Chapter 13: The Lion's Chase and a Father's Ghost
The Westerlands burned, not with the indiscriminate savagery of Tywin Lannister's campaign in the Riverlands, but with the calculated precision of a surgeon excising a cancer. Robb Stark, King in the North, led his lean, wolfish army on a relentless dance of destruction, always targeting the sinews of Lannister power: their gold mines, their armories, their granaries, the estates of lords known for their cruelty or their slavish devotion to Casterly Rock. He was a phantom, a whisper of doom that descended upon unsuspecting keeps in the dead of night, a storm that broke over Lannister patrols in narrow, winding valleys.
His orders remained absolute: the smallfolk were not to be harmed. "We are not them," he'd told the Greatjon Umber, who had, with a wolfish grin, suggested putting a few Lannister villages to the torch "just to see Old Tywin's face." "We fight for justice, not for terror. But their lords, their fighting men, their wealth that fuels this war – that is ours for the taking." Tony Volante knew the value of controlled chaos and the long-term strategic benefit of not creating a universally hostile countryside. Some Westerland peasants, finding their own cruel lords dispossessed and their own lives spared by the disciplined Northmen, began to view the invaders with a fearful neutrality rather than outright hatred. Whispers of the "Righteous Wolf" who only punished the guilty began to circulate.
Tywin Lannister, as Robb had predicted, had reacted with incandescent fury to the news of Oxcross and the ongoing despoilment of his homeland. His massive host, weary from its campaign in the Riverlands and now force-marched west, was a lumbering giant compared to Robb's swift-moving raiders. The Old Lion's vanguard, often led by his brother Ser Kevan Lannister or the capable Ser Addam Marbrand, repeatedly clashed with Robb's rearguard, typically commanded by the fierce Dacey Mormont or the stoic Galbart Glover. These were sharp, bloody skirmishes, usually ending with the Northmen melting away into the rugged Westerland hills before the main Lannister force could bring its numbers to bear.
Robb was a master of this deadly game. Sunshine fueled his unnatural stamina, allowing him to pore over maps late into the night with Theon Greyjoy and his scouts, planning the next day's feints and raids, then ride at the head of his men from dawn till dusk. His mind, sharpened by the solar energy, saw patterns in Tywin's movements, anticipated his attempts to encircle them, and always found an escape route, often leaving a trail of bewildered and bloodied Lannister pursuers in his wake. He used Snatch subtly but effectively. When interrogating captured Lannister scouts, a brief touch, a focused moment of will, and he could "Snatch" the fear from them, making them more pliable, or even a fleeting image of their recent route, confirming his own intelligence. Once, during a desperate rearguard action where his own horse was flagging, he laid a hand on its neck and "Snatched" a portion of its weariness, feeling the animal surge with renewed energy as a wave of bone-deep fatigue washed over him, only to be burned away by his own potent vitality and Ban's immortal resilience.
His Wolf Pack, his personal guard, became a legend in both armies. The Greatjon, fighting with the joyous abandon of a man truly in his element; Dacey Mormont, her mace a blur of death; Smalljon Umber, growing daily in skill and confidence under Robb's tutelage; and even Theon Greyjoy, whose arrows seemed guided by an almost supernatural accuracy, picking off Lannister officers from incredible distances. Theon, in particular, thrived under the responsibility and the danger, his loyalty to Robb seemingly absolute in these heady days of victory and daring.
But the campaign was taking its toll. Men grew weary. Horses foundered. The constant movement, the skirmishes, the knowledge that Tywin Lannister's massive host was always just a few leagues behind, began to fray nerves. Robb, however, seemed inexhaustible, his presence a constant reassurance. He shared their meager rations, slept under the stars with them, his iron crown often tucked into his saddlebag, his manner that of a first captain rather than a distant king.
He was not just running; he was searching. Scouting parties ranged far and wide, looking for the ideal terrain, a place where he could turn the tables on Tywin, a trap to ensnare the Old Lion himself. The Golden Tooth, the heavily fortified pass that was the main gateway into the Westerlands, was too strong to assault directly, but the rugged terrain around it offered possibilities.
News from other fronts was sporadic and often grim. A rider from Riverrun brought letters from his mother and Maester Vyman. Catelyn was beside herself with worry for him, but also fiercely proud, her letters filled with maternal pleas for caution. Edmure, with the Blackfish's stern guidance, was holding Riverrun, but the Riverlands were still far from secure. Crucially, there was still no word from the envoy Robb had sent to King's Landing. The silence from the capital was ominous.
Even more disturbing were the reports – or lack thereof – from his own rangers shadowing Roose Bolton. The Lord of the Dreadfort was making a great show of slowly advancing, claiming to be hampered by logistical issues and Tywin's scorched-earth tactics, but Robb's scouts reported that Bolton's army was largely intact, well-supplied, and avoiding any meaningful engagement with the Lannister rearguard. "He's letting Tywin come for us," Robb said grimly to the Greatjon. "The Leech Lord plays his own game. We are on our own."
It was during a brief respite, camped in a hidden valley after a successful raid on a Lannister silver mine near Castamere (a name that sent a chill down Robb's spine, knowing its bloody history), that the blow fell.
A lone rider, his horse lathered and dying beneath him, stumbled into their camp. He was gaunt, his clothes in tatters, but his eyes burned with a terrible light. He was one of Lord Eddard's household guards, a man named Jory Cassel's cousin, who had been left in King's Landing when Ned was imprisoned. He had ridden non-stop, a wanted man, carrying the most horrific news imaginable.
He knelt before Robb, who was cleaning his Valyrian sword by the light of a sputtering campfire, the setting sun painting the sky in hues of blood and ash. The dregs of Sunshine's power still warmed Robb, but a sudden, icy premonition gripped him.
"Your Grace…" the man choked out, his voice raw with grief. "King's Landing… Lord Eddard…"
Robb's hand tightened on his sword hilt. "What of my father?" he asked, his voice dangerously soft.
The man burst into tears. "Executed, Your Grace! By order of King Joffrey! In the square before the Sept of Baelor… they… they took his head!"
The world stopped. The crackling of the campfire, the distant murmur of the camp, the rustle of leaves in the wind – all faded into a deafening, roaring silence in Robb's ears. His father. Dead. Murdered by that little blonde monster on the Iron Throne.
The Valyrian steel sword slipped from his grasp, thudding softly onto the packed earth. He felt nothing. An immense, hollow emptiness opened within him, a void where his heart had been. Tony Volante, in his past life, had known loss, betrayal, the sting of death. But this… this was his father. Eddard Stark. The most honorable man he had ever known, in two lifetimes.
Then the emptiness was filled. Not with sorrow, not initially. But with a rage so vast, so cold, so absolute, it threatened to consume him. It was the killing rage of the mafia boss whose family had been attacked, magnified a thousandfold by the outraged pride of Escanor, whose sense of justice had been violated to its core. The air around Robb seemed to drop in temperature. The men nearby, sensing the shift, instinctively recoiled. His eyes, usually a Stark grey, seemed to blaze with an inner, silver light, like chips of ice reflecting a dying star.
"Joffrey," he whispered, the name a venomous curse. "Lannisters."
He slowly bent and picked up his sword, his movements stiff, unnatural. When he straightened, the boy King was gone. In his place stood something ancient and terrible, a figure of arctic fury.
The news of Eddard Stark's execution ripped through the Northern camp like a plague. The initial shock and grief quickly gave way to a monumental, unified rage. The sounds of weeping were soon replaced by the harsh clang of steel being sharpened, by guttural curses and vows of vengeance. The men, who had already loved their Young Wolf, now saw his personal grief, his terrible loss, and their loyalty solidified into something akin to worship. They would follow him into the fiery heart of the Seven Hells itself if he asked.
Robb Stark did not weep. Not then. He locked his grief away, deep inside, fueling the icy fire of his rage. For hours, he sat alone in his tent, the flaps closed, as the sun set and darkness enveloped the camp. His commanders – Greatjon, Dacey, Mallister, Theon – waited anxiously outside, unsure how to approach their bereaved King.
When Robb finally emerged, his face was a pale, emotionless mask, but his eyes held a terrifying resolve. The sun was long gone, but a different kind of light seemed to emanate from him, a cold, hard brilliance.
"Lord Umber," he said, his voice devoid of inflection. "Break camp. We march at once."
"Your Grace?" the Greatjon asked, concern etched on his rugged face. "At night? Where do we march?"
"We march on Tywin Lannister," Robb said, his voice flat. "This dance is over. It is time the Old Lion learned what happens when you kill the father of the Wolf."
His decision was born of grief and rage, but it was not entirely reckless. Tony Volante's mind, even in its anguish, was still calculating. Tywin would be expecting him to continue his raiding tactics, to try and evade. A sudden, unexpected, all-out assault, especially a night attack, might catch the Lannister host off-guard, their discipline perhaps lax after days of frustrating pursuit.
He would no longer seek the perfect terrain, the flawless ambush. He would seek battle. He would seek vengeance. His father's ghost demanded it.
"The men are weary, Your Grace," Jason Mallister ventured cautiously. "And Tywin's host outnumbers us nearly three to one."
"Tywin's men are also weary from chasing shadows," Robb countered, his gaze sweeping over them. "And they are Lannisters. They fight for gold and fear. My men fight for their murdered Lord, for their King, for their homes, for justice! Tell me, Lord Mallister, whose warriors will fight harder?"
There was no arguing with the terrible conviction in his voice. The Northern lords nodded grimly. They would follow him.
The march through the Westerland night was a grim, silent affair. The usual camp songs and banter were absent. Only the tramp of feet, the jingle of harness, and the occasional, muttered curse broke the stillness. Robb rode at the head of the column, a solitary, forbidding figure. He felt Ban's immortality as a cold certainty within him – he could not die, not easily. But he could inflict death. And he intended to inflict it on a massive scale.
He thought of Rhitta, hidden far away in Winterfell's crypts. Oh, how he yearned for its righteous weight in his hands now, for the power to unleash the sun's full fury upon his father's murderers. But he would make do. His Valyrian steel, his own enhanced strength, and the burning rage of his nineteen thousand Northmen and Rivermen would have to be enough.
Scouts, led by a somber Theon Greyjoy, reported Tywin Lannister's main camp was pitched in a wide valley near a tributary of the Tumblestone, not far from the town of Ashemark, which Robb had sacked earlier. Tywin, confident that Robb was still playing his game of evasion further west, had apparently grown complacent, his pickets less vigilant than they should have been.
It was the opportunity Robb craved, a gift from his grief-fueled recklessness.
As the first, faint hint of dawn touched the eastern sky – a grey, mournful light – Robb's army was in position on the ridges overlooking the sprawling, slumbering Lannister camp. The sun was not yet risen, so Sunshine's power was a mere ember within him, but the cold fire of his rage burned hotter than any noonday sun.
He looked at his commanders, their faces grim in the half-light. "My father, Eddard Stark, was a man of honor," he said, his voice raspy but carrying to every man. "He did not deserve to die like a common criminal at the hands of a boy tyrant and his manipulative kin. Today, we begin to repay that debt. Today, we send a message to Tywin Lannister, to Joffrey Waters, to all who dare to harm the North. We will show them the meaning of Winter."
He drew his sword. "For Lord Eddard! For the North! For Vengeance!"
A low, guttural roar answered him, a promise of the bloody slaughter to come. The Northern army, fueled by grief and rage, surged down the slopes like an avalanche, falling upon the unsuspecting Lannister host in a devastating surprise attack. The dance was over. The Wolf had come for blood.