The Tide Turns

Robb Stark moved through the battlefield, the thick mud sucking at his boots with each step, the cold night air tainted with the scent of blood, sweat, and death. The ground was littered with bodies—some clad in red and gold, others in grey and blue. Swords, shattered shields, and broken spears lay strewn across the field like forgotten relics, the tattered banners of both sides fluttering weakly in the wind. Crows had already begun to gather, their black wings slicing through the grey morning sky as they prepared to feast.

Despite their overwhelming victory, Robb felt none of the exhilaration he had expected. The euphoria of battle had faded, replaced by a cold, hollow sensation in his chest. He had won—he had shattered the Lannister cavalry, captured Jaime Lannister, and struck a devastating blow against his enemies—but at what cost? Thousands lay dead, their lives snuffed out because of his commands, his decisions.

He passed a group of Northmen gathering their dead, dragging fallen brothers from the carnage, their faces grim, their hands stained with blood—some of it their own, some of it their kin's. He recognized men among the fallen—men who had cheered for him days ago, who had sworn loyalty to him, who had trusted him to lead them to victory. He clenched his fists, his nails biting into his palms, his jaw tightening as a wave of guilt churned in his stomach.

Robb had killed men before before, but this was war.

This was slaughter.

A groan from a dying Lannister soldier caught his attention. Robb turned, seeing the man clutching a deep wound in his stomach, his fingers slick with crimson, his breath coming in shallow gasps. A Northman stood over him, sword raised, ready to deliver the final blow.

The Lannister soldier locked eyes with Robb. Fear. Pain. Resignation. He knew he was going to die.

Robb said nothing

The Lannister soldier was already going to die, yet it would be slow and painful. For the sake of the dying man whose only crime in this war could only be following the orders of his enemies, Robb would allow the man to be showed some mercy. A quick and painless death would be a mercy and Robb watched as the Northman drove his blade into the man's chest, ending his life.

Robb watched the life drain from the man's eyes, his body going limp and still.

A voice cut through the heavy silence. "A grim sight, isn't it?"

Robb turned to see Jason Mallister, his armor dented and scratched from the battle, his sword still stained with the blood of Lannister men. His face was weary, yet there was an understanding in his violet eyes. He had seen this before—had felt it before.

Robb nodded but said nothing.

Jason sighed, stepping closer, his boots squelching in the mud. "The first victory is always the hardest." He gestured toward the field. "Not because of the battle itself, but because of what comes after."

Robb frowned, glancing at him. "It was necessary."

"Aye, it was," Jason agreed, his voice steady. "But that doesn't make it easier."

Robb exhaled sharply, his grip tightening on the hilt of his sword. "They died because I ordered them to fight."

Jason studied him for a moment before speaking. "They died for something greater than themselves. That is war. It is ugly, it is brutal, and it is thankless. But you cannot bear the weight of every soul lost. If you do, it will crush you."

Robb looked back at the bodies, at the blood soaking into the ground, at the banners of House Stark and House Tully standing victorious amidst the ruin.

"You speak as though you've felt it before," Robb murmured.

Jason's lips pressed into a thin line. "Because I have."

He let the words settle before continuing. "I was younger than you when I fought my first battle. We were besieged at Seagard, holding the walls against the Ironborn. The fighting lasted for days. I can't remember the number of men I killed in those days. But that wasn't the worst of it." He turned, meeting Robb's eyes. "The worst part was the morning after." He gestured at the battlefield. "Walking through the dead. Knowing that half the men who had fought beside me were gone. That I had led them to their deaths."

Robb swallowed thickly. "How did you move past it?"

Jason was silent for a moment before he answered. "I didn't." Robb blinked, surprised and Jason sighed. "You don't move past it, Lord Stark. You carry it with you. But you learn to live with it. You remember their names, you honor their sacrifice, and you make damn sure their deaths weren't in vain."

Robb looked away, his throat tight.

Jason placed a hand on his shoulder. "This won't be the last battle you fight. And it won't be the last time men die under your command. But if you let the weight of it crush you now, you'll fail them before the war has even truly begun."

Robb inhaled slowly, steadying himself. Jason was right. This was only the beginning. There would be more battles, more deaths, more choices that would weigh upon him. But he couldn't afford to let it break him.

He straightened his back, exhaling sharply, nodding once to Jason.

Jason studied him for a moment, then gave a small, approving nod. "You remind me of your father. He would be proud of you."

Robb clenched his jaw, the words hitting him harder than he expected.

His father.

If Eddard Stark was here, he would have guided him, told him what to do. But Robb was alone now. He had to make his own path. Robb turned his gaze back to the battlefield. The war had only just begun. But for the first time since the battle ended, he didn't feel lost.

He had won this fight. Now, he would win the war.

-X-

Andros Brax stood outside his command tent, eyes scanning the distant horizon beyond the flickering torchlights of the Lannister encampment. The night air was crisp, the quiet hum of soldiers murmuring among themselves the only sound beyond the crackling of campfires. Yet despite the stillness that had settled over their camp, a sense of unease crept up his spine.

It had been hours since Jaime Lannister had led the charge to wipe out Jason Mallister's scattered forces in the Whispering Woods. Andros did not doubt the Kingslayer's skill, nor did he question the strength of their three thousand heavy cavalry. But the silence was unnatural. No messengers had returned, no wounded had stumbled back seeking aid, no distant sounds of battle echoed across the night.

Something was wrong.

His fingers curled into a fist at his side as he turned sharply, his red cloak swirling behind him as he strode toward his assembled officers. "You," he pointed at a lean, sharp-faced knight, Ser Garmon Lefford, who had been speaking with a few other Lannister retainers. "Take three hundred men and depart for the Whispering Woods. Find Ser Jamie."

Lefford's brow furrowed slightly. "My lord, with all due respect, Jaime Lannister was leading three thousand knights. If something had happened—"

"Nothing has happened," Andros snapped, his voice firm. "But I will not sit idly while we wait for word. Take the men and go."

Lefford hesitated for only a moment before nodding. "At once, my lord."

Just as he turned to issue the order, the first cries of alarm rang out.

A shout from the eastern bank cut through the quiet of the camp, and Andros whirled, his heart pounding. He could see the distant glow of torches shifting erratically, silhouettes of men scrambling along the eastern encampment's palisade.

Then came the horns.

The unmistakable deep, mournful groan of war horns—not Lannister horns, but enemy horns. Riverrun's horns.

"Attack! We're under attack!" A voice bellowed from the darkness, carrying across the river.

Andros' blood ran cold as he sprinted forward, his boots pounding against the earth. He could hear the sounds of steel clashing, the screams of men, the thunder of hooves in the distance. His mind raced as he reached the edge of the riverbank, peering across the moonlit waters at the chaos unfolding on the eastern camp.

The eastern encampment was under siege.

Hundreds of men in the colors of Tully, Mallister, and Blackwood surged through the palisade, tearing into the Lannister forces with ferocity. Siege ladders had been erected against the wooden defenses, and fires were already beginning to lick at the supply wagons beyond.

Andros turned to one of his men, his expression furious.

"How in the name of the Seven did they cross the Green Fork?"

"We—we don't know, my lord!" The soldier stammered, his face pale beneath his helmet. "We had men posted along the fords, but they must have slipped past somehow!"

Andros cursed under his breath. If the eastern camp fell, Riverrun would regain access to supply lines. It would mean that all their efforts to starve them out would be for nothing. He turned sharply toward his officers. "Sound the horns! Get every man awake and armed! I want five hundred crossing the river immediately to reinforce the eastern camp!"

A captain hesitated before stepping forward, his face tense. "My lord, the current is strong—"

"I don't care about the damn current!" Andros roared, rounding on him. "If we lose the eastern camp, we lose our siege! Get them across, NOW!"

The hesitation disappeared as the officers scrambled to obey.

Andros turned back to the battlefield across the river, watching as his men were being overrun. The river ran dark and fast, swollen from recent rains, but the first wave of Lannister soldiers were already preparing their horses and wading into the water. Andros' jaw clenched. He didn't know how the enemy had slipped past them, but he would not allow them to turn the tide of this war.

The battle for Riverrun had begun.