Chapter 9: The Trident's Toll and the Whispering Woods
The crossing of the Neck into the Riverlands was like stepping from a harsh, grey dream into a waking nightmare. The air itself seemed to carry the stench of fear and charred wood. Villages lay in smoking ruins, their fields trampled and blackened, their people either dead, fled, or huddling in terrified, starving groups in hidden dells and along forgotten paths. Robb Stark, riding at the head of his twelve-thousand-strong western strike force, felt a cold fury solidify in his gut. This was Tywin Lannister's work, the brutal signature of a man who believed war was best waged through terror.
"No foraging without explicit permission!" Robb commanded his lords, his voice like chipped ice. "Any man caught harming or stealing from the smallfolk of the Riverlands will answer to me directly. We are not the Lannisters. We are their deliverance."
His orders were strict, and his discipline, backed by the unwavering loyalty of his Northern lords and the almost fanatical devotion of his Winterfell men, held. Where they could, the Northmen offered food and protection to the terrified refugees, earning surprised gratitude and, more importantly, valuable intelligence. Survivors whispered tales of Lannister atrocities, of Gregor Clegane's Mountain Men, of Ser Amory Lorch's savagery. They also spoke of Jaime Lannister's golden host besieging Riverrun, and of Lord Tywin's larger army to the east, a seemingly unstoppable tide.
As they pushed deeper into the war-ravaged land, small, battered contingents of Riverlords began to find their way to Robb's banner. Ser Karyl Vance, his armor dented and his face grim, brought a few hundred weary spearmen. Lord Jason Mallister of Seagard, a renowned warrior, arrived with five hundred of his best, his ships having been bottled up by Lannister patrols. Clement Piper and Theo Wull also rallied to him. Each brought fresh tales of woe and a burning desire for vengeance, swelling Robb's numbers and, crucially, providing local guides and knowledge of the terrain.
The sun, a constant companion, fueled Robb's relentless pace. He seemed to need little sleep, his days consumed with planning, scouting, and personally overseeing the army's welfare. His heightened senses, courtesy of Sunshine, allowed him to spot ambushes before they sprung, to assess terrain with a glance, to read the morale of his men with uncanny accuracy. Tony Volante's mind, supercharged, worked tirelessly, processing information, formulating strategies. He was a whirlwind of controlled energy, inspiring awe and unwavering confidence in his followers.
Their most immediate strategic obstacle was the Green Fork of the Trident, and its only viable crossing point for an army their size: the Twins, seat of the notoriously prickly and opportunistic Lord Walder Frey. Robb knew this negotiation would be fraught with peril. Walder Frey was an old, avaricious vulture, loyal only to himself, and he held the key to Riverrun.
Robb sent riders ahead, requesting parley. He arrived at the Twins with a strong escort, including the Greatjon Umber, Wendel Manderly, and Theon Greyjoy. The twin castles loomed, connected by a fortified stone bridge, a monument to Frey ambition and strategic placement.
Lord Walder Frey, ancient, weaselly, and surrounded by a veritable horde of his offspring, received them in his stuffy, crowded hall. The air was thick with the smell of unwashed bodies and Frey arrogance.
"Heh," the old lord wheezed, his watery eyes appraising Robb. "The Young Wolf, they call you. Come to beg passage, have you? My bridge, my rules, boy."
The negotiation was as unpleasant as Robb had anticipated. Frey, aware of his leverage, made exorbitant demands: fosterings for his brood, positions of honor, and, inevitably, marriage pacts. He wanted Robb himself for one of his granddaughters, and another Stark or highborn Northern lord for a different Frey girl.
Robb listened patiently, his face a mask of polite consideration, though inwardly, the pride of Escanor chafed at the old man's insolence. He could feel Greatjon Umber bristling beside him, ready to explode.
When Frey finally finished his litany of demands, Robb spoke, his voice calm but firm. "Lord Frey, the North marches to save my grandfather, Lord Hoster Tully, your own liege lord. We march to rescue my father, Lord Eddard Stark, from Lannister treachery. This is a cause of justice and honor."
He then countered with his own terms, guided by his foreknowledge. He agreed, in principle, to a marriage alliance. "When this war is won, and the North is secure, I will consider a Frey bride, if a suitable match can be found who is agreeable to both our houses." It was a carefully worded, non-committal commitment. He also offered to take two of Frey's grandsons, Big Walder and Little Walder, as his personal squires and wards, to be raised and trained in Winterfell. This would give him hostages, and also a chance to influence the next generation of Freys.
As he negotiated, he subtly used Snatch. He focused on Walder Frey, trying to "read" him, to Snatch a sense of his true motivations. He felt a wave of grasping greed, a deep-seated insecurity, and a bitter resentment for perceived slights from greater lords like Tully and Stark. He also Snatched a tiny fraction of the old man's stubbornness, feeling it as a mulish resistance in his own mind before he suppressed it, which seemed to make Frey slightly more receptive, his arguments a fraction less aggressive.
"And what of my other daughters, heh? My granddaughters? Got a whole kennel of bitches needing wedding, Stark!" Walder pressed, though some of the earlier venom was gone.
"There are many brave Northmen who would be honored by an alliance with House Frey, once victory is ours," Robb replied smoothly. "We can discuss further matches then. For now, our focus must be the enemy." He also pledged that a significant portion of the Frey levies would be honored by fighting in his vanguard.
To the surprise of many, particularly the Greatjon, Walder Frey, after much grumbling and further haggling over the specific wording of the betrothal understanding and the status of his grandsons, eventually agreed. The promise of a future royal marriage (if Robb succeeded and Joffrey was overthrown), the honor of his grandsons being fostered by the Warden of the North, and the fear of having the entire Northern army turn on him if he refused, tipped the scales.
"Heh. Alright, Stark. You can cross. But don't you be forgetting what's owed to Walder Frey!" the old man cackled, showing toothless gums.
"House Stark always honors its agreements, Lord Frey," Robb said, his expression unreadable. He knew this pact was a viper he might one day have to strangle, but for now, the bridge was his.
The Northern army crossed the Green Fork, the Frey banners now uneasily allied with their own. News of their approach, and their alliance with the Freys, would spread like wildfire, unsettling Jaime Lannister at his siege of Riverrun. Robb pushed his men hard, eagerness to reach his mother's ancestral home and confront the Kingslayer lending wings to their feet.
Intelligence from Theon's scouts and Mallister's men painted a clear picture of Jaime's dispositions. The Lannister army, confident and well-supplied, had Riverrun tightly invested, their camps sprawling on three sides of the castle. Jaime himself was said to be commanding from the main western camp, bold and disdainful of any threat.
Robb called his war council in a hastily commandeered inn. The map of the Riverlands was spread before them.
"Jaime Lannister is a proud man, a renowned warrior," Robb said, his finger tracing the rivers and roads around Riverrun. "He will not expect a direct challenge from a Northern army he believes to be still far away or struggling to cross the Trident. He will be confident, perhaps even arrogant."
He then unveiled his plan, one that mirrored the brilliant audacity of the historic Battle of the Whispering Wood, but with his own unique stamp. "We will not make a frontal assault on his main camp. Not yet. Instead, we will lure him out. We will make him believe he has an opportunity to crush a smaller, isolated Northern force. His pride will be his undoing."
His plan was simple in concept, complex in execution. He would lead a force of six hundred picked horsemen, including his own guard and the best cavalry from the Umbers, Karstarks, and Mormonts, on a wide flanking maneuver through the dense woodlands west of Riverrun. Theon's scouts would "accidentally" be spotted by Lannister patrols, feigning a retreat towards the Whispering Wood, hinting at a larger Northern force trying to outflank the siege. Jaime, known for his aggressive tactics and eagerness for personal glory, would likely lead a strong force himself to intercept this perceived threat.
"Greatjon," Robb instructed, "you will command our main infantry force. You will remain hidden here, in reserve. Once Jaime Lannister is drawn into the Whispering Wood and engaged, you will fall upon his siege camps from the north, like a hammer blow. Ser Brynden Tully, the Blackfish, has managed to slip out of Riverrun and will meet you with what remains of the Tully household guard to guide your assault on the camps." The Blackfish's unexpected arrival, facilitated by Robb's rangers who knew where to look for Tully loyalists, was a welcome boon.
It was a high-risk, high-reward strategy. If the trap failed, Robb's smaller force could be annihilated. But if it succeeded…
"The Kingslayer himself is the prize," Robb said, his eyes gleaming with a predatory light. "Capture him, and we hold the key to my father's release."
The Northern lords, fired by Robb's confidence and the promise of a decisive blow, roared their approval.
Under the cover of darkness, Robb led his six hundred horsemen into the Whispering Wood, a dense, ancient forest whose trees seemed to hold their breath. Theon and his outriders, a mix of Northern rangers and ironborn archers, performed their role flawlessly, leading Lannister patrols on a merry chase before vanishing into the woods, leaving tantalizing traces that hinted at a larger force.
As dawn broke, misty and grey, word came from Theon: "They've taken the bait, my lord! A large Lannister force, cavalry and heavy foot, entering the western edge of the wood. And the Kingslayer himself is with them, his golden armor unmistakable!"
A grim smile touched Robb's lips. "The lion walks into the wolf's den."
He positioned his men in a narrow, winding ravine, a natural kill zone. Archers lined the ridges, hidden amongst the trees. His heavy horse, including Dacey Mormont and her warriors, were concealed at one end, ready to charge. Robb himself, with a small contingent of his most trusted guards, including the Greatjon (who had insisted on coming, leaving Smalljon with the infantry), would be the bait to draw Jaime deeper into the trap.
The sun was climbing, its light filtering weakly through the dense canopy, but Robb felt its power stirring within him. Today, he would not hold back as much. Today, the Young Wolf would show his fangs.
The sound of approaching horses and marching men grew louder. Soon, the vanguard of the Lannister force appeared – knights in crimson and gold, their lances glinting. And there, unmistakable in his ornate, gilded armor, riding a magnificent white charger, was Ser Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer, looking confident, almost bored.
Robb, clad in stark grey and white Stark armor, his Valyrian steel sword in hand, rode out to meet them with only twenty men, the Greatjon grumbling beside him about not being allowed to charge yet.
"Ser Jaime Lannister!" Robb called out, his voice, amplified by Sunshine, ringing through the woods. "I am Robb Stark, Warden of the North! You are far from your lands, Kingslayer. Lay down your arms, and I will give you a trial for your crimes against my brother Bran and my father, Lord Eddard!"
Jaime Lannister threw back his head and laughed, a sound that was both arrogant and genuinely amused. "The Young Wolf cub comes to bark at my heels! Bold words, boy! You think to challenge me? You and this pathetic handful?" He drew his own sword, its gilded surface catching the light. "I'll take your head back to your father myself!"
He spurred his horse forward, his knights eagerly following.
"Now!" Robb roared, and the trap was sprung.
Arrows rained down from the ridges, dozens of Lannister knights and men-at-arms toppling from their saddles, surprise and agony on their faces. Horns blared from all sides. From the end of the ravine, Dacey Mormont led the Northern heavy horse in a devastating charge, their lances finding their marks, shattering the Lannister formation.
Jaime, caught completely by surprise, his laughter dying in his throat, found himself surrounded, his escape route cut off. He fought like a cornered lion, his skill undeniable, cutting down several Northmen who dared to engage him.
Robb, with the Greatjon at his side, charged into the fray. The world narrowed to the chaos of battle – the screams of men and horses, the clang of steel, the scent of blood and churned earth. Sunshine surged through Robb, every sense heightened, his strength and speed far exceeding mortal limits. He moved like a whirlwind, his Valyrian sword a blur, parrying, thrusting, cutting. He wasn't just fighting; he was an avatar of focused destruction. He took blows on his shield that would have shattered another man's arm, only to retaliate with blinding speed and overwhelming force.
The Greatjon was a berserker, his massive two-handed sword cleaving men from their saddles. Dacey Mormont fought with the fierce grace of her namesake, her mace a deadly blur.
Robb carved his way towards Jaime Lannister. The Kingslayer, seeing him approach, a figure of seemingly unstoppable fury, his Stark direwolf banner somehow always visible above him, met his charge with a snarl.
Their swords clashed, Valyrian steel against gilded castle-forged steel, the impact ringing through the woods. Jaime was strong, incredibly skilled, one of the finest swordsmen in Westeros. But Robb, empowered by Sunshine, was something more. He pressed the attack relentlessly, his blows carrying a weight and speed that forced Jaime onto the defensive.
"You fight well, boy!" Jaime grunted, parrying a furious onslaught. "But you are no match for me!"
"You murdered children and ambushed old men, Kingslayer!" Robb retorted, his voice a low growl. "Today, you face a true Northman!"
With a final, devastating series of blows, Robb battered aside Jaime's guard and, with a powerful shield bash that sent the Kingslayer staggering, followed with a disarming strike that sent Jaime's sword flying. Before Jaime could recover, the Greatjon Umber, roaring like a bear, slammed into him from the side, knocking him from his horse.
Jaime Lannister, the Lion of Lannister, the Kingslayer, lay dazed on the forest floor, surrounded by grim-faced Northmen.
The Battle of the Whispering Wood was short, brutal, and decisive. The Lannister detachment was annihilated, hundreds killed, many more captured. And their commander, Ser Jaime Lannister, was Robb Stark's prisoner.
As his men secured the captives and tended to the wounded, Robb stood over the defeated Kingslayer, his chest heaving, his Valyrian sword dripping crimson. The sun was nearing its zenith. He felt its power blazing within him, a triumphant, almost savage joy.
"The Kingslayer is ours!" Greatjon Umber bellowed, holding up Jaime's fallen helmet like a trophy.
A ragged cheer went up from the exhausted but victorious Northmen.
Robb looked at Jaime, who was now being bound, his face a mask of disbelief and fury.
"This is not over, Stark," Jaime snarled. "My father will flay you alive for this!"
"Your father will have to get through my army first," Robb replied, his voice cold. "And then, he will answer for his own crimes." He turned away. "Take him to the rear. Treat him as a knight, but guard him well. He is our most valuable prisoner."
The first part of his plan had succeeded beyond his wildest hopes. Now, for the siege camps at Riverrun. The Young Wolf had tasted first blood, and it was golden.