If you've ever wondered why people in the middle ages hated traveling, look no further than the "nobles." Every lord with a patch of dirt and a castle would set up checkpoints on the roads to squeeze taxes out of anyone passing by. Some of the greedier ones didn't even bother with the paperwork; they'd just have their soldiers dress up as bandits and rob the caravans blind.
Naturally, smuggling became the only way to make a buck. It was a job for guys with nothing to lose ruthless types who lived on the edge. That's why these liquor smugglers didn't hesitate to attack us the second they saw us in the woods. They fought like cornered rats, only running after we'd cut down half of them without breaking a sweat. For some people, money is worth more than breathing.
"We got it out of them, Your Majesty," Smalljon Umber said, wiping blood off his knuckles with a grin. "There's a goat path through the mountains. It dumps us right out near Oxcross, maybe three or four days from Lannisport."
Robb couldn't hide his relief. He patted Grey Wind, the wolf who'd actually sniffed out the trail, and gave the order. "Get the men ready. We're moving tonight."
The survivors were tied up and dragged along as guides. We didn't take any chances. Every rider wrapped their horse's hooves in rags, tied their tails, and even muffled their mouths. We all grabbed sticks to bite on to keep the noise down. Under the moonlight, we bypassed the Golden Tooth entirely, heading deep into the trees.
The path was a nightmare. It was barely a yard wide in some places, winding through the peaks with a sheer drop on one side and jagged rock on the other. One wrong step and you were a memory.
I rode at the front, and as we cleared a narrow valley, the view opened up. The Golden Tooth was right below us. Literally. I could look down from the cliff and see the archers on the watchtowers, looking out at the road for an enemy that was currently standing five hundred feet over their heads.
Robb was basically dancing on a knife's edge. If the Lannisters had spotted us and blocked both ends of that path, eight thousand riders and twenty thousand horses would have starved to death in those mountains. I looked at Robb's back and just shook my head. The kid had a serious habit of seeking victory in the jaws of a disaster.
Then again, I wasn't much better. I'd already sent Dita and Karas back to Riverrun to keep an eye on the Kingslayer. We were all playing a high-stakes game.
As a massive dark cloud obscured the moon, we slipped past. The guards below probably heard some rocks shifting, but they just figured it was a mountain goat or a bear. By the time the sun started to peak over the horizon, we were officially in the Westerlands.
In the distance, a small town was waking up on the plains. A few miles west was the Lannister camp. We could see the red lion banner fluttering in the breeze. Eight thousand of us quietly dispersed into the woods, getting some much-needed rest before the slaughter.
While we were hiding in the brush, the sun was hitting Harrenhal.
Harrenhal is a graveyard of a fortress. It was built by a guy who thought he was untouchable until Aegon the Conqueror showed up with a dragon and turned the place into a giant melted candle. Now, it belonged to Tywin Lannister.
Twenty thousand Lannister troops were holed up there, and Tywin was using it as a base to bleed the Riverlands dry. His "mad dog," Gregor Clegane - the Mountain was the one doing the dirty work.
The Mountain stood in Tywin's study, looking like a giant suit of armor that had been possessed by a demon. He was almost eight feet tall and wore the heaviest plate in the Seven Kingdoms. He didn't even take his helmet off; it was still splattered with blood from his latest "outing."
"My Lord," Gregor's voice boomed like a drum, even when he tried to keep it low. "The resistance is fading. They've all pulled back to Riverrun. I stayed clear of the castle per your orders."
"Good," Tywin said, his voice as cold and flat as a grave marker. He sat there, staring at a map, his pale green eyes calculating the cost of every life in the realm. "Cease the raids for now. Tell the lords to get ready. Something is about to happen."
The Mountain bowed and thudded out of the room. Tywin sat alone in the dark, a cold smile touching his lips. He thought he had the "wolf cub" figured out. He'd baited the Riverlords into retreating, and he figured Robb would be desperate enough to charge Harrenhal head-on.
Young people, Tywin thought with a hint of disdain. They never have any patience.
While the Lannister lords were praying to the Seven and the soldiers were busy with the camp followers, a few small figures were being pushed toward the Crying Tower. One "little boy" with bright, fierce eyes was looking around, taking in every detail.
That was Arya, and she had no idea her brother was only a few days away.
That night, the stars were out, but the moon was late to the party.
I was squatting behind my dad in the tall grass, watching the enemy camp. It was a mess. No torches, no scouts, and the sentries were probably half-asleep. This wasn't a military camp; it was a target.
I'd already talked Robb into sending two thousand riders to circle around and intercept anyone trying to run toward Lannisport. We didn't want any survivors. Every kid who escaped today was a soldier we'd have to fight tomorrow. Lord Tytos Blackwood took the job, he was more than happy to settle the score after the Lannisters burned his land.
"Awoo~"
Grey Wind's howl ripped through the night.
A predator's howl does something to horses. It's primal. It's a "run or die" instinct. Since the Blackfish and his guys had already snuck in and cut the picket ropes, the Lannister warhorses went absolutely ballistic.
The whinnies and the thundering of hooves sounded like a landslide. The new recruits, kids who were miners or farmers just a week ago stumbled out of their tents half-naked and were immediately trampled into the mud. Some got their wrists caught in the reins and were dragged through the camp until there was nothing left but a red streak.
"Mount up!" my dad roared.
He swung into his saddle, taking his spear from my hand. His eyes were burning with a terrifying, vengeful light. "For the North! For the King! Charge!"
"Kill them!" we screamed back.
I gripped my own spear, urging my horse over the low perimeter fence. As I landed, a kid's head popped out of a tent, looking terrified. I didn't think. I just lunged. The spear caught him in the throat. I pulled it back, blood spraying my hand, and moved to the next one.
I was a tank. I carved through them like a hot knife through butter. Abel and the squad were right behind me, their weapons wet and their faces set in stone.
Stafford Lannister, the guy in charge of this disaster, was stumbling through the mud in his nightgown, trying to catch his horse. He was old, out of shape, and gasping for air.
My dad saw him. He didn't say a word. He just rode Stafford down and put a spear through his chest.
Stafford looked at the spear sticking out of him like he couldn't believe his family's money hadn't saved him. He slumped into the dirt, dead. My dad didn't even look back; he just pulled the spear out and kept killing.
I saw my own target. Martyn Lannister, Kevan's kid was trying to scramble away.
I dug my heels in and followed.