Chapter 15: The Smuggling Road

Surging waves crashed against the black reefs, turning into splashes of white foam.

A jet-black raven cut through the strong wind and light rain, landing on a grayish-black castle perched on a sharp, rocky cliff.

The towering spires were covered in bird droppings, and a pair of fair arms reached out from a window shrouded in dark moss.

Maester Windamere caught the bird, took a small piece of fresh meat from a bowl on the wooden table, and offered it. He then removed the letter tied to the raven's leg, settled the bird, and hurried out the door.

Pyke was the Greyjoy family's ancestral seat, and due to its seaside location, it was perpetually dark and damp.

Maesters who stayed here rarely lived to old age, often succumbing to diseases like rheumatism and gout.

In fact, dying peacefully of illness was considered fortunate.

Even more terrifying: when Balon Greyjoy was younger, he had indirectly executed a Maester after the man caused the death of Balon's brother, Urgon, while Balon was out plundering.

Balon punished the Maester by cutting off his hand and demanding he heal himself using the same methods he'd failed with.

The result was predictable.

Since then, Balon's cruelty had spread throughout the Citadel, striking fear into the hearts of Westeros' scholarly servants.

Yet they still sent successors to serve the Lord of Pyke.

Rules were rules.

Faced with the newly arrived letter, Windamere dared not delay. He climbed the winding, damp staircase, trudging toward the top of the tower and soon arrived outside a heavy wooden door.

After announcing himself to the grim-faced guard, the Maester entered.

Balon Greyjoy, Lord of Pyke and King of the Iron Islands, sat by a brazier in a sealskin robe that wrapped his emaciated body. His gray-black hair, streaked with white, fell over his shoulders.

His weathered face was unforgettable, and his black eyes glinted sharply.

He glanced up. "More news from the Riverlands?"

"Yes, Your Grace."

The Maester handed over the letter and stood silently by, awaiting instruction.

Balon ripped open the parchment, scanned it, and tossed it into the fire. "First they say my son will return to Pyke to discuss important matters, then he's reported missing, and now they say Theon is on a secret mission. What is that little wolf doing?"

"Maester, write back. Tell those fools to investigate properly before reporting. And if there's a chance, have them find my son and bring him back—immediately!"

Otherwise… forget it.

Balon kept that thought to himself.

Windamere bowed and departed quickly. He feared that staying even a moment longer in that cold room would turn him into a corpse.

Balon stepped to the window.

Outside, dark clouds rolled in, rain poured, thunder cracked, and at least a hundred longships rocked on the stormy sea.

Ever since the deaths of Robert Baratheon and Eddard Stark, the Iron Islands had been preparing for war. Balon never considered targeting the Westernlands—capturing Casterly Rock was impossible to hold. Tywin Lannister was no fool, and his strength was enough to drive them back into the sea.

Besides, the Lannister fleet would devastate the Ironborn.

But the North? It was weak. The direwolf had been publicly beheaded, and the young cubs were no threat.

Now was the time to reclaim his crown—through iron and blood.

A raven flew from the tower into the storm, vanishing into the rain.

---

Meanwhile, in the green summer lands of the Westernlands, under a starlit sky, stood Golden Tooth.

Nestled between two mountains, the fortress was made entirely of granite. Arrow slits dotted the outer walls, facing the Riverlands.

A towering stone wall spanned the valley, connecting both mountains, with multiple arrow towers and scorpions mounted atop. The massive iron-reinforced gates were flanked by a metal grate and a deep moat.

Torches lit the ramparts, and the blue-and-gold sun banner of House Lyfford fluttered in the breeze.

Eddard, hidden in the woods, gazed at the imposing structure.

In the original timeline, Ser Foeller's camp with 5,000 soldiers had been stationed here. That would've made it even harder.

Now, even with some of those obstacles gone, capturing the castle quickly would be difficult.

Robb Stark had brought 8,000 cavalry. The Riverlands had mustered more troops under Edmure Tully's call. Lords from the region had rallied to avenge Tywin Lannister's brutal raids.

Even with 2,000 more horsemen, they were mostly light cavalry.

"Your Grace," Eddard said, whispering to Robb beside him, "this city won't fall easily. We're cavalry, lightly equipped. Even if we take it, our losses would be heavy. Too many Northern warriors will die on those walls."

He knew Grey Wind would find a narrow, steep path through the forest—one that could bypass the fortress.

But Robb didn't know yet.

That evening, Robb brought Eddard, Ser Brynden, Grey Wind, and a few guards to scout Golden Tooth. His expression grew grim as he studied the defenses.

Most of the defenders had left with Tywin, but the terrain made the castle a natural fortress.

Without siege engines, taking it would be costly and slow.

And once word spread, the Westernlords would rally to the defense.

Then it would be too late.

Just then, Grey Wind reappeared. His yellow eyes burned in the shadows, and he let out a low whimper.

He had caught a fresh, unfamiliar scent in the woods—he wanted his master to know.

But Robb, deep in thought, waved him off. "Go play."

Eddard, watching carefully, realized this was the turning point.

"Your Grace, it seems Grey Wind has found something. Possibly a scout. Shall I investigate with a few men?"

Robb nodded. "Let's go together."

Eddard sighed. Are you truly Eddard Stark's son—or Robert Baratheon's?

Why must you always go yourself?

But a king's word was law.

Eddard took Abel, Dita Kalander, and the quick-witted Konn. Robb brought Jon, Daisy Mormont, and Owen Norrey. Ser Brynden followed quietly.

They moved through the forest, guided by moonlight.

"Snap!"

Ser Brynden stepped on a branch. The sound echoed.

"Who's there?!" a voice shouted from the darkness.

Torches flared.

A group of 20–30 men, wearing old leather armor and leading mules, drew weapons.

"Kill them!" shouted one.

The figures charged.

"Prepare to fight!"

Ser Brynden didn't hesitate. He drew his sword and struck first, stabbing a man in the chest.

Robb held his sword ready. Though not as skilled as Jon, he had no fear facing bandits.

Grey Wind vanished into the shadows, circling for a deadly strike.

Eddard spun his battle-axe and charged. Clad in plate and chain, he cleaved the sword-wielding leader in half.

Blood sprayed his black armor. He grinned, savoring the scent of battle.

Abel stayed close to protect him.

Dita Kalander let loose two arrows, killing enemies trying to flank Robb, then switched to her sword.

The rest—Konn, Daisy, Owen, and Jon—wielded great weapons and charged.

Despite being outnumbered, they easily routed the enemy.

These were seasoned warriors, hardened by Northern winters and trained for war.

The ambushers faltered and fled into the woods.

Robb ordered, "Don't chase. You'll lose them."

But a wolf's howl rang out, followed by screams.

One by one, the fleeing men returned, terrified.

"We surrender! Please don't let that wolf chase us anymore!"

"Your Grace, we surrender!"

They knew now who they faced—and feared the direwolf more than death.

"Bind them and question them," Robb commanded.

Eddard walked to one of the mules and lifted the tarp.

Barrels of wine.

He opened one, tasted it, and recognized the golden liquid.

Arbor Gold.

He looked back at the captives, eyes narrowing.

Smugglers?