Chapter 15: The Bitter Taste of Ash and Iron: Reckoning in the West
The sun climbed over the valley of Red Dawn, its light revealing the full, horrific tableau of the previous day's slaughter. What had been a sprawling Lannister encampment was now a charnel house, a grotesque landscape of shattered wagons, burned tents, and thousands upon thousands of dead and dying men, their crimson and gold livery now sullied with mud and blood. The air was thick with the metallic tang of gore, the groans of the wounded, and the cawing of carrion birds already circling overhead.
Robb Stark, King in the North, stood amidst it all, his iron-and-weirwood crown a stark contrast to the grime and blood that caked his armor and face. Sunshine's power, which had blazed within him like a miniature sun at the battle's height, was now a steady, potent warmth, its peak having passed. With its slight ebb came not weakness, but a chilling clarity, and the full, crushing weight of his father's absence. The rage that had fueled his devastating assault had cooled, leaving behind a desolate, aching void and the bitter taste of ash. He had won. He had inflicted a terrible vengeance. But Eddard Stark was still dead.
"Your Grace," Greatjon Umber rumbled, his own face a patchwork of bruises and dried blood, his usual boisterousness muted by the sheer scale of the carnage. "We've broken them. Tywin's proud host is shattered."
Robb nodded slowly, his gaze sweeping over the grim harvest. "At what cost, Lord Umber? At what cost?"
The Northmen and Riverlanders had paid dearly for their victory. While Lannister dead outnumbered their own by at least three to one, many brave warriors of the North and Trident lay still upon the field. Smalljon Umber was alive, but a Lannister spear had pierced his thigh; he would not be fighting again soon. Dacey Mormont, who had fought like a demoness beside Robb during the charge on Tywin's command post, had lost her left eye to a crossbow bolt but had, with terrifying ferocity, slain the man who shot her and continued to fight until the end. Many other good men, bannermen and common soldiers alike, were gone.
Robb spent the morning overseeing the grim necessities. His own wounded were gathered first, Maester Vyman (who had accompanied the raiding force) and his acolytes working tirelessly amidst the chaos. Lannister wounded were, for the most part, given cursory aid if their rank promised ransom; the rest were left to their fate or given a swift mercy. Thousands of Lannister prisoners were rounded up, a sullen, defeated mass. Robb knew he couldn't feed them all, nor could he afford to guard them indefinitely. After a summary interrogation of the captured officers – during which Robb, with a touch of a hand and a focused thought, subtly Snatched their fear and any pertinent scraps of tactical knowledge about remaining Lannister forces in the West – most common soldiers were disarmed, stripped of any valuables, and paroled on a meaningless oath not to raise arms against him again. Tony Volante knew such oaths were air, but it was a pragmatic solution to a logistical nightmare. High-ranking knights and lords, however, were kept under heavy guard.
A war council was convened amidst the wreckage, the smoky haze of burning debris stinging their eyes. Robb, despite his internal desolation, projected an aura of grim command.
"Tywin Lannister has escaped," he stated flatly. "His army is broken, but the Old Lion himself remains. What say you, my lords? Do we hunt him down?"
The Greatjon, ever aggressive, slammed a mailed fist on a scorched table. "Aye! Hunt him to Casterly Rock itself! Finish him!"
But Jason Mallister, more cautious, shook his head. "Your Grace, our own forces are grievously depleted. We have won a mighty victory, but we cannot afford another such bloodletting so soon. Tywin, even with a shattered host, will fall back on his own heavily fortified keeps. To pursue him now, with our current strength, would be to walk into a trap."
Dacey Mormont, a bloodied bandage over her eye, spoke with a hoarse voice. "Lord Mallister speaks wisely, Your Grace. We have hurt them, hurt them badly. But Casterly Rock is a fortress beyond compare. We lack the numbers and the siege equipment for such an undertaking."
Robb listened, his gaze distant. His rage still simmered, demanding Tywin's head. But Tony Volante's cold logic was asserting itself. His army was battered. They were deep in enemy territory. Roose Bolton was proving himself a treacherous wraith rather than a supportive ally. Pressing on now, against Casterly Rock or in a desperate hunt for Tywin, would be folly.
"You are right," Robb conceded, the words tasting like defeat despite the victory. "We cannot take Casterly Rock. Not yet. And Tywin will be near impossible to catch in his own lands if he chooses to run. Our purpose in the Westerlands was to draw him away from the Riverlands, to bloody his nose, to make him pay for his aggressions. We have done that." He paused, his eyes hardening. "But before we turn east, we will deliver one final message. A message that will echo from the Golden Tooth to the Sunset Sea."
His plan was brutal and symbolic. They would march on the closest of the major Lannister gold mines – the Pendric Hills complex, a source of much of their fabled wealth. They would not try to hold it, but to cripple it, to make it unusable for years to come, flooding shafts, destroying machinery, and carrying off what processed gold they could. It was an act of economic warfare, and a deeply personal blow to the house whose power was built on gold.
The march to the Pendric Hills was swift. What little resistance remained in the region melted away before them. The mine complex, lightly guarded, fell after a brief, token struggle. For three days, Northern and Riverland men, under the direction of engineers Robb had brought and his own surprisingly detailed knowledge of such operations (gleaned from half-remembered documentaries and textbooks from his past life), systematically wrecked the mine. Explosives were not available, but fire, flood, and brute force achieved much the same. They then loaded wagons with refined gold and silver, a treasure that would fund their war effort for months to come.
It was as they prepared to finally leave the smoldering ruins of the Pendric Hills that riders arrived, bearing news from several quarters.
A raven from Riverrun, relayed by fast horse: Catelyn Stark was frantic with worry but also bursting with pride at the news of Red Dawn Valley, which was already becoming a legend. Edmure Tully, guided by the Blackfish, held Riverrun secure, and the remaining Riverlords were consolidating their strength. More importantly, the envoy Robb had sent to King's Landing before Ned's death had returned, not to Riverrun, but finding his King in the field. The man was brought before Robb, looking pale and shaken.
"Your Grace," the envoy, a minor Northern knight named Ser Patrek Mallister (a cousin to Lord Jason), began, his voice trembling slightly. "I delivered your terms to the Queen Regent. She… she laughed. She called you a traitorous cur and your father a justly executed rebel." He swallowed hard. "Then she had my squire's tongue cut out as a message to you, and threw me in a dungeon. I was only released because… because Lord Petyr Baelish intervened, saying it was poor form to mutilate an envoy, however insolent their message. He also gave me this." Ser Patrek produced a small, sealed scroll.
Robb took it, his expression unreadable. The scroll bore Littlefinger's mockingbird sigil. Inside, a few brief lines: "The Young Wolf has sharp teeth indeed. The Queen is… displeased. Your father's fate was sealed by his own stubborn honor, not by your crown. Perhaps a living lion hostage is worth more than a dead wolf lord? Continue to cause chaos. It makes for interesting opportunities."
Robb crushed the scroll. Littlefinger, ever the opportunist, playing his own games. But his core message was clear: the Lannisters would not negotiate. His father was beyond saving by such means. Only overwhelming force would bring them to heel.
More riders arrived, these from the North, bearing sigils of Stannis Baratheon and Renly Baratheon. Both self-proclaimed Kings, having heard of Robb's astonishing victories against the Lannisters, had sent envoys seeking alliance.
Renly's envoys, flamboyant and confident, spoke of their master's massive host, his alliance with the Tyrells, and offered Robb a place as Warden of the North under King Renly, along with promises of vengeance against the Lannisters.
Stannis's envoy, a grim, unyielding man, spoke of Stannis's rightful claim by law and blood, denounced Renly as a usurper and Joffrey as an abomination, and demanded Robb bend the knee and swear fealty to the one true King, Stannis, in exchange for justice for his father.
Robb received them both with cold courtesy, the power of Sunshine, now at its mid-afternoon strength, lending him an imposing regal presence. He listened to their proposals, his mind racing. Tony Volante recognized the classic power play, the attempt to absorb a successful independent operator into a larger organization.
To Renly's envoys, he replied, "My lords, your King Renly offers friendship, and I thank him for it. The North and the Trident have declared their own King. We will not trade one Southern master for another, however friendly. But if King Renly seeks to destroy our common enemy, the Lannisters, then perhaps our armies can find common cause on the field of battle, as allies, not as master and servant."
To Stannis's envoy, his reply was even more direct. "Your King Stannis speaks of rights and laws. The North remembers the laws of hospitality and justice that the Lannisters have defiled. We also remember our own ancient rights to self-rule. Tell your King that the King in the North will bend the knee to no one south of the Neck. But if he seeks to punish those who murdered my father and his brother, King Robert, then our swords may one day strike in unison against a common foe."
He sent them both away with non-committal answers, buying himself time, keeping his options open. He knew the Baratheon brothers would soon be at each other's throats; there was no profit in choosing a side prematurely.
The long march east, back towards the Riverlands, began. It was a slower, more somber affair than their swift, vengeful descent into the Westerlands. They were laden with plunder and prisoners, their ranks thinned by battle. Tywin Lannister, though his main host was shattered, was undoubtedly gathering fresh forces from Casterly Rock and Lannisport; his Westerland lords, though defeated, would still harry their retreat.
Robb rode at the head of his column, his grief a constant, cold companion. The cheers of his men felt hollow now. The destruction they had wrought, while strategically necessary, left a bitter aftertaste. He had proven he could make the Lannisters bleed, but it hadn't brought his father back. It hadn't ended the war.
He realized, with a chilling certainty that Tony Volante's pragmatism fully endorsed, that vengeance alone was not a sustainable strategy. His father's death had changed him, hardened him, but it could not be his sole guide. He was a King now. He had a kingdom to protect, a people to lead. His war had to be about more than just repaying blood with blood. It had to be about survival, about freedom, about building something that would last, something worthy of the sacrifices already made.
His thoughts turned north, to Winterfell, to Bran and Rickon. To Jon on the Wall. To the words of his father's last letter before his imprisonment, urging him to remember that the true enemy was not House Lannister, but the ancient darkness stirring beyond the Wall. That threat seemed distant now, overshadowed by the immediate fires of war in the South, but Robb knew, with the certainty of his foreknowledge, that it was the ultimate test that awaited him, awaited them all.
As they left the smoking ruins of the Westerlands behind, crossing back into the war-torn but now hopefully safer Riverlands, Robb made a silent vow. He would win this war against the Lannisters. He would secure his kingdom. He would protect his family. But he would also prepare. For Tony Volante knew that even the most successful criminal enterprise could be brought down by an unforeseen external threat, and Robb Stark, King in the North, knew that the Long Night was coming again. His war had just begun, on more fronts than even his enemies could imagine.
They made camp near the ruins of Oxcross, a place that had seen one of his first great victories. It was here, amidst the lingering scent of old battles, that a rider, bearing the Stark direwolf but looking more like a Bolton man in his grim efficiency, found him. He brought a sealed message from Roose Bolton himself.
The Lord of the Dreadfort offered his "belated congratulations" on Robb's victories in the West. He reported that Tywin Lannister, with a "surprisingly resilient" portion of his army, had indeed disengaged and was marching back towards the Riverlands, though his forces were much depleted. Bolton himself, he claimed, was now "cautiously advancing" to link up with the King in the North's forces, should His Grace require his "humble assistance."
Robb read the message, his expression hardening. Roose Bolton was a viper. His "cautious advance" was too little, too late. He was maneuvering, positioning himself.
"Tell Lord Bolton," Robb said to the messenger, his voice like the winter wind, "that his King awaits him at Riverrun. And that I expect a full accounting of his actions, and his sworn fealty, in person. Without delay."
The game with Roose Bolton, Robb knew, was just beginning. And it would be as dangerous as any battle with the Lannisters.