Martin Lannister, son of Kevan, had grown up in luxury, never knowing hardship or even the sting of a minor injury. Any fool daring to harm a Lannister had to weigh the consequences carefully—"The Rains of Castamere" was not just a song but a warning etched in blood for those who challenged the golden lions.
Now, Martin ran barefoot over gravel and wood chips, the pain barely registering as terror consumed him. He glanced behind repeatedly, his movements frantic and erratic, more like a rabbit fleeing a wolf than a knight of Westerlands descent. The Northern cavalry had struck like lightning, descending from the mountains with brutal efficiency, leaving chaos in their wake.
Martin didn't understand why Golden Tooth was still under Lannister control while his camp was being decimated. Adrenaline drove him into action—he threw on his clothes, grabbed his sword, and bolted from the tent. Luck was on his side; moving through the darkness and narrow alleys, he managed to evade the sharp eyes of the attackers. The wilderness beyond the camp promised potential safety—a ditch, a hollow, anything to hide and outlast the night. Martin knew the terrain well.
But before he could make good his escape, a shadowy figure loomed from behind a tent, blocking his path. Fear, cowardice, and a fleeting spark of courage flickered across his pale green eyes. He gripped his sword and roared, "Hear Me Roar!" and lunged at the figure, hoping to survive through valor.
Eddard Karstark stood, expressionless, raising his battle-axe. He did not dodge Martin's desperate swings. The young Lannister's sword met steel and plate, skidding harmlessly off the darkened shoulder armor. The battle-axe followed its deadly path, slicing through skull and bone with a sickening crack. Martin's body slumped, his life extinguished in an instant, blood and brain matter staining the earth. Horror and disbelief lingered in his vacant eyes.
"Are you trying to become Lannister killers, boys?" Greatjon Umber muttered from somewhere nearby, shaking his head. "The two Lannisters you've killed—if captured alive—could've fetched a thousand warhorses in ransom. Now? Nothing but corpses."
Eddard wiped the blood from his weapon, turning to Greatjon with calm authority. "Victory is earned on the battlefield, Lord Umber. Those who survive by surrender or strategy can be ransomed, but those who resist will meet this fate. The North must fight to win; there is no room for hesitation or sentimentality."
Greatjon wanted to argue, but Lady Maege Uller arrived just in time. "Enough, Jon Umber. That Lannister resisted. Eddard did nothing wrong. Take your troops and hunt down those fleeing soldiers instead."
Reluctantly, Greatjon rode away. Lady Maege's gaze lingered on the lifeless Martin Lannister, regret shadowing her face. She knew that a smarter strategy often meant surrender, disguise, or stealth. Few Northerners, though fierce, were bloodthirsty—they allowed mercy when it made sense. Martin's folly had sealed his fate: noble robes, a golden sword, and resistance against Northern fury.
Eddard nodded to Lady Maege, silently acknowledging her guidance and support. Ever since the incident at Qingteng Tavern, when Eddard had spoken of Jorah Mormont, Lady Maege had made amends for any offense, ensuring the alliance between their houses remained strong.
The Northern cavalry, led by Eddard, surged after the fleeing soldiers. Screams, neighs, and the thundering of hooves filled the night as the pursuit continued. By dawn, the ten thousand Lannister recruits had suffered over four thousand casualties, with hundreds more trampled by the stampeding horses. Two to three thousand attempted to flee to Lannisport, only to be intercepted by Earl Tai Tuo Si's cavalry. Another two thousand surrendered in despair, including several minor lords and knights.
Only a few hundred managed to escape into forests and hills, their survival uncertain. The North itself suffered minor losses—fewer than a hundred men—most from falls or injuries sustained during the chase. Even Ser Stevron Frey, the aging heir of Twin River City, stumbled but survived to congratulate Robb Stark on the campaign's success.
After daylight, the lords left a small guard over the prisoners and began organizing the spoils. The haul included grain, tents, weapons, livestock, and easily transportable valuables. While significant, the plunder was a logistical burden for a fast-moving cavalry army. The lords discussed the options briefly and, with Robb Stark's approval, decided to plunder the nearby Ox Town.
Unlike the Mountain's men, the Northerners acted with restraint. They killed only those who resisted, set fire to homes of those who refused to surrender, and seized money, livestock, and war essentials. Civilians—especially the elderly, women, and children—were left unharmed under Robb Stark's orders. Even in war, the young king upheld basic honor.
Eddard led the charge to the lord's house in Ox Town, the largest and most fortified position. He raised a crude tin megaphone and called out to the inhabitants:
"Hear ye! This town now belongs to His Majesty Robb Stark, King of the North, King of the Trident, and Lord of Winterfell! Surrender your arms, and I, in the name of House Karstark, guarantee your safety and allow ransom!"
Around him, seven heavily armored retainers and three family cavalrymen prepared to breach the gate. Each wore two layers of chainmail, an inner leather layer, and steel helmets padded with chainmail. Some carried logs to batter the gate; others wielded shields to absorb enemy fire.
Abel and Lando, veterans of earlier battles, had advanced to Northern Soldier rank, gaining strength and constitution bonuses, while the other five men, seasoned through the night's battle, had become First Men Descendants with minor combat enhancements.
The seven men charged the iron-studded gate like raging bulls, their momentum aided by archers who rained arrows on the defenders atop the walls. Stones, battering rams, and crude traps were met with brutal force; men fell, shields shattered, and arrows pierced chainmail. Eddard's voice boomed across the battlefield, urging surrender.
"Stafford Lannister is dead! Martin Lannister has fallen by my hand! Your army has been annihilated! Surrender now, or face total destruction!"
The gate shook under the relentless assault. Those behind the walls realized the futility of their resistance as Northern cavalry continued plundering surrounding buildings. Eventually, the great gate creaked open. A trembling old man emerged, weapon in hand, kneeling in desperation.
"Merciful lord… we surrender!"
The charge halted. Some men stumbled from the sudden braking, others tumbled headlong, but under Eddard's command, the breach was complete. Lando, recovering from a previous injury, was crushed by a log but saved by his comrades and his iron boots, sustaining only a large bruise.
With Ox Town secured, the Northern forces consolidated their prisoners and spoils. The young king Robb Stark had once again demonstrated his combination of martial might, strategy, and basic humanity. Though the Westerlands' resistance had been fierce, the North had emerged victorious, stronger, and ready for the battles yet to come.
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