A Time for Wolves

Obligatory disclaimer: I don't own ASOIAF; that honour goes to GRRM.

Edited by: Himura and R. Yorkshireman; B. Reader: Bub3loka

I also want to thank everyone for their support and encouragement.

***

28th Day of the 7th Moon, 299 AC, 

Commander Denys Mallister, the Shadow Tower

"He's coming," Ezden no Azneq announced, his expression as sinister as always with the large black flames branded on his forehead while his eyes remained closed. The man hailing from Ghis looked like a vulture with his hooked nose and narrow face and was just as dangerous with his twisted dragonglass rod that somehow never broke despite raking through Others and wights alike. "Blessing of the Lord of the Light," he had explained unhelpfully.

For once, his unbreakable calm was gone, replaced by an equal measure of terror and excitement. When the usually serene red priest spoke with passion and fear, it was hard not to ignore.

"Who's coming?"

"The Sword in the Darkness. I can feel him from here. May R'hllor guide our way, for the Night is dark and full of terrors!"

"I don't have any men out on a ranging, only scouts and woodsmen," Denys grumbled, still feeling confused–all of the Black Brothers had given vows to become the sword in the darkness. Yet the Essosi priest said no more, no matter how much he inquired.

Yet it wasn't long before his apprehension was unveiled, and the Horn was blown twice. Wildlings. 

"We cannot let these savage heathens pass the Wall!" Ser Eryk Cockshaw's opinion was shared by many. Even Septon Mereck seemed to agree loudly and often, giving the Reachmen courage.

When a significant warband of well-organised wildlings approached the Shadow Tower at a fast pace without even hiding, the whole Shadow Tower was abuzz. Even more so as the scouts claimed they had seen giants, direwolves, and the Children of the Forest with them. More than eight hundred, but less than a thousand, the scouts claimed. While far from numerous, they were not to be underestimated.

Denys Mallister might have been old, but he was no fool. The North was under heavy attack, and the white direwolf banner fluttering above the wildlings left no doubt about who led this warband. The Commander of the Shadow Tower had already seen the shaggy direwolf head with its fiendish red eyes, once on the cloak of that young man so painfully reminding him of Rickard Stark and the second time on the dangerous beast beside him. 

The infamous Snow of Winterfell, the brave White Hunstman, according to the ballads which had spread through every corner of the Northern Mountains. Shadowton, the newly formed town at the Bay of Ice courtesy of the royal charter, was full of clansmen singing praises to the Stark bastard when they came over to trade.

Many other rumours came from Beyond the Wall or the rangers of Castle Black. Of the fiendish Warg Lord, master of a thousand bear-sized direwolves, lord of all beasts and myths that walk the land, a legendary figure that could have crawled out of the Age of Heroes that even many wildlings banded behind despite his kneeler origin, dauntlessly facing against the cold darkness.

The old knight was no stranger to exaggeration, but there was rarely smoke without fire.

It was an odd situation, for none other than the Clansmen and Stark's rangers seemed to acknowledge the bastard of Winterfell's existence. They, and the late King Robert.

It wasn't easy to face the Others, Denys knew, especially in the open. He remembered the cold, the creeping chill filled with despair that raked through layers of wool and fur. He could never forget the seemingly endless tide of corpses and their cold masters that tried to swallow them alive in the darkness. The stump on his left hand was a trophy of such a battle, yet his limb was but a small price for slaying an Other. It was a blood-curdling struggle, one that wouldn't have been won without the many brave men flocking from every corner of the Seven Kingdoms. Yet bold men were far from enough to win against death. The endless supply of dragonglass pouring in from the mountains or the red priests and the mad alchemists who raced to find out who would find a concoction that would burn the walking corpses faster were just as invaluable.

Unless you were a lackwit, it was plain to see why Snow was here.

The Son of Winterfell was coming back to defend his home, and Lord Commander Stark's orders were clear - the Watch takes no part, and Jon Snow was allowed passage as a Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, personally ennobled by His Grace, Robert Baratheon.

The old Mallister commander loathed the Ironmen with a burning passion, as every man born under the Silver Eagle did. The grudge was old and no longer mattered what started it. For millennia, the reavers had raided and outright attacked Seaguard. Five times, the town burned, and three times, the keep was sacked and torched, but House Mallister always survived to fight for another day.

But Denys was a pious knight who had given solemn vows once as a knight, twice as a Black Brother, and thrice as commander of the Shadow Tower. His duty was, first and foremost, to the Watch and all the black brothers whose lives weighed on his old, weary shoulders.

"Gather thirty of my rangers," he decided, rubbing his stump. Perhaps it was time to listen to Mullin and strap a hook there. He was old, but it did not mean he had to be feeble. "I shall judge whether this Lord and his men are who the Lord Commander claims they are."

"What if it's a ruse, an ambush?" Ser Lothor Risley asked.

"The Watch does have an understanding with Warg Hill." Denys Mallister closed his eyes. "Worst comes, we die here, and the wildlings will choke on their attempt to pass the Wall, and all previous agreements are null and void. Mullin, you will be in charge should we not return." 

For good or bad, of the thousand men in the Shadow Tower, nearly nine out of ten hailed from the Reach. The Northmen volunteers preferred to flock to Castle Black and Lord Commander Stark, and the rest were spread out closer to Eastwatch due to its accessibility by sea. He could call on another five hundred swords from the nearby Shadowton. Still, they were fledgling militia with a handful of retired greybeards who had quit their service to the Watch to try their hand at trading and farming. Another two hundred could be summoned from Westwatch-by-the-Bridge.

It would be easy to let Jon Snow and his wildlings and beasts pass, but what if the black brothers mutinied? Even that aside, his honour and duty compelled him to test the mettle and character of Jon Snow. A short meeting with the determined young lad did not do the rumours justice, nor was it enough to open the gates of the Shadow Tower to wildlings, even one led by a Snow of Winterfell. How many decades had Mallister spent hunting down and killing the unruly savages who ambushed his men and climbed the Wall to steal women, food, and valuables from the Gift? How many friends and brothers-in-arms had he lost?

More than he could ever hope to count.

Yet the gods had decided this thorny conundrum had fallen in Denys' lap. Perhaps he would lose his head for defying Lord Commander Stark's orders. Perhaps he wouldn't even see the next dawn.

But it didn't matter, for the Commander of the Shadow Tower had to see for himself. For his men, for the Watch. For the many smallfolk who lived in the Gift, relying on his protection. 

And so, he rode out through the cold tunnel dug into the ice, through the heavy gate and the thick portcullis, accompanied by Septon Mereck and thirty of his rangers, the veterans that accompanied him for years and experienced Reach knights along with the sole Westerlander, a blonde warrior called Erwyn who was skilled with a blade and a crossbow.

"Father Above, save me," Septon Mereck paled. "I thought giants and the forest demons were just tales!"

"As much as the Others were tales, it seems," Qhorin Halfhand snarked as they crossed the recently cut five-mile plain separating the Wall and the Haunted Forest. Only the weirwood groves had been left behind. "Eleven giants, according to the scouts."

The tallest of the titanic, shaggy forms was carrying an enormous banner attached to a tree-sized pole, depicting the white direwolf head for all to see.

"Is that an Other leading them?"

Everyone tensed, reaching for their blades and bows as the eerie glint of frost and cold shone like a diamond in the afternoon sun at the helm of the wildlings.

"Ease up," Denys ordered, scowling. "The Cold Ones have yet to come in broad daylight under the sun's warm rays. There's no chill and no corpses or spiders accompanying him. Qhorin?"

The man pulled out his myrish far-eye, and peals of hoarse laughter bubbled from his lips as he gazed at the bright glint. "It's a man, alright. Probably Lord Snow. Only the Wolves and their kin can wield the frost without being burned."

"This is unnatural," the Septon shuddered, his face as pale as snow.

Denys Mallister tiredly rubbed his weather-worn face. "How could the Builder build the Wall if he feared a little frost?"

That silenced any complaints, but his purpose here remained unchanged. The men behind him remained just as tense. The old Commander liked magic little, but he could recognise its usefulness. None of the black brothers would deny the contribution of the red priests, and the alchemists had been invaluable. But Septon Mereck was not wrong - magic was unnatural and gave Denys Mallister chills, as any gods-fearing man.

"This must be King Joffrey's good brother," the Westerlander stated boldly, nodding to himself. "Lord Stark's get are all of fierce stock!"

Bastard or not, Jon Snow had been enfeoffed by King Robert Baratheon himself–something that not even those who quietly supported Renly could ever deny. In the end, Robb Stark's half-brother was technically Princess Myrcella's kin by bond, but calling him the 'royal good-brother' was definitely a stretch. Yet Denys wasn't surprised that such overproud words had come from the blonde Westerlander.

As they approached, the wildlings stopped, and a group of thirty rode forth to meet them, all mounted on shaggy mountain horses or garrons.

At their head was the unmistakable cleanshaven face of Jon Snow, if now harsher, colder, and marred with faint, thin scars. Denys knew these scars; he had seen them on his own body and the men who survived the cold, crystalline swords that could cleave through ringmail and steel. 

Not only was Jon Snow taller than last year, but he looked almost ethereal, clad in the icy armour of the Others. The crude padded jacket peeking underneath the bared joints broke the spell, looking woefully mundane. Yet the cold, mirror-like substance seemed far bulkier than the gaunt, painfully thin armaments the Others wore. 

If before Jon Snow had seemed like a dangerous warrior, now his presence was suffocating, and his cold, steely eyes screamed danger. The snowy direwolf by his side was no longer the size of a hunting hound but of a bloody cave bear, and his fiendish crimson eyes made Denys' skin crawl. The Valyrian-looking spearwife by his side and the retinue of wildling chieftains clad in bronze and steel felt… paltry, lacking in comparison even. Morna White Mask and the young warrior that Denys recognised as a Thenn chieftain were there, looking respectfully at Jon Snow with reverence and deference he would have thought impossible to find in wildlings. Even the child-sized deer-like being cloaked in leaves or the queer-looking red priestess seemed meagre in presence, standing next to the Stark bastard.

For good or bad–though, the old commander decided it was definitely for good, the giants had remained behind with the warband.

"Commander Denys Mallister." Jon Snow dipped his head in respect once they came face to face, halting fifteen yards away. His tone was heavy with authority, one that men subconsciously wanted to obey. Denys Mallister had heard such before, coming out of the mouth of two Lords of Winterfell. "We meet again."

"Well met, Jon Snow of Winterfell." Denys returned the nod, his gaze settling on the scabbard on Jon's belt. It was the same as he remembered, down to the pale wolf head pommel and unique handle and guard, an intricate agglomeration of steel, weirwood, and ironwood that seemed to merge seamlessly. "You claimed you went on a quest to find a famed blade lost in the cold, yet you did so much more. Too much more. Did you at least succeed in your original goal?" Or was it all just a ruse, including the rumours of him wielding Dark Sister?

Jon Snow smiled, untied the blade from his belt, and threw it at the Black Brothers, Qhorin Halfhand snatching it from the air.

The ranger carefully pulled the sword from the sheath, and many gasped as dark, smoky ripples belonging to a slender blade were revealed. 

"Impossible," Ser Eryk Cockshaw exclaimed. "Dark Sister's pommel and guard were made of gold, inlaid with a ruby!"

"Sized for a woman's hand," Jon Snow agreed evenly, seemingly unbothered by so quickly granting a rare dragonsteel blade to those who could be his enemy. Yet Mallister spotted an icy hilt poking out of his saddle, so it seemed the son of Winterfell was far from unarmed. "But I am no woman to care for pretty ornaments and favour a hand-and-a-half grip."

Letting go of his blade first thing was a subtle declaration of his intentions, he realised; Jon Snow did not consider the Watch his enemy.

"Yet I remember you bringing this same sword on your way to the Haunted Forest," Denys voiced his suspicions. 

"A gift," Jon Snow simply said. "I hope you forgive me the ruse, Commander Mallister, but I believed my presence was needed Beyond the Wall. A young man's thirst for glory was far easier to believe and swallow than a madman claiming dark legends coming to life. As for the blade… for good or bad, its previous wielder chose me worthy of it."

"Very well, then," the Commander sighed. Denys knew things might have gone differently for the Watch had Benjen Stark perished on that fateful ranging. But he knew the tale; the First Ranger had not perished, for his bastard nephew had come to the rescue, securing proof for King Robert Baratheon himself. The old Mallister knight hated being deceived, but he could begrudgingly acknowledge the truth of Jon Snow's words–the boy's claim was surprisingly accurate.

Bastards were not expected to be honourable, yet Jon Snow had managed to lie with honour. Big Liddle's presence was a telling sight; if the Bastard of Winterfell had been a deceitful brigand, the clansmen wouldn't have followed him.

As for Dark Sister, could he even argue if even the respected Maester Aemon had loudly voiced his support for the sword's ownership? "Qhorin, give it back."

With a throw, the blade was returned to Jon Snow's gloved fist, and he quickly pulled out a roll of parchment from his belt. The running direwolf of House Stark was plain to see on the grey wax despite the seal being broken.

"I shall not waste the Watch's time with empty pleasantries," he began. "Here are the words of the Lady of Winterfell herself, requesting my services in the defense of the North."

"We can always let you pass," Denys Mallister said, not moving to inspect the scroll. Winterfell's desperation wasn't hard to guess, but it mattered little, for the Watch took no part. "Big Liddle and his old uncle are not an issue either. Your monstrous wolf can go too, but what guarantee do I have that the savages, giants, and…. children will behave once they pass the Wall?"

"My word," was the simple response from Snow, but the deer-like child glanced at the old commander coldly.

"While many claim you are a skilled warrior, you have yet to prove your character true. Your word is not enough, Jon Snow. Give me more."

"There's nought else I can give you if you do not trust my words." Jon Snow dismounted. "I see you have brought a Septon with you." Mereck shrunk under his heavy gaze. "Let the gods decide the truthfulness of my words. A Trial of Seven, here and now."

The wildlings by Jon Snow's side blinked in incomprehension while the red priestess laughed, an enchantingly melodic sound. Even the black brothers were stunned for a moment. Their reactions were hardly a surprise; a Trial of the Seven was an ancient, old rite almost faded into obscurity, only twice used since the time of the Conqueror.

Denys Mallister turned to face his men. They were all eager to match blades with the infamous bastard of Winterfell and the wildlings, both the knights hailing from the Reach and the veteran rangers. If he had been twenty years younger, he would have wanted to take part in the fight himself, even with his missing hand.

But an issue challenged before the gods could not be denied. Not when a Lord of the Seven Kingdoms had issued it.

"Here and now?"

"I see you've brought a group of fine warriors, so why wait? Let this Septon bear witness for the Seven," Jon Snow inclined his head, then his hand motioned to the pale weirwood grove a stone's throw away. "Let the Old Gods see my sincerity. Or do you not believe your cause righteous? Is not the Trial of the Seven a sacred rite that the Andals brought with their coming at the time of yore?"

"Let the Gods decide," Mereck agreed loudly as if trying to convince himself more than anything else.

Unlike the other eager rangers, Ser Eryk Cockshaw seemed cautious, "It's not fair-"

Yet his disgruntled complaint was silenced as the bastard of Winterfell slipped out of his icy protection, the gleaming, translucent armour tossed into the grass piece by piece. Even Dark Sister had been handed to the savage Valyrian beauty. Yet the man did not stop there, and his crude padded jacket was removed next. Within a minute, Jon Snow was only clad in fur-lined boots and leather breeches, revealing a heavily scarred and just as heavily muscled pale torso.

Denys Mallister had seen many veterans with far, far fewer scars. Each one told a story of struggle, a dance with death. Some fools might luck out and survive once or twice, but the sheer number of scars that could only be left by the Others' blades, aside from what looked like enormous claw marks belonging to either a shadowcat or a cave bear, spoke of deliberateness, of skill.

But he already knew Jon Snow was dangerous.

As the watchmen stood stunned, the furry, child-like being silently handed the bastard a hefty-looking weirwood staff, half a head taller than the man who wielded it. 

"Let it not be said I take unfair advantage of the Watch. Now, who wants to face me?" He challenged, smiling. But it was a cold, ruthless smile. "Arms of your choice and any amount of armament, it makes no difference to me."

"Seven against seven, or seven man-to-man duels in a row?" Denys asked as his rangers began to bristle at the not-so-subtle insult.

"Man-to-man. I'll go first." Going first in the man-to-man Trial of the Seven meant a man was either a fool or confident enough in his skills to best seven men in a row. Alas, Jon Snow did not look like a fool despite being half-naked. All of the pressure to prove his word true lay on his shoulder, which was a noble gesture the old Mallister knight grudgingly respected. Although many of his men foolishly scoffed at his arrogance, itching to teach the young man a bloody lesson. Ultimately, the old Commander could only respond to the thrown glove. 

After ten minutes, Denys Mallister and his rangers spread around a loose semi-circle before the crescent-shaped weirwood grove while Jon Snow's retinue faced them in another loose semi-circle, leaving a large space in the middle for the fight. Each carved face looked impossibly solemn, as if they genuinely paid attention to the Trial. He shook his head, dismissing it as a trick of the light.

Denys had chosen seven of his best warriors, with Ser Lothor Risley taking the first duel and the last Qhorin Halfhand, who looked almost grim as he cautiously measured Jon Snow as if searching for weakness. From the wildlings, Soren Shieldbreaker, the Thenn warrior, Morna Whitemask, and three younger warriors who looked skilled and troublesome joined Jon Snow. 

Septon Mereck stood before the heart trees, shivering.

"If… if Lord Snow is killed," even his voice trembled, "the Seven will have judged him a liar, and the contest will end. If both warriors are slain, the same is true. Elsewise, all seven of one side must perish or yield for the trial to finish."

"Let it be so," the red priestess added, leaning on her queer weirwood staff crowned by a crimson ruby. Her eerie green eye almost danced with cheer, while the sinister red one made his guts twist. 

Once the words were spoken, something in the air changed. The leaves of all the weirwoods rustled, but there was no wind.

Jon Snow stood against Ser Lothor Risley. It was an odd sight to see the half-naked bastard wielding only wood facing off the Reach knight clad in a black coat of plates, a black shield in his hand, and a longsword clasped in his mailed fist.

"Begin!"

Mereck's cry heralded the call to action as both sides lunged forward. But a heartbeat later, Denys Mallister finally realised why Jon Snow seemed so dangerous. 

The weirwood staff was like a pale blur, smacking the ranger in the shin faster than he could react. With a pained groan, Ser Lothor crumpled on the grass, his sword already swatted out of his grip.

No more than four heartbeats after the duel had started, Jon Snow was already victorious, foot atop the fallen knight's chest. The pale staff was poised to deliver a strike that would easily shatter Ser Lothor's defenceless head or at least break his neck.

"Yield, my good Ser," came Jon Snow's soft reply. "I will strike you down if I must, but the Watch needs stalwart men like you to defend the Wall and fight the Others."

"I… I yield."

Denys knew they had lost. Even now, he looked at the half-naked Stark bastard and failed to find the barest opening with his experienced eye. His eyes had seen thousands of warriors, rangers, wildlings, sellswords, and knights fight, both for their lives and in a tourney, and only a few barely came close to the demeanour of the man before him. Even the staff was cleverly chosen; in his skilled hands, it provided the range of a spear combined with the advantages of a bludgeon. Not outright lethal with the right amount of force, but able to deal far more damage to ringmail and heavier armour than an ordinary sword could.

A small mercy that Snow helped the fallen knight up, and patted his shoulder in a disarmingly friendly manner. 

The next rangers fared better, if better could be called lasting a dozen heartbeats instead of a handful. Jon Snow's movements were swift, brutal, and precise in a manner they simply failed to counter. Despite facing live steel against bare skin, there was no scratch on his scarred flesh.

One after another, the rangers fell to the ground in defeat, and all chose to yield. Yet, despite the looming defeat, the unexpected show of mercy assuaged Denys' fears. Six had lost, but none had died or were heavily wounded. At most, their ego was bruised, along with an arm or a leg.

Last came Qhorin Halfhand; his worn black cloak had long turned grey as his hair with the onslaught of time. Jon Snow's face turned uncharacteristically solemn, and the two warriors slowly circled each other as if looking for an opening. The veteran ranger was the first to move, quick and savage as always. For a moment, it looked as if Qhorin could match the younger warrior as he could actually keep up with the inhumanly swift blows, but such a notion was quickly disabused.

Jon Snow's staff managed to fend off the storm of steel, and he quickly turned onto the offensive while stepping out of range of the dark longsword. Qhorin, however, was swift on his feet and always managed to avoid the whistling pale blur. Within a minute, they had exchanged nearly a hundred fierce blows, and the ranger was already on the defensive. His defeat became apparent as he failed to close the distance to negate the staff's advantage.

Within another minute, Qhorin Halfhand was also laid on the ground, disarmed and wheezing hungrily for air. In contrast, Jon Snow stood, perfectly composed, and the only sign of exertion was the dampness of his dark hair and the quick yet rhythmic rise and fall of his chest. Facing seven skilled warriors without even an ounce of steel on his person, the bastard had come out not only victorious but unscathed. If there was a deed for tale and song, this was it.

"I yield, Snow," the defeated ranger huffed out breathlessly. "When your Uncle said you were a little monster, I didn't believe him. Only, I have one request, if you can humour an old man like me."

A dark eyebrow quirked. "Pray tell, what does the famed Qhorin Halfhand want with me?"

"Smash those damned Ironmen for me, lad." His voice thickened with hatred. "The damn rapers burnt my home and enslaved my kin down in Flint's Fingers!"

"Aye," Jon Snow smiled. It was a savage, bloodthirsty smile as he easily pulled the fallen Qhorin back to his feet. "I will fight the reavers first and not rest until each and every last one has been either slain or banished from the North!"

The wildlings roared, clamouring joyfully, and Denys Mallister shot a look at the pale septon.

"Err," Mereck cleared his throat, and suddenly, all looked towards him, making the cowardly septon shrink again. Still, he continued, if somewhat shakily, "Jon Snow is victorious in his trial before the gods. The Seven proclaim that his words are truthful."

The Snow of Winterfell stood straight, carefully inspecting the faces of the black brothers. There was a tinge of unhappiness there, but it was overtaken by disbelief and awe.

"Let it be known that all who pass the Wall do so as my men. Their deeds are my deeds, their failing is my failing, and my honour and justice are their honour and justice." The promises were spoken with such pure, unadulterated conviction that Denys couldn't help but believe. "Let the gods hear my vow here and now!"

The Thenn warrior came first, and the rangers gawked as he bent his knees before the heart tree and the stunned Septon.

"I, Sigorn of the Thenn, do swear on my blood and blade to follow Jon Snow until my death, to follow his lead and respect the law of the land."

"I, Morna Whitemask, daughter of Marna, do swear on my blood and sons…"

Denys Mallister could not believe his eyes, but the wildlings came before the heart tree one after another, kneeling willingly and swearing on all they held dear. The Children of the Forest and the Giants followed suit.

It was not a fevered dream, nor was it age scrambling his wits. No matter how fantastical, the scene before him was real.

At this moment, he knew the truthfulness of Jon Snow's promise and his heart eased. He knew the worth of his word - the man was cut of the same cloth as his lordly father. It was not just him; he could see the recognition and the respect in the eyes of the veteran rangers and the Reach's knights. They all could respect a man's honour and held little love for the Ironborn. Magic no longer mattered, for it was clear that even this old sorcery could not corrupt those staunch of character. 

If he were twenty years younger and not sworn as a Commander for life, Denys would have left his service to the Watch and joined the bastard in his quest against the Ironborn. Alas, his duties came first. 

***

2nd Day of the 8th Moon, 299 AC

Robb Stark, the Sea Road

His father had once warned him that there was a time when clever schemes and cunning plans failed in battle, and the day was decided by fighting a bloody slog, where those who broke first lost. When lines were formed and his foes were prepared, even Grey Wind could do little, so the direwolf had impatiently remained by his side.

Today was one such day. Lord John Oakheart had more than ample time to prepare. Even his clever tactic of freshly ploughing everything along the road was annoying but not impossible to overcome. Robb had simply sent his sharpshooters to deal with the farmers trying to keep the ground soft and freshly ploughed.

The last three days had turned into a bloody skirmish between marksmen on both sides, but Robb had more marksmen, the bow being far more respected in the North and the Riverlands than it was in the Reach, and the Westerlanders had also brought five hundred crossbows. The warm, sunny weather had turned in their favour, and in three days, the ploughed land was hardened by the sheer amount of boots and men going about in those skirmishes. 

Yet, to their credit, no matter how he tried to bait or provoke them, Oakheart and his men never left their positions. 

Still, since the Reachmen defended, it was up to Robb to take the initiative and begin the battle. Oakheart's position was well-defended, with extensive trench networks lined with walls of sharpened stakes hammered into the ground at a forty-five-degree angle to prevent any surprise attack by horse.

Robb was tempted to simply go around Oakheart, but that would leave the Westerlands exposed. Then, news of Renly's retreat from King's Landing came by raven at Crakehall, and he knew what he had to do, no matter how bloody.

Oakheart had gathered twenty-one thousand men, while Robb had only nineteen thousand, his Northmen supplemented by what Ser Daven Lannister had managed to rally and cajole from the Westerlands, though a good chunk of them were the garrisons finally stirring from their castles and ambitious hedge-knights hungry for loot and glory.

The numbers were not in his favour, but that didn't worry Robb too much, for his men were far more eager, doubly so now that Renly Baratheon was on the retreat.

"Bend the knee, Oakheart," Robb had proposed to the burly, grim-faced knight as they met for a parley before the battle. "Let us end the bloodshed here. Your previous crimes and offences will be pardoned, and you will be accepted back into the King's Peace. Your king has fled King's Landing with his tail between his legs and has even lost his own queen. Your liege lord, Mace Tyrell, has fallen too. None would shame you if you bend the knee here."

"Shame?" The man had stubbornly shook his head. "I would shame myself to break my vows. I swore to the king on all that I hold dear that I shall not let you, bloodthirsty Northmen, enter the Reach while I live."

"Say your prayers, then," Robb had grunted. "And wash your neck for me. My royal good brother will love to see your head on a spike outside the Red Keep."

And so the hours dragged on as the line of Northmen pushed against the Reachmen. The brutal slog in the sun was tiring, and for once, Robb had decided not to participate in the fighting but to command from the back, watching the battle from the nearby hill. His health had improved dramatically since he awoke, but his strength had yet to recover fully, and his body felt awkwardly thin.

When Oakheart unleashed his horse to the right, Robb sent out his heavy lancers to meet them, expanding the battle further. Both sides clashed and clashed, with no victor in sight, and Robb frowned. His men were less, his lines were thinner, and exhaustion would set in sooner or later.

"Dacey," he turned to the Mormont Heiress. "You command the reserves. The rest of you follow me."

He spurred his retinue over and rode down to the fighting, Grey Wind running beside him and unleashing a savage howl. Some of the Reachmen flinched, mistaking him for leading a charge, buying a small respite for his men.

"STAND YOUR GROUND, MEN," Robb roared. "THESE ARE THE LAST OF THE CRAVEN REACHMEN THAT HOLD US HERE. THEIR ILK THINK THEY CAN ATTACK YOUR HOMES UNPUNISHED. THEIR PRANCING PRETENDER OF A KING HAS ALREADY FLED FROM THE IRON THRONE IN DEFEAT!"

The encouragement worked, making his men fight harder. Even his mere presence seemed to inspire the Northmen. But fighting spirit could only compensate so much for numbers.

He did not want to send his reserves first, for the numbers did not favour him. He still had two thousand light horse, but Oakheart had positioned himself cleverly, and Robb failed to see any weak gaps in his formations. 

But if there were no weakness, he would make one himself.

"Slate, take the archers to the right and start peppering their flank from the side."

"But my lord, what if they send their reserves to cover their bowmen?"

"Then retreat towards me. I'll position my light lancers and horse archers to relieve you."

Arrows started raining down upon Reach's side; some even found purchase. The Reachmen's shields were faced towards the Northmen, and the sides of the armour were thinner than the front, giving his markmen free rein to soften up the enemy.

Oakheart was forced to take the bait as his left flank began to falter under the archers' assault. Sure enough, the Reachlord moved his archers. But soon, the Reach's disdain for bows and smallfolk huntsmen had started to show. Oakheart's archers were far poorer in skill and armament and found themselves outshot and falling in droves within ten minutes. Nearly a third of his marksmen dead, the bands of the bowmen simply lost heart, turned around and fled, and Oakheart had to send his reserve if he didn't want to lose.

***

His plans had panned out, and after another brutal hour, Robb's light lancers finally broke through Oakheart's reinforcements, and they could strike his foot with impunity, causing his tired flanks to break within minutes. That allowed Robb to turn his pikemen and surround the Reachmen's horse, who were facing off in a brutal struggle against the Northmen's heavy lance, and kill and capture them to the last man. The tricky Oakheart had also been captured before he could organise a retreat towards the well-defended camp.

Dustin and Ryswell were already eagerly riding down the routed footmen, and Grey Wind had joined in the hunt, Robb sending three bands of lancers to follow in his stead as he sniffed out the fleeing and hiding foes.

"Do it, then," Oakheart sighed, forced on his knee, his head bowed in defeat and his hands clasped in irons. His helmet was ripped off, and his heavy plate was dented everywhere. Smalljon had been the one to capture him after a brutal duel.

"Answer me one thing true before I send you into the Stranger's hands," Robb said hoarsely; all that shouting had taken a heavy toll on his throat. He had swung Ice a few dozen times, yet it winded him too much, especially when coupled with roaring out his orders.

"Ask your piece, Stark, but know that I might not answer."

"Fair," Robb said. "But I shall endeavour to sack Old Oak and slay every last member of your House the same way you sacked Crakehall, even if they desire to surrender. My men are eager for blood, and the Westerlanders are hungry for vengeance, and you know how vengeful men care little for reason and honour."

The unshakable man finally paled, and Robb knew he had him when the defiance in his eyes wilted. 

"Ask away, then. But promise me this. You will spare my House should they surrender and bend the knee to Joffrey." Unsaid was the fate they would suffer if they resisted. There was no need to voice it; Oakheart was well aware of how it would go. How could he not after sacking Crakehall under a similar pretext?

"Should your mother and kinsmen surrender, they shall be afforded the treatment befitting their station," Robb acknowledged. Even if his men would grumble and complain, even if Ser Daven's men wanted revenge, he would stay true to his word. 

Or perhaps they thirsted after the Lordship Joffrey had offered for each Oakheart slain. But if they wanted to keep their heads, they could find revenge, loot, and lands elsewhere, for the Reach was vast. "Now tell me. Were you the one who sent the catspaws after Bolton and I? Did you have a hand in those acolytes who tried to poison me?"

"Nay," John Oakheart's face twisted in disgust. "Only women, eunuchs, and Dornishmen resort to such foul tricks. If I wanted to see you slain by my hand, I would have searched for you on the field of battle in a contest of arms, as a proper lord would."

Robb believed him. The man's words were painfully earnest, and his instincts screamed he was telling the truth. Alas, he was no closer to finding who had hired the catspaws. Even the tortured crossbowmen had baubled in mere hours, admitting they had been hired by a cloaked figure in the ashes of one of the many burned villages left in the Mountain's wake at the Horseshoe Hills south of the red lake. It was probably true but not particularly helpful. 

Whoever wanted Robb dead was annoyingly cautious, and for good or bad, Grey Wind's fury hadn't left a living acolyte to interrogate, only three savaged beyond recognition corpses.

Yet another dead end. Alas, it seemed he would not find out the mysterious foe hiding behind poison and daggers soon unless Maester Arryk's inquiry at the Citadel about the crossbows' maker and the acolytes gave new leads. But Robb didn't count on it–the Hightowers were no friends of House Stark.

Robb turned to the defeated lord. A good man and true, but fighting for the wrong king. 

"Very well. Any last words?"

"Once spoken, a true man's vows cannot be broken. Some men might change their cloaks as they change their boots, but they are but honourless curs. Let it be said that the House of Oakheart's roots go deep, and their loyalty is not easily uprooted. Long live King Renly!"

A few of the watching Northern lords grunted with begrudging approval, and even Robb looked at the defeated lord with an even higher regard than before. A capable man, loyal and true - any liege would want for such. A pity they were on the opposite sides. 

Ignoring the reluctance and regret swirling in his chest, Robb unsheathed the ancestral sword of House Stark. 

"In the name of His Grace, Joffrey Baratheon, the First of his name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms I, Robb Stark, Warden of the North, do sentence you to die for the crimes of high treason!"

Ice's rippled blade descended, relieving the man of his head and leaving a fountain of blood gushing.

To his credit, despite his heavy-handed approach in the Westerlands, after Crakehall, Oakheart had not burned anything besides a few villages refusing to give up supplies or let the zealots anywhere near his ranks. Robb glanced at Ser Daven Lannister. The blonde knight looked… disappointed for his failure to avenge his father by his own hand, but it mattered not. He had his chance in the battle and squandered it. He had no right to mete out justice or to judge a lord of the realm. 

"Tar his head properly and send it to Casterly Rock for now." For good or bad, King's Landing was too dangerous, and Ser Garlan Tyrell still controlled the Northmarch with the not-insignificant force of at least a few thousand, who had recently turned course, according to his scouts. A part of him wanted to chase the rose knight for the murder of his granduncle Brynden, but his wrath had been quenched with how the matters were handled, especially after the fate of the Golden Leaf. If his uncle Edmure wanted vengeance or satisfaction, he needed to be the one to seek it. Robb turned to Karstark. "How are our losses?"

"Seventeen hundred dead, nearly thrice as many wounded," Lord Rickard grunted, his grey suit of plate covered in dents and splattered in blood. He had been at the thick of the fighting against the Reach's knights, and it showed. "Lords Cerwyn and Tallhart perished; a few others lost fingers or limbs, like Whitehill."

It was acceptable despite telling a bloody story. Most casualties happened after one side started losing and turned into a rout, leaving the victors to freely chase and cut down men. And if Robb's plans succeeded, most of the routed army would be chased down and slain in the next three days, leaving the Reach as defenceless as it was empty.

If Renly and his fat Rose Lord had not sent off the last of the Reach's military strength to the North, Robb would have to be far more cautious. But they all did what they did… and from Oakheart to Hightower, the garrisons were filled with a handful of greybeards and greenboys at best.

"Their war chest was more than plentiful," Mollen Hallis reported next. "We managed to capture thousands of heads of cattle and a king's ransom in other food supplies."

"What do we do now?" Ser Wendel Manderly asked as one of the maesters carefully applied a poultice to a fierce purple bruise the size of a ham on his torso. "The Reachmen barely have any men that could wield a blade left. From Oldtown to Tumbleton, everything is ripe for the taking."

Dain Slate scoffed. "Serves those fools right. Perhaps things would have been different if they didn't sail where they didn't belong." 

"We should turn back North, I say," Slate said, but his words were hesitant and failed to garner much support. The Northmen didn't think Hightower was able to be anything more than a nuisance to the now surely-prepared castles. 

The grimness in their faces had changed, and it was not solely because of the victory. Tywin Lannister's letter had been a mere two sentences, but it had changed everything.

Lord Eddard Stark and his retinue are confirmed alive with my grandson, Prince Tommen, in Essos. Getting them home will take some time, but plans are being made.

Succinct, without flowery language, just like everything else about the Lord of Casterly Rock. Robb had a thousand questions running through his mind, but the King's Hand did not care to ink down anything else. Robb understood the vagueness was useful should the raven be intercepted, but he still felt irritated. 

Ever since, the mood in the Northern army had changed. The fighting spirit and morale had always been high, but since word of his father's survival had arrived, the Stark bannermen suddenly acted as if everything was right in the world again. Their confidence had swelled even further, and more so now, with another victory. 

A part of him still thought this was a dream, but he was more than glad that his father had survived. Yet Eddard Stark could hardly command the Northern army all the way from Essos. No, that duty remained on his shoulders. While he wanted to abandon everything and return home, he couldn't. No matter how much he wished otherwise, Robb couldn't grow wings and fly his men back home to defend his wife and lands. Blackwood was already on the way, and if Robb left now, at most, he'd arrive in time to get stuck in the snow or just be in time to hunt for any remaining Reachmen or siege whatever holdfast they had managed to hold onto. A part of him dreaded even thinking of the possibility that Hightower would find further success in his campaign. The feeling of powerlessness grated on his nerves. 

But as the one who was leading the banners, Robb could not afford to be led by his fears. 

No, his place was here, in the Reach, and he did not lack options. 

It was the reverse, a downright odd and foreign feeling as of late; he had never felt so spoiled for choices. But which one would make the most significant impact fastest?

"Order a feast prepared. We can gorge our bellies on Reachmen's food to properly celebrate my Lord Father's survival. Then, here's what we'll do…"

***

The Young Wolf wasted no time as soon as he was on his feet and marched down to face Oakheart, proving that his success at the Battle of the Trident was not luck.

The Battle of the Ocean Road and Oakheart's decisive defeat were the straw that broke Renly's cause. His retreat from King's Landing was already shameful. Most of his armies shattered on the field, his queen and her ladies-in-waiting dead or missing, the Rose Lord felled in battle, and his main force slowly but surely eaten by the Black Plague; things looked grim.

It started with the stern-faced Tarly taking his men and leaving after his daughter's disappearance in the Dornish marches. "I entrusted my daughter to the Queen, and she saw fit to squander her life." His deeds had started a flood, and by the next dawn, over half of the remaining Lords sworn to Renly Baratheon had left. 

He had boldly entered the Crownlands with nearly seventy thousand swords at his back and fled it like a mangy mutt, with a dwindling retinue of six thousand, most of those Cortnay Penrose's men. Even Ser Cortnay had taken significant losses, his retreat proving far harder and costlier because of the daring Bracken horse and the Clawmen's dogged skirmishers.

Renly's luck had not run out fully just yet, for Ser Bryce Caron the Yellow managed to save him from a hasty attempt on his life by Ser Ryam Florent and a few of his men-at-arms. The rest of the Florents had fled to their keep in the Honeywine, and the fox knight had only managed to remain unnoticed in the chaos of Renly's desperate retreat.

Yet the dispersal of the Reachlords and some of the Stormlords only served to spread the Black Death across the Reach and the Stormlands, though the Archmaester of Healing claimed he was close to finding a proper cure. The Citadel's hefty retinue of 'masters' of healing, however, had lost the royal favour with the death of Ser Loras Tyrell the White.

While Renly still lived, the string of defeats had shattered the confidence in his cause. Many claimed the Seven had turned their back on Renly for allying with slavers and pirates.

When Garlan the Grim heard of his sister and wife's tragic disappearance, he abandoned his march to Goldengrove and commanded his men to go to the Dornish marches. 

House Martell mustering its banners at the Stormlands border along the Red Mountains didn't help either, nor did the presence of the Golden Company. For once, this move baffled the surviving spymasters, who were caught flatfooted and unable to explain Dorne's movements–Doran Martell had supposedly rooted out and imprisoned all the spies in his court, and not even a whisper left Sunspear.

What brought Renly's cause to its knees was the Rose Septon proclaiming Ser Baelor Hightower king of the 'Most Pious'. Lord Paxter Redwyne swore fealty to the Hightower heir, if with reluctance and fear from Joffrey's unforgiving wrath more than anything else, according to rumours. 

Eager to prove himself worthy of the crown and earn the biggest prize of the North, Baelor continued his march towards Winterfell with nearly twenty thousand swords and half as many zealots, intending to claim the heart of the North before the inevitable onset of cold. 

The tentative cooperation between the Ironmen and the Reach reached a swift end. Balon Greyjoy was next to claim a crown, proclaiming himself the king of Rock and Salt, the Lord Reaper of Pyke, and the rightful King of the Iron Isles, the Sunset Sea, and the Wolfswood. The tension started with a few minor scuffles at sea, but both sides had been prepared for this turn of events, and neither had managed to pull any significant surprise attack.

The number of kings doubled within a fortnight, but neither Hightower nor Greyjoy paid much attention to the Watch aside from Benjen Stark.

The White Huntsman entered the North without much fanfare, the bastard of Winterfell beneath the notice of the new Kings claiming the North with his meagre band of less than a thousand. Yet the direwolf banner was flying in the Northern Mountains not a day later, and every man who could hold a sword or a spear was already flocking to it, the infamous squabbling amongst clansmen forgotten.

While Renly's retreat was supposed to herald a victory and a decisive turn of the tide for Joffrey, his ailing health did not improve, for the Black Death was not so easily bested. The Conqueror's famed city, which boasted half a million souls just a year earlier, was reduced to a mere tenth, and it was said that the streets were filled with thrice as many ghosts and corpses as humans.

Meanwhile, Shireen Baratheon had set her sights on Myr, and the Conclave of Myr was not daunted by her fleet, for the city could match the upstart Lady Scales ship for ship and then some more. A victory at sea could see them expand their opportunities to deal with Eddard the Bloody Blade, who had the city in an iron grip by land, refusing all further offers to negotiate that did not include unconditional surrender…

Excerpt from 'Lazyro Zelyne's thoughts on the Sunset War'