men of honor and iron!"
He turned his fierce, drunken gaze upon Robb. "There sits the only king I mean to bow to, m'lords! The King in the North!" He drew his massive sword and knelt, with some difficulty, before Robb, laying the blade at his feet. "I, Jon Umber, Lord of Last Hearth, do pledge my sword, my house, and my life to Robb Stark, my King, now and always!"
A stunned silence fell for a heartbeat, then an explosion of sound. Lord after lord – Mallister, Karstark, Glover, Mormont, Piper, Vance, even a hesitant Edmure Tully, swept up in the fervor – rose to their feet, drawing their swords, shouting their acclaim.
"THE KING IN THE NORTH!"
"STARK! STARK! KING ROBB!"
"THE YOUNG WOLF! OUR KING!"
The chant was deafening, a tidal wave of emotion, loyalty, and defiance. The direwolf banner of Stark was unfurled, and men wept openly, swearing their fealty.
Robb Stark sat frozen, the weight of their acclamation pressing down on him. King. They were proclaiming him King. He knew, from his future knowledge, that this moment would come. But experiencing it, feeling the raw, untamed power of their devotion, was something else entirely. Tony Volante's mind raced, calculating the implications. This was treason against the Iron Throne, a point of no return. It made freeing his father through diplomacy almost impossible. But it also solidified his own authority, united his followers under a single banner, and declared their absolute independence from Lannister machinations.
Escanor's pride, never far from the surface when the sun had blessed him so powerfully that day, roared in approval. A King! It was a fitting title for one who wielded such power.
He looked at the faces before him – fierce, loyal, trusting. They were placing their lives, their fortunes, their sacred honor in his hands.
He rose slowly to his feet, the hall falling into an expectant hush. The power of the recent noon sun still resonated within him, lending him an almost ethereal glow in the torchlight.
"My lords," he said, his voice clear and strong, imbued with a new, regal authority. "You do me a great honor. An honor I will strive to be worthy of." He looked at the Greatjon, then at the other kneeling lords. "If it is your will that I be your King… then I will not shirk this duty. I will not abandon my people, North or South, to the tyranny of false kings and cruel lords."
He drew his own Valyrian steel sword, holding it aloft. Its pale beauty seemed to capture all the light in the hall.
"I am Robb Stark, of House Stark," he declared, his voice ringing with the conviction of a monarch. "And I accept your call. I am your King! The King in the North! And together," his voice rose to a powerful crescendo, "we will see justice done! We will free my father! And we will build a kingdom where honor and truth prevail!"
The roar that answered him was the birth cry of a new kingdom, forged in the crucible of war, led by a young wolf who carried the secret fire of the sun in his veins. The game of thrones had a new, formidable player, one who wore a crown he had never sought, but would now defend with every fiber of his being.