Disclaimer: I do not own A Song of Ice and Fire by George RR Martin, other than my own the original character(s) in this story. This is purely a work of my personal enjoyment so don't expect anything worthy of GRRM. I fully welcome criticism/suggestions/questions. The story will eventually be finished (I hate leaving things unfinished) but I have no real schedule. Please review as I'd love useful thoughts :) feedback goes a long way to encouraging my writing.
Chapter 30: Wolf in the Night
"We're hunting some lions."
– Theon Greyjoy
The night was dark and lit by nought but moonlight, with some flickering torches – the camp was vast but spread thinly – without a scout or defences in sight, the lions were resting in their gilded tents or gathering around their fluttering fires for warmth. In the dark, the shadows moved, unknown to the pride.
The shadows were no ordinary things, however; but were instead men dressed in blacks dark enough for the Night's Watch.
"There," one of the shadows hissed, his eyes narrowed and staring towards one of the fires.
At his direction stood a young man dressed in gold-and-red finery, with gilded ringmail and a lion's pommel sword.
"Lannister," the shadow pointed out, hushed, barely a whisper.
"You don't know that Theon," another argued in a whisper. "We should-"
"-should take em," Theon Greyjoy insisted, glaring daggers across the camp from the shadows.
"M'lords?" The shadows behind him asked, their voices tinted with worry.
"We press on, Theon," the shadow with grey eyes ordered. "Robb is waiting on it…"
Theon muttered a curse. "So be it, Snow…"
Jon Snow hummed his reply, darted back on route – sticking to the shadows – with paws at his heels.
The Lannister camp was ill-prepared for any threats, no doubt their commanders doing; content in his numbers and the safety of home. Unknown to them, their foe had slipped right past their castles and looked upon them now, from the dark, from the trees, from within their very camp. Winter had come for them…
"And then I told her," a voice spoke then from the dimness of torchlight. "Now THIS is a sword!"
The lions laughed and laughed, downing their cups of arbor red wine, carefree and happy.
"You're full of it James!"
"Am not," the one called James denied, downing another cup.
"No way you fucked the Queen," another of the lions denied, laughing heartily.
"Well," James was blushing now. "She was blonde, wasn't she!? Probably was her…"
"Ha!" Gave the reply then, audibly so. "Blonde, he says; well then – I think half the Westerlands must've fucked the Queen eh?"
"Keep your voices down," one of the more sober in their group muttered.
"Nobody's gonna hear us besides the damn horses!"
A chestnut mare seemed to huff in reply to that.
"Not gonna tell, are ya lovely?"
The horse didn't reply.
"See?" The drunk smiled wide. "She promised!"
From behind them, the shadows moved quietly, inching closer.
"You see that?" One of the lions saw something shift in the darkness.
"Oh piss off Lyman," James scoffed, throwing his empty cup aside. "Ain't nothin out there – ye think I'm stupid!?"
"And a drunkard," Lyman replied with a glare. "I swear I-"
The words died on his lips, with a THUD and a gurgle of blood.
Blood spurted from his neck where the arrow lodged itself firmly.
"LY-"
THUD
"We're un-"
The knife ended his words, as one of the shadows slit the lions throat from ear to ear; dropping him to the cold damp grass.
"Quickly," Jon Snow bid the others in a hushed voice. "Cut the horses free, now!"
"I'm going Snow," Theon rolled his eyes, slinging the bow back over his shoulder. "Don't bark too loudly, or the lions will hear you."
Jon didn't raise to the taunting, moving instead to assist in their task – taking a dagger from his belt to cut free the horses bindings.
The chestnut mare shuffled and kicked at the dirt beneath her hooves as the strangers moved.
"Theon," Jon caught him pulling an arrow free from one of the soldiers.
"What?" Greyjoy smirked. "These are good arrows…"
"Damn it," Jon scowled at the kraken.
Theon only smiled in reply, stubborn as smiles went.
Another shadow appeared then from the dark, sniffed the air for the sent of blood; following by another larger one – as the two direwolves prowled up onto the horses and the chestnut mare reared in fright. "Now boy," Jon bid his brothers wolf with a look. Grey Wind howled then, a long and chilling thing, as cold and daunting as winter.
The horses, free from their posts, ran like the seven winds; fleeing from the wolves and the sent of fresh blood on tall grass – they ran and ran and ran still.
"To the trees," Jon ordered the men, whom to their credit wasted no time following the young bastard's orders. Robb had put him in charge, after all…
"I don't think so Snow," Theon was the only one to refuse… a fact that failed to surprise the bastard of Winterfell…
"Gods," Jon groaned. "Greyjoy, this isn't the time for-"
"Run if you like," Theon shrugged. "I'm hunting me a lion…"
The smile was a familiar one. Jon knew there would be no talking the man out of whatever mad scheme he'd decided upon.
"Damn you Greyjoy," Jon snarled, drawing his sword and taking a step forward.
"If you think you can stop-"
"What is it we're doing then?"
"I-" Theon blinked as the last of the horses fled. "We, is it?"
Shouts and screams answered, as Lannister tents were trampled by hooves.
"Lord Snow?" One of the northmen in his command asked, hand resting on the pommel of his sword.
"There's no time," Jon argued. "What stupid idea have you come up with now, Greyjoy?"
Theon Greyjoy smiled, a wholly different type of smile. "I told you already Snow, we're hunting some lions."
Ser Daven Lannister passed through ranks of his father's men, counting those of Ser Forley Prester's number chief among them, as veterans of the Battle at Riverrun; they were among the few thousand that had managed an escape in good order – fleeing to the safe bastion that was the Golden Tooth – now sent south to assist in the training of their new recruits fresh from Lannisport. The defeat of Ser Kevan had shocked a great many of them, but it was no matter, for they would not be bested twice.
The men sat outside their tents by blazing fires, sharpening their spears and eating rations of lamb and pork, fresh from Lannisport itself.
Daven found Ser Rupert Brax sitting with some foot-soldiers, a bearded man, older than most of the fresh-faced conscripts; it seemed to Daven that the Brax Knight was one of the finer men in his father's host. "Ser Rupet," he'd greet the older knight warmly on this cold damp night. "May I join you?"
"Gladly, young lion," he replied, with a toothy smile; taking some knucklebones from his pocket. "You're just in time for a game!"
Knucklebones wasn't a noble's game, nor a knight's game, but Daven understood the necessity of high moral among their new recruits.
"The winner gets this ring," Ser Rupert boldly declared, taking off his simple yet flawless silver ring.
It bore the Brax crest, and the footmen eagerly agreed to the game.
"Another time," Daven dined his part in this; hoping the refusal wouldn't cause offence.
"Till then," Ser Rupert didn't seem phased. "Young Lion."
A title that Daven didn't feel was well earned, by far – since they called the rebel Robb Stark near the same moniker – and he'd won battles…
He made for the centre of the host, under the cover of torchlight; the hour was late, and the stars shun above them – though only the night prior did the red comet hail them, a sign from the seven of future victories that had since faded from the sky. Was it an ill omen that it had left them, if it was indeed a herald of victory?
Such thoughts were better left unthought, Daven found. He focused on his duties instead of such flights of fancy.
Daven entered his father's tent, only to find him in talks with Lord Antario Jast and Lord Roland Crakehall.
"Lad," It was Crakehall to notice him first. "You should be resting; we've long day ahead!"
He was a strong and tall lord, this Roland, as fierce as he was loyal.
"In good time, my lord," he told him with a smirk.
"My boy," Ser Stafford greeted him happily, all smiles; embracing his son in a hug.
"Father," Daven replied awkwardly. "How goes it?"
"Well," Stafford insisted, nodding to himself. "Well indeed, my boy…"
"Slowly," Crakehall countered with a roll of his eyes.
"All things in time, my Lord," the old lion scoffed at the counter.
"What news from the front?"
"Nothing new," Lord Jast answered. "Lord Tywin sits at Harrenhal to our knowledge…"
"Too long," Crakehall argued. "If the Stark boy was going to take the bait, he'd have done so – would he not?"
"We have our orders," Ser Stafford insisted with a frown. "We shall join with Lord Lefford and join our strength with his to march on Riverrun."
That was the plan, at least; but Daven questioned the logic in it. Had this Stark boy not proven to have a mind for warfare in his victory over Ser Kevan? Had they not learnt enough of their new enemy to not underestimate him – regardless of the boys age – he had capable men at his side.
"It's folly," Daven voiced his doubt.
"My boy-"
"You'd have us do differently, lad?" Crakehall jumped in, betraying nothing in his look.
"Aye," Daven did not falter. He was a lion, not a sheep. "I'd reinforce the tooth, but march to join our strength with Lord Tywin's…"
"A force like that would be hard pressed to sustain itself, don't you think lad?"
Daven shook his head. "Lord Tywin is burning twice the food that he's foraging, is he not?"
Crakehall's features wrinkled in thought then, all while the young lion continued.
"Why not join our forces and outmatch the Young Wolf? Cut him off from joining his forces with Stannis?"
An idea that had merit, though risks; for it would leave the West open should the Tooth somehow fall…
"We have our orders, my boy," his father insisted with a kind smile on his wrinkled face.
"Assuming that the Starks do as Lord Tywin believes," Daven dared not say more on that.
"Lord Tywin knows his way around a battlefield, lad," Crakehall insisted heavily. "Trust in your liege; this is the way of things…"
Lord Jast had been eerily silent, keeping his opinion to himself – though the doubts were on his face all too plainly.
"Lord Jast," Daven seized the man's silence. "What do you thin-"
Suddenly, a sinister cry of voices gripped the air – as men wailed and horses sped past their tent; trampling others.
"The horses!" One man cried out, following up so many others.
"Fetch them damn it!"
"Don't let them-"
That voice turned to screams, as Daven rushed out the tent to see the man trampled and turned to a mess of broken bones and blood.
"What's going on!" Ser Stafford barked as he came beside his son.
"The horses?" Lord Jast muttered his answer, eyes darting at the chaos gripping their camp.
"How?" Daven asked aloud, his thoughts swimming.
"Whoever is responsible for this blunter will be dea-"
A warhorn sounded, silencing his father. Daven looked to the cry, coming from the treeline to their north…
Harooooooooooooooooooooo, it cried, it's voice as long and low and chilling as a cold wind from the north.
"We're under attack," Daven said aloud, too quietly, more question than statement.
"What is going-"
"WE'RE UNDER ATTACK!"
Daven wasted no time, drawing on his golden sword; he bolted forward and issued the cry.
"TO ARMS!" He screamed, loud as he could muster; in some attempt to rally his sleeping or startled men.
From the north came banners of white and grey and red and blue, thundering into their camp to trample what tents their own horses hadn't seen to already; throwing torches onto tents with Lannister men still inside – cooking them in their sleep as screams entered the night.
"Winterfell!" The enemy shouted as they rode, hacking and slashing as they pleased.
"Lord Stark!" and "Tully" and "Stannis" echoed in the night air among the cries of dying men.
"My horse!" Ser Stafford called out to him then.
Turning, Daven saw his father struggling with the reigns of his horse; frantic as it was.
"We must flee, my boy!" His father declared, wide-eyed as the fighting drew closer. "There's no time!"
Flee? No, he could not – would not – these were their men for sevens sake!
The cry came from nowhere.
"KARHOLD!"
A blur raced past him, knocking him back some foot and onto the dirt as a flight of arrows flew in the dark sky above them all.
It was all Daven could do to not scream or beg for the gods as he saw his father ran down, a lance driven straight through his chest; impaling him with frightfully little effort as the rider turned his horse back around. "Lannister!" The rider screamed, his cloak of white sunbursts fluttering in the wind behind his horse. "DIE!"
"Down!" Crakehall's voice snapped the young lion back to reality.
The spear flew by over his head, missing the hair by an inch as he ducked on instinct; crashing into the charging horse before him.
"To your feet boy!" Crakehall barked at him, pulling him up – strong as he was for his age.
"Lannister," The rider wasn't dead, though he was battered and muddy; the northman snarled as he advanced.
"I've got this savage," Crakehall insisted without a hint of fear in his eyes.
"No," Daven refused. "I won't leave you-"
"You fucking can and you will," Crakehall spat. "Rally the men to Lannisport, foolish boy; do you understand!?"
"I-" Daven looked around, taking in the sights of slain men and muddied Lannister crimson. "Yes, I understand…"
"Then go!" He barked again, turning his attention to the sunburst lord.
"Craven!" The savage yelled after him, but Crakehall held him back with the music of steel kissing steel.
Ser Daven pushed himself forward and the thoughts of his slain father far down, someplace dark; to be pulled back later – for now there was no time to mourn. "Lannisport," his thoughts told him, insisting on it, for his duty wad to save those he could. The dead didn't need his sword…
He ran through the damp grass, darting from tent to tent and running down a ride or two in his path.
Gilded ringmail and spun golden hair made him an easy target here, it seemed…
He ran past nearby tents where foot soldiers were panicking as arrows rained down.
The sound came with each flight, the quiver of a hundred bow-strings on release.
"Take cover!" Daven called out to the men, grabbing a shield from the grass below in haste; holding it up as arrows rained and lodged in his shield. Another swarm of deadly arrows flew through the darkness and rained down on more men, killing dozens instantly as Daven moved.
A number of knights had flocked to him as he ran, seeing his gilded armour no doubt as a beacon.
"Get back!" It was Ser Rupet. "You have to-"
An arrow buried itself in his back then with a thud, as Ser Rupet died in Daven's arms.
It was a short run now to the stables, leaving behind his knights; to the chaos of battle or the northern arrows – he wasn't sure exactly.
"Ser Daven!" A voice snapped him as he approached the southernmost stable doors.
It was a boy, with gold hair like his own; and the look of terror on his features.
"Martyn," Daven jolted to the boy's side, kneeling to inspect him.
"I'm fine," the boy insisted meekly.
"We must hurry, you understand?"
The boy gave a nod in reply as fear held his tongue.
The stables were all but empty, as any has seized horses already to flee – but by the luck of the seven one mount remained.
"The gods are with us," Daven said, if only for the boy's sake. "Come on, we must-"
"Lannister!" A voice called out his name and Daven's blood ran cold as ice in an instant.
His eyes darted to the stable's door. Nobody was there… but outside…
"Come out little lion!" The voice cried out, taunting joyfully.
"Stay here," Daven knelt back down to Martyn's level. "Understand?"
"I do," Martyn Lannister replied, with what courage a boy of barely twelve could muster.
"You must promise," Daven's look was stern. "You will not come out – no matter what, until it is safe…"
"I- I promise, Ser…"
"There's a good squire…"
"LANNISTER!"
The wolves were growing impatient.
"So be it," Daven decided aloud, gripping hard to his golden steel.
Outside the stables, he found a circle of northmen dressed in an array of greys and whites and reds and blues; all starring at him with a hunger for blood and misery. "I am who you seek!" Daven declared boldly, moving his foot back; readying his stance as he'd always practiced.
"Stand down," The loud one told him; all smiles and arrogance. "Or don't. I'd rather you resisted actually…"
"There's no need for more death," one beside them added with a frown. He was quieter than the first. "Yield, Ser, and you'll not be harmed."
"And who are you?" Daven scowled at them both in suspicion.
"Jon Snow," the quiet one declared simply.
"Snow?" Daven huffed at that. "Bastards lead you savages now, do they!?"
His words were meant to harm, for doubtless – his steel would earn him no victory here today. Words would have to do…
"My brother is Robb Stark," the bastard boy explained, with a white direwolf at his side. "On his honor, surrender, and you will not be-"
"Your honor?" Ser Daven spat on the grass, damp now with blood as well as rain.
His father had been calming a horse when he'd been run down like a dog…
"You savages have no fucking honor!"
"And you lions fuck your sisters," the loud one declared, to the laughter of the northmen gathered.
"You!" Daven snarled at this one. "I'd have your name, before I end you…"
"Theon," he shared with a smile, sword rested on his shoulder. "Theon Greyjoy."
A bloody Greyjoy, here? Had the Starks allied themselves with raiders now too?
"Pirates and Rebels arm in arm, is it?" Daven would've laughed if his heart wasn't quite so ablaze.
"Enough talk," Theon decided, pointing his blade forward in challenge.
"We're not here to butcher, Theon…"
"He's a Lannister," came the reply. "This is war, isn't that what your Prince would tell you?"
Jon Snow's frown grew tenfold at the truth of those words. It did seem that war was little but butchery.
"Come lion," Theon stepped forward as all eyes fell on the pair. "Let's dance!"
Daven tightened his grip then, approaching the Ironborn without an ounce of fear to show. As he closed, the Greyjoy fell into an easy yet practiced stance, sword held ready in front of him; and so Daven adjusted his step, circling to his right – just outside the reach of the kraken's swing.
Theon shuffled, shifting to keep Daven in front of him. He held himself with a confidence, assured in his superiority. His reach was longer; as Daven's sword was shorter – so he had no reason to attack first. The lion would have to get in closer to use his claws, and during that time, he'd have a chance strike…
"Arrogance," Daven thought in silence as he circled his opponent. "It will make him slow…"
He continued to drift around the man, maintaining the same distance, as if assessing the Greyjoy.
How much patience did this Greyjoy have? Daven doubted it was much…
As if answering his thoughts, Theon leaped forward then, sword lashing out at Daven's neck.
For all the swiftness of the attack, Daven had seen the intent clearly, stepping forward and to the outside; slamming the pommel of his sword and his forearm against the Greyjoy's arm, blocking the blow before it could even be fully extended – sending Theon staggering to his side and making his blood boil.
"Bastard," Theon snarled at the lion, angrier for the smile on its golden face.
Daven said nothing. He'd been taught, wisely, that talk was not a thing for battle.
As Theon moved in anger, his blade slashed across the gap between the base of the lion's helm and his neck, on the off chance that the armour was weaker there. Metal rang off metal with no sign of blood, with no other opportunity to investigate his blow as Daven's blade came whirling past Theon's nose.
It had passed but a toe's width from taking his nose clean off – and suddenly Theon didn't seem quite so sure of himself anymore.
The angle was poor now, but Theon jabbed for the lion's armpit; aiming for a weak point in his gilded ringmail while putting as much strength as he could in the attack, earning a muffled grunt of pain coming from inside the lion's helmet. "So," Theon's smirk had returned as he backed away slightly. "The lion blee-"
Theon's speech was cut short by a mailed fist to his jaw, sending the kraken stumbling backwards to the dirt.
"You shouldn't…" Daven was winded, stepping towards the downed kraken with sword pointed. "…talk in a fight…"
Theon's nose bled as he looked up at the lion.
"Any last words, Greyjoy?"
The sword gleamed in the moonlight.
Theon's hands had absently reached for a patch of loose dirt, as he gripped it with one bloodied hand and threw it into the lion's visor – rolling aside his furious chain of swings, evading and tripping his disoriented foe, sending him face first into the dirt where Theon had once laid moments ago.
"Nope," he replied joyfully, chuckling darkly as he breathed sharply; his sword at the lion's throat. "Do you have any, Lannister?"
Daven Lannister said nothing, quiet in his defiance. Moonlight reflected off the blade as it fell in a flash, down to end the lion's life.
"NO!" The cry came out, as steel clashed on steel – but an inch from Ser Daven's face.
"Enough," Jon Snow declared loudly, with a fire in his eyes.
"Snow," Theon growled hatefully. "This man is-"
"I know what he is," Jon dismissed, pushing back Theon's blade with his own.
"Ser!" A boy's voice echoed out as the lad ran across the grass form the stables.
"Martyn?" Daven's eyes widened, and a frown grew tenfold. "I-"
The direwolf padded up beside them then, as a yelp of childish fright existed young Martyn's lips.
"No," Daven muttered quietly, eyes locked on the wolf as it approached the boy. "NO, PLEASE; LEAVE THE BOY!"
"Belong to you, does he Lannnisters?" Theon asked the lion, his helm removed; with hair wet from sweat and battle.
"He's-"
"Your bastard maybe, eh?" Theon guessed. "On your sister I suppose?"
"No," Daven snarled at the kraken. "He's- my cousin…"
"Ghost," Jon spoke the wolves name calmly, and it obeyed; moving to his side without a fuss as the lion cub darted over.
"I- I'm sorry Ser," Martyn wept fresh tears as he all but clung to the fallen knight. "You said to stay and I-"
"Hush lad," Daven managed his kindest smile. "It's alright…"
Jon Snow hadn't taken his eyes off the pair, watching them intently.
"You, bas-" he paused, correcting himself easily. "Ser Snow? You won't harm the boy…"
It was equal parts questions as threat, though Ser Daven was in no position to threaten anyone.
"Surrender," Jon repeated his earlier words plainly, one hand stroking Ghost's fur. "And on my honor, you'll not be harmed."
The word of a bastard. What was that worth, exactly? It was a thought that Ser Daven dared not voice… for time would seem to tell…
"I, Ser Daven of House Lannister, do surrender myself to your charge; Ser Jon…"
"I accept," Jon Snow said, a little awkwardly for use of the titles he hadn't earned or ever thought to hear used.
It was with the sheathing of his steel that the northmen began to cheer "Ser Jon!" and the Battle of Oxcross was ended.
The sun rose on a field of dead men and hungry crows circling above, as the dead were gathered and stripped of their belongings; white Stark banners were raised, and the crimson of Lannister was thrown down in the mud with the dead. Robb Stark had won yet another victory against the forces of Casterly Rock.
"Several thousand Lannisters dead," Qrow Ryder began his accounting of the battle. "Barely a hundred of our own men, from what few lions managed to bring their claws to bare – most fled, or were slaughtered – more butchers work than a battle, is what the men say…"
"War isn't a pretty thing," Robb answered with a frown. That truth was becoming clearer by the day.
"Bah!" The Greatjon Umber bellowed a scoff in reply. "The only good Lannister is a dead one!"
"Aye," came the grunt of agreement from Lord Karstark.
"This war isn't over just yet," the Blackfish halted them all. "There's much left to be done, my lords."
"Granduncle," Robb looked to him, as one of his chief advisers; the old fish knew the question without it being asked.
"Casterly Rock is three days ride from here," the Blackfish unfolded a crudely drawn map and pointed his finger to the coastline. "Lannisport will be heavily defended, bolstered by those survivors from Oxcross that haven't simply deserted in their entirety. We don't have the numbers for a siege…"
"No," Robb was forced to agree with that.
"We could take it," the Greatjon insisted with a monstrous grin.
"Not without great losses, my lord," Jon Snow countered; standing firmly by his brother's side.
The Greatjon only huffed at that but offered no further argument.
"There is plenty to be done, my lord; don't fret – see here?"
"The Pendric Hills," the Blackfish named the area.
"It's rich with gold, is it not, Granduncle?"
"Aye lad," he confirmed sagely.
"Lord Umber," Robb called on his lord.
"Lord Robb?" Jon Umber stood eager for more orders.
"Take a portion of your troops here, to these hills; and seize as much gold as you can carry…"
"Castamere," the Greatjon hummed. "Nunn's Deep too, eh? Bloody shite name for a castle!"
That it was, but Robb's smile was the only reply Umber would receive for now. It was a fake thing, for he'd yet to find any joy in this war.
"Lord Karstark," he move onto the next lord without delay. "I'd have you seize the coastal villages, take what plunder you can – repay the Lannister's tenfold for their pillaging of the Riverlands. You are not to hard innocents, but take your fill… we cannot afford to falter now…"
"It'll be done," Karstark agreed with a simple nod.
"Lady Maege," Robb looked to the Lady of Bear Island with a smile.
"Stark?" She replied, blunt as a hammer.
"Your task is a simple one, yet no less important. You're to drive what livestock and supplies you can back to Riverrun…"
"Escorting?" Lady Mormont seemed disappointed, but for a second as she shrugged. "It'll be done lad, have no fear; you've my word."
"And where will the rest of us be heading?" Qrow asked then, noting how the bulk of Robb's forces weren't set to task just yet.
"I'll lead the rest of our men here," Robb pointed a castle crudely marked on the map. "Ashemark…"
The seat of House Marbrand was a grand prize, indeed, though less for its wealth and more for its renown.
"Tywin will not be able to ignore us now," Robb said confidently.
"He'll be pissing in his breeches!" The Greatjon laughed aloud at the plan.
"Aye," Robb agreed with a huff of amusement. "Are there any questions, my lords? Lady Mormont?"
"We'll do our parts lad," Karstark answered calmly.
"Good," Robb smiled kindly at his lords. "Prepare your men, we'll not linger here long…"
They all exited at that, leaving Robb alone with his brother and their wolves as rays of sun crept into the tent.
"Arbor Red," Robb passed a cup of the blood red wine across the oaken table once they were alone.
"Liberated from the Lannisters?" Jon assumed with a smirk at his brother.
"The very same," Robb sniffed at the glass. "Never had wine before…"
"Prince Will always said it's his least favourite, called it an 'Imperial' thing…"
Robb scoffed at that. "Anything else that Will taught you about wine, dear brother?"
"Aye," Jon mused, now that he thought on it. "He told me this tall tale about another Prince, from the history books – said that his name was Ragnar the Red – named for some trick he pulled on his enemies during some war or another; I forgot the name of it exactly though…"
"Maester Luwin would scold you silly for that-"
"Aye," Jon chuckled, holding the cup of red wine. It reminded him of blood…
"So, this Ragnar fellow. What's his story?"
"Prince Ragnar earn his moniker for tricking his foes with poisoned wine," Jon smirked as Robb moved to put down his wine on instinct with a frown. "His own wine too, the finest red, poisoned with basilisk blood; left conveniently for the enemy to raid – who drank of their plunder only to choke on it… after they went mad first…"
"Well then," Robb pushed away his cup. "Quite the man, he was… you don't think-"
"Gods no," Jon laughed at the idea. "The Lannister's aren't that cleaver."
The brothers laughed then; but neither drank the wine.
"So," Robb sighed, nodding to the laid-out map on the table. "Your thoughts, brother?"
"I agree – the castles should be ill-prepared for us… and Casterly Rock isn't an option…"
"Not yet," Rodd agreed with a hum and a stroke of Greywind's fur at his side.
"We need to cause more of a fuss to lure Tywin into the West…"
That was the plan, at least; to lure the mighty Tywin from his seat at Harrenhal and into the Westerlands – where they could trap or at least delay the man – while King Stannis moved on the capital at King's Landing. "It's a good plan," Robb insisted. "If we take the castles here… and here…"
"Ashemark," Jon noted aloud largely to himself. "And the Carg is barely a castle… once Ashemark falls…"
"Aye, but a castle is a castle – and if Tywin can't defend his own people; who will follow him?"
That was a lofty ideal… but Willam had taught them how the image of a man was a powerful thing…
"Make him look weak," Jon agreed easily. "He'll have no choice but to come West…"
"And here we can fight him on our terms… or at least delay him…"
If the latter was the case, then by the gods; the King best seize the capital quickly…
"I heard about Theon…"
Jon blinked at that, only humming a reply.
"You did well," Robb decided. "If it wasn't for you, we'd be down one Lannister…"
It was all Jon could do to not beam at the praise. "It was nothing, really…"
"They're calling you Ser Jon, I heard?"
"That-" Jon shook his head. "A silly jest, nothing more…"
"Well earned, I hear – and no less than you deserve brother."
The title did have a nice ring to it… didn't it…
"It makes, what, how many Lannister captives now?"
"Kevan and his sons… now Ser Daven." Robb counted roughly. "You think it's enough for father?"
"Perhaps," Jon supposed, though he doubted. "King Stannis will free him, regardless…"
"Lord Karstark captured others too, including the Lord of Crakehall – though he killed Ser Daven's father…"
"Aye, the whole camps heard his gloating by now I wager…"
That was messy business. The old lion had been impaled on Karstark's lance.
War seemed to get less and less akin to the music of bards each passing battle. It seemed that Willam had been right, for Jon Snow felt little or no glory in the fighting so far; only blood and sorrow – making him long for the days when things were simple. He missed Winterfel. The peace they sought seemed so very far away.
My Note(s): A relatively short chapter by my usual standards, but I didn't want to merely gloss over the Oxcross entirely and I'm a little rushed, so this acts as a neat PoV for the battle – kept pretty short and sweet I believe. Theon gets a little action (though he almost gets himself killed) and Daven Lannister doesn't get to escape, thanks to the presence of Theon and Jon Snow, where in canon he managed to escape and rally the Lannister forces back at Lannisport. Here, not so lucky…
Next time we hear from Robb and his forces, we'll be at the Crag, but for now it's back east to check in on Willam and Harrenhal.
Force Smuggler: Notably on the 'Warg' issue, yeah, the further south you go the more of an 'issue' the existence of such things may become - especially with the more pious nobility or the smallfolk who tend to be suppositious at the best of times. We'll see more of that play out from Will's side of things.