"We couldn't lure the Lannisters out of their camp," Brynden Tully said bluntly, wasting no words. "The old lion has grown even more cautious these past years. When patrols vanish, he simply sends dozens of men together, always escorted by knights—seasoned, wary men. Ambushing them is near impossible. I barely managed to slip close enough to see their camp."
"What did you see there?" asked a young red-haired knight.
"They are preparing for war—strengthening the camp, rushing the construction of siege engines. Someone must have leaked word, but Lord Tywin is ready. He is not chasing Piper's girl around the countryside. My lords, he is waiting for us to walk into the trap."
Robb Stark listened while studying the map of the Riverlands spread before him.
The land around Riverrun was a dense web of rivers and streams. Only the Tullys and their sworn houses possessed truly accurate charts of every twist and hidden channel—Blackwood Creek, the Drowned Woman's Run, and a dozen others whose names outsiders barely knew. That ignorance had cost conquerors dearly before.
During the Dance of the Dragons, local lords had once led a Lannister army into these waters and drowned every man. The host the Usurper sent from King's Landing had suffered the same fate.
His father had always said a map was not the land itself, yet a good one could still save or doom an army. You had to know every path, every ford, every hidden crossing if you meant to lead men to battle.
But right now the war had not truly begun, and already they stood at the edge of ruin. What use was any map then?
The riverlords—led by his uncle Edmure Tully—had marched before the northern host could arrive and paid for it in blood. Twice they had been broken: once at the Golden Tooth, once beneath Riverrun's walls. The armies that should have reinforced them were gone; the castles meant to supply them had become desperate islands begging for rescue.
Worse, another Lannister force was still burning its way through the Riverlands—sacking Bracken lands and marching hard for Harrenhal.
Robb's northerners, together with the few riverlords still free, stood at the crossroads: either hurl themselves against Tywin's main strength or abandon Riverrun to the old lion and fall back to the Twins.
The gods—old or new—offered no mercy on either road.
No matter how long he stared at the parchment, no answer appeared.
At last Robb lifted his head.
"Ser Brynden, you are the most experienced warrior here." The words might sting the northern lords, but they would have to swallow them. "What would you counsel?"
His father had taught him that a lord who asked wise men for advice lost nothing. The final decision remained his own, yet good counsel was never shame.
"Though it cuts my heart to say it," the Blackfish answered slowly, "we should fall back to the Twins, send word to Lord Roose Bolton to bring his foot back, and gather every man we can. Only then will we have the strength to meet the Lannisters in open battle."
Lords and knights traded glances.
Even those who had never seen Ser Brynden fight knew his name. He gave no foolish counsel and never urged panicked flight.
"Ser Brynden speaks true," Stevron Frey agreed. The heir to the Twins was old enough to be Robb's grandsire. "We face Tywin Lannister himself. Charging into that lion's den with our present numbers would be madness."
"Madness?" Greatjon Umber roared.
He might refrain from arguing with the Blackfish, but no whelp of Walder Frey's house would ever earn a moment's respect from the giant. "We turn tail before the first blow is struck? Before we even meet the enemy? Is that the southern notion of knightly honor?"
"A timely retreat preserves strength for the morrow," Stevron replied calmly. He had been raised in a house of a hundred sons; insults rolled off him like rain. "When the hour favors us."
"Scouts report the Lannister siege towers and trebuchets will be finished by next month," old Jason Mallister put in. "They have built many, and they are stout. Lord Tytos Blackwood and Ser Desmond Grell will fight to the last, but Edmure's mistake has already cost the garrison dearly. The castle cannot hold much longer."
Jason did not need to finish the thought.
Every man present remembered the fate of Castamere and the song that still mocked the ruins. Though no one spoke the words aloud, many feared Robb's mother's ancestral seat would share the same doom.
"We cannot risk every knight and every lance on a desperate relief," Daryn Hornwood added. "Imagine what happens when we strike a fortified camp bristling with enemy spears."
"It would be a glorious battle," Umber growled, already eager to charge.
"It would be a glorious slaughter, my lord," Stevron Frey corrected. "We would be lambs led to the knife."
"And every soul trying to escape the lion's claws would be abandoned to die!"
"Can we truly save them even if we attack?" Hornwood stood with the Freys. "How many men do we have? Seven thousand? Even if Blackwood arms every cook and stableboy inside Riverrun, he adds perhaps three thousand. A single Lannister camp holds that many, and Tywin has three!"
"Three fingers do not make a fist," the warlike Rickard Karstark rumbled.
"My lords, think of the people inside Riverrun!" Mallister persisted.
"Undoubtedly, if we die with them, Lord Hoster will feel better."
"Mind your tongue, Frey!"
"I speak only what must be spoken, Lord Umber. I ask you—"
Robb looked to the silent corner where his mother sat.
Catelyn knew better than anyone that in a war council a woman kept her peace, lest her son's authority among the bannermen crumble. Yet today authority and respect had already vanished; allies were nearly at each other's throats.
"Ser Stevron, Lord Jon—enough." Robb stepped in. "We are gathered here to plan, not to trade insults."
Mercifully the Frey heir fell silent, and the Greatjon still remembered the lesson Grey Wind had taught him about courtesy.
The argument died. The discussion returned to the map.
"Perhaps we could wait until they begin the assault and strike their rear?" Galbart Glover suggested.
"That will not work," the Blackfish cut in at once, his tone like a death sentence. "They will attack from three directions at once. Their numbers allow it. If we divide our own force, every blow loses its weight. And if any one riverbank falls, all our sacrifice becomes meaningless."
"If Bolton's foot were here…"
"If Aegon the Conqueror stood with us, one dragon would suffice—Balerion sneezes and the lions vanish," Ser Brynden snapped. "We fight with what we have. Waste no breath on ifs."
"A night assault might panic them into flight…"
"Lannister men do not flee," the Blackfish answered flatly. "Men break only when fear of the enemy before them outweighs fear of the lord behind them. This army is commanded by Tywin Lannister in person. The westerners have feared him since the cradle. And thanks to my nephew, the lions have little to fear from us. Fear is taught by defeat, not by victory."
Robb met his mother's eyes for a single heartbeat and read the pain there.
She had only just lost her husband—his father—cut down by kingslayers in the south. Now the father of the lion who sat the Iron Throne was coming for her own father's life.
Her wish was plain.
But could he gamble every man who had followed him north for his grandfather and the garrison?
If they were beaten—if the army was destroyed…
Yet to refuse even the attempt for fear of failure was worse.
His mother begged him to act. She begged him to save her father and every loyal vassal still breathing inside Riverrun.
Robb understood that plea with all his heart. No one could be left to Tywin Lannister's mercy.
Yet to lead men blindly against prepared defenses…
"We are to run like women before the Lord of the Leeches?"
"What?"
"Sometimes retreat is wisdom—only by preserving strength…"
"But those men's lives…"
"Send word to Lord Bolton at once…"
"Never mind the Leech Lord…"
"But our great honor!…"
"Not worth…"
At that moment the boy's gaze fell once more upon the map—upon Riverrun itself, the lone island fortress wedged between the Red Fork, the Tumblestone, and its own wide moat.
Any army that besieged it would have to divide its strength. Three camps. Three separate bodies of men.
While Robb could strike with a single clenched fist.
"I do not believe we have reached the end of hope," he said. The room fell instantly quiet. "The Lannisters outnumber us—true. But the rivers divide them. Moving men from one bank to another is no simple matter. They rely on rafts and small boats to stay in contact, yes?"
"Yes."
"Passing messages is one thing," the youth continued, thoughts sharpening. "Ferrying hundreds—or thousands—of armed soldiers across is another. Try it yourselves and see how long it takes!"
Lords, knights, and northerners exchanged glances, weighing every word.
The Stark lord had to make the plan sound both reasonable and convincing.
"We mass our entire strength and deliver a crushing blow against the northern camp—on this side of the Tumblestone. On this bank we will match that camp's numbers. Once we clear the enemy there, the Lannisters must withdraw from Riverrun or lose their supply lines. Food and arrows can reach the castle again. The siege collapses. We relieve Riverrun, and—if the gods are kind—capture enough prisoners to bargain with. We win. We force Lord Tywin to negotiate on our terms."
"It is risky, Robb," Ser Brynden said, yet his eyes no longer held the hollow despair of moments earlier. He was already turning the plan over in his mind. "But no battle is without risk. If we strike swiftly and hard…"
The Greatjon slammed a fist on the table.
"Then it can be done!"
"Best to warn Riverrun…" Stevron Frey began at once.
"Impossible, Ser Stevron," the Blackfish answered bluntly. "Ravens are shot down the moment they near the walls. We cannot entrust such orders to birds. Even if a scout reached the river, the watch is too tight to slip through unseen. If our man entered the castle, the enemy would know at once. They are already waiting for us. They would double their guards every night. I swear it on my sword—this would bury our last hope."
"Ser Brynden is right," Robb took up the thread. "We will not try to warn Riverrun. Lord Tytos Blackwood will understand what north-bank fires mean. The walls and towers of Riverrun allow the garrison to hurl stones and fire arrows. They know their duty."
"Then why not cross the river and strike the main camp?" Ser Stevron pointed at the map. "Tywin himself is there, and most of the siege engines…"
"Precisely because most of the lions are there," Robb answered, confidence growing. "And the nearest ford is ten miles away. The Lannisters will see us coming and have time to pull back or block the crossing with steel and spears. We will not wade a river against prepared defenses."
Robb took the brief silence as consent.
"Now hear your tasks, my lords."
The council ran long.
Every lord wanted to know exactly where he would stand and what he must do.
Robb ended the meeting with a single sentence:
"Tonight, pray—pray to the old gods and the new. At the hour of the wolf, we march."