Notes
First part of this story will mainly focus on the Forrester-Whitehill Conflict. Second part will focus on Stannis's campaign. Third part will focus on events after that. There's three main character here; Rurik, Jon and Stannis.
Character Introduction: Rurik Asheart is from a minor vassal house of House Hornwood. His grandfather was an equivalent to a Knight to Hornwoods. Despite his humble birth, Rurik was given a basic education and learned swordcraft.
Initially, Rurik is leading a newly emerged outlaw company named Brotherhood of The Woods. Several raids in Bolton loyalists strongholds and supply lines have made him and the company persona non grata to the current Northern regime but kind of a hero to the smallfolk.
The Twins, Late 299 AC, Wedding of Edmund Tully and Roslin Frey
Rurik
The wine tasted wrong.
It wasn't sour. Nor bitter. Wasn't even spoiled. But somehow—Others take it—it was wrong.
The way it sat on my tongue, cold and metallic, and the way the light danced too brightly off the goblets. I set mine down and wiped my mouth, suddenly aware that the laughter around me had thinned. The feasting tent still bustled, but it was an unnatural merriment—forced chuckles, too-wide smiles, a hollowness behind every gesture. I had hunted long enough to know when beasts circled in the grass.
The minstrels were playing off-key again. The third time tonight. Each time, their return to song had grown more discordant. Their notes were not the clumsy sort of off-key . Discordant. Like men playing music they didn't believe in. Each time, their new starts had grown more harsh —like crows attempting a riverlands ballad.
I stood near the Hornwood banner with my falx leaned against my shoulder, fingers drumming along its haft. I had found the weapon by chance—no, by instinct. I'd gone to relieve myself earlier and saw a pair of Frey men bent over a bundle under a tent flap. At first, I thought they were adjusting instruments. But I glimpsed a crossbow string glint under lamplight. That had been enough.
When I returned, I fetched the falx from our tent without telling anyone. My grandfather, Beoren Asheart, hadn't questioned me. He'd just watched with his tired old eyes as I buckled it to my back. I saw now that the same grim suspicion had gnawed at him.
"Too many swords, too few drunks," Grandfather muttered, his voice worn as riverstone. "Why are they armed like that? Men shouldn't wear steel to feast under guest-right."
I nodded without wasn't asking me anyway.
All around the tent, Frey retainers lounged with tankards in hand, but few drank. I saw one heavyset man feign a stumble, knocking his wine over a table. He didn't curse. Didn't apologize. Just smirked and stepped back.
Across the hall, Sebastian—my cousin, young and sharp-tongued—slipped outside, muttering something about pissing. I followed him with my eyes, unease coiling tighter in my belly.
Grandfather's hand crept toward the haft of his axe, casual as a leaf falling.
"Go outside," he muttered to me, "Warn the boys at campfires. Quietly. If the horses are gone, tell them to arm themselves. Don't look back."
I never got the chance.
A scream tore through the night. A woman's voice, high and panicked. A heartbeat later, steel scraped leather—then another scream, gurgled this time. The music stopped. No,... it didn't stop. It changed. Faster. Sharper. Like battle drums hiding behind strings.
"DOWN!" Grandfather roared.
The first crossbow bolt zipped through the tent like a snake made of iron. It thudded into our Hornwood captain's chest—through the throat. He fell back, gurgling, wine pouring down his chin in place of blood. Another bolt hit a serving girl. Then came the swords.
Chaos surged like a wave crashing against the shore. Freys lunged from all directions, weapons in hand, faces twisted with something like glee. Men who had been handing out meat moments before now drove daggers into the throats of their guests.
I drew the falx and turned just in time to meet a charging Frey. His mail didn't save his head. The blade dug deep into his jaw and out his neck, cutting it in clean halves. The second came on too quickly—but grandpa was there, axe crunching through ribs like they were dry wood.
Around us, Hornwood men screamed and died. Some drew weapons, others used tankards, bones, fists. Too few were armed. We had been feasting. We were not ready.
One of the Freys tried to skewer Triston, my youngest cousin, barely fifteen. The boy fumbled backward, then grabbed a pot of steaming stew from the fire and hurled it into the man's face. The scream was short. I cleaved through the bastard's spine from behind and shoved a sword into Triston's hand.
Grandpa's face was red with blood that was not his. "To the camp's edge!" he barked, grabbing me by the shoulder. "We will break North!"
There was no time to argue. No time to mourn.
We fought through the chaos, gathering what few survivors we could—maybe thirty souls, most younger than twenty, two dozen men-at-arms from Hornwood and its holdfasts. I spotted Mallin Spearhand swinging a mace wildly, screaming for his brother. He didn't stop swinging even as a Frey blade slashed across his thigh.
Kark Dolen—my boyhood friend—had a shield in one hand and a sword in the other, dragging a wounded comrade with his teeth bared like a beast.
"They're pushing from the east! Road's blocked!" Kark roared.
"Then we don't take the road," I said, spitting blood. "Through the cookfires. Out back."
"They'll chase us!"
"They'll surely try."
Grandpa arrived soon after, dragging two of the squires—boys barely grown. He looked around, eyes like chips of flint. "Leave the dead. Take what you can fight with. We go now. Or we die."
"But the king—" Andrik began.
"No buts," Ser Halrik snarled. "King Robb is probably dead. The Freys are butchering our kin. You're not dying in their pigsty of a land. We will buy you time."
"We can't just leave King Robb like that!"
"There is no king. They will have killed him first," Grandpa growled. "Only fire and steel now."
And then he looked at me.
"Ser Halrik is right. We old men will buy you time. We will Hold the line," he said.
"No!"
"You take the boys. Lead them. You're all that's left of our blood. If Hornwood is to live again, it starts with you."
I grabbed his arm, shaking. "You don't get to order me—"
"I do," he said, pulling me close. "Because you are my last I held you when you came out screaming. Because I taught you to fight. And because you're too fucking stubborn to know when to run."
His lips brushed my forehead.
"Live, boy. And make them pay."
Then he was gone.
I turned before I could watch him die.
"Fall back!" I shouted. "Through the fires!"
We ran. I don't remember how many. Perhaps two score. Perhaps more. The rest stayed behind, rallying around Ser Halrik like wolves in their last stand.
Near the Northern camp, our company burst through the tents like a herd of elk, trampling over tables and corpses, grabbing whatever mounts or pack beasts we could find. Dolen had the good idea of opening the pig pens and cattle holdings, creating even more chaos in the camp.
In the frenzy, I saw a Frey knight charging a mail-barded horse toward our line, hoping to run us down. I hurled a spear—stripped from one of their own—into his chest. He tumbled backward like a sack of flour, and I seized his reins.
Triston and Sebastian leapt behind me onto the steed. It groaned under the weight but carried us still.
The marshes loomed ahead, black and treacherous beneath a sky that had forgotten the stars.
I knew these waters. Hunted ducks here just yesterday with Triston and Sebastian, before we ever crossed into Frey lands. The reeds grew high and thick, the soil beneath them hungry for horseflesh and careless feet. A man could drown two steps in if he didn't know the way. The Freys didn't care. They didn't need to. They had numbers. They had the surprise on their side. They thought that would be enough.
They were wrong.
We vanished into the reed-thickets, the thunder of hooves following us like distant war drums. I could feel the ground tremble with each beat. They were closing, riding hard, eager to finish what they'd started at the Twins. Eager to butcher the last of the Northerners
At the bend in the river, I turned and looked back. Kark limped beside me, one hand on his thigh where a Frey arrow had lodged deep. His breath came in ragged puffs of steam, and he was muttering curses—half of which I'd never heard before, likely because he was inventing them. He wasn't alone. About two score men had made it this far—more than I'd expected, though less than I had hoped. Bloodied, winded, mud-soaked, but alive. And that was something.
Some weren't Hornwood men at all. A few bore the colors of Tallhart or Cerwyn. One grizzled sergeant wore the trout of House Tully on his torn surcoat. I even spotted two grey-cloaked men from Winterfell's garrison. How they'd made it out, I didn't know. But they'd followed me, and that meant they were my responsibility now.
That meant I owed them a chance.
"We set a trap," I told them, my voice loud enough to carry, firm enough to cut through the growing despair.
Some of the lads stared at me like I'd gone mad. Fight? Now? When we should be galloping for the safety of The Neck?
But I saw the fatigue in their eyes, the raw edge of panic in their shoulders. They wouldn't make it much farther. Not on wounded legs and empty bellies. And even if they did, the Freys would pick us off one by one in the trees. We needed to bloody them. Make sure they don't dare to follow us desperately. And I needed to make sure that the men following me get some their courage and taste for vengeance back.
With the help of Dolen, Harv, and the Tully sergeant, I got the men moving. We split into two groups. I sent one behind the thickest patch of reeds to the left, the other behind the muddy ridge near the shallows. A dozen stayed with me—bait for the hounds. We'd feign retreat, make it look like we were stumbling, slow. They'd come for us with blades in hand and grins on their fat Frey faces.
When they did, they walked straight into death.
Arrows hissed from the reeds, low and deadly. Spearmen leapt from behind mossy banks, driving their points up beneath steel gorgets and into the soft flesh beneath. I saw one Frey shriek as Old Harv dragged him down into the marsh by the ankles, drowning him face-first in brackish mud. The horses screamed and bucked, panicked and untrained for wet terrain. Their riders fell. Some tried to rally, but we pressed them from both flanks, javelins flying, rocks hurled down like hail.
Steel rang against steel. Men cursed, bled, and died.
It wasn't a battle. It was a butchering.
When the last of them fell, I stood still amidst the carnage. My falx hung from a blood-slicked hand, heavy as a greatsword. I could taste copper in my mouth—some mine, most not.
One of the bodies was different.
Beard too thick for a Frey. The pelt he wore was not of river otter or local deer but mountain goat. There were no mountain goats in these lands. Frostbite scarring on his cheeks. Face flushed red, not from the heat of the fight, but from years in the snow.
I knelt, suspicion stirring cold in my gut.
When I turned him over, I saw it: the flayed man of House Bolton, burned into the leather of his collar.
I stared at it, unmoving, as my heart turned to ice.
Boltons. Not just Freys. The Dreadfort had known.
Without their blessing, this butchery would never have happened. The Red Wedding wasn't just a betrayal. It was a conspiracy. And the North had been sold from within.
The man still breathed. Barely. Blood bubbled on his lips, eyes wide in fear.
Kark stepped forward with his spear, eyes lit like a forge. "Let me," he growled.
But I held up a hand.
"No."
I pulled the triskelion from around my neck—three twisted spirals carved from old weirdwood, handed down from the days before the Andals came, before steel and dragons. It was more than a sigil. It was a promise. A blood tie to the Old Gods of the forest, the ones who watched from the heart trees and whispered only to those who listened.
I knelt, placed the wooden medallion beneath the Bolton's head, and with one smooth cut, opened his throat from ear to ear.
The blood spilled hot and fast, soaking the triskelion. Steam rose in the cold air. The dying man twitched once, then stilled.
It was a sacrifice. An offering to ask for vengeance in return. Old Harv murmured a prayer behind me. I did not need one.
The gods were watching. Listening.
I stood, my hand trembling from more than exhaustion. I lifted the triskelion to the sky, still dripping red, and spoke not to my men but to the woods, to the shadows, to the ancient things that lived in bark and bone.
"I swear," I said, voice thick and cracked, "by the Old Gods, by the sacred groves and nameless spirits, by every blade my forefathers ever held… I will not rest while these traitors still draw breath. I will see the Twins drowned in fire and Frey blood. I will bring down the Dreadfort, stone by bloody stone. I will hunt them through storm and snow, through shadow and time if I must, until the last of them is ash in the wind."
Silence fell over the marshes. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
Behind me, the men said nothing. They had seen enough death for one day. But they had seen something else, too.
Resolve. Vows for vengeance. A new direction.
Early 300 AC, Somewhere in Bolton Territory
The night was thick with the scent of pine and frost as we made our way through the Bolton lands. The sky above was a deep, impenetrable black, and the world was quiet, save for the occasional rustle of leaves in the cold wind. It was close to midnight when we arrived near our target: a small, secluded holdfast nestled within the shadowy woods of the Dreadfort's domain.
My heart pounded slightly in my chest as I dismounted, my boots crunching softly against the frozen ground. The silence was almost oppressive, a stark reminder of the danger we faced. No guards patrolled the area, no riders in the night to keep watch for outlaws like us. Despite the recent troubles that plagued the North, it seemed the Boltons had grown complacent in their power, their arrogance blinding them to the storm that was about to descend upon them.
Perfect for us.
I signaled to one of my men, a former Winterfell soldier, to take the horses and lead them to a safe distance. The rest of the company spread out, slipping into the shadows like ghosts, each man knowing his role without the need for words. We had done this many times before—raiding, bushwhacking, surviving on the fringes of our war-torn homeland. The art of war had been honed in us,forged in the fires of loss, betrayal, and revenge.
As I crouched behind a thicket of bushes, ignoring the biting cold and the crawling insects, my mind wandered back to how it had all did it come to this? Me, a son of House Asheart, turned outlaw, committing the same sort of crimes that had been inflicted upon my had marched proudly under King Robb Stark's banner, believing ourselves unbeatable. But the Red Wedding had shattered that illusion in a single, blood-soaked night.
The memories flooded back, unbidden and the massacre at the camps in The Twins, my grandfather staying behind to fight so that I could live, joining up with the ragged remnants of the Northern survivors, returning home through the bogs to find my towerhouse burned and blackened, my mother's body among the charred ruins...
I had formed the Brotherhood of the Woods in the aftermath, a band of men and women who, like me, had nothing left but their thirst for vengeance. Yet even now, it all felt like a fever dream, a nightmare from which I had never truly woken. My hand rose up involuntarily to the triskelion medallion on my neck. This sacred emblem, cherished by us, the forest folk of the North, was more than a piece of wood—it was a link to my ancestors, a source of strength that had guided our people for generations.
I closed my eyes, drawing in a deep breath of the pine-scented air. The forest had always been our refuge, a place where the world's noise faded away, leaving only the heartbeat of the earth and the steady rhythm of my thoughts. As I traced the spiral design with my thumb, I almost felt the power of the land seep into me, a reminder that we were not alone in this fight. That the old gods were watching over us.
A sharp poke from Kark Doeln's spear brought me back to the present. I didn't even realize I was squeezing the medallion so hard that my hand was almost starting to bleed. Kark was one of the few who had marched originally with my grandfather and one of the few who had returned. He had been a soldier before I had, a seasoned warrior with a talent for survival. When I first proposed raiding the Boltons in retribution for what they had done to us, I half-expected him to challenge my leadership. But instead, he had merely shrugged and followed, content to let me take the reins. Perhaps he was relieved not to bear the burden of command, knowing that if things went wrong, it would be my head on the block, not his.
I rose to my feet, taking the hand Kark offered, and adjusted the quiver of barbed arrows on my back. The arrows were prizes from our previous raids, taken from the bodies of Bolton soldiers. I knocked one on the string, feeling the familiar tension of the bow in my hands, and spoke to the darkness around me, where my men lay hidden.
"Remember, the hay bales go first," I whispered, my voice barely more than a breath in the cold night air. "They'll come to inspect the fires soon after. We loose when they come halfway. Don't loose until I give the order. And whichever oaf looses an arrow before time, I'll shove it up his arse!"
The bushes around me rustled with laughter and grunts, a low chorus of agreement. They were ready.
A few heartbeats later, the first bale caught fire, followed by another, and then another. Bright orange flames licked at the night sky, casting an eerie glow over the holdfast. The sight of the flames made something twist in my gut, a memory of the night the sky had burned that same shade of orange at The Twins. I glanced at Kark, seeing the same thought reflected in his eyes. We had both also been in another battle, among the trees of the Whispering Wood, launching volleys of arrows at the Lannisters. But that seemed another life, another time.
Our targets—Bolton men—arrived on horseback faster than I had anticipated, up to a dozen of them with tall spears and swords. Their quick response meant this was no mere patrol; they had come prepared, expecting trouble. I couldn't help but laugh quietly. The fame of our brotherhood was growing, and the Boltons were growing wary.
"Now!" I shouted, rising from my hiding place and loosing my arrow. Around me, my men did the same, a deadly rain of arrows descending upon the riders. We aimed high, for the torso and head, careful not to harm the horses—they were valuable, and so were the mail shirts the riders wore.
The night was filled with the sounds of panicked horses and the cries of dying men. It was a sound I had become all too familiar with, a sound that transported me back to the battlefields of the Riverlands, to the bloody chaos of war. When the last arrow had been fired, the bodies of the riders lay scattered on the ground, their corpses bristling with arrows like grotesque porcupines. The surviving horses bolted, eager to escape the stench of death.
"Get those horses before they go too far!" I shouted as I ran toward the holdfast gate. "And take those mails too!"
Old Harv was already at the wall with the rest of our men, preparing to scale it with the ladders we had brought. Two of my young Mallister cousins, lads barely old enough to grow beards, were struggling to carry one of the ladders between them. I shoved them aside and started climbing myself, knowing that if anything happened to them, their mothers—my aunts—would have my head. Besides, they were still young, and this was a job too risky.
The men, seeing their leader take the lead, followed with renewed vigor. We climbed swiftly, silently, and within moments, we were over the wall and inside the holdfast.
The interior was dimly lit, the low, hay-roofed huts casting long shadows in the flickering firelight. There was no sign of any resistance—no archers loosing arrows from the rooftops, no soldiers charging at us with spears. The holdfast seemed almost deserted, but I knew better than to let my guard down. This was Bolton land, and treachery was their trade.
I helped Old Harv lift the heavy bar that secured the gate, allowing the rest of our men to enter. "Split up," I whispered to them. "Search for more horses, check the granary, and prepare the wagons. Take everything that isn't nailed down."
As they dispersed, I made my way toward the main hall, the only structure in the holdfast with stone walls. Whatever valuables the owner had would be inside, along with any soldiers who might still be alive. I was flanked by Warin, a former Riverrun guard, and Old Harv, both seasoned fighters who had seen more than their share of bloodshed. Warin carried a torch, its flickering light casting eerie shadows on the walls as we approached the door.
The hall was dark save for the faint glow of embers in the hearth. The smell of burning wood and something rancid hung in the air. I drew my knife and shield, moving cautiously into the room. The silence was unnerving. My grip tightened on the knife as we moved deeper into the hall.
Suddenly, there was a rustle of movement, and a figure lunged at me from the shadows. I blocked the attack with my shield and twisted, throwing the assailant to the ground. Harv's sword was already raised, ready to strike, but he stopped short, cursing under his breath.
"Fuck! It's a girl!"
I bent down, the dim light revealing the pale, terrified face of a young woman. She was dressed better than a serving girl, perhaps the daughter of the holdfast's lord.
"Who else is in the hall?" I demanded, my voice low and dangerous.
The girl glared up at me, her eyes filled with hatred, and spat in my face. My first instinct was to strike her, but I held back, wiping the spit from my cheek. She had every right to be angry. We were the invaders here, the ones who had brought death to her doorstep.
"Bind her before she tries something more stupid," I ordered Warin. "Tightly."
Warin obeyed, tying her wrists tightly with a length of rope before stuffing a rag into her mouth. She struggled, but it was no use. The girl was strong-willed but no match for a seasoned soldier. Once she was secured, we continued our search of the hall, moving cautiously through the shadows.
In the main solar, we found more weapons, armor, and a small chest of silver stags—perhaps a hundred in total. It wasn't the treasure trove I had hoped for, but it would do. Running a band of outlaws was expensive work; men needed to be paid in kind or coins, and supplies had to be bought. The silver would go a long way in keeping our cause alive.
But where were the other men?We had killed the riders outside, but surely there should have been more guards within the holdfast. The silence was unnerving, the emptiness of the place unsettling. I had expected a fight, but instead, it felt like we were walking through a tomb.
"Something's not right," Old Harv muttered, echoing my thoughts. "This place should be crawling with men. Where are they?"
I had no answer. The Boltons were ruthless, but they were not cowards. They would have defended their lands with everything they had. So where were they? The thought gnawed at me, but I couldn't dwell on it. We had what we came for—horses, weapons, supplies. It was time to leave before the situation turned against us.
We regrouped in the courtyard, where the wagons were already being loaded with grain, livestock, and whatever else we could find. The men worked quickly, their movements efficient and practiced. They knew that every moment we lingered was a moment we risked being discovered.
I was overseeing the loading when Sebastian, the older of my two young cousins, came running toward me, excitement written on his face. "Rurik! Come, see what we found in the barn."
Curiosity piqued, I followed him to the barn, where a group of my men were gathered, their expressions a mix of triumph and confusion. They had emptied the barn of animals, but it was clear they had found something else—something hidden.
Seb led me to a loose board on the floor, which he and the others had pried up to reveal a hidey hole beneath. The smell that wafted up from the hole was rank, a foul mix of piss and sweat. My nose wrinkled at the stench, but I motioned for Seb to go ahead.
"Come out, whoever you are," I ordered. I didn't know what I expected—perhaps hidden treasure or contraband. But instead, what emerged from the darkness were just people.
One by one, men and women in servant's clothes climbed out of the hole, their faces pale with fear, their bodies trembling. They had been hiding, no doubt hoping to wait out the raid in safety. There were ten of them in total, and the sight of them both relieved and angered me. If they had managed to escape, they could have warned the nearby villages or other holdfasts, forcing us to flee back to the Hornwood forest with nothing to show for our efforts.
But now, they were in our hands, and that gave us an advantage.
"Bind them," I ordered my cousins. "We can't afford to leave loose ends."
As they tied the servants' hands and led them away, I turned back to the wagons. We had collected ten in total, each one filled to the brim with grain, livestock, and whatever else we could carry. It was a good haul, better than most, but it still wasn't enough. We needed more—more men, more supplies, more allies if we were going to stand a chance against the Boltons.
"Hold on for a while," I told the drivers. "We journey to the Hornwood in an hour."
As I sat on the stairs of the hall, the sergeants of the company gathered around me—Kark, Warin, Old Harv. Their faces were grim, their eyes filled with unspoken questions. We had won the night, but what came next? What was our plan? How long could we keep this up before the Boltons crushed us?
"We go to Deepwood Motte," I said, my voice steady. "We raid a few more holdfasts, rally more men to our cause. We find allies. Then we rescue Larence Snow and restore House Hornwood."
The words hung in the air, met with silence. I could see the doubt in their eyes, the uncertainty. Not all of them were Hornwood men. We had men from various northern houses and even a few from the Riverlands in our company. Warin himself had once served the Tullys. They had joined us out of desperation, not loyalty. And while they hated the Boltons, their commitment to our cause was tenuous at best.
"We can't take the Boltons head-on," Kark said, his voice low and filled with the same frustration that gnawed at me. "We don't have the numbers, and they know this land better than any of us."
"I know that," I snapped, more harshly than I intended. "But we have to keep moving, keep striking. If we stay in one place too long, we're dead. We need to find more men, more allies."
Before Kark could argue further, a commotion from the courtyard drew our attention. One of the prisoners, a serving man, was yelling, struggling against the ropes that bound him. I walked over, my patience wearing thin, ready to silence him myself when I recognized the man.
It was Len Brewer, son of the brewer of Hornwood. We had been boys together, hunting and playing in the forests around Hornwood with Daryn Hornwood, the young lord. The sight of him here, in Bolton lands, was a shock.
"Len?" I said, barely believing my eyes.
"Rurik?" Len's eyes widened in recognition, and for a moment, we were back in the woods, boys without a care in the world. But those days were long gone.
"Untie him," I ordered, and my cousins quickly cut his bonds.
Len stood before me, rubbing his wrists, a mix of relief and fear on his face. "I had no choice, Rurik," he said, his voice low and urgent. "They killed my father when he refused to follow the Bastard's orders in Hornwood. I had to save my mother and sisters. Many lads from home did the same. Joining up with the Boltons to keep their families safe."
He spat on the ground, his expression filled with disgust. "But fuck me, I never would have guessed it was you causing all this trouble for the bastard. Much less that you were the one leading the Brotherhood. He has been gathering men on every farm and homestead to deter raids from your brotherhood."
The news hit me like a blow. If the Boltons had garrisoned every holdfast in their lands, our raids would have become much more dangerous. We had relied on surprise and the element of stealth, but that advantage was slipping away.
"There goes our plan of more raids," Warin said, voicing the thoughts of everyone present. "What do we do now?"
I had to think quickly, to adapt. The Boltons were tightening their grip on the North, but they weren't invincible. We just needed to be smarter and find newer ways to strike.
"We abandon that part of the plan," I said after a moment. "We go to Wolfswood and join the clans there. The Boles, the Branchs, the Woods the Forresters—they all have the same interest as us. Together, we can relieve Deepwood Motte from the Ironborn and rescue Larence Snow."
Warin looked uncertain, but before he could voice his doubts, Len spoke up. "Forget the Forresters. They're not in a position to help anyone."
That caught my attention. The Forresters were a powerful vassal of the Glovers, one that had always been loyal to the Starks. If they were in trouble, it could mean the end of any hope of rallying the Wolfswood Houses.
"What do you mean?" I asked sharply.
"Gryff Whitehill went after Rodrik Forrester with a large group of men," Len said, his voice grim. "He passed through here not half a day before. Took the lord and most of his men with them. They're heading for the old jetty near Karhold. The Forresters have some help arriving, and Whitehills planned to ambush them."
The news was worse than I had expected. If the Forresters were wiped out, the Wolfswood would lose one of its last bastions of resistance. We couldn't let that happen.
I stood up abruptly, my mind racing. "Everyone on their feet! Get ready to travel now! Ready those horses and carts!"
The men, though confused, obeyed without question, scrambling to their feet and preparing for the journey ahead. I began donning my armor, my thoughts focused on the task at hand.
"All right, here's the new plan," I said, fastening the straps of my breastplate. "We split up. I will take twenty men and horses and head toward the old jetty near Karhold to intercept Gryff Whitehill. Warin, you'll come with me. The rest of you, gather the men and supplies we've collected and make your way to Ironrath, the Forrester stronghold. Harv, you'll lead them. Once you're there, wait for my signal. We might still be able to turn this to our advantage."
Old Harv nodded, his weathered face set in a determined scowl. He knew Ironrath well, having traded there many times in the years past. If anyone could lead our men safely through the Wolfswood, it was him.
Kark, however, was less pleased. The soldier in him chafed at the idea of being left behind while others rode to battle. "If it's a fight you're after, we should be with you," he argued. "Give Warin and your cousins to herd the men."
I shook my head. "It's a long road from here to the Wolfswood, and the Riverlanders don't know our land. It has to be you and Harv. Besides, someone needs to ensure the supplies make it to Ironrath. We can't afford to lose them."
Kark grumbled but didn't argue further. He understood the importance of the supplies, even if he didn't like the idea of missing out on the action.
Turning to Len Brewer, I asked, "You still want revenge for your father, old friend?"
Len nodded eagerly. "Aye, and more than that. There are men still looking to get back at the Boltons for what they did to Hornwood. Men from other houses as well. If I can get them to join us, we'll have a small army by the time we reach the Wolfswood."
"Good," I said, clapping him on the shoulder. "Bring your family to our men in the Wolfswood. It will be far safer for them there. Then, gather as many men as you can. We'll need every blade we can get."
With that, I turned to the rest of my men. "Saddle up, boys! We've got miles to go and Boltons to kill!"
As the men hurried to prepare, I couldn't shake the feeling that our mission was about to take a much darker turn. We were walking a fine line between life and death, and one misstep could have spelled the end for all of us. But there was no turning back now. We had a chance to strike a blow against the Boltons, to weaken their hold on the North. And we were ready to take it, no matter the cost.