Robb stared at the map, then at the looming fortress. "We can't take it. And we can't go around the south without Tywin catching us. So we go through the mountains."
"There are no paths," Rickard Karstark grumbled. "Just rocks and goats."
"Goats have paths," Robb said. He whistled. "Grey Wind!"
The direwolf loped to his side, then bounded up the scree slope to the north of the castle. Robb mounted his horse and followed.
"Wendel, stay here!" Robb shouted back as the large Manderly knight struggled to get his heavy courser up the incline. "Aldric, with me!"
Aldric spurred Blitz. The horse, buffed with Blessing of Kings, leaped up the rocks like a mountain cat.
They crested a ridge. Below them, hidden from the castle's view, a narrow, treacherous track wound along the cliff face. A few mountain goats scattered as Grey Wind barked.
"See?" Robb pointed, his eyes bright with victory. "The wolf found it. We bypass the Golden Tooth entirely. We drop into the Westerlands behind them."
He looked down at the castle's western wall. It was lower, less fortified. "Once we're inside, the Tooth is useless to them. We cut the hard shell and eat the crab inside."
"It's a good plan," Aldric admitted, looking at the dizzying drop. "But if we get stuck in the West with no supply line..."
"We won't get stuck," Robb said coldly. "We'll live off their land. And we'll crush the new army Stafford Lannister is raising at Oxcross."
He turned to Aldric. "Commander. In the next battle... you and your men will not fight."
Aldric frowned. "Your Grace? You're dismissing us?"
"No," Robb said. "I'm ordering you to stay back. Your men fight on foot. They're too slow for a cavalry raid. And you... you are too valuable to risk on a charge. Set up your hospital in the rear. That is an order."
Aldric bristled. He was a Paladin, not a priest. But he saw the logic. "As you command, Your Grace."
The crossing was a nightmare.
Seven thousand men, horses, and minimal supplies squeezed onto a path meant for goats. They abandoned wagons, tents, and anything heavy. A few unlucky souls slipped and fell silently into the dark valleys below.
But they made it.
They emerged into the Westerlands, hungry and tired, but undetected. They rejoined the main road and forced a march to Oxcross, a village where Stafford Lannister's host was camped.
The Lannister camp was a mess. No sentries, no trenches. Just raw recruits sleeping off their wine.
"Uncle," Robb whispered to the Blackfish. "Cut the horse lines."
The Blackfish grinned and vanished into the night with his outriders.
Half an hour later, chaos erupted. Horses stampeded through the tents, trampling men in their sleep. Then came the Northern cavalry.
It wasn't a battle. It was a butchery.
"Winterfell!" The cry shattered the night.
Aldric watched from a hill three miles away. He saw the fires rise, heard the distant screams. It was efficient. Brutal.
The hospital tent was up before the first wounded arrived.
This time, Aldric had help. Jon and Kevin, fresh in their power, took the lead.
"Northmen first," Kevin ordered, his hands glowing with Holy Light. "Then prisoners with ransom potential."
The system was grim but profitable. Soldiers brought in wounded Lannister nobles, not out of mercy, but because a live lord was worth gold.
Aldric supervised, stepping in only for the critical cases. He watched Jon seal a sucking chest wound with a Flash of Light and nodded approval. The boy was a natural.
He stepped outside to relieve himself against a tree. The dawn air was crisp, smelling of smoke and blood.
When he returned, he found Rickard Karstark arguing with Kevin over a body on a stretcher.
"What's the problem?" Aldric asked.
"Your student refuses to heal him!" Karstark barked. "I'll pay! This is Stafford Lannister! Tywin's cousin!"
"He's dead, my lord!" Kevin protested. "I can't heal a corpse!"
Aldric knelt. The man on the stretcher—an older knight in gilded armor—was grey and cold. A lance had punched through his heart.
"Lord Rickard," Aldric sighed. "He's gone. No pulse. No breath."
"Can't you bring him back?" Karstark demanded. "I heard you can cheat death."
"I can save the dying," Aldric corrected. "Not the dead. If you want resurrection, go north of the Wall and ask the White Walkers."
Karstark let out a bark of laughter. "Hah! Maybe I should have asked the Old Bear to catch me one! Fine. Take him away."
The night wore on. The flow of wounded slowed. Aldric checked his mana—he still had plenty of Heart Tree sap left. For once, it looked like an easy shift.
Then, a commotion at the tent flap.
Three soldiers burst in. Two were dragging a third man who was screaming, his hands clutched to his crotch, blood soaking his breeches.
"Commander!" one of the helpers yelled. "Help him! Blake... his cock! She bit it off!"
"What?" Aldric blinked.
The other soldier stepped forward. He was holding something by its hair.
It was a woman's severed head. Her face was frozen in a rictus of hate, her jaw clamped shut.
And between her teeth, locked tight in a death grip, was a bloody piece of flesh.
"It's still in her mouth!" the soldier said frantically, holding the head up like a lantern. "I didn't want to pry it loose and damage the... the connection. Can you sew it back on?"
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