Chapter 17: Killing the Second Lannister

As Kevan Lannister's son, Martin had grown up in luxury, never having suffered even the slightest injury.

Any madman who wished to harm a Lannister had to consider whether he and his family could survive a rendition of "The Rains of Castamere."

Now, barefoot and bleeding, Martin ran heedlessly across gravel and splinters, frequently glancing back in terror. He resembled a rabbit being hunted by a wolf.

The young Lannister didn't understand why the camp had been attacked. Golden Tooth was still under Westerlands control.

Northern cavalry had descended like a storm, unleashing merciless slaughter.

Martin had no time to think. He grabbed his sword, threw on his clothes, and fled his tent.

He was lucky. Sticking to the shadows, he avoided detection.

As he reached the dark wilderness beyond the camp, a flicker of hope lit his pale green eyes. He knew the terrain. If he could find a ditch or corner and move quietly in the darkness, he might survive.

Suddenly, a tall, dark figure stepped out from behind a tent, blocking his path.

Martin froze. His expression flickered through fear, cowardice, determination—and finally, courage.

He gripped his sword and roared, "Hear Me Roar!"

Then he charged.

Banking on his identity, Martin believed his opponent wouldn't kill him—only capture him. Better to go down fighting than to be seen surrendering.

Eddard Karstark watched him swing, unflinching. He raised his battle axe and brought it down.

"Thud."

Martin's sword clanged harmlessly off Eddard's armor. In contrast, the axe sank into Martin's skull with a sickening crunch.

Martin collapsed without a sound. Blood and brain matter soaked the earth. His lifeless eyes were wide with disbelief.

"Are you Karstarks planning to make a habit of killing Lannisters?" grumbled Greatjon Umber, emerging nearby.

He clicked his tongue. "Boy, the two Lannisters you and your father killed could've fetched a thousand warhorses each. Now look at 'em—worthless meat."

Any Northern lord knew the Lannisters were valuable. Capturing one was better than killing.

Eddard chopped off Martin's head with a few swift strokes, picked up his gold-hilted sword, and turned calmly to Greatjon.

"My lord, only by winning this war can we enjoy the spoils. If we lose, all we get is death and shame."

"Instead of fantasizing about ransoms, take your men and plunder. This is Lannister land. No need to be polite."

"You boy…"

Greatjon was about to retort, but Lady Maege Mormont interrupted.

"Enough, Umber. That Lannister tried to fight. Eddard did nothing wrong. Stop lecturing and go after the rest of the runners."

Grumbling, Greatjon rode off.

Lady Maege sighed as she looked at the young corpse. In such chaos, survival meant surrender—or disguise. Martin had done neither. He dressed in noble finery, brandished a prized sword, and attacked.

He chose poorly. His death was deserved.

Eddard nodded in silent thanks.

Since mentioning Jorah Mormont at the tavern in Qingteng, Lady Maege had apologized to Lord Rickard. The rift between the two houses was gone.

She nodded and addressed her warriors. "Forget the recruits. Round up the loose warhorses."

Bear Island was poor. Its brave soldiers lacked horses and armor. In the rich Westerlands, they couldn't miss a chance like this.

Eddard mounted up, gripping a sword and his axe, and joined his retainers in pursuit of the fleeing enemy.

"Hya!"

A wave of Karstark cavalry thundered into the night.

The slaughter and screams lasted for hours. By dawn, Stafford Lannister's ten thousand recruits had lost over four thousand men. Hundreds more were trampled.

Two to three thousand fled toward Lannisport, only to run into Earl Titus's cavalry. They were cut down mercilessly.

About two thousand surrendered, including two earls—Roland Crakehall and Antano Just—and dozens of knights.

Fewer than a thousand escaped into the hills and forests, unarmed and desperate. Their fate was unknown.

The North suffered fewer than a hundred casualties. A dozen fell from their horses. One was Ser Stevron Frey.

Despite being over sixty, Stevron walked unaided to congratulate King Robb on the victory.

At dawn, the lords left guards with the prisoners and began sorting the spoils.

There wasn't much. Grain, tents, weapons, some livestock.

But for fast-moving cavalry, these were burdens.

After conferring with King Robb, the lords led their men to plunder nearby Ox Town.

The Northerners weren't like the Mountain's men. They didn't rape or burn indiscriminately. But resistance was met with fire and death. Gold, livestock, grain, and wine were taken.

Under Robb Stark's command, women, children, and the elderly were spared if they surrendered. Rape was forbidden.

Eddard avoided targeting peasants. There was little to take from them. Only the wealthy homes were worthwhile.

He led Karstark cavalry to surround Ox Town's lord's manor.

He took a crude megaphone from Doren, stood before the three-meter wall, and called out:

"This town now belongs to King Robb Stark, King of the North, King of the Trident, Lord of Winterfell."

"If you surrender and lay down your arms, House Karstark will guarantee your safety and allow you to ransom your freedom."

Seven heavily armored men—Eddard's retainers and cavalry—moved into position, dragging a log battering ram. Only Doren seemed reluctant.

Abel and Lando, veterans of earlier battles, had earned the Northern Soldier title, boosting their strength and constitution. The rest, now upgraded to First Men Descendants, had lesser but still useful boosts.

As arrows fell, they charged the gate like bulls.

Eddard kept shouting. "Stafford Lannister is dead. Martin Lannister's head is mine. The army is gone. Surrender, or die."

"Thud!"

The ram struck the gate. Enemy defenders scrambled atop the wall.

"Fire arrows!" Eddard shouted.

Karstark archers unleashed a volley.

Screams followed. The defenders fell from the walls. Stones and logs they'd meant to use fell on their own men.

"Surrender!" Eddard shouted again. "There's no escape!"

Abel, at the front, urged the team forward again. His shield bristled with arrows.

Despite armor and skill, they were still human—fear crept in.

Eddard made one final offer.

"If you surrender now, you'll live. But if my men break this gate, there will be no mercy!"

They charged again.

Suddenly, the gate creaked open.

A trembling old man stumbled out, weapon raised, kneeling.

"Merciful lord, we surrender!"

With that, the ramming team stumbled to a halt. Some tripped over each other.

Unlucky Lando had his leg bruised by the ram again, though the armor saved him from a break.

The battle for Ox Town was over. The plunder could begin.