TheSwordinTheDarkness310: Thanks very much!
Naruto9tail: Well that's the sign that I'm doing something right about this.
The Crag was more of a ruin than a castle. The maester at Ashemark had told them that the Westerlings had lacked the funds to maintain the upkeep of the castle for quite some time. However it lay along the coast road from Casterly Rock to the Banefort, and taking it would allow him to cut the two castles off from each other and watch over the nearby lands.
But even a ruin, when garrisoned, was formidable, and unlike his last siege, the Crag lay against the coast, there was no way to surround and overwhelm it. The arrows and bolts still rained down on their position, a hundred yards from the front gate, inside a ditch. "Are the Smalljon and Black Walder going yet?" He called out.
"Smalljon is," Dacey Mormont said, indicating to their left where the Umber Giant was moving towards the southern side of the ruin. The castle was so ruined that no ladders were needed, the men could scale the rough walls easily enough with their retainers. They had pulled down one tree and formed a ram from it, it was being brought up from the reserve now. "And there goes Black Walder," Dacey called, pointing to the north side of the castle where the twin towers of Frey were also on the move.
"We need the ram!" He yelled out. Without it Walder and Smalljon would be left to their own devices.
"Coming, your grace," his squire said, and sure enough, the ram was coming, carried by a dozen men.
"Shields up!" Robb called. "Protect the carriers!" His men gathered around the ram, ready to charge to the castle gate and smash it down. "Ready?"
"Aye," called out the men in unison. Some crude handles had been rammed into the tree trunk, capped in a simple iron ball.
"Go!" He ordered, and the fifty men charged, a dozen to carry and use it, the rest to cover them with their shields. He held his shield over his head, with Patrek Mallister's in front of him and Robin Flint's in front of him, Grey wind slunk at their feet, crouching low to the ground. They raced forwards, boots slamming on the uneven ground as the thunk of arrow on wooden shield sounded in their ears. "WINTERFELL! THE KING IN THE NORTH!" His men called as they charged and he felt a smile cross his features. He felt his arm jerk as an arrow slammed into his shield.
They got to the gate and huddled around the ram. It slammed into the great wooden doors like a giant working at the anvil. The first made the door shake, the second made it splinter, the third made it buckle and the fourth made it break. "Charge!" He roared and his men poured through the gate, keeping their shields raised as arrows and rocks were dropped from the few murder holes in the gatehouse.
They spread out as soon as they entered. There were men of House Westerling all around the courtyard. Had they formed an organised shield wall, they might have held off his assault. Unfortunately for them, they hadn't, and as skilled as a guardsman was, his men were better. He charged towards one of them, a stout man with a longaxe and shield. They locked shields, Robb keeping his head bent so the blade of the longaxe could only ring off his helm. Shifting his weight, he used his shield to drag the guardsman's up, and thrust underneath it with his sword, the blade ringing off the guard's mail. He cut low again, hammering against the mail and pushing back with his shield so the and stumbled. Seizing his chance, Robb charged and knocked him to the ground, the longaxe going flying from the man's grip. The guard held up his hand in surrender when Robb put his blade to the man's throat. Olyvar rushed forwards and took him up, binding his hands.
A glance showed him that the battle was theirs, the men of the Crag were throwing down their weapons. Grey Wind was savaging one on the floor and the men of Frey and Umber were storming along the ruined walls. The gate to the keep was half rotted, they had clearly hoped to stop any attackers at the outer gate, or perhaps they were counting on their poverty to dissuade any attacker from coming. It hadn't, and now it was his, another castle, another victory.
Pain lanced through his right thigh like a red hot poker and he screamed out in pain as he fell to the ground, catching himself on his arm. He vaguely heard a rush of activity and armoured boots as his noble guards surrounded him. Biting through the pain, he clutched at his thigh and the crossbow bolt sticking through it.
"Inside, get him inside!" He heard someone call and he was seized roughly under the armpits and hoisted up. He roared as someone bumped into the bolt. Grey Wind leapt to his defeat and kept his men away from his wound.
He heard men trying to tell him things. The Westerling Castellan and family had been captured, the last of the garrison had thrown down their arms, the banners were now flying from the walls, but his guards shoved them aside, his noble companion calling out for the castle's maester and the directions to the Lord's chambers. "Put... me... down," he murmured. No king should be carried by anything but his steed. "Let me... let me walk."
His men didn't seem to listen or hear him. Had he even said the words?
They burst into a bedchamber, small for that of a lord, but with a bed more inviting than a maiden. "Gently!" He recognised Perwyn Frey's voice call as his companions put him on the bed, laying his head back against the soft pillow, not that it made a difference to him in his helm. Reaching up he rapped on the top of his helm, hoping that someone would realise what he wanted. Olyvar, his squire did, and unstrapped his helm, pulling it from his head. He groaned as he lay his head back. The bolt had shot through his thigh from front to back, to keep from digging it in further, he had to rest it on his side, which wasn't comfortable in his armour.
"It's okay Your Grace," Olyvar said. "The Maester is coming."
The maester was indeed coming, with Ser Joseth Keath's blade at his throat, and a dozen men from behind carrying as many potions and maester's tools that they could carry. "Treat the king," Joseth snarled as he pushed the maester to Robb's side. "And don't try anything. The wolf will know if you do." Grey Wind snarled
"He'll rip our guts out and make you watch as he eats them" Dacey Mormont added.
Pale as chalk, the maester nodded, and was released. He bent down and looked at the bolt. "We... we'll have to get the armour off him," the maester said.
"The bolt is sticking through it," Perwyn Frey pointed out. He reached out to try and unclasp the cuisse, but Robb yelled as it jerked his leg.
"He'll need milk of the poppy," another voice said, a new voice. A girl had entered the room, a slender, pretty girl with chestnut curls and a heart shaped face.
"Who are you?!"Half his noble companions put their hands to their weapons, the other half already had them drawn."
"That is lady Jeyne," the Maester called out at once, seemingly relieved that she had come. "She knows more about healing than I."
"He needs milk of the poppy. There is a lot of blood in the thigh, if his leg jerks, even a little, while the quarrel is being removed, it could be fatal." She was reasoned and calm in the face of steel. He shifted to get a better look at her, but it only made another lance of pain shoot through his leg.
He took several deep breaths to try and dull the pain, closing his eyes to it. When he opened them the maester was passing a cup of thick white liquid to his lips. He snatched at the chained man's wrist, making him cry out. "Give... me... that," he grunted and took the cup. He held it out towards Grey Wind who gave it a sniff. Looking into his master's eyes, Grey Wind gave his consent. Robb brought the cup to his lips and drank the thick, white milk.
He woke to a throbbing headache. Forcing himself into a sitting position he felt pain shoot through his leg and looked down. His thigh was heavily bandaged, but the bandages were clean and the leg was still there. He remembered the crossbow bolt, but if he was awake and he still had his leg, then the worst had passed.
Grey Wind howled in joy and Robb smiled, trust his wolf to let everyone know he was still alive. Immediately the guards outside burst in, swords in hand, looking around for the supposed assailant. He held up a hand. "It's... fine," he grimaced as pain shot through his leg again as he shifted to a new position.
Though no one would believe him of course. Greatjon and Smalljon, Dacey Mormont and every one of his commanders, even Black Walder Frey had come to him to see that he was well.
He did as he knew a king must, he told them that he was well, thanked them for their support and laughed at any joke about his leg. But anxiety gnawed at him, they wouldn't tell him how long he had been asleep, and what had happened in the war. If it had been days much could have happened, if it had been weeks, anything might have happened, if it had been months...
Eventually he was able to call a bedside vigil of his commanders to discuss the war.
"I'll say this, it was hard to pull my men away, each one of them has lined their pockets with more silver than they've seen in their lives," Lord Karstark declared. "Your Grace, coming here was the best move we could have made in the war."
Robb nodded. Silver was good, silver would pay for steel and steel would pay for victory, but he had come here for a different reason, a far greater prize than silver. "What of Tywin Lannister?"
"No fear of interference from that one," Black Walder replied, arms crossed over his broad chest. "Ser Edmure held him at the Trident when he tried to come to save his home. We are free to reap a far greater bounty from the Westerlands."
Robb growled, his anger roused.
"Your Grace?" Patrek Mallister said.
"My leg," Robb lied. Most accepted his two words, but some, Greatjon included, had a different expression. They knew why he had come, what the core of his plan had been. To draw Tywin west, where he could be trapped and killed or captured, leaving the way open for Stannis or Renly to take King's Landing at their leisure. He knew the chance of negotiating a free North with the Lannisters was slim, but Renly or Stannis, them he could talk to, and they had not taken his father's head.
"Edmure will be praised," Robb affirmed. "Victory against Tywin Lannister is to be celebrated. But what else has happened in the war? What of the North?"
He saw Smalljon and Dacey Mormont look to each other. "I... I'm sorry, Your Grace. But Winterfell... it was taken by Ironmen... under the command of Theon Greyjoy. Prince Bran and Prince Rickon... they say that Greyjoy had them killed."
He felt a shiver of cold and heat, a wave of anger and sorrow tear through him. "Leave me." He said at once. Everyone obeyed at once.
Bran and Rickon... Winterfell... The North... Theon. How could it all have gone so wrong? How could Theon have killed them? He'd grown up with them. They'd been protected. Tristan was going north. They were behind walls. They had wolves.
He felt the tears race their way down his cheeks.
No one interrupted him but for reasons of healing, Lady Jeyne changed his bandages and washed out the wound in silence before bidding a hasty retreat. The second time though, he caught her arm. "I'm sorry," he said.
She looked fearfully at his hand. "Sorry?" She squeaked.
"I never thanked you. I conquered your home and yet you treated me."
"Your men have treated us with kindness despite our being at war?"
"Kindness. It can be freely given. My father gave it to Theon and he..." He stopped talking as Jeyne sat beside him on the bed.
"My Lord... I do not know what it means to have lost a brother, let alone two at once, I can only imagine the pain you are in." He didn't reply. She reached out and touched his chest with her soft fingertips. "The heart hurts as everything else does. Do not wall it off and let it freeze in the cold."
He reached up and took her fingers gently. He meant to remove them from him but ended up pushing them against his chest, feeling the warmth of her hand spreading into him. "My lord..." she began.
"Don't," he said. He held her hand to his chest softly and bowed his head to hide the new tears.
She reached out with her other hand and cupped his cheek, brushing away a tear with her thumb.
He felt her lips on his never realising she had leant in. He pushed back with his own, the feeling of warmth and life on his face like wine to a drunkard gone a week without wine. She tasted sweet, innocent and pure and the warmth of it came without condition. They pulled back for just a moment, and in that moment he fixed eyes with Grey Wind.
As Jeyne kissed him again, he thought of those eyes. Wolfblooded. That was how father described Tristan, quick to anger and passion. Indulging in the soft embrace of a woman after a tragedy, that was Tristan's way. It wasn't his... it couldn't be.
He pulled away.
"My lord," Jeyne breathed, leaning in once more, but he raised his fingers to her lips and held her fast.
"Get out," he said.
"But..."
"Get out now," he insisted. Jeyne looked as though he had run her through with a blade for a moment before gathering herself and departing.
When he was alone he locked eyes with Grey Win again and nodded. Tristan engaged in quick anger and passion. He had to be different. He had to set his eyes on the future, on the North and its freedom. The struggle had claimed the lives of two of his brothers, and it was in their name that he would win.
