Chapter 14: The Red Dawn Over Ashemark: A Father's Due
The pre-dawn air over the valley near Ashemark was cold and still, heavy with dew and the nervous anticipation of an army about to unleash hell. Robb Stark, his iron-and-weirwood crown secured over his mail coif, stood on the ridge overlooking the sprawling, slumbering camp of Tywin Lannister. The grief for his father was a raw, gaping wound in his soul, but it had been transmuted by the alchemy of his dual nature into something else: an icy, focused rage that was far more dangerous than any wild outburst. Tony Volante, the calculating Capo, saw a tactical opportunity born of Lannister arrogance. Escanor's pride, insulted to its core by the injustice done to Eddard Stark, demanded retribution on a monumental scale. And Robb Stark, the son, the King, would deliver it.
The sun was not yet a rumor on the eastern horizon. Sunshine's power within him was a dormant ember, leaving him reliant on his own hard-won skill, his Valyrian steel sword, and the righteous fury of his men. He cared not. Today, vengeance would be its own power.
"No trumpets, no horns, until we are among them," he commanded his captains, his voice a low growl that carried in the stillness. Greatjon Umber, his massive frame radiating impatience; Dacey Mormont, her face a grim mask of determination; Smalljon Umber, mirroring his father's eagerness but with a youthful intensity; Jason Mallister, his veteran eyes scanning the enemy camp – they all nodded, their expressions reflecting their King's terrible resolve. Theon Greyjoy and his archers were already moving, shadows detaching themselves from the main force, seeking positions to rain death upon the waking Lannisters.
"They murdered our Lord Eddard," Robb said, his voice so cold it seemed to frost the air. "They scorned our kingdom. They believe the wolf is a pup they can easily crush. Today, they learn the pup has grown fangs. Today, they learn the price of Northern blood. For my father! For the North!"
A low, guttural snarl, more animal than human, rippled through the assembled Northmen and Riverlanders. It was not a cheer, but a promise of bloody retribution.
Then, like a grey tide of ghosts, they surged down the slopes.
The first Lannister sentries died without a sound, their throats slit by Northern rangers. The Northmen were into the camp before the alarm was fully raised, a wave of silent, vengeful fury. Tents were slashed open, sleeping men dragged out and cut down. The initial assault was a brutal, one-sided butchery. Robb was at the forefront, his Valyrian sword a whisper of death in the gloom, each movement precise, economical, deadly. He fought with a cold, contained rage, every slain Lannister a small, insufficient payment on an immeasurable debt.
Chaos erupted in the Lannister camp. Men stumbled from their tents, half-dressed, fumbling for weapons, their sleepy confusion turning to terror as the dark shapes of Northmen materialized from the shadows, their war cries finally unleashed – "Stark! Stark! Winter is Coming! For Lord Eddard!"
Fires began to bloom as torches were lit, some by panicked Lannisters, others by Northmen to illuminate the slaughter. The scene became a Boschian nightmare of leaping flames, struggling silhouettes, and the screams of the dying.
Tywin Lannister, roused from his command tent by the sounds of battle, was a figure of icy composure amidst the pandemonium. His orders, barked with cold precision, cut through the noise. His personal guard, elite veterans clad in crimson and gold, formed a protective ring around him. Banners were raised. Trumpets blared, belatedly calling the Lannister host to arms.
"Form on me!" roared Ser Kevan Lannister, Tywin's brother, rallying a core of heavy infantry. Ser Addam Marbrand, always reliable, gathered a force of knights, attempting to create a defensive perimeter. The Old Lion's army, though caught by surprise, was vast and contained a core of disciplined veterans who would not break easily.
The battle became a savage, swirling melee fought in the narrow confines between tents and supply wagons. As the eastern sky began to pale, the true scale of the confrontation became apparent. Robb's army, though outnumbered, fought with a berserker fury born of grief. The Lannisters, fighting for their lives on their own soil, responded with desperate ferocity.
The sun's first rays touched the blood-soaked valley, and Robb felt it – the familiar, welcome surge of Sunshine, a trickle at first, then a growing river of power. His weariness began to fade, his movements becoming faster, stronger, his senses sharpening. The grief remained, a cold stone in his heart, but now it was supercharged with solar energy.
He saw the Greatjon Umber, already bloodied from head to foot, his massive two-handed sword a whirlwind of destruction, bellowing challenges as he carved a path through a unit of Lannister spearmen. Dacey Mormont and her Bear Islanders fought back-to-back, her mace crushing helms and shields with sickening force. Theon Greyjoy's archers, having gained a slight eminence, were now sending volley after volley into the increasingly organized Lannister ranks, their arrows causing horrific casualties.
But the Lannisters were rallying. Tywin's generalship was undeniable. He used his superior numbers to plug gaps, to launch counter-attacks, his veteran formations pushing back the initial Northern surge in several sectors. The battle hung in the balance, a brutal, grinding affair where every foot of ground was paid for in blood.
Robb, feeling Sunshine's power climbing towards its mid-morning strength, knew he had to break the stalemate. He spotted Ser Addam Marbrand leading a determined counter-charge of Lannister knights, threatening to buckle the Northern center.
"With me!" Robb roared to his Wolf Pack. "To the King!"
He charged, his Valyrian sword leading the way. He met Marbrand's charge head-on. Their swords clashed, sparks flying. Marbrand was a skilled and powerful knight, but Robb, fueled by the growing sun and his cold rage, was something more. He fought with a ferocity that was terrifying, his blows carrying the weight of an avalanche. He Snatched a fraction of Marbrand's renowned swordsmanship, a fleeting insight into his technique, and used it against him, forcing the Lannister knight onto the defensive. With a final, brutal flurry, Robb disarmed Marbrand and his men swarmed the knight, dragging him down.
The capture of another key Lannister commander sent a shockwave through their lines. Robb pressed his advantage, leading his men deeper into the heart of the enemy camp. He saw Tywin Lannister across a sea of struggling men, a distant, armored figure on horseback beneath his golden lion banner, directing the battle with an iron hand, seemingly immune to the chaos around him.
Tywin, Robb thought, his rage focusing to a single, burning point. You are the head of this serpent.
The sun climbed higher. Noon approached. Robb felt his power swell to its zenith. He was a blur of motion, his iron crown seeming to blaze with an inner light, his Valyrian sword an extension of his will. He did not transform into the monstrous "The One" as Escanor did – Tony Volante's iron control, even in this state of heightened emotion and power, kept the physical manifestation in check. But his strength, his speed, his sheer presence on the battlefield were overwhelming. Men broke and fled before him, Lannister veterans who had faced down Dothraki screamers and survived Robert's Rebellion now quailed before the unstoppable fury of the Young Wolf.
He knew, with the preternatural clarity that came with peak Sunshine, that he had to shatter Tywin's command, to decapitate the Lannister leadership.
"To the Lion's banner!" he cried, his voice a thunderclap. "The Greatjon! Smalljon! Dacey! To me! We break them NOW!"
He gathered his elite, his Wolf Pack, and the fiercest of his remaining warriors – perhaps no more than five hundred – and launched a desperate, arrow-head charge aimed directly at Tywin Lannister's command post, a slight hillock fortified with wagons and heavily guarded by Tywin's personal retinue of crimson-cloaked knights.
It was a near-suicidal gamble, a charge into the teeth of the enemy's strongest point. But Robb, empowered by the noon sun and his consuming grief, felt no fear, only a burning certainty.
The fighting was apocalyptic. Men died in droves on both sides. The Greatjon, roaring his father's name, swung his greatsword like a scythe. Dacey Mormont, her mace dripping, fought with the fury of a she-bear protecting her cubs. Smalljon Umber, proving himself his father's son, held the flank of their desperate charge against overwhelming odds.
Robb was at the very tip of the spear. He was a whirlwind of destruction, his sword deflecting, parrying, killing. He took blows on his shield that would have crippled an ox, barely flinching. He Snatched the fear from his own men as they faltered, absorbing it himself, feeling it as a cold wave that was instantly burned away by his inner furnace, their courage magically restored. He Snatched the last vestiges of desperate courage from the Lannister guards before him, leaving them broken and trembling as he cut them down.
They reached the base of the hillock. Tywin Lannister, his face a mask of cold fury, watched their approach, surrounded by a wall of his best knights. For a moment, Robb thought he might actually reach him, that he might avenge his father with his own hands.
But Tywin was no fool. As Robb's depleted force began to fight their way up the slope, cutting down crimson-cloaked guards, the Old Lion, under the urgent protection of Ser Kevan and a dozen of his most elite protectors, began a tactical withdrawal from the command post, even as he directed fresh reserves to meet Robb's charge.
"He's getting away!" Theon Greyjoy yelled, loosing arrow after arrow at the retreating party, felling one of Tywin's guards but failing to hit the man himself.
Robb, seeing Tywin escape, felt a fresh surge of frustrated rage. But the strategic objective was still achievable. He and his surviving companions, perhaps less than two hundred now, fought their way to the crest of the hillock, slaying the last of its defenders. He seized the great golden lion banner of House Lannister and, with a mighty heave, tore it from its staff, casting it down into the blood-soaked mud.
"THE LANNISTER LION IS FALLEN!" he roared, his voice carrying over the din of battle.
The sight of their main banner overthrown, coupled with the relentless pressure from the rest of the Northern army who saw their King's audacious charge, was the final straw for the beleaguered Lannister host. Sections of their army began to break, then rout. The retreat became a panicked flight.
The Battle of Red Dawn Valley, as it would later be called, was over. It was a victory, a devastating, bloody victory for Robb Stark. Tywin Lannister's western host was shattered, its remnants scattered, its commanders dead, captured, or in flight. The Old Lion himself had escaped, but his army was broken, his pride savaged, his homeland in chaos.
But the cost had been terrible. The valley floor was a charnel house, littered with the dead and dying of both sides. The Northmen and Riverlanders had suffered grievous casualties. Many brave lords and common soldiers lay slain. Smalljon Umber was severely wounded, Dacey Mormont had lost an eye but fought on, and even the Greatjon was nursing a dozen lesser wounds.
As the sun began its descent, its power waning within him, Robb Stark, King in the North, stood amidst the carnage, his Valyrian sword still in his hand, his iron crown askew, his face and armor caked in blood and grime. The rage had receded, leaving behind a bone-deep weariness and the crushing weight of his grief, now mingled with the grim satisfaction of vengeance achieved, however imperfectly.
He looked at the thousands of dead, at his own exhausted, bloodied men. He had hurt Tywin Lannister. He had avenged his father, in part. But Joffrey still sat on the Iron Throne. Tywin Lannister was still alive. And the war… the war was far from over.
His gaze turned south, towards King's Landing. The taste of victory was ashes in his mouth. There was more blood to be spilled, more sacrifices to be made, before his father's ghost could rest. And before the North could truly be free.
He had won a battle, perhaps the most significant of the war so far. But a colder, longer winter was still to come.