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Doric moved reluctantly, yet his feet still carried him swiftly toward the southeast.
The king needed to know what was happening there. That was his duty, the task entrusted to him.
But this sworn guard of Robb Stark did not yet realize that this would be the last ti in his life he would lay eyes upon Robb Stark alive. And for the choice he made today, he would bear a lifeti of regret that would gnaw at his heart until his final breath.
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As Clay's army pressed ever closer, Tywin Lannister, who had been encamped beneath the looming black walls of Harrenhal, at last began to feel the sharp edge of panic. He had co to a grim realization: Clay Manderly had no interest whatsoever in the forces Tywin had positioned in Golden Tooth.
Even when his own son, Jai Lannister, made a show of preparing for a greater offensive, the man did not so much as blink.
That earlier claim Tywin had fed to Littlefinger, that Jai's host would move to reinforce him, had been nothing more than an empty boast, words scattered like chaff on the wind.
From the Westerlands to Harrenhal, no matter which road an army took, there was always one stark truth: for a long and perilous stretch, the supply lines would pass through lands beyond Lannister control.
And without supplies, what war could he hope to fight? Would he have his n survive on nothing but air, their bellies gnawing with hunger?
Thus, Clay's reckless and unyielding advance struck at Tywin's nerves like a hamr blow. Retreat was no longer a true option, and there was certainly no question of riding to King's Landing to beg aid from Renly or Stannis Baratheon.
There was nothing left but to stake everything on one final gamble before the battle began. He would seize Harrenhal, taking into his grip the gathered nobles of the North and the man they called their king: Robb Stark.
With that prize in his hands, he would at least have a path of retreat to bargain for.
The sudden snows of recent days had not escaped Tywin's notice. Keen-eyed as ever, he had marked the weariness upon the faces of the n stationed atop the castle walls, and he knew well the number of defenders still within. With every clash of arms over the past months, Tywin had asured and guessed at how many remained alive inside those black, fire-scorched halls.
His plan was ruthless and precise: send a feint to the south of the eastern gate, drawing the garrison's attention, then marshal the finest and fiercest soldiers under his command to launch a sudden, concentrated assault upon the gate itself.
Once the eastern gate was seized, there would be no holding back. He would hurl his full force against every climbable stretch of Harrenhal's walls, allowing no quarter, no hesitation. The defenders would find themselves pulled in every direction, unable to rush to the gate's aid in ti.
If those assaulting the eastern gate could gain a foothold atop the battlents, scatter the guards, and throw open the great doors, then Tywin's twenty thousand would pour through like a flood, sweeping aside the re two to three thousand Northerners he estimated were left inside. There would be no hope for the defenders, no wall to hold, no ground to stand.
This move could not be attempted before, for it was a one‑ti gamble, a stroke that could not be repeated. If it failed to take the walls, the blow to his soldiers' morale would be devastating, a wound from which the army might never recover.
But now, Tywin was racing against ti. If he failed to take Harrenhal in this strike, Clay's army would soon arrive to surround him, and the battered Northern remnants, whom he had kept caged within the castle for months, would join the fight from the inside. Encircled on all sides, with enemy forces pressing in from without and striking from within, his army would not rely lose; it would be drowned in disaster.
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And sure enough, the stratagem unfolded just as Tywin had ordered. From among his soldiers, he had handpicked a thousand n and wrapped each in long sheets of white cloth, concealing their forms like ghosts in the snow. Taking advantage of the poor visibility brought by the steady snowfall, and with their makeshift disguises blending into the whitened world, they crept forward from the nearest patch of woodland until they reached the very foot of Harrenhal's southeastern wall.
Then, like hunters springing from cover, they burst out from the trees in sudden force, appearing without warning at the base of the blackened stone.
Up on the battlents, a Northern sentry, hunched beside a brazier for warmth, caught sight of them. In his eyes, it was as though an army had materialized out of thin air, descending like warriors from the heavens directly into striking distance. The shock ripped a gasp from his throat, and without pausing to judge whether these n could truly breach the wall, he seized his horn and blew it in urgent, blaring notes that carried across the ramparts.
These thousand n, of course, had no idea they were only ant to be a feint. Tywin Lannister would never make the mistake of telling them so. Instead, he had taken a portion of the wealth he had scoured from the royal treasury in King's Landing and showered it upon these poor farrs turned foot soldiers, n who had known only hardship all their lives. They were dazzled by the glitter of the coins and trinkets, their eyes nearly blinded by such riches. Tywin had promised them more, a share of fine land when the war was done, with only one order: to attack Harrenhal with all their strength.
That promise, coupled with the lure of gold, set their spirits alight. Cold no longer seed to matter, no matter how it stiffened their fingers and numbed their legs. Without hesitation, they hoisted tall ladders and set them against the southeastern wall, beginning their climb toward the battlents of Harrenhal.
A thousand n might not sound like much, but massed together, they beca a solid, heaving wave of bodies, a living tide pressing upward. And when soldiers sward a wall like ants upon a hill, the sight alone carried a heavy weight upon the hearts of those defending it.
The two hundred Northerners holding this stretch of wall took one look at the reckless, red-and-gold-clad soldiers of the Westerlands swarming toward them and felt their courage falter. Panic gripped them so tightly that the horns ant to sound the alarm were blown over and over without pause, their long, low notes carrying urgent warning across the battlents.
In monts, forces from both the southern and eastern walls began peeling away from their posts, rushing to reinforce the threatened section.
Yet by the ti they arrived, it was already too late. Several Lannister soldiers, clad in their bright crimson and shining gold, had gained the parapets. Steel rang on steel as they crashed into the defenders. The fight had turned into a brutal lee, n locked together at arm's length, the clang of weapons and the shouts of combat rising into a chaotic roar.
The wall had beco a storm of confusion and violence.
Faced with this, the Northern commander stationed at the eastern gate, unaware that Robb Stark himself was within the walls, made the only decision he could. He ordered the garrison to keep two hundred n at the gate to watch for any threat beyond, but sent the rest rushing to reinforce the southeastern wall.
Harrenhal's defense was already like a sieve covered with nothing more than a thin sheet of cloth. If a single point was torn open, the whole fragile line would collapse. The commander's judgnt was sound, yet even the wisest orders cannot conjure strength from nothing. It was hardly his fault what would follow, for all told, he commanded barely a thousand n in total.
Doric, Robb Stark's sworn bodyguard, ran with the reinforcing troops to the southeastern wall. When he arrived, he saw the chaos before him: a battle raging atop the parapets, steel flashing, blood splattering across the snow-dusted stone, the cries of the wounded and the roar of n locked in mortal struggle filling the cold air.
He saw the Northern defense line wavering under the assault, the n straining to hold their ground. His hand tightened on the hilt of his sword, torn between duty and instinct. Should he join his brothers-in-arms and lend his blade to hold the wall?
A man entrusted with guarding Robb Stark was no ordinary soldier. His swordsmanship was as sharp as the steel he carried. Yet if he threw himself into the fight now, he could not fulfill the king's orders.
That was sothing Doric could not accept.
But in war, the greatest danger lies in hesitation; the ruin of armies begins with doubt. And so it was, in the brief mont he wavered, that a Lannister soldier clambered over the wall behind him and brought his blade down in a killing arc toward his head.
Doric reacted on pure instinct, swinging his sword up to catch the blow. Steel rang sharply against steel, and in the next heartbeat he was locked in combat.
The man's skill was crude compared to his own, and within a few swift exchanges Doric's blade found the gap beneath his foe's chin, the steel biting deep into his throat. With a sharp kick, he sent the dying man tumbling from the wall to the ground far below.
Yet once the fighting began, there was no simple way to end it.
More Lannister soldiers closed in on him, their armor flashing, blades swinging. Forced by both self-preservation and necessity, Doric fought as he stepped back, his sword ringing again and again as he t their strikes, the clash of tal echoing across the wall.
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anwhile, Robb Stark had waited, yet no word ca. Jon Umber had no idea the king was here and likely assud Robb still sat safely in the lord's chambers of the Kingspyre Tower, far from the fighting.
Only Theon Greyjoy noticed his king had vanished. He followed the trail of questions from one man to the next until at last he tracked Robb to the watchtower above the East Gate, where two guards stood before him as a living shield. Robb sat behind them, eyes closed, as if shutting out the world might help him catch so whisper of news drifting from the southeast.
"Gods above, Robb, my king, what are you doing here?" Theon's voice was tight with disbelief.
Robb opened his eyes, and Theon let out a sudden, heavy breath, the kind that cos when tension finally snaps.
"Theon…" Robb asked at once, "do you know what's happening in the southeast?"
Harrenhal was an enormous fortress, its walls and towers spread wide across the land. From one side to another, news didn't travel in a heartbeat. Even a commander could only know what his n managed to see or send word of.
Theon's brows drew together. He shook his head, his voice dropping low. "I ca straight here looking for you. I haven't seen what's happening over there yet. I heard the horns, though. Lord Jon Umber already rushed in that direction, and if it's only a Lannister assault, I'd wager it'll hold. They shouldn't have much luck breaking through."
Even as he spoke, the mournful blare of horns rose again, low and urgent.
Robb turned toward the sound, ready to ask why they were sounding again, but the words caught in his throat. His eyes froze.
Theon, beside him, wore the sa startled look.
Because this ti, the horns were close… far too close!
A mont later, they heard the ragged shouts of Northern soldiers outside the watchtower, their voices hoarse and straining with alarm.
"Move! Move! The bloody Westerlanders are here!"
Robb didn't even know where the strength ca from, but he was suddenly moving, striding out of the tower in great, long steps.
One look was all it took for the breath to turn cold in his chest.
Out on the Riverlands plain beyond the gate, the snow lay in a thin, pale sheet over the ground, softening the earth like a shroud. Across that white expanse, an ocean of gold-and-crimson armor was rolling toward them in perfect, unbroken formation, the earth trembling beneath their march.
Robb knew instantly, without a doubt, that this ti Tywin Lannister had brought the whole of his Western host.
Here, before the battered East Gate alone, he counted enemy numbers no fewer than seven thousand n, and that was just what he could see.
Then a new horn call cut through the winter air, drawn out, mournful, and cold as the edge of winter steel, and Robb felt it in his bones.
This ti, it ca from the north!
From the North Gate!
In that instant, even the slowest mind would have understood. Robb didn't need to think; he knew. This was it… Tywin Lannister's all-out assault, striking from both ends at once.
"Robb! Co on, we have to move! It's not safe here!" Theon's voice cut through the frozen air.
He seized Robb's arm, ready to drag him away by force if he had to.
But the mont Robb had laid eyes on the Westerland host, it was as if every ounce of his strength had co flooding back into his body. He tore his arm free from Theon's grip, his voice cutting cold and sharp.
"Dangerous, my ass. Can't you see it? The old lion's thrown his full twenty thousand into the field. We've already got too many n tied up holding the southeast, and now the North Gate's in trouble as well."
He turned at once to a guard at his side. "Maurice, you must ride to the southeast as fast as you can. Find Lord Jon Umber himself, and tell him by order of his king to leave the southeast alone and bring his n back at once to reinforce the North Gate."
It was the sort of task that should have been handled by a dedicated ssenger, but in the chaos of the mont there was no one ready and waiting. Robb had no choice but to send one of his most trusted n.
Maurice, unlike the hesitant Doric, didn't waste a heartbeat. He didn't even speak, just broke into a sprint toward the southeast, his boots hamring the frozen ground.
Robb turned back to Theon. "I'm worried about the North Gate. When I left, Lord Galbart Glover was still resting in Widow's Tower, and I fear he won't be able to get there in ti."
His gaze was steady, his voice calm but edged with urgency as he went on. "Here's what I want — you go there first, take control of the situation, keep the line there secure, and hold it until Lord Galbart arrives to take over."
Theon Greyjoy's face tightened at once. "You've sent your guard away, and now you want at the North Gate. Then what about you? What are you going to do?"
The answer ca not in words at first but in a single, sharp sound, the clean, tallic whisper of steel being drawn.
Robb Stark's left hand had already pulled free the longsword hanging from Theon's belt. The blade caught the pale winter light, its edge gleaming with a cold, hard brilliance as it leveled toward the world beyond the walls.
"This," Robb said, his voice low and unshakable, "is my battlefield!"
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[Chapter End's]
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