"My daughter's a fool, and my grandson's an idiot. What kind of mind comes up with such a ridiculous decision?" In the Westerlands coalition camp at Stoney Sept, Tywin Lannister slammed the intelligence report onto the table, sneering with open contempt.
Kevan Lannister gestured for the nobles, commanders, and knights in the tent to leave. Once they had, he picked up the report and glanced through it.
"It's not the worst outcome," he said. "At least Cersei got Lynd Tarran to publicly recognize Joffrey's legitimacy as king. That alone classifies anyone questioning Joffrey's claim as a traitor."
"What good is legitimacy on paper? Every throne is propped up by steel. The Iron Throne especially—without the support of swords, it's just a pile of rotten wood waiting to collapse," Tywin snapped, shooting his brother an annoyed look. "If she had half a brain, she would've reached out to House Tyrell in Highgarden immediately and sealed the marriage alliance, letting Joffrey marry Margaery Tyrell and secure their support. But no—she managed to shove Highgarden into open hostility. Mark my words, they're already in contact with that Renly brat. Next, they'll crown him king. And once the Reach and Stormlands unite their armies, tell me—what are our odds?"
He leaned back in his chair, face ashen, rubbing his temples as he continued, "And don't forget—it's not just Highgarden and the Stormlands. The Riverlands, the Vale, the North, even Dorne—they're all against us. So tell me, Kevan, how good do you think our chances really are?"
Kevan was silent for a moment before responding. "We need to secure the Riverlands before the Northern forces march south. Then, we should fortify the Bloody Gate and cut off the Vale's access to the war."
Tywin nodded. "And the south?"
Kevan continued his analysis. "We can only stall for time there. If Renly declares himself king, no one will be more outraged than Stannis of Dragonstone. He'll have to deal with Renly before turning his eyes on us—he can't claim the Iron Throne without first defeating his younger brother. Dragonstone might be weaker than the Stormlands and the Reach, but we can discreetly support Stannis—just enough to delay him. Once we're done with the Riverlands, we can seize control of the Blackwater Rush and keep Renly's forces south of it."
Tywin was quiet for a beat, then asked, "Have you considered the possibility that Stannis might win?"
Kevan shook his head. "Stannis? Winning? That's impossible. He doesn't have the numbers."
Tywin paused, then motioned for Kevan to come closer and whispered, "In a moment, find someone trustworthy to pose as an envoy from Dorne. Send him to Sunspear—but not to Prince Doran. Send him to the Red Viper. Tell him I'm willing to trade the Mountain in exchange for Dornish troops entering the Reach."
Kevan frowned. "That's… not ideal. I'm no fan of the Mountain, but if word of this gets out—"
"It doesn't matter," Tywin said firmly. "If we win this war, no one will care what was said or done."
"Yes, I understand," Kevan nodded and said no more.
Just then, a guard outside announced that a messenger from Golden Tooth Castle was waiting to deliver a report.
The messenger rushed in and wasted no time delivering the results of the battle at Golden Tooth.
After hearing the report, Tywin couldn't suppress a rare smile. "Good. At least one of my children has proven competent."
One day earlier, Edmure Tully, heir to the Lord of Riverrun, had led the Riverlands coalition in an assault on Golden Tooth, hoping to retaliate for the pillaging inflicted by the Westerlands. Tywin had sent Jaime to oversee the defense.
But Jaime never reinforced the castle. Instead, he let the coalition attack as planned while he looped around to strike their supply lines and rear camp. The surprise attack threw the Riverlands forces into chaos.
To pull it off, Jaime had disguised all supporting forces in the armor and banners of Casterly Rock's garrison, tricking the Riverlands army into believing Tywin himself was leading a full-scale assault. Panic spread like wildfire.
By the time the rout ended, only 3,000 of the original 40,000 Riverlands soldiers made it back to Riverrun. Most of the Riverlords, including Edmure Tully, had been captured, leaving the Riverlands in complete disarray.
Now, Jaime was preparing to press the advantage. He was leading his forces straight toward Riverrun to take the seat of the Riverlands once and for all.
"Send the order—march for Harrenhal," Tywin commanded decisively after assessing the situation. He would use Harrenhal as the central base for the next phase of the campaign.
...
While Lord Tywin launched his full-scale assault on the Riverlands, in Winterfell, Robb Stark had also completed the reorganization of his forces and was preparing to march.
"Robb, do you really have to go?" Bran, paralyzed from the waist down, was carried on Hodor's back as he approached his brother. He looked at Robb, then at the soldiers gathered behind him, his face full of worry. "Father, Mother, Sansa, and Arya all went south, and none of them have returned. I'm scared..."
"That's enough, Bran!" Robb, still a boy himself, shot his younger brother a stern look. "You're a Stark of Winterfell. Our house is like the direwolf—resilient and unyielding. While I'm gone, you'll be acting Lord of Winterfell. You must shoulder that responsibility."
Then, perhaps realizing he was being too harsh on Bran—who'd only recently woken from his coma—Robb's tone softened. "If anything confuses you, ask Maester Luwin. If a problem's too difficult to handle, just set it aside for now. Mother is staying with Aunt Lysa, but she'll return soon. In the meantime, look after Rickon. You're the eldest here now."
Bran nodded hard, holding back tears. "Okay."
"Don't worry, Bran," Theon Greyjoy rode up beside them with a confident grin. "There are enough of us here. Every Northman can take down ten Southerners. This war will be over before you know it—and we'll bring Lord Eddard back from King's Landing."
He then turned toward the Northern lords and soldiers and shouted like a commander, "Tell me! Can Northerners take down ten Southerners with ease?"
"Yes!"
"Crushing them is like squashing a bug!"
"Those Southerners are just weeds!"
The majority of the Northern men raised their weapons and roared in agreement.
A few, however, glanced at Theon with visible disdain, as if to say, And you call yourself a Northerner?
Just then, the sound of urgent hoofbeats came from the road ahead. One of Robb's cavalry captains—part of his vanguard—rode in at full speed.
He dismounted quickly and reported, "Lord Robb, Lady Dacey Mormont of Bear Island has arrived with her troops."
"She came too?" Robb looked visibly surprised.
The surrounding Northern lords gathered at the news.
Everyone in the North knew that since Bear Island had changed lords a few years back, its allegiance to Winterfell had been mostly nominal. In truth, the island operated independently, its true authority tied to a power far to the south—the Chosen One.
Robb had sent a call to Bear Island along with his summons to the other Northern houses, but he hadn't expected a response—especially after learning that Lynd Tarran had recognized Joffrey I's claim to the Iron Throne and publicly stated he wouldn't interfere in the Seven Kingdoms' political conflict. With that, Robb had given up hope of Bear Island joining them.
So when he heard that Dacey Mormont herself had answered the call and come to war, he wondered if he was imagining it.
Still half in disbelief, Robb and the assembled Northern nobles waited along the road where troops were gathering. Soon, a thunderous rumble of hooves rolled in, and a thin black line appeared on the distant plain. It grew larger and larger, quickly becoming a formation of perfectly organized cavalry, galloping straight toward them.
Had it not been for the unmistakable Bear Island banners at the front, someone might've already ordered a defensive formation. The sheer pressure from the approaching cavalry was overwhelming.
When they saw the riders up close, the Northern lords could hardly believe their eyes. Every cavalryman wore polished, high-grade armor. Their spears were made of fine steel, and each bore an elegant standard-issue longsword at their side. The Northern soldiers gasped, and many cast embarrassed glances back at their own ragtag forces.
"These are Summerhall's standard-issue armors," Roose Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort, whispered to Robb. "They're not for sale. Only Summerhall's own troops are ever equipped with them."
Robb's stomach sank.
Just as Roose had said, Summerhall's weapons were the most coveted in both Westeros and Essos—renowned for their craftsmanship, durability, and affordability. They dominated nearly 90% of the weapons market on both sides of the Narrow Sea.
But as prized as their weapons were, their armor was even more legendary. The standard-issue suits worn by Summerhall's military were second to none.
Yet Summerhall never sold armor. It was policy. Anyone caught selling armor or other forms of protection—even high-ranking officers—would face harsh punishment.
So the fact that Bear Island's forces were fully equipped in Summerhall-forged armor could mean only one thing: Bear Island was now effectively under Summerhall's command.
And that made Robb deeply suspicious of Dacey Mormont's true reasons for coming to support him.
The cavalry formation soon reached them. As the lead standard-bearer reined in, the entire unit followed in perfect sync, halting so smoothly it seemed choreographed. Their discipline and quality far exceeded anything seen in the rest of the Northern host.
After the army came to a halt, Robb gave a rough count—there were at least six or seven thousand of them, and all were fully armored cavalry. A flicker of displeasure crossed his face.
Then the front ranks split neatly down the middle, revealing a path. Through it came a squad of beast riders clad in plate armor, mounted on armored great bears, flanking a tall woman as they rode forward from the rear.
"It's the giant bear warriors from the wildling tribes beyond the Wall," someone nearby whispered, instantly recognizing them.
By now, Bear Island's acceptance of wildlings from beyond the Wall was no longer surprising to Northerners. Everyone knew the practice should've drawn condemnation from the Night's Watch, perhaps even sparked conflict. But the Watch had chosen to turn a blind eye. Part of that was because the current Lord Commander was Jeor Mormont, former Lord of Bear Island. But more crucially, Bear Island's actions had been carried out at the behest of Prince Lynd, Lord of Summerhall. The Night's Watch had an unusual relationship with him—many of its brothers were outright admirers. So even if the Mormonts' behavior was technically a major taboo, it had stirred little backlash.
Though Northerners were generally contemptuous of wildlings, they couldn't deny their martial prowess. Among them, a few elite warrior types had earned fearsome reputations even in the North. Chief among them were the giant bear warriors of the walrus folk from the Frozen Shore.
No Northerner had ever successfully tamed such fighters—until now. When some first claimed to have seen these warriors serving under Dacey Mormont, most dismissed it as hallucination. But now, seeing them in person flanking Dacey as she approached, it was clear they were very real.
"Lord Robb Stark," Dacey Mormont said as she rode up, "I received your letter and needed time to gather my forces. I hope my delay hasn't disrupted your plans." She bowed from the saddle.
Robb quickly masked his unease with a practiced noble's smile.
"Not at all, Lady Dacey. You've arrived at just the right time. With your men joining us, our campaign will surely go more smoothly."
Little Jon Umber, unable to restrain his curiosity, stepped forward.
"Lady Dacey, may I ask how many troops you've brought?"
"Six thousand. All cavalry," she replied.
Though most had anticipated a large number, hearing it out loud still drew sharp gasps from the assembled lords.
Aside from House Stark, even prominent Northern houses like the Boltons had only managed to muster around four thousand troops—most of them hastily conscripted farmers. And yet Dacey alone had arrived with six thousand well-trained professional cavalry. It was staggering—beyond what any of them had thought possible.
The sheer contrast sapped Robb's enthusiasm for further conversation. After giving Dacey a cursory placement within the marching formation, he promptly ordered the Northern coalition to move out.
Dacey, for her part, was unsurprised by the cool reception.
Before committing her forces, she had written to Lynd. He had replied, not just in words but in heart, telling her exactly what to expect—the reactions of the Northern lords, their doubts, their needs. What she would face, what she must do—it was all laid out as if Lynd had been standing right there beside them, watching it unfold. And everything had happened just as he said it would.