Chapter 16: Kill the First Lannister

Anyone who dreams of traveling to the Middle Ages should know:

Every noble with their own fiefdom sets up checkpoints along the roads to collect taxes—and they demand a lot. It often makes merchants feel deeply frustrated.

Some nobles, driven by greed and supported by strong armies, even have their family soldiers disguise themselves as bandits to rob passing merchant caravans. They are ruthless to the extreme.

But where there is oppression, there is resistance. Smuggling emerges as a highly profitable countermeasure. Those involved in this dangerous trade often live on the edge—ruthless figures with blood on their hands.

So, when these liquor smugglers spotted someone in the forest, they attacked without hesitation. Only when half of them had fallen and the enemy had yet to suffer a single serious injury did they flee.

For money, people truly risk everything.

"Your Majesty, we've confirmed—they're smugglers. They said there's a mountain path that leads directly to the outskirts of Ox Town, just three or four days from Lannisport."

Jon wiped the blood from his hands and walked over, smiling.

This meant they wouldn't have to face a rain of arrows storming the Golden Tooth, which looked nearly impenetrable.

"Good," Robb Stark said, unable to hide his joy. He smiled, nodded, and patted Grey Wind, who had brought them such good fortune.

"Take them back. We march through the night."

The remaining captives and mules laden with wine were led behind the group.

Back with the main army, orders quickly spread.

The cavalry wrapped their horses' hooves in rags, tied their tails, and even muffled their mouths. Then, each man bit down on a stick to stay silent as they followed the banner through the moonlight, skirting the Golden Tooth's patrol range.

Soon, they entered a narrow forest path barely wide enough for a single rider. The path twisted through the mountains, treacherous and steep. One misstep could mean a fatal fall.

Under the moonlight, Eddard led the way. Emerging from a narrow valley, his vision opened—Golden Tooth, the Westerlands' defensive bastion, lay below.

To his right, a sheer slope covered with boulders and trees; to his left, a cliff hundreds of feet high.

He could clearly see two archers on the watchtower, scanning the surroundings. The scouts' disappearance had warned them the enemy was near.

But they didn't know the enemy was directly above them.

Robb Stark's maneuver was incredibly risky. One discovery, and the Westerlands could trap them with a simple blockade.

Eight thousand cavalry and nearly twenty thousand horses would be stranded in the mountains to starve.

Eddard glanced at Robb walking ahead and sighed inwardly. Risking his life daily—he wouldn't last forever. But then again, Eddard's actions weren't any safer.

Before they departed, he'd ordered Dita Kalander and Karas Snow to return to Riverrun and monitor Jaime Lannister.

Another gamble.

A dark cloud passed over the moon, dimming the light. Golden Tooth's guards lost their vision of the cliff, unaware of the army moving silently above.

Even odd sounds were dismissed as wildlife.

The Northern warriors, trembling under starlight, pressed forward.

By sunrise, they'd descended into the forest at the mountain's base.

They were in the Westerlands.

In the distance, a small town awoke on the plain. West of it, a military camp flew the red banner with a golden lion.

Over eight thousand cavalrymen from the North and Riverlands dispersed into the forest, resting and preparing for a surprise attack at dusk.

Birds scattered overhead, but no one noticed.

Neither the Ox Town guards nor the young soldiers in the camp knew how close the enemy truly was.

---

Harrenhal, the massive and cursed fortress, basked under the morning sun's gentle light—but its gloom endured.

Bat wings flapped in the shadows.

Since Balerion's flames had ravaged it, the fortress had been largely abandoned. The House of Hoare lacked the resources to maintain it.

When the Lannisters came, Lady Hoare fled, never to be seen again.

Now, Duke Tywin Lannister ruled it.

Twenty thousand troops filled the castle. Raiding parties pillaged the Riverlands, returning with food and prisoners to sustain the army.

At the head of these raids was Gregor Clegane, the Mountain.

Towering over two meters tall, he stood in Harrenhal's study, wearing heavy armor and a bloodstained helm.

This cruel, murderous monster now stood obediently, recounting his brutality to Tywin. Even his muffled voice struck like a war drum.

"My Lord, a few days ago, we met some resistance, but recently they've all retreated to Riverrun. Per your orders, I didn't pursue."

"Hmm. I understand," Tywin murmured, deep in thought.

Gregor stood still, like a statue. Despite his brutality, he knew where his loyalty lay.

Finally, Tywin's green eyes glinted coldly. "Ser Gregor, tell them to cease raids. Summon the lords. Battle is near."

Gregor bowed and left, his steps thunderous.

Alone again, Tywin mused.

His plan was simple: raid the Riverlands to drain resources and provoke defenders into chasing ghosts.

Meanwhile, his main force held Harrenhal, ready to repel Stark and Bolton.

If King's Landing fell, he could reinforce it swiftly via the Kingsroad.

Until recently, the Riverlands lords had taken the bait, returning home to defend their lands—easy prey.

But suddenly, they all returned to Riverrun.

Suspicious.

They were likely planning a decisive battle.

"Young fools," Tywin muttered, shaking his head.

Harrenhal grew more chaotic. Women mended gear. Smiths repaired weapons and shoed horses. Nobles prayed. Soldiers visited camp followers, then joined the line to pray for the Seven's favor.

No one dared disobey Tywin's command.

As dusk fell, a few children were pushed toward the Crying Tower. One bright-eyed "boy" looked around—it was Arya Stark in disguise.

---

That night, stars scattered the sky. The moon was delayed.

In the darkness, Eddard crouched beside his father, staring at the enemy camp.

No patrols. No scouts. Few sentries.

If all went well, this would be a slaughter.

Half an hour earlier, Eddard had advised Robb Stark to split 2,000 cavalrymen into small teams to cut off escape routes.

For the Westerlands, supplies were less valuable than trained men.

If even a few escaped, they could return to fight again.

Earl Tytos of Raventree Hall accepted the mission. His lands had been scorched—he would show no mercy.

"Awoo~"

Grey Wind's howl echoed.

Well-trained horses, panicked by the predator's cry, went wild.

Brynden's infiltrators had already cut the reins.

Horses ran amok, smashing through the camp.

New recruits—miners, farmers, green boys—scrambled half-dressed from tents, only to be trampled or injured.

Some tried to grab reins. Some failed and were thrown. Others succeeded and were dragged, their bones breaking, skin tearing.

One unfortunate had his wrist tangled and was dragged to death.

Even tents were crushed, suffocating their panicked occupants.

"Mount up!"

Rickard roared, leapt onto his horse, and grabbed Eddard's spear.

He turned to the lion banner.

"For the North! For Winterfell! For the King! Charge!!!"

The Karstark cavalry surged forward, weapons raised.

Eddard joined, spearing one recruit in the neck, then another in the chest.

A third, a fourth… he slaughtered through the chaos.

Abel and others followed closely, weapons slick with blood.

Their cavalry fanned out, cutting down the confused and panicking recruits.

Ser Stafford Lannister, in his nightgown, chased his warhorse.

Old and out of shape, he gasped for breath.

Earl Rickard was behind him.

"Stop—stop for me!" Stafford gasped.

A blood-soaked spear burst from his chest.

Stafford collapsed, stunned that wealth hadn't saved him.

Rickard spat, drew his greatsword, and rode off.

Eddard saw another target and gave chase.