The soldiers didn't stop the afternoon spars when we started marching again. They were enthusiastically throwing themselves against one another. Rivalries were born, House against House, North against Riverlands. The bards playing bawdy songs and keeping the soldiers from boredom.
Morale was high, mostly due to holdfasts taken by the lions fell with no swords drawn.
"The war is as good as won," or "the lions are scared of us!" were the things I heard while walking through the camp. I didn't like it. It was an open invitation to dear old Murphy to give us a cruel dose of reality. And so, we had to correct this.
"I yield, m'lord," said the soldier on the ground. I removed the tip of my fullmetal halberd from his neck and helped him to his feet.
Harrion Karstark started 'sparring' with his men as soon as he noticed the mood, Dacey followed as soon as the promised fortnight was up. I followed soon after.
"Well, Jeppe was disappointing," I said. The man in question was jeered and slapped by his peers, I point the pike of my weapon to the loudest of them. "You look in good spirits. Come, I'll fix that for you."
The man in question, I think his name is Don, went a bit pale. He picked a halberd from the stands and stepped in to face me.
At first I couldn't quite grasp why Harrion and Dacey took such an action, but after the sanctioned beatings dressed as spars were dealt the victorious mood the soldiers were in, was dampened, at least a little.
"Your posture is wrong," I said and gave Don a light tap on his right arm. "Move your right hand up the shaft, a bit closer to the blade."
"Yes m'lord!"
I followed the nobles' example and chose the merriest soldiers and their close circle for my spars. If I'm being honest I couldn't deny the effectiveness of the practice, the men were getting more attentive and hopefully they won't grow to underestimate our enemies.
They were still public beatings though.
"Are you ready soldier?" he nodded. I felt bad.
These men were farmers, second or third sons, men who didn't had the need nor means to bear arms from the moment they could walk. And they were getting a beating for the sin of being too happy.
Also, these men carried the worry of the consequences of actually hurting a high born. Though, from what I've seen, Dacey would probably just ask for a rematch, and Harrion… I think he'd laugh and offer the winner a place in his household. I was glad for their attitudes. At the same time, I was more glad they hadn't lost…
A quick exchange and a couple of new bruises for Don and the spar was over. The circle roared in laughter and cheers. This was the fourth man to taste the ground today, I thought my quota was met and left the sparring grounds. I needed to do my drills with the half an hour of sunlight left, my muscles needed something that these spars couldn't provide.
Besides, there was something that changed ever since the Green Fork battle. Since… killing Ser Marbrand.
I couldn't quite put a finger on what exactly, but my drills became easier and less tiring. It was as if my strength had increased and at the same time, not. I could train longer and demand more of myself, but only with my halberd. For some reason, wielding other weapons didn't bring forth this new resilience I possessed.
Perhaps I was getting closer to the hypothetical 'magical bond' King Robert had with his own weapon. Or perhaps something entirely different was happening. It was frustrating, being the beneficiary of something magical happening, and at the same time having no idea what triggered the change.
###
With campfires lit and sentry rotation organized, I went to the commander's tent. Master Galbart Glover hosted a meeting every night while in charge.
The tent was bare and practical, lit by a dozen of candles. The center table was a plank over boulders and had a carved Glover fist on the center. I sat close to the entrance in front of Ser Ronel Rivers and Ser Perwyn Frey, I was just a bastard after all.
Soon the tent was filled and Galbart Glover started the meeting.
"My lords," the commander said, "my brother Robett sends news. Lord Tywin and what's left of his cavalry took Harrenhal."
In any other time, the tent would've been filled with whispers and mutters, but Harrion said what most of us were already thinking.
"Certainly the old lion can't possibly think he can hold Harrenhal, not with his current numbers."
"He had some four thousand knights when he left the field," said Lord Cerwyn. "We can't underestimate Lord Tywin."
"Need I remind you, those four thousand were fleeing in fright," said Ser Donnel Locke. "Not even the Conqueror could keep all his retreating men from deserting after the Green Fork."
"Master Galbart," Dacey spoke before the tent derailed into yet more bickering. "Was your brother able to count Tywin's forces?"
"He counted two thousand riders, my lady. The numbers may not be precise, he warned me."
Dacey rested her elbows on the table, "Hhhmm, We didn't learn of many new bands of outlaws, in fact we hanged the only one we found," the lords hummed in affirmation. "I can scarcely imagine Lord Tywin as the Conqueror, but I'll try. I'm thinking at least six of seven hundred deserters or we should've found more brigands already."
"More like a thousand deserters at least," said Harrion. "In fact, a count of two thousand? If it were any other man I'd call it a lie."
"That still leaves men missing," Dacey replied. "Tywin must've sent them somewhere."
"It matters not," said Ser Donnel. "Four thousand or two thousand, the old lion can't man Harrenhal walls either way."
"Indeed my lords," said Galbart Glover. "In the end we just have to keep retaking the Riverlands from Lord Tywin. We'll siege Harrenhal if it comes down to it. Now, for more immediate matters. We found another holdfast taken by the lions, some three or four hours of march…"
The meeting went on for a while. This was going to be the sixth? seventh? holdfast to retake. Every single one fell as soon as the garrison saw our army. Very sensible if you ask me.
Halfway through some inane discussion of who should get the honor of accepting the garrison surrender, Harrion was winning, I decided to do something with my time.
Magic, more precisely, skinchanging. Finally, after trying to have lucid dreams (total failure), meditating (calming, but still a failure), a few talks with woods witches (fun but an absolute failure), turned out just keeping Ghost by my side and intently looking at him did the trick.
It wasn't instantaneous, but after a few minutes I knew I was in the right track. From then, it took maybe a dozen attempts, and a steady supply of treats for my albino friend, for me to skinchange into him.
It was a bizarre experience. Feeling Ghost's consciousness right there next to me, feeling as he felt, seeing as he saw… It was glorious. My first experience with magic in this world and Ghost was right there.
When it came the time to 'return', I panicked a little. How was I supposed to return? Was there something special I needed to do? Did I unwittingly doomed myself to live as a direwolf? Ghost sensed my panic, gave me the equivalent of an eye roll with his mind and bumped his head on my body. It was enough, but that day I went to sleep with a slight headache and a grin that refused to leave my face.
Since then I tried to consciously skinchange when having my wolf dreams. Ghost was happy to oblige, he seriously preferred to hunt with a companion.
After a couple of days, I didn't even needed Ghost to be by my side to skinchange. It took me a lot of focus to find the thread to pull, but I was able to find it and skinchange to my albino friend.
I still didn't test how far the connection could fare, mostly because I was scared as all hell of what would happen if Ghost wandered too far and I was still seeing from his eyes. I don't think I wanted to know, and maybe that was for the best.
###
The morrow greeted our host with a drizzle. I heard a few of the Riverlanders complain about how cold the day was. They didn't know cold like a proper northman does, hell I didn't know real cold. Last winter I was a wee tiny boy who stayed in the comfort of Winterfell's warm walls.
"Hey Hatten, what were you doing last winter?"
My right hand man, let out an overly dramatic sigh, "I was in Winterfell's kitchen, dicing onions, helping my ma."
Was he nine? Maybe ten? Dicing onions must've sucked. I couldn't dice onions without sniffling and tearing up in my past life.
"My ma told me it was tame, the one before… was something fierce," Hatten muttered.
Ah shit. Asking about winter to a northman. That's not very sensible.
"Sorry for asking," I wanted to say something else, but I didn't know what. "I… sorry."
"It's fine, I've known you long enough to know you'll inevitably ask something odd from time to time."
And there he was. The disrespectful aide strikes again. I won't call him on it, at least not this once. I did ask something stupid after all.
Our march was peaceful, the worst danger we faced, was a group of men loudly singing. Soldiers aren't known for their angelic voices and this group wasn't breaking the mold any time soon.
We arrived at the holdfast two hours before noon. This time however, the garrison didn't surrender.
From my position, I could see them, all in armor, stringing bows and sharpening swords. It didn't make sense, these fools were a hundred at most, their wall wasn't even that tall. I looked around to see if anyone understood only to find equally confused gazes.
"Surround the walls! Bring the ladders!" ordered Galbart Glover. "We'll retake this holdfast before dinner!"
I sent Hatten to organize the crossbows while I went to get ladders of suitable size.
Our crossbowmen planted their big shields and sniped the archers in the walls. It took me some minutes to find appropriate ladders and sent them to the front.
And then the assault began. My men were assigned to the second wave, to secure the door once broken. In short, we wouldn't see much fight, if any, today.
The archers couldn't keep up with the crossbowmen, they needed a few seconds to aim while our crossbowmen could hold the aim indefinitely and punish any peeking fool. The archers still kept trying though. When they saw the ladders, they went on a frenzy and shoot arrow after arrow like men possessed, even ignoring the crossbows with reckless abandon.
When the first of our men climbed the walls, the defenders fought tooth and nail for every inch. I couldn't understand why.
They had to know it was impossible for them to keep the holdfast from us. Even if their lord commander was a zealot for the Lannister cause, the soldiers were still people, they couldn't have a morale this high. It didn't make sense.
After about an hour of bitter resistance, a dozen of our men, later I found the leader was called Bronn, opened the gates from the inside.
The short siege ended with our victory, but I couldn't shake the odd feeling I had. Something was going on.
I left Hatten to organize our men and turned to the fortress. The holdfast main door greeted me.
###
After Ser Brynden's attack, Robb sent Ser Martyn the next night. The Lannister's didn't pursue the second time.
Thus far, only harassing was done. But now, the third night, Robb mobilized his whole host for a decisive attack.
The night was fresh and the soil was dry, or as dry as it could ever be in the Riverlands.
Robb was betting on the previous attacks drawing the Kingslayer's attention to the north camp, and in turn, leave the eastern and western camps less defended. The harassment was executed flawlessly, but he had no real way to know if it worked. I guess, I'll know for certain now.
Earlier in the day, Ser Jammos' messenger reached him, "No Lannister guard was seen moving west, milord."
Ser Brynden visibly relaxed after hearing the message. Robb did too, even if he hadn't met his uncle Edmure just yet.
He gritted his teeth. At least there was a piece of good news today.
"Robb…" Theon called him. "We are ready."
Robb kept his gaze steady. The formations were set, he was waiting for the trumpets from Ser Jason Mallister announcing the attack on the eastern camp.
He closed his eyes and took a long breath of air. "Ser Wylis, take one hundred men, kill the guards and clear the palisades for our attack."
The Manderly heir left with a slight bow. Only a few more minutes now.
Last night, after Ser Martyn's attack, he told them he believes Lord Edmure is on the western camp, front of the Riverrun Moat. "I can believe that," Ser Brynden had said. "It fits the Kingslayer to taunt and humiliate the defenders by keeping Edmure in front of Riverrun main door."
Thinking of the Kingslayer made his blood boil. He wanted to rage, he wanted to scream, he wanted the Kingslayer dead.
Grey Wind rose from the ground and moved in front of his horse. Robb took another breath of air and closed his helmet visor.
There were things that still bothered him. He still wasn't sure if the lions moved their defenses north, or if he was leading his men to a bitter battle.
"Uncle, do you think the Kingslayer took the bait?" his voice distorted by the helm.
Ser Brynden gave him a surprised look for less than a heartbeat and Robb realized his mistake.
"You jest nephew," the Blackfish chuckled. "The Kingslayer is north, I can assure you."
At least his uncle covered for him. I can't let my mouth loose like this.
Grey Wind moved to his side in time for Lord Mallister trumpets to sound. It was time.
Robb raised his lance and ordered: "Charge!"
The warhorns from his side were blown and his battle guard assembled around him. They found the Manderlys with torches signaling the dismantled palisade. His riders went trough with vengeance in their hearts.
They overrun the outer camp, tents burned and men were impaled by lances. It took a while, but he saw the Lannisters started rallying deep in the camp.
"Forward! Don't let them form!" Robb snarled.
The ground thundered under the cavalry charge but it was too late, the Lannisters hid behind a shield wall. Robb had to turn and look for another angle.
On his way to the side, he saw a straggler racing to the Lannister formation, Robb spurred his horse. He remembered the lessons in the training yard. Lower the lance, aim center, and thrust.
He left the blood curdling screams of a dying man behind.
Robb turned his riders, they may need another charge to break the shield wall. If that wasn't enough, he'd order to engage in melee.
Once again, the ground trembled under his galloping horse. "Winterfell!" he growled.
The trembling shield wall stood their ground, an arrow hit his shoulder.
Robb turned around a burning tent. It was time, he'd order to unmount and directly engage.
"My lord!" someone called. "There's a sortie from Riverrun!"
He scanned for the castle's door, and there it was. The Tully banner at the head of steel plated knights.
This was his chance, "Again! We'll break them this time!"
His riders screamed "Stark!" and "Winterfell!" Robb paced the charge to hit immediately after the Riverrun knights.
And then, all hell broke loose.
The lions broke lines. Robb slashed and cut, Grey Wind tore and gouged. Each swing singing vengeance, each bite reaping a life.
And it was not enough.
Not for him.
When he looked around, he found himself in front of Riverrun's main door.
"Robb! Robb! Come here!" a desperate voice called him.
He turned, his breathing was ragged his horse almost buckling under his weight. He unmounted, the poor beast deserved some rest.
"Here," Ser Brynden guided him. "Your grandsire wants to meet you."
There in the ground, supported by a bearded man with auburn hair, lied a coughing old man in silver plate with a blue and red cloak. The Tully trout was engraved on his chest.
"You have my eyes…" was the first thing Hoster Tully said to him. "Cat's boy, Robb. You came."
Robb kneeled in the ground and grabbed his grandfather's free hand. "Aye. I did, my lord."
His grandfather smiled with his whole face. "I was so happy when they told me… I heard the cries floating across the river… sweet cries… they told me…." he was wheezing and struggling for air, "they told me of the spears in front… I had to free my Edmure, and so I rode."
Hoster Tully looked over his son, "Little Ed… take care of your sisters… yes, take care of them." He turned to the Blackfish next. "Brynden… heh… you came… I thought… I'm glad you came."
The hand Robb was holding went slack, his grandfather exhaled one last time, "I'm glad."
Hoster Tully, Lord Paramount of the Trident, succumbed to old age in his son's arms soon after leading a sortie lifting Riverrun's siege.
"My lord father has been sick for a long time. This battle, it took the last of him," Edmure said closing his father's eyes. He turned to face Robb and tried to smile. "Let's head to the hall…"
Uncle Edmure's sad smile… it was eerily similar to his lady mother's own. Robb couldn't help but think how devastated she'll be.
"I have to organize the army first, my lord," the Kingslayer must've been in the north camp and Robb had to know what his next move was going to be. "I'll find you once we are set."
"Aye, I… I'll take my lord father inside," said Edmure.
Robb looked away. "Ser Brynden," Robb knew how the Blackfish became after Lord Hoster's words. "Please, help Lord Edmure."
Robb saw how they carried Hoster Tully through the main gate and turned his gaze away. "Lady Maege, organize sentries over the Tumblestone."
He couldn't conceive the north camp not retreating. At the same time, Ser Brynden's words kept hammering his mind, "prideful and impatient man". It would be an act of folly for the Kingslayer to attack, but if he did, Robb would be glad to respond.
After he gave the last orders for the day. The cheers were finally heard.
They had won. They had lifted the Riverrun siege. But his mouth tasted like ash and the cold rage in his gut didn't leave him.
Just a few hours ago Ryk came with a raven he shot from the sky. The raven had the Twins for destination…
It would be sweet, oh so sweet, to pursue the Kingslayer, to paint the Tumblestone red with his blood, to march to Casterly Rock and burn it to the ground.
To have King Joffrey's head on a pike.
And even then, it wouldn't be enough. It couldn't be enough. No matter what he did, Father was not coming back.
###
I felt like I was in a dream. Or a nightmare more like.
I turned off the world around me. I felt like drowning. I was drowning.
The garrison had received a raven from the capital. Father was beheaded for treason.
They thought we'd pull their entrails and sacrifice them to the trees. That's why they fought like maniacs.
I went to the grove Ghost found, this was the closest to the godswood of Winterfell I would find this far south. I sat in a tree with Ghost at my side. I think someone sat in another tree, maybe. The wind played with the leaves from time to time, it was nice, maybe.
Night had fallen upon me when I remembered of Master Galbart's war council.
I ran. Even if my legs felt like lead, even if I felt a war council was irrelevant now. I still ran.
The world was a blur of shapes and light, but I knew were to go.
The campfire was cold when I arrived. The tent was dark and silent.
I took a moment to catch my breath. I probably should've went back to my tent, but I turned around and left for a walk. I didn't feel like sleeping. Not tonight.
Clouds were covering the moon when Ghost nudged me, no fires were around us. Something finally snapped inside me and I crumbled embracing my wolf.
It felt as if Father left Moat Cailin a thousand years ago. It felt as if it was a year ago when he embraced me after waking from night terrors. It felt as if it was a day ago when he played with Robb and I in the godswood. Who's going to tell me about my mother now.
###
A/N: I think I could probably write a chapter midweek from time to time, no promises though.
I was checking my notes and noticed I had to revisit a plan I had set in stone from the beginning because it doesn't make sense for how the current characters are, you're free to speculate what that plan was lol.
Give me your comments ～(￣,￣ )