"In less than an hour, we've lost over two thousand infantry, more than a thousand cavalry, and nearly a thousand elite soldiers, while the enemy has suffered only a few hundred casualties," Duke Tywin said calmly, though his pale green eyes glimmered with golden light. His brows furrowed slightly as he contemplated his next move. Stern or serene, fear never showed on his face; even if he were truly worried, he would never reveal it in front of others.
"Duke, Stark has taken Golden Tooth, and several thousand enemy troops are blocking our path. With our current forces, we cannot take it quickly. Perhaps we should retreat?" Lord Lyness Lydden of Deep Den offered cautiously. He had visited Golden Tooth before and knew the fortress's defenses well: high walls, numerous towers, deep moats, and ironclad gates. House Lyfford had invested heavily to ensure its security. Now, that strength had become a weapon against Tywin's army.
"No. To the west, there are continuous mountains with dense forests at their feet, impassable for a large army. To the east flows the Red Fork, and the surrounding wilderness, with only scattered farmsteads, offers no cover. Retreating would mean running straight into twenty thousand enemy infantry," Tywin said, his tone sharp and decisive.
Ser Kevan Lannister's face betrayed a flicker of shame. Yesterday, if only he had sent someone more proactive to deliver the message to Golden Tooth, his brother would have learned of the enemy's occupation sooner and taken preemptive measures. This failure weighed heavily on him—it was entirely his fault.
"Duke, grant me another chance. I will lead House Mallister's soldiers as the vanguard to break through the infantry behind us," Ser Adam declared, his teeth clenched, fully aware the mission bordered on suicide. His determination was undeniable. Having been spared punishment earlier, he wished to repay that leniency with his life if necessary.
Tywin ignored him and turned his attention to the lords and knights surrounding him. "Has Ser Gregor returned?"
"He hasn't," Ser Tybolt Crakehall answered, a hint of a sneer in his tone. "I heard a young Karstark chopped off his head and took the body." The Crakehall heir's words carried no sorrow—Clegane Keep was not far from Crakehall lands, and the Mountain had long terrorized their vassals. The death of the Mountain was not cause for mourning; restraint in laughter was already generous.
"And the men raiding with him? Are they all dead?" Tywin asked, his tone cold as winter wind.
Kevan lowered his head briefly. "One man returned alive."
Tywin's expression shifted sharply. "Summon him immediately!"
Sweet-mouth Raff, the sole survivor, had witnessed the Mountain's head fall by the axe of a Karstark. The brutality had left him trembling, crouching under a tree like a mangy dog with a broken leg. Panicked, he followed a red-cloaked guard to Tywin's command post, barely able to keep his fear in check.
"Duke!" Raff knelt as he entered, burying his face in the dirt. Tywin's gaze fell upon him, expressionless. "Raff the Sweet, right? Look at me."
Raff obeyed, lifting his gaze to see the Duke's majestic face, golden hair at the temples catching the sunlight like a lion's mane. Surprisingly, his fear eased.
"You accompanied Ser Gregor to raid Pinkmaiden yesterday, correct?" Tywin asked.
"Yes… yes… yes," Raff stammered, nodding rapidly.
"Good. From now on, you will be our guide. Serve well, and you may earn knighthood."
Raff's mouth fell open in astonishment. Tywin's words promised both survival and opportunity—rare gifts for someone who had seen so much death in a single day.
Meanwhile, far from Tywin's camp, the battlefield's grim reality continued to settle. Earl Tai Tuo Si Blackwood of Raventree Hall stared in disbelief at the Mountain's massive severed head in Eddard Karstark's hand. Twice earlier, he had faced Gregor Clegane in battle, suffering devastating losses. No charge, no trap, no stratagem had ever halted the Mountain's onslaught. Yet here he was, dead, by the hand of a single Northern warrior.
"Did you… kill this?" Tai Tuo Si's voice trembled with incredulity.
"Yes." Eddard raised the head for all to see, then, ignoring whispered astonishment, strode past Blackwood toward Robb Stark. His status as Hand of the King ensured none dared challenge his movement.
Whispers spread through the gathered soldiers. "He actually killed the Mountain?" one Riverlands man murmured. A Northern cavalryman scoffed, "Is that really strange? Karstarks are naturally tall and strong; they are warriors by birth."
The Riverlands soldier, initially incredulous, recalled Gregor Clegane's atrocities: the brutal slaying of innocents, plundering, and the infamous murders of Aegon and Princess Elia Martell. Listening to the accounts, even hardened soldiers gasped. That a man could die by Karstark's hand seemed both impossible and profoundly just.
Robb Stark, tending to the wounded with the maester of Golden Tooth, looked up as Eddard approached. "Eddard? Is something wrong?" he asked.
Eddard glanced over the familiar scene, noting the absence of young female healers from Essos—a relief, given his concern for maintaining order among the North's elite forces. "I have something important to tell you."
Robb stood, wiping blood from his hands onto a bucket. "Tell me. How much advantage does this give us?"
Eddard lifted the Mountain's head. "Robb, this is Gregor Clegane. Do you know what he did?"
Robb's eyes widened in recollection. "Maester Luwin mentioned him—how he broke into the Red Keep, murdered the young Aegon, and killed Princess Elia Martell. My father fought alongside him, yet even then, we despised this demon."
"Exactly. His death is a tool," Eddard said. "House Martell has long sought justice for Princess Elia, but their pleas were ignored by the old lion. Now, we can leverage this to gain their friendship."
Robb paused, processing the strategy. "Ah… yes. Justice for Princess Elia could secure Dorne's support for the North and Riverlands. I don't need submission—only friendship."
Eddard shook his head with a wry smile. "Relying solely on Gregor's death won't guarantee much. But if you consider a political alliance—perhaps a marriage contract or exchange of prisoners—it could yield results."
Robb's eyes lit with sudden insight. "What if we exchange Jaime Lannister for Sansa and offer a marriage alliance?"
Eddard blinked, incredulous. Robb had grown sharper, bolder, and more tactically astute than ever. "A bold idea. But remember, Dorne's Prince desires Daenerys, not Sansa. For him, the North alone cannot sway the Iron Throne. Sending Sansa might just waste an opportunity while also reducing Jaime's value as leverage."
Robb nodded thoughtfully, conceding to reason. "Then let us hope Gregor's death can at least secure aid—introducing a trustworthy mercenary company or reinforcements would suffice."
Eddard relaxed, nodding. "Even small reinforcements strengthen the North. This will help us stabilize our position."
"Good," Robb said, turning his attention back to the wounded. "We leave this matter to House Karstark. I trust you, Eddard."
"Understood, Your Majesty," Eddard replied firmly.
Suddenly, a shout rang out from the side. Ser Olivar of House Frey, a weasel-faced guard and Robb's scout, rode forward urgently. "Your Majesty! The Lannister army is on the move!"
Robb's expression sharpened. The Northern forces had achieved a decisive tactical victory, but the war was far from over. Every move, every choice now carried weight—not only for the battlefield but for the fragile alliances that would decide the future of Westeros.
The North had taken its first bold step. Now, the choice of both parties would shape the fate of kingdoms.
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