Anyone venturing into the Middle Ages quickly learned one harsh truth: every noble with his own fiefdom demanded tolls on the roads passing through their lands. Checkpoints were established, and taxes were levied at often exorbitant rates, crushing merchants' profits.
Some nobles were far worse than merely greedy. Those with substantial forces and cruel minds would order their soldiers to masquerade as bandits, attacking passing caravans under the pretense of law or protection. They were ruthless, calculating, and merciless.
Yet, where there is oppression, there is resistance. Smuggling emerged as a highly profitable craft, attracting only the boldest—or most reckless—souls. Many of them had walked the line between life and death so many times that danger no longer intimidated them.
The smugglers encountered in the forest were no exception. Upon detecting an approaching force, they rushed forward with weapons drawn, ready to defend their illicit cargo. They would only flee when casualties reached half their number—and only if their opponents were uninjured. For profit, humans could truly set aside all caution.
"Your Majesty, we've found out," Jon reported, brushing blood from his hands as he approached Robb Stark. "They are smugglers. They say there is a small path through the mountains that leads directly to the vicinity of Ox Town. From there, it is only three or four days to Lannisport."
Robb's eyes brightened. No longer would they have to risk an open assault against the heavily fortified Golden Tooth, a stronghold that looked almost impregnable.
"Good," Robb said, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly. He reached down to stroke Grey Wind, the direwolf who had guided them safely thus far, and then commanded, "Take them back. We march through the night."
The captured smugglers, tied in a line, were escorted along with the mules carrying barrels of wine. Following the King's orders, the cavalry prepared for a stealthy march. Every horse's hooves were wrapped in rags, tails tied, and even mouths covered to prevent any sound. Riders held sticks in their teeth to keep the animals silent. Under the moonlight, the army moved like shadows, bypassing Golden Tooth entirely.
The path through the forest was narrow, barely wide enough for one rider at a time. It twisted and turned among the mountains, treacherous and unforgiving. One misstep could mean plummeting to certain death. Eddard Stark, riding at the front, led the column cautiously.
When they emerged from a small mountain valley, Eddard's eyes fell upon the Golden Tooth below. The fortress sprawled across the cliffs, overlooking the surrounding valley like a vigilant sentinel. To the right, a steep slope scattered with boulders and trees offered no mercy to the unwary, while to the left, a sheer cliff plummeted a hundred meters into jagged rocks. Two archers on the watchtower scanned the valley, unaware that the true enemy passed silently above their heads.
Robb Stark's gamble was daring. One miscalculation, one misstep, and eight thousand cavalrymen with nearly twenty thousand horses would be stranded, trapped in the mountains with no food and no escape. Eddard observed his young king, realizing that such recklessness could cost him his life. Yet, he reflected, he himself was no stranger to risk—every decision he made sought victory through danger, whether in battle or strategy.
Meanwhile, a dark cloud drifted across the sky, briefly eclipsing the moon. The soldiers stationed in Golden Tooth lost visibility, missing the silent northern army inching closer. Unfamiliar sounds would be dismissed as the rustling of wildlife in the dense forest—a common occurrence in these mountains.
Guided by faint starlight, the Northern warriors moved carefully, holding the narrow path with unwavering focus. By sunrise, they had descended into the forest at the mountains' base and crossed into the Westerlands. From this vantage, a small town stood quietly on the plains, and a few miles west lay a military camp. Red banners with golden lions fluttered, identifying the Lannister presence. Eight thousand cavalrymen and their horses spread out silently among the trees, preparing for a nightfall assault.
The morning sun crept across the horizon, brushing the landscape with a golden glow. Harrenhal, the largest fortress in the Seven Kingdoms, lay below, scarred and abandoned. Once home to the House of Hoare, it had burned under Balerion the Conqueror's flames and was left defenseless. Now, Duke Tywin Lannister occupied it, commanding twenty thousand troops. Raiding parties scoured the Riverlands, bringing plunder back to the fortress, sustaining their occupation.
Inside Harrenhal, Gregor Clegane, "The Mountain," loomed like a living statue. Nearly two and a half meters tall, his frame was encased in the heaviest armor, layered with chainmail and boiled leather. His flat-topped helm bore fresh blood, a testament to his cruelty. His voice, deep and drumlike, recounted the raids with chilling precision. Though brutal, he was not foolish; he understood the chain of command, and his obedience to Tywin Lannister ensured his survival.
"My Lord," Gregor reported, "a few days ago, we encountered some resistance, but they withdrew to Riverrun. Following your orders, I did not pursue."
Tywin nodded, his pale green eyes scanning the horizon as a calculated smile crept across his face. "Ser Gregor, temporarily cease the raids. Inform all lords to prepare for battle. The time is coming."
Gregor bowed and left, his heavy footsteps echoing through the hall. Tywin remained, planning. By directing Ser Gregor to raid while maintaining control of the main army, he intended to deplete the Riverlands' resources, weakening their ability to wage war while keeping Harrenhal secure. Any approaching forces would be met on his terms.
The castle buzzed with activity. Soldiers repaired weapons and armor, nobles prayed in the sept, and craftsmen maintained horses and supplies. Amidst the chaos, captured prisoners and camp followers were shuffled to their posts, obeying orders with little understanding of the impending battle.
Among them was Arya Stark, recently captured and brought to Harrenhal. Her eyes, bright and wary, scanned the darkness as she was pushed toward the Crying Tower. Night fell, the stars scattered across the sky, yet the moon was delayed in rising, leaving a shadowed world beneath.
In the forest, Eddard Stark held his horse and surveyed the Lannister camp from a safe distance. Their patrols were sparse, sentries few and inattentive, making the upcoming assault almost too easy. No reinforcements would escape, Eddard reasoned—any survivors could return armed and become enemies once more. The King of the North had planned for such contingencies.
Half an hour before the attack, Eddard recommended dividing two thousand cavalrymen into smaller units to intercept any stragglers fleeing toward Lannisport. Earl Rickard of Karstark volunteered for this task. His lands had been ravaged by Lannister raids, and he would show no mercy.
As night deepened, Grey Wind's howl pierced the darkness. Horses, already primed by Brynden's men, broke free from their restraints, trampling through the camp in chaos. Whinnies, hooves, and screams melded into a symphony of panic. The inexperienced recruits—farmers, miners, and apprentices—were utterly unprepared. Some were trampled, others mangled by their own attempts to control the horses. A few unlucky ones suffocated in the collapse of their tents.
"Mount up!" Rickard roared, swinging onto his horse. Spear in hand, he led a charge toward the Lannister banner. "For the North! For Winterfell! For the King!"
The Karstark cavalrymen followed, shouting and raising their weapons. Eddard, gripping a gleaming long spear, vaulted over a low fence and landed amidst the camp, striking with deadly precision.
A young Lannister scout peeked from a tent, only to be skewered by Eddard's spear. Another opponent lunged with a longsword, but was cut down instantly. One by one, the inexperienced soldiers fell under the relentless charge.
Abel, Dita Kalander, Konn, and the rest pressed close behind Eddard, blood and gore marking their weapons. Northern cavalry, unyielding and fierce, spread across the camp. The massacre was merciless—any survivors were powerless, helpless before the trained and determined warriors.
Ser Stafford Lannister, exhausted and unfit for combat, stumbled in his nightshirt, trying to rally his men. He gasped for breath as Earl Rickard closed in. A long spear, tipped with deadly accuracy, pierced his chest. His eyes widened in disbelief before he collapsed. Rickard withdrew his weapon, spat on the ground, and pressed forward, his vengeance driving him onward.
Eddard spurred his horse, following suit. The first Lannister had fallen, and the night had just begun..
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