"Thud."
The wooden door of the city tower was violently shoved open, and a guard holding a torch shouted, "Who's there?!"
Before he could finish, a short knife flashed from the side, plunging into his armpit. Blood gushed forth, and the man staggered, choking on the sudden pain. But his end came even faster—a long spear thrust from within the doorway pierced his chest, sending a sharp chill of agony through his body before darkness swallowed him.
Yet the first guard's fate was only the beginning. A battle-axe whistled through the air, cleaving the helmet and skull of another defender in half. Blood and brain matter splattered across the floor in a gruesome display of sudden violence.
"Charge! Kill them!"
A Golden Tooth officer bellowed, drawing his sword, but before his guards could advance, soldiers from House Norrey, hidden in the shadows, struck with surgical precision. Short knives flashed; the officer's neck was pierced, and a storm of spears followed, felling him instantly.
Jon Umber seized a shield from a fallen subordinate and roared, "Follow me! Charge! Kill!"
The Umber warriors, heavily armed with battle-axes and shields, surged forward, with Owen Norrey leading his men closely behind. The narrow streets allowed no time for prolonged skirmishes—light-armored soldiers and elite fighters alike had to act quickly, striking where opportunity appeared.
The clash erupted with a cacophony of metal and screams. Axe blades shattered spear shafts, sliced open helmets, and smashed shields. Guards armed with long and short spears attempted to stem the tide, but every advance by the invaders drove them further back. Blood splattered, mingling with the cries of pain and defiance, painting the battlefield in a savage mosaic of death.
Owen Norrey, seeing the chaos, didn't linger. He leapt from the city wall onto the stairway below, vaulting over the fighting group to reach the city gate. His mission was clear: open the portcullis. Every second wasted meant the city could resist longer, and failure was not an option.
A dozen guards had formed a defensive line, kite shields and long spears braced in front of the portcullis rollers. Calm, practiced, and deadly, they were determined to stop anyone from reaching the gate. Owen halted briefly, studying their formation. The approaching torches from within the city signaled that the main assault was imminent. He gestured to Fager, whispering, "You and your men take the stairs to flank them. Move quickly."
Fager nodded, leading his group down the stairway, knives ready. Owen gritted his teeth, signaling the rest to follow him directly. Twenty or so men, unarmored and armed with only short knives, would never win a head-on fight with the chainmail-clad guards. Their strength lay in numbers, speed, and coordination.
The first spears flew. Owen dodged with agile precision, though a sharp cut across his ear drew blood. His pulse raced, pain mingling with a fierce excitement—the thrill of battle coursing through his veins.
From the flanking stairs, Fager and his men emerged, knives stained red from previous engagements, having sacrificed a few of their number to close the distance with the enemy. The pincer movement worked perfectly. Owen charged into the remaining defenders, slashing at ankles and gaps in the shield wall. Guards fell screaming, blood pooling at their feet.
A short sword stabbed Owen in the chest, its chill sharper than any winter wind in the Wolfswood. Yet even in pain, he pressed on. Mata, seeing his friend fall, leapt forward with a captured spear, his knife slashing across an opponent's neck in a precise counterstrike.
The combined assault shattered the defenders' formation. Over twenty bodies lay strewn along the not-so-narrow city wall, a testament to the brutality and skill of House Norrey and Umber warriors. Mata rushed to the portcullis, working quickly to turn the roller. Iron groaned as the massive gate began to lift.
"Charge! Don't let them stop us! For Frey! For Golden Tooth!"
"Stop them! For Stark! For Winterfell!"
The sounds of battle echoed through the city as Jon Umber and his warriors slammed into the enemy, hacking shields and killing anyone in their path. The iron portcullis finally reached its highest point. Mata severed the ropes controlling the drawbridge, and the heavy wooden planks fell across the moat.
House Norrey warriors scaled the murder holes, lifted the gate bolt, and with a collective heave, pushed the city gate open. Outside, more than seven hundred Northern cavalry, fully prepared, surged into the streets. Spears and axes flashed in a deadly symphony as the defenders were overwhelmed.
Aryssane Leyford, having gathered a militia of two to three hundred men, ran from the inner keep, only to be intercepted by Earl Glover of Deepwood Motte and his two hundred cavalry. One charge scattered her militia—some died, others fled. Kneeling by the wall, Aryssane surrendered, offering her short sword with both hands.
Earl Glover accepted the surrender, while his men secured the inner keep. Cries of anguish and confusion erupted as the city fell into Northern hands. Wendelin Hill, accompanied by a dozen attendants, tried to respond, galloping through the streets with over a hundred men, but the enemy had already infiltrated the walls.
The terrain, once thought to be impassable—hundred-meter cliffs, dense forests, and rugged slopes—had been conquered by the Northern soldiers' skill and determination. Many of Wendelin's previous scouting teams had perished attempting the same, yet now the city was lost before him.
"The enemy has found a path we did not know!" Wendelin cursed under his breath, but his focus had to remain on driving them out. As he spurred his horse forward, a cavalryman bearing the black bear banner emerged, followed by a mass of figures. Wendelin raised his sword, shouting, "Fight! For the Earl!"
Lady Maege of Bear Island had anticipated their approach. With a swing of her spiked morning star, she met Wendelin's sword attack, knocking him from his horse. Her cavalry surged forward, overwhelming the remaining retainers and striking terror into the defenders.
Meanwhile, Earl Rickard, leading the House Karstark cavalry, flanked the city from another street. With House Mormont behind them, the pincer attack left the defenders with no hope. The Golden Tooth militia disintegrated under successive charges, either killed, fleeing, or surrendering.
With the streets secured, the west city gate opened fully. Robb Stark's forces poured into Golden Tooth, quickly securing strategic points, imprisoning captives, and allowing exhausted soldiers to claim their spoils of war. Once order was established, Robb led the Northern nobles to the godswood to pray to the Old Gods for the fallen.
The godswood, preserved by the Leyford family for generations, was filled with towering weirwoods. Among the fallen was Ser Stevron Frey, eldest son of Walder Frey, who had succumbed to wounds from the Battle of the Oxcross.
After the prayers, Robb approached Eddard, speaking quietly, "A letter from Riverrun says Earl Leo Leyford drowned crossing the Red Fork ford. After the war, do you intend to marry Aryssane Leyford? She's beautiful and unmarried. Treat her well, and you could control the city more quickly."
Eddard rolled his eyes but remained composed. "Thank you for your concern, Your Grace. I think I can control Golden Tooth without relying on marriage." He had inspected the city thoroughly—sturdy walls, well-equipped towers, wide streets, and thousands of residents maintaining the town's operation.
Outside, affiliated villages supplied the garrison with livestock and food, though they were technically part of the Westerlands. After the war, Eddard would relocate these people to prevent future plundering. The city's gold mines ensured a steady monthly output, capable of supporting three thousand infantry, five hundred cavalry, and dozens of knights—more than enough to hold the strategic location.
Robb Stark nodded, a look of understanding on his face. "Indeed. With your skill, controlling Golden Tooth is natural. We'll address the distribution of conquered cities after the war."
Eddard smiled faintly. "It's only right. During war, territory is administered by the king. Distribution comes after, according to merit."
Robb's smile faded as he spoke of the approaching enemy. "Old man Tywin is very close now. It's time to plan our next operation—and give him a welcome he won't forget."
The weight of the coming battles hung heavy in the air, but for now, Golden Tooth was firmly under Northern control.
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