Chapter 12: The Wolf in the Lion's Den: Oxcross and the Turning Tide
The fertile plains of the Riverlands gave way to the rolling hills and richer soils of the Westerlands, a land that had not known the tread of an invading army for generations. Robb Stark, King in the North and of the Trident, led his handpicked force of six thousand – grim Northmen hungry for justice, and vengeful Rivermen eager to repay Lannister atrocities in kind – across the Red Fork and into the enemy's heart. His iron-and-weirwood crown sat cold upon his brow, a constant reminder of the path he had chosen.
He enforced iron discipline. "We are not bandits or reavers," he told his assembled captains, his voice ringing with the authority that Sunshine, even in its early morning ascent, imbued in him. "We are soldiers of the North and the Trident, here to deliver justice, not to replicate the crimes of those we fight. No harm is to come to the smallfolk. We target Lannister wealth, Lannister military strength, Lannister arrogance. We take what we need to sustain our war, and we deny it to them. Any man found raping or murdering innocents will face my judgment, and it will be swift and terrible."
The Greatjon Umber grumbled good-naturedly about "spoiling the lads' fun," but even his wild Northmen knew their young King meant what he said. There was a core of steel in Robb Stark that none dared to test. Tony Volante, the pragmatist, knew that a disciplined army that spared the peasantry was less likely to face a universally hostile population; it was a strategic calculation as much as a moral one.
Their first strikes were like lightning bolts against unsuspecting lesser keeps and wealthy farming communes loyal to minor Lannister bannermen. Ashmark fell in a single, brutal night assault, its granaries and armory quickly emptied. Several smaller fortified manors loyal to House Lefford were overrun, their lords taken captive for ransom, their treasuries "requisitioned" for the Northern war chest. Robb led many of these assaults personally. With Sunshine climbing in the sky, he was a figure of almost divine fury, his Valyrian steel sword a blur, his strength and speed far surpassing mortal men. His personal guard, the "Wolf Pack" as they were becoming known – including Dacey Mormont, Theon Greyjoy, and Smalljon Umber (who had insisted on accompanying Robb rather than his father) – fought at his side, their own valor magnified by their King's seemingly supernatural prowess. He was careful, however. In the chaos of these smaller engagements, his abilities were attributed to "wolf's blood," battle rage, or simply the incredible skill of a born warrior.
Theon Greyjoy, captain of Robb's scouts, excelled. His ironborn eyes were sharp, his movements swift, and his archers deadly. He seemed to revel in the danger and the trust Robb placed in him, his reports on enemy movements and potential targets consistently accurate. Robb praised him openly, yet a sliver of Tony Volante's suspicion remained, a cold watchfulness that never entirely faded.
Panic rippled through the Westerlands. Local lords, grown fat and complacent under the shadow of Casterly Rock, scrambled to muster their defenses. Ser Addam Marbrand, a respected Lannister commander, tried to gather a force near the Goldroad, but Robb, forewarned by Theon's scouts, bypassed him, leaving Marbrand chasing shadows while the Northmen struck elsewhere.
Robb's target was Oxcross, a vital crossroads town and a key mustering point for Lannister levies, situated near the rich gold mines that were the source of Lannister power. Its capture would send a shockwave through the Westerlands and, more importantly, force Tywin Lannister's hand.
Ser Stafford Lannister, Tywin's cousin and a man known more for his bluster than his military acumen, had hastily assembled a force of several thousand green levies and a core of household knights to defend Oxcross. He was confident, secure in the belief that no Northern army could have penetrated so deep, so fast, or would dare challenge him so close to the heart of Lannister power. He was wrong.
Robb's army, moving with incredible speed, appeared before Oxcross as the sun climbed towards its zenith. The Lannister forces, still forming their lines outside the town's modest walls, were caught completely off guard.
"They expect us to be tired from the march, disorganized," Robb said to his captains, his eyes blazing with the light of the noon sun. He felt the peak of Sunshine's power surging through him, Escanor's indomitable pride a roaring inferno within, now perfectly channeled by his will. "They expect us to be cautious. We will be neither."
His plan was simple, brutal, and effective. He would use his superior cavalry, led by Dacey Mormont and Jason Mallister, to smash through the Lannister flanks while he and the Greatjon, with the core of the Northern heavy infantry, punched through the center.
"For the North! For King Robb!" Dacey Mormont screamed, leading her riders in a thunderous charge that hit the Lannister left flank like a battering ram. The green Westerland levies, many having never seen true battle, buckled and broke under the onslaught of the fierce Northern horsewomen and Riverland knights.
On the other flank, Mallister's riders crashed into equally unprepared defenders.
In the center, Robb Stark, his iron crown fixed firmly over his mail coif, his Valyrian sword radiating a faint, hungry light, was a figure of legend. "Umbers! Karstarks! Glovers! With me!" he roared, his voice a clarion call that cut through the din of battle. He charged on foot at the head of his infantry, a decision that shocked some but electrified his men. He moved with a speed and strength that was terrifying. His sword was everywhere, deflecting blows, finding chinks in armor, felling foes with single, devastating strikes. He Snatched the strength from a Lannister champion who dared to challenge him, feeling the man's power drain into him as his own sword shattered the knight's shield and bit deep. He Snatched the courage from a line of spearmen, watching them falter and break as he and his Northmen crashed into their ranks.
The Greatjon Umber fought beside him, a berserker unbound, his laughter a terrifying counterpoint to the screams of the dying. Theon Greyjoy and his archers, positioned on a small rise, rained arrows into the disorganized Lannister formations, their volleys precise and deadly.
Ser Stafford Lannister, seeing his lines collapsing, his men fleeing in terror, tried to rally them, but it was too late. He was unhorsed, surrounded, and forced to yield, his face a mask of disbelief and humiliation.
The Battle of Oxcross was a slaughter. The hastily assembled Lannister army dissolved, its remnants pursued and cut down by Robb's relentless cavalry. The town itself, seeing the utter destruction of its defenders, surrendered without further resistance.
By late afternoon, Oxcross was firmly in Robb's hands. The Stark direwolf flew from its highest tower. The town's considerable wealth – gold from the nearby mines, stores of food and wine, fine armor and weapons – was secured. Robb, true to his word, allowed no looting of private homes or harm to the civilian population, though Lannister property was fair game. Captured knights were disarmed and held for ransom; common soldiers were stripped of their weapons and sent packing with a stark warning never to take up arms against the King in the North again.
The psychological impact of Oxcross's fall was immense. Robb had proven that no part of the Westerlands was safe from his reach. He had shattered a Lannister army, captured a high-ranking Lannister commander, and seized a vital town, all deep within enemy territory.
News of this disaster, carried by frantic, fleeing survivors, reached Tywin Lannister in the Riverlands within days. The Old Lion, who had been methodically grinding Roose Bolton's elusive army and the remaining Tully strongholds into submission, was reportedly enraged beyond measure. His own lands defiled, his kin captured, his family's reputation tarnished – it was an intolerable insult. Just as Robb had gambled, Tywin could not ignore it. Reports from Robb's deep scouts soon confirmed that the main Lannister host in the Riverlands had abruptly halted its eastward campaign and was beginning a forced march west, back towards the Golden Tooth, the pass that led into the Westerlands. Tywin Lannister was coming home, and he was coming in fury.
This news reached Robb as he was planning his next move from Oxcross. He had considered a daring strike towards Lannisport or even the formidable Casterly Rock, but his foreknowledge (and Tony Volante's pragmatism) told him that would be suicidal with his current force. His aim had been to draw Tywin west, and that he had achieved.
"Excellent," Robb said, a grim smile on his face as he shared the intelligence with his war council – Greatjon, Dacey, Mallister, Theon. "The Old Lion takes the bait. He will be stretched thin, his supply lines vulnerable, his army weary from a forced march."
"What now, Your Grace?" Dacey Mormont asked, her eyes shining with admiration for her young King's audacity. "Do we meet him in the field?"
"Not yet," Robb replied. "We are a raiding force, not an army of occupation here. We have done what we came to do: we have bloodied their nose, taken their gold, and pulled Tywin back from the Riverlands. Now, we make him chase us, bleed him further, and then, we choose our ground for a decisive confrontation, or we slip away, leaving him to find his larder empty and his lands in chaos."
He received a raven from Riverrun. His mother, Catelyn, was fraught with worry but also filled with a fierce pride at his victories. Edmure, under the Blackfish's steady guidance, held Riverrun secure. The envoy sent to King's Landing had not yet returned, but no one held out much hope for a peaceful resolution from that quarter. More concerning was a letter from Roose Bolton. The Lord of the Dreadfort reported that Tywin Lannister had indeed disengaged, but that Bolton's own forces were too battered and undersupplied from their "constant harrying" of Tywin's host to pursue effectively or offer immediate support to Robb.
Robb read between the lines. Roose was conserving his strength, as always, playing his own game. He could not be relied upon. This meant Robb's raiding force was truly on its own in the Westerlands, with Tywin's main army now lumbering towards them.
"We've kicked the hornet's nest, lads and lasses," the Greatjon Umber declared cheerfully. "Now we see if we can outrun the swarm, or turn and squash its queen!"
Robb looked at his commanders. They were tired, their armor battered, but their eyes were bright with victory and loyalty. His Northmen and Rivermen had tasted Lannister blood and found it to their liking.
"We will not simply run, Lord Umber," Robb said, a predatory gleam in his eyes. The sun was high, its power coursing through him. "We will make Lord Tywin pay for every league he marches in his own lands. We will be the phantom he cannot catch, the fire he cannot quench. And when the time is right, the wolf will turn and deliver the killing bite."
He had a new plan forming, a way to use Tywin's rage and pride against him, to lure him into a trap even more devastating than the Whispering Wood. The Westerlands campaign was far from over. It had just entered a new, more dangerous phase. Robb Stark, the boy King, the mafia boss reborn, the wielder of Sunshine, was ready.