Chapter 190

Inside the great hall of Sarsfield, the “Northern Route Army” of the war to annihilate the Lannisters—comprised of the North, the Riverlands, and the Vale—gathered around a long table laden with maps for their final war council before advancing on Lannisport.

Robb Stark stood at the head of the table, smiling confidently, his demeanor commanding as the de facto leader of the meeting.

He had every reason to feel proud. Despite being the youngest noble present, he commanded the strongest of the three armies arrayed against the Lannisters. Since taking the field, he had yet to suffer a single defeat, bearing the glory of having breached both the Bloody Gate and the Goldroad’s key stronghold of Golden Tooth. He was also one of the rare few in the Seven Kingdoms to have married for love—a privilege even most kings could scarcely afford.

With forces numbering ten times those of the defenders, lessons gleaned from Robert Baratheon’s siege of the Bloody Gate, and the relentless courage of the North’s suicide squads, Robb’s army had smashed through the defenses of Golden Tooth within three days—exactly as promised in his letter to his father, Eddard Stark. The path to the northeast of the Westerlands now lay wide open. After capturing Sarsfield Castle, Robb’s forces had over 30,000 men remaining, even after leaving behind garrisons. Between them and their final objectives—Casterly Rock and Lannisport—lay nothing but the Riverroad, dotted with scattered villages and towns, and no more significant fortresses to slow them down.
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“What’s there to discuss? Eat well, drink well, sleep well, then march straight to Casterly Rock, drag that old lion and his bastard children out, and hang them all!” boomed Greatjon Umber. “If we’ve time afterward, maybe we’ll get a chance to mine some gold ourselves. One swing of the pick and it’s nothing but gold—can’t get that in the North!”

Glover rolled his eyes at Umber. “You go mine your gold. No one will fight you for it. I’ll take the gold in their treasury, thanks.”

Their exchange drew hearty laughter from the lords present, though some remained serious.

“Casterly Rock has never fallen,” Ser Brynden "Blackfish" Tully said, his tone cool and measured. Recently elevated to a key figure in the Vale’s military affairs after their rebellion’s conclusion, he continued, “The most prudent course is to establish a siege camp east of Lannisport, at a safe distance from its walls. Once the other two armies arrive, we can seize the city in one decisive blow, then dismiss the levies and leave only elites to starve out Casterly Rock until Tywin Lannister surrenders.”

“We have over 30,000 troops! We can take Lannisport without waiting for the other armies,” Ricard Karstark growled. “Why split the spoils with them when we can claim the city for ourselves?”

“Our scouts report that Lannisport holds 20,000 of the Lannisters’ best troops and is training more,” said Roose Bolton, his voice soft but cutting through the room’s noise. “Attacking such a city with 30,000 would yield victory, but only at a heavy cost. The Lannisport Guard is one of the most disciplined in the Seven Kingdoms. Even if we succeed, we’d pay dearly.”

Karstark sneered, “The North breeds warriors worth ten of their men. Who cares about their numbers?”

“I was born in the North, but I don’t consider myself capable of taking on ten men at once,” Bolton replied evenly. “Even if that claim were true, Lannisport houses over 100,000 residents—and likely more now, with refugees flooding in due to the war. Add the city’s walls, and even ‘men worth ten’ wouldn’t find it easy. And should we pay that price, the North, Riverlands, and Vale will gain little beyond widows and orphans. Those of you eager to die gloriously may find your keeps inherited by others, your wives remarried, and your children raised by strangers. Does that satisfy your honor?”

“Lord Bolton speaks sense,” Edmure Tully cautiously agreed. Though the nominal leader of the Riverlands’ forces, his earlier failures against the Lannister foraging parties had weakened his authority. “But our supplies are running low. Tywin’s scorched-earth tactics have left us with plenty of gold but little food. Waiting for reinforcements might see us starving before long.”

Bolton had a solution ready. “We march west to Oxenhall, establish a defensive line, and split our forces. The main army holds Lannisport’s defenders in check, while smaller contingents sweep through the villages and minor castles to the south and north, seizing supplies as we go. We’ll fight as we feed, and wait for the other armies to arrive.”

It was a flawless plan. Yet someone raised a new concern. “Where are the other armies now? The Golden Tooth was the toughest of the three major defenses, yet we’re the first to approach Casterly Rock. Why are we waiting for them?”

“The Crownlands army has reached Deep Den but lacks the strength to take it and is awaiting reinforcements from Storm’s End,” Robb explained. “As for the Riverlands forces, their last known position was west of the Golden Tooth. They should be close now. I’ll send scouts to confirm.”

It was clear Robb preferred caution, earning him respect from the Vale and Riverlands officers. They awaited his allocation of duties—who would hold the siege lines and who would raid the countryside. The latter was an enviable task, allowing for both glory and spoils.
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Just as the lords began eyeing each other, a soldier entered the hall.

“My lords, a scout claiming to be from Dorne has arrived outside with urgent news!”

“Dorne?” Robb frowned at the unexpected arrival but nodded. “Let him in.”

At Brynden’s suggestion, the council quickly covered their maps. A swarthy man in strange garb soon entered.

“Whose orders do you bear?” Greatjon demanded.

“Prince Oberyn Martell sent me. Who speaks for this assembly?”

“This is a war council,” Robb replied. “We make decisions together. Speak plainly.”

The Dornishman wasted no time. “Two days ago, my prince’s army passed through Stoney Sept, heading north along the Coastal Road to join the siege of Lannisport. Fifty leagues from our destination, we were intercepted an army from the Reach. They refused passage without explanation and now block our advance. I and a few others slipped through their lines under cover of night to deliver this message.”

“The Reachmen are blocking Dorne?” The council erupted in disbelief. Robb raised his hand, calming the room with difficulty. “Was there any fighting? Do you know why?”

“No explanations were given, and they’ve made no move to attack. We remain in a tense standoff.”

“Could they be trying to hoard the Westerlands’ gold for themselves?” Karstark laughed, and others joined in, joking about southern greed.

“Any other messages from Prince Oberyn?”

“He warns you to beware of treachery.”

“Understood. Take him to rest,” Robb ordered. As the Dornishman left, Greatjon bellowed with laughter. “The southron lords are already squabbling over spoils before the war’s even won!”

“Lucky for us the North, Riverlands, and Vale are united,” another lord quipped. “Let’s grab what we can before they ruin things.”

The hall buzzed with mockery of their southern allies. But while most joked, Bolton leaned close to Robb, his pale eyes grim. “The Reach is as rich as the Westerlands. If anyone would betray the alliance for spoils, it wouldn’t be them. Something else is afoot—perhaps in King’s Landing.”

Brynden nodded, his own unease growing. “Send men to the rookery. Check for letters from the capital—and count the ravens. Make sure none are missing.”
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A short while later, two Stark guards returned with the castle maester in tow, shoving him to his knees.

“My lords, he claims no messages have come from King’s Landing. But we counted the ravens—there are two extra. He only confessed after we pressed him.”

Robb’s heart sank. “Where is the letter?”

“Here.”

Bolton handed it to Robb and fixed his eerie gaze on the trembling maester. “You serve this castle, no matter its lord. Am I wrong?”

The maester, pale with fear, babbled apologies. “I’m old! I forgot! It won’t happen again, I swear!”

“Hang him for treason!” Greatjon bellowed.

“We need him to manage the rookery,” Roose’s pale eyes lingered on the kneeling man for a moment, then he spoke. “You will not be hanged. Instead, my men will remain by your side at all times, ensuring your memory does not fail again. If it does… I will make you my sigil.” He pointed at the flayed man on his breastplate. “And then I will request a replacement from the Citadel—one who values his skin more.”

The maester nodded frantically.

As the maester was led away, all eyes turned to Robb, whose face had gone pale as he read the letter.

“Has the king passed?” someone asked hesitantly.

“No,” Robb said grimly. “But there’s worse news. The Stormlands army, which was meant to join the Crownlands forces at Deep Den before marching west, has turned back. As of three days ago, they’re heading for King’s Landing. They’re now likely just days away.”

The hall erupted into chaos.

“This is Renly’s doing,” Brynden declared. “He’s marching on King’s Landing to claim the Iron Throne. Do we have orders to return and defend the capital?”

“No. My father plans to recall Stannis’ fleet and raise new levies in the Crownlands. He believes the Stormlands army alone cannot take the city. He advises caution and warns us to guard against a Lannister counterattack in light of our reduced forces.”

“Does Lord Stark know about the Reachmen blocking Dorne?” Bolton asked darkly. “If the Tyrells back Renly, they could raise 30,000 more men to support his claim.”

“Write to King’s Landing immediately!” Robb slammed his fist on the table. “We must retreat and defend the capital.”

“It’s too late,” Bolton said, his voice icy. “We’ve pushed too far into the Westerlands. Even a cavalry force riding hard couldn’t reach King’s Landing in time. If we withdraw now, the Lannisters will cut us down on the march. And should Tywin rebuild his strength while we’re distracted, he’ll dominate whoever emerges victorious.”

“What do we do, then?” someone demanded.

Bolton’s pale eyes glinted with malice.

“King’s Landing is likely lost. Write to Lord Stark—if he cannot hold it, he must be ready to abandon the city and return to the North.”

“As for us,” Bolton continued, his expression cold, “we strike south immediately, join forces with Dorne, and shatter the Reach’s army. Then, alongside Oberyn Martell, we will pillage and lay waste to every town and village in the Westerlands—except for Casterly Rock itself. We minimize the killing, but Dorne’s hatred for the Lannisters will drive them to fight savagely.”

“This way, we cripple both the Reach and the Westerlands. The Reach loses its strength, and the Westerlands lose their wealth, ensuring that Tywin Lannister can never rebuild his power.”

“And most importantly—Dorne will never again consider allying with the Reach to put Renly Baratheon on the throne. Once we are done, we withdraw from the Westerlands laden with spoils, having both enriched ourselves and weakened our enemies. By the time we return to the Riverlands, we will stand unchallenged.”
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