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Chapter 64
Robb Stark
The gate lay in ruin, dust rolling like smoke through the courtyard. Greywind surged into it first, a pale giant cutting through the haze.
Robb's order was burned into the beast's mind: find the man with the chains—kill him.
Through the choking dust and the sudden cries of men scrambling to arms, Greywind moved with unerring purpose. Arrows loosed too late, spears jabbed too slow, all swept aside by tooth and muscle. Guards who had manned the walls found themselves face to face with death incarnate, their screams muffled beneath the din.
And still he drove forward, past the chaos, nose to the trail, following the sharp tang of iron and oil that clung to chains.
Meanwhile, Robb cut through the dust like a storm given form. The Force carried him forward, his stride faster than any man's, Ice flashing with each sweep. The first guards to bar his way fell in pieces, the next scattered as he crashed into them, carving space with every blow.
Behind him, the thunder of boots and hooves closed in. The gaps Robb tore open became the breaches his men poured through. Voices roared, steel hammered shields, and the first wave struck like a crashing tide.
At their head came Greatjon Umber, bellowing louder than the horns of war. His shield slammed forward, driven not only by his massive frame but by the power of his weirwood hand, the crack of wood on iron echoing like a cannon-shot. The foe he struck flew backwards, shield and man both lifted from the ground.
A howl of triumph followed, as the men became emboldened by the easy breach.
Robb slowed his pace as the first ring of resistance crumbled behind him. The courtyard was theirs already—his men carving through common guards with roaring ease.
He spared no more thought for the fallen.
The bronze crown sat heavy on his brow, its seven jagged spikes catching stray glimmers of torchlight as he moved—grim trophies torn from Thorns's corpse. He advanced at an almost unhurried stride, as though walking through a practice yard rather than a keep under siege.
'Find whoever holds the reins here, cut the head from the snake, and the rest would fall.' He thought. 'The sooner the castle is ours, the longer its fall can be kept secret.'
The cries of dying men faded behind him, swallowed by the shadows of Bitterbridge's inner halls. Robb pressed on, calm and relentless, a wolf cutting through stone and smoke to the heart of its prey.
The cries of dying men faded behind him, swallowed by the shadows of Bitterbridge's inner halls. Robb pressed on, calm and relentless, a wolf cutting through stone and smoke to the heart of its prey.
Guards rushed him in ones and twos, half-armed and desperate. He did not slow. Ice rose and fell in smooth, merciless arcs—splitting mail, shattering shields, cleaving men aside as if they were reeds before a scythe.
Then he stopped, chest still, eyes narrowing. The Force pressed in around him, a tide of feeling drawn from the stones themselves. Fear. Panic. A knot of distress pulling at his senses like a beacon. Robb turned sharply down a side passage, following the current.
The air shifted, and his instincts flared. In the half-breath before it loosed, he saw the arrow, its path arcing for his chest. Robb moved with the vision, body already twisting aside as the shaft hissed past and clattered into the wall.
Ahead, the corridor widened into a hall, its mouth bristling with steel. A wall of men waited shoulder to shoulder, shields raised, spears leveled, faces tight with fear and grim resolve.
'At least I no longer need to hide it,' he thought, his hand rising.
Power rippled outward. The front rank staggered, then all at once the line of men was hurled backward as though struck by a giant's fist. Armored bodies slammed into the gate at the far end with a crash that shook the hall in an impact that burst the way open.
He ignored the groans of the men as they fell amidst timbers splintered under the impact, staring lidlessly at the gaggle of terrified women and children.
Robb's gaze settled on a thin, wispy youth standing ahead of them. Two young girls clung behind him their small hands clutching at his tunic.
Robb stepped forward, Ice dragging a harsh line across the floor as his voice carried. "Are you the one in charge here?"
The young man's lips parted, but no sound came at first. "Aye… I—I am. Lorent Casswell."
Robb's eyes flicked past him to the two girls clutching at his back. "And those behind you?" he asked, his tone even. "They're your daughters?"
Lorent swallowed hard. "Aye," he said again. "My daughters."
"I am no Lannister," Robb said. "My men were told plain—only those who raised steel against us would be cut down. The rest have naught to fear."
His gaze stayed locked on Lorent, unblinking. "You and your daughters shall come to no harm, if you yield. Surrender your castle, and I give you my word they'll be kept safe beneath my banner."
Before Lorent could summon an answer, a low rumble shook the hall. Gasps broke from the women and children as Greywind came barreling through the splintered gate.
With a violent toss of his head, the direwolf flung a body at Robb's feet. The man's maester's chain was twisted and broken, his corpse flopping limply on the stone like a discarded rag doll.
Greywind loomed over the carcass, tongue lolling from his jaws, eyes bright with wild satisfaction. He sat back on his haunches, tail thumping once against the floor, and gave Robb a look almost expectant—like a hound waiting for his master's praise.
Robb reached down without hesitation, his gauntleted hand finding the thick fur between Greywind's ears.
The great beast leaned into the touch, a low rumble of contentment thrumming in his chest. Through the bond, Robb let warmth and approval flow—pride. Greywind's tongue lolled wider, eyes half-shut like a pup at rest.
Across the hall, Lorent Casswell's face crumpled, the sight of the direwolf's casual savagery breaking whatever resolve clung to him. His lips trembled, a strangled sound slipping free, more whimper than word. "I… I yield."
***
The road stretched wide with the weight of it.
Wagons by the dozens creaked and groaned, their axles straining under barrels of grain, sacks of flour, salted meats, and casks of wine. The baggage train rolled like a slow-moving wall, the smell of food thick in the air even above the stink of oxen and sweat. Each cart was covered in tarpaulin, but the bulging shapes beneath left no doubt: this was the harvest of half a kingdom, meant to feed an army and a starving city.
Above the wagons, banners snapped in the wind—green with the golden rose of Tyrell most prominent, but others too, the colors of Reach houses flying beside it in token show: Rowan, Fossoway, Hightower, Redwyne.
Their silks brightened the column, but the soldiers riding at its flanks were grimmer still. Hundreds marched in tight order, spears jutting, shields strapped, their helms shining pale in the sun. Cavalry patrolled the edges, and bowmen kept watch from wagon tops. It was no mere train of supply—it was a small army unto itself, a moving garrison sworn to see the bounty delivered to King's Landing.
The man at the head of the column rode tall in the saddle.
The knight cut a fine figure in the saddle—tall, broad-shouldered, his youth still unlined though his eye. His plate was polished bright, and over it hung a cape trimmed in green, the golden tree of his house gleaming against a field of silver
"Gods, what folly is this?" he barked, breaking the silence of the march. "I trained to match blades with knights, not to babysit carts like some glorified mule-driver."
He spat into the dirt, glaring at the endless line of wagons and oxen ahead. "Arthur Dayne carved his name into legend with steel in his hand. Barristan won his glory in the lists and on the field. And me? They give me wagons creaking like old crones and a trail of dust thicker than soup."
A harsh laugh escaped him, bitter as gall. "Guarding barley and bacon, aye, that will make me a name for the ages. Singers will trip over themselves for the tale of Ser Rickard Rowan, the knight who kept the flour dry!"
At last, the squat towers of Bitterbridge came into view, rising above the glinting Mander.
His grin faded as the column drew up to the gates. The guards atop the walls stiffened at the sight of so many wagons and riders, but the knight raised no courtesy in greeting. He spurred his horse forward, voice sharp and dismissive as he called out, "Open your gate. I am Ser Rickard Rowan, and I'll have words with your lord at once."
One of the men on duty scrambled down to meet him, helm askew, eyes darting between Rowan and the endless line of carts behind. He bowed his head hastily. "My lord… the lord—he is… occupied. There are Lannister and Crownlander men within, being received even now. But… you are free to enter."
Rowan's glower deepened, his hand tightening on his reins. "Lannisters and Crownlanders? Here? Why?"
The guard shifted uneasily, his voice dropping to a nervous mutter. "I—I only heard, ser. That they were sent to reinforce you." He swallowed hard under Rowan's stare.
Rowan let out a low, displeased grumble, the sound carrying like distant thunder. "Reinforcements, is it? We'll see about that," he muttered, wheeling his horse toward the open gate.
With a sharp gesture, he signaled his knights forward. The small cadre fell in behind him, banners shifting as hooves clattered on stone. Without another word spared for the cowering guard, Rowan pressed through the archway into the castle proper.
Behind them, the baggage train slowed to a halt on the Roseroad, left under heavy guard. The foodstuff would remain outside the walls until Ser Rickard Rowan had his answers.
The last of Rowan's knights clattered through the archway, hooves ringing hollow on the cobbles. He had scarcely time to take in the torchlit yard before the earth itself seemed to quake. A low rumble rolled through the stones, the unmistakable thunder of cavalry in full charge. His heart jumped, but the sound came from beyond the gate—where his baggage train lay exposed.
The first scream came from his flank. Rowan snapped his head around just in time to see one of his men topple backward, an arrow buried deep in his throat. Before he could draw breath to curse, the air filled with the snap and twang of dozens of crossbows. Bolts rained from murder-holes, windows, and walls above, cutting his escort down in a storm of iron.
Muscle memory seized him where thought failed. He threw himself behind a nearby crate, dragging it up as a makeshift shield. Bolts thudded into the wood, splinters flying across his face. Around him his men screamed, toppled from their saddles, blood pooling on the stones.
Beyond the gate, chaos reigned—the clash of steel, the shrieks of dying men, the thunder of horses breaking through lines. The sound of his baggage train torn apart filled his ears, but he could not move, pinned beneath fear and the crate's thin cover.
Then a shadow fell across him. A hand, impossibly large, closed around his shoulder—its skin not flesh, but pale weirwood veined in crimson. With effortless strength it wrenched him upright, his legs kicking uselessly beneath him.
Rowan's wide eyes rose from the great hand to the face that loomed above it. Greatjon Umber grinned down at him, wolfish joy blazing in his eyes.
The world tilted. Darkness swallowed the yard as Ser Rickard Rowan fainted dead away.