“A few hours ahead lies the first pass.
Ser Forley Prester holds it.
Beyond that, roughly half a day’s march further, stands the Golden Tooth, seat of House Lefford.
Ser Daven is raising a new army there,” Ser Brynden said, studying the map spread across the table, tapping the marked points with the tip of his dagger.
“Are you certain of this?” Roman asked.
The intelligence struck him as almost too good to be true.
In his opinion, the Blackfish had managed to piece together the enemy’s dispositions with suspicious ease.
The council met that afternoon, in a small clearing beside a stream feeding into the Red Fork.
No tents had been raised on the march; no one wanted to waste the time setting them up and striking them again come morning.
Simple trestle tables had been set right on the grass, with armed guards posted around the perimeter.
A dozen lords settled onto makeshift seats to hear the Blackfish’s plan.
Vance studied the map in thoughtful silence, unblinking.
Patrek leaned in, working hard to follow every detail.
Marq flipped a gold dragon between his fingers, content to leave the decisions to his father.
Lymond chewed on a blade of grass, waiting to hear what the others thought first.
Tristan Ryger stood with his arms crossed behind Roman, steady as a wall.
They’d reached the foothills by now.
The air had turned cooler.
Ahead, to the west, sharp, imposing peaks rose menacingly against the sky, snow clinging to the highest of them.
A steady, sometimes biting wind blew down from the mountains, bending the grass flat and finding its way beneath their clothes to chill their skin.
Heavy clouds drifted east overhead.
Now and then the sun broke briefly through the gaps between them, and in those moments the whole landscape seemed to brighten, turned suddenly cheerful and beautiful.
“My scouts and patrols watch the River Road day and night,” said Lord Clement Piper, short, stout, and bow legged, Marq’s father and Lord of Pinkmaiden.
Clement and several other lords whose lands bordered the western reaches had joined the army only a day before.
“We’ve scouted the ruins of an old town nearby too, though we’ve kept our distance.
All told, we know the lay of the land well enough.
The Lannisters have shut themselves up behind the pass and won’t come out unless they’re forced to.
They’re waiting us out.
Only their scouts trouble this side of the mountains these days.” “We’ve got ourselves a talker, Ed,” the Blackfish added.
“Two hundred men and ten knights hold the first pass under Prester’s command.
At the Golden Tooth, Daven Lannister has gathered some five thousand men, and he shows no sign of stopping there.” “Common rabble and starving conscripts,” Mallister snorted.
“Maybe so,” Vance agreed.
“But that hardly changes matters.
They’re still enemies, and there are still a great many of them.” “Ser Forley is a small man, but a clever one, and no one doubts his competence,” Lord Jonos Bracken said, frowning, a big, gray haired man whose hands looked strong enough to make a blacksmith jealous.
Catelyn Stark had always counted Bracken among her father’s most loyal bannermen.
Roman’s own relationship with the man was considerably less warm.
The knight resented seeing younger lords elevated to positions of real influence, and it clearly stung him that command of part of the army hadn’t been entrusted to him instead.
“Did Prester know we were coming?” Roman asked, genuinely worried now.
“Some word likely reached him, yes,” the elder Piper allowed.
“But Ser Brynden and I sent riders ahead under Piper colors and banners, no armor to speak of.
Let him think it’s just the Pipers patrolling their own lands, rattling a bit of steel,” he added, with a laugh.
“We’ve been shooting down their ravens and holding every traveler we find,” the Blackfish said, tapping the map again with his dagger.
“But time is precious, and we can’t afford to wait much longer.
If we don’t take the pass within the next day, word will reach them regardless.
Then we’ll have no choice but to withdraw.” “What do you suggest, uncle?” Roman studied the map.
It was well drawn, clearly marking fortresses, settlements, mountain passes, and the major roads.
A narrow blue thread, the Tumblestone, wound its way through the mountains.
To the south, the broader Red Fork, fed by countless tributaries, marked the region’s far edge.
Right in the middle ran the River Road, guarded by the Golden Tooth itself.
“Robb Stark’s own direwolf found a way through these hills and slipped past the first pass once already.
Nothing stops us from repeating the trick.
I remember the route.” “It’s not defended?” Roman asked, surprised.
He had to admit, the Blackfish’s mind worked beautifully when it came to matters like this.
The man understood how to fight, and clearly had no real doubts about their chances, at least not in front of the others.
“The first pass is well guarded, Lord Tully,” Lord Piper cut in.
“Walls, a gate, all of it.
But we’ll take the mountain paths instead, and come down on them from the slopes above, from behind.” “How many men would you need?” Roman fixed his eyes on his uncle.
“Four hundred, Ed.
That should be enough.” “They’re yours.
Choose your men and move out.” “I’ll ride with you, Ser Brynden,” Goodbrook spoke up for the first time.
“If you’ll have me.” “Gladly.” Two hours later, the Blackfish set out to take the pass.
Roman stayed behind with the camp.
In truth, he doubted he could have withstood the climb regardless.
Long hours in the saddle, nights spent in the open, the hardships of the march, all of it had already taken a real toll on him.
It had been difficult from the very start, though Edmure’s well conditioned body should, in theory, have handled far worse with ease.
In practice, things hadn’t turned out quite so simple.
Roman took the brief respite gratefully.
He wasn’t afraid of the climb exactly, but up on those mountain trails he’d have been more of a burden than any real help.
Once the Blackfish had gone, there was nothing left to do but wait.
Despite his years and everything he’d already lived through, Roman found himself genuinely on edge.
Today would settle everything, one way or another.
If they managed to take the first pass cleanly, if the enemy hadn’t already sent word out, if the Blackfish found his paths and didn’t lose his way in the dark.
There were so many “ifs” stacked one atop another that sleep felt entirely out of reach, no matter how tired he was or how badly he needed the rest.
“You should eat something, Ed,” Karyl said.
He seemed far more at ease than Roman felt; he’d just finished a round of the camp, checking the guards, looking over the men.
Now he seemed ready to settle down for a nap on a squire’s bedroll, a stack of blankets and cloaks with a saddle for a pillow.
“He’s right, this capon’s good,” Marq Piper said, sitting by the fire with a roasted leg of bird in one hand, entirely unbothered by anything else going on around him.
“Fine, hand it over,” Roman said, crossing to him and taking half the bird, which Marq offered up on the point of his dagger.
Cox hurried over at once with a wineskin and cup.
“Fancy a story?” Mallister asked, stretching his long legs out and squinting toward the fire.
“Go on, then,” Karyl said, and Piper grunted his approval.
“Well, this goes back a long way, before Aegon’s conquest even.
The old folk always say the grass was greener back then, the maidens prettier, and they usually add something else besides.
Once there lived a Frey, not quite the miserable wretch the current old ferret is, mind you, but a decent enough brute in his own right.” Everyone grinned at that, and Marq laughed outright.
Roman already knew the Mallisters held little love for the Freys; the two houses had disputed certain lands for generations, and that old grudge had never made for much warmth between them.
Blood had been spilled more than once over it, on both sides.
“This particular Frey was tight fisted to an almost impossible degree.
He kept count of every last copper in his head, and would’ve sold his own mother for gold without blinking.
His whole retinue lived in constant fear, forever badgering them about their horses, their mail, their shields, their weapons.
He’d have a man whipped for losing a single arrow, generous soul that he was.
All told, his men adored him.
Can’t take that away from him.
Well.
Sort of.” Mallister paused to catch his breath and take another sip of wine.
Roman watched firelight flicker across the knight’s face and got the distinct sense there was a point coming.
“But this particular Frey’s real weakness was boots.
Wherever he fought, whatever battle he found himself in, he always insisted the dead be stripped of theirs afterward.
Good leather, sound soles, someone would need them eventually, all that sort of talk.
He harped on it so relentlessly that his own men finally arranged for their lord to take a sudden, unfortunate fall from his horse and break his neck.” Mallister paused again, then added, “That’s the whole story.
Isn’t it a fine one?” “That’s it?
That’s all?” Marq looked disappointed.
“That’s all.
Except I forgot to mention he fell from his horse on Mallister land, of all places, dragged there on some difficult errand or other,” Patrek said, watching Lord Riverrun’s reaction carefully.
“Greed’s never done a man any favours.
Wouldn’t you agree, Ed?” Roman caught the hint at once, understood exactly where the knight was steering things.
Mallister might not match Vance for cleverness, but he wasn’t far behind, and right now he was probing carefully, testing the waters.
Even so, Roman only smiled and asked: “Did they take the boots off the dead Frey, at least?” Laughter rocked the whole clearing.
Even Bracken, who’d wrapped himself in his cloak and appeared to be dozing off to one side, couldn’t hold back a laugh.
The lords roared loud enough to startle the horses.
Someone answered from a neighbouring fire, where the story had apparently carried.
Piper laughed so hard he slapped the ground and nearly toppled straight into the flames.
Ryger hiccupped and took a long while to recover.
Cox chuckled into his fist.
Even Vance couldn’t quite keep himself out of it.
Eventually the camp settled down to sleep.
Most rested fitfully, though Mallister and Bracken snored loudly enough for the whole company.
Roman couldn’t sleep at all.
He sat by the fire, feeding it wood now and then, watching the flames.
The Blackfish’s messenger arrived a little after midnight and was brought straight to Roman.
“Tell me,” the Lord of Riverrun said.
“We’ve taken the camp, my lord, and nearly without losses,” the exhausted rider reported.
He’d clearly ridden hard and long to get here.
“Ser Brynden begs you not to delay, Lord Tully.” “We won’t,” Roman said, relief plain in his voice.
“Vance.
Get the men up.” Within minutes the camp looked like a disturbed anthill.
Soldiers woke, cursed, yawned, dressed, and checked over their weapons.
Marq Piper led the vanguard out along the River Road.
Half an hour later, Roman followed with the main body of the army.
They rode fast, but carefully.
The mountain road offered little in the way of width or safety; more than once, steep drops opened up on either side without warning.
The wavering light of their torches did little to help visibility.
Even so, there was no time to spare.
The road climbed steadily higher.
The air smelled of crushed herbs and cold, clean stone.
The eastern sky had only just begun to lighten when Roman reached the first pass.
A stone wall, gated at its center, blocked the road entirely.
A handful of men with spears and bows still stood watch along the battlements above.
The gates themselves stood wide open.
Bodies lay scattered everywhere, some pierced through with arrows, some missing limbs entirely, some with their insides spilled across the churned, blood soaked ground.
Roman felt his throat tighten and forced himself to breathe deeply.
Behind the wall, the tents stood torn apart, some still smoldering.
The wounded had been dragged off to one side; many groaned softly, most of them enemy soldiers, marked by the red bull sigil on their cloaks and armor.
Riverrun’s own men, freed of guard duty now, had already begun setting up camp of their own.
Porridge bubbled over the cook fires.
Easy laughter and quiet jokes drifted through the air.
Roman swung down from his saddle as Piper approached.
“The Blackfish is over there,” Marq said, pointing toward a small log cabin.
“That used to be Ser Prester’s own quarters.
He’s holed up in there now.
Your uncle had himself a fine time here, didn’t he, Ed?” “Looks that way,” the Lord of Riverrun said, taking one more look at the brief, bloody scene before heading for the cabin.
“See to my horse, Beric,” he told his squire.
“Finally,” the Blackfish grumbled as Roman stepped through the door.
“What kept you?” “The roads were narrow, and dangerous.
I didn’t want to lose men needlessly.” “Fair enough.
Come here.” His uncle waved him toward the table, where a captured map of the western mountains lay spread out, weighted down with a cord and a lion sealed letter.
Lord Piper stood there too, gnawing on a piece of roasted corned beef, washing it down with wine.
Goodbrook’s head was wrapped in a strip of cloth, a dark bloodstain seeping through it.
Roman nodded to him, letting the man know his courage hadn’t gone unnoticed.
“Fine work, all of you,” he thought it worth saying aloud.
“It was nothing,” the Blackfish said, waving the praise off.
“Just a small outpost.
We need to press this advantage immediately.” “First, tell me exactly how it went.” “We found the mountain trails and followed them through.
These fools never saw us coming.
We came down on them from above, out of the hills, straight into their backs,” Piper said, laughing, taking another bite, chewing, washing it down, and letting out a satisfied belch.
He wiped his greasy fingers on his cloak.
“Losses?” “Three dead, five wounded,” the Blackfish said, bending back over the map, frowning.
“And Prester?” “Wounded.
Taken prisoner.” “Well done, uncle.
Truly.” “I know it.
Now we need to build on it.” “You’re pushing for an immediate advance?” Karyl asked.
“Exactly that.
We managed to seal off the road before they could send any birds out.
But we won’t be able to keep the loss of this pass quiet for long.
Surprise is our only real advantage left, and we need to move on it now.” “Will the men hold up?” Roman asked, though in truth he was asking about himself as much as anyone.
Everything about this campaign suggested he was the weakest link in the whole chain.
He could barely stay upright as it was.
His backside, battered raw by the saddle, ached constantly.
His legs were chafed, and his lower back throbbed with every movement.
“They’ll hold, Ed,” Patrek said, with real confidence.
“Let me ride at the front.
I won’t let you down.” “Quiet, Ser Mallister,” the Blackfish said.
“Save the speeches.
This isn’t a fox hunt.
What’s ahead of us is considerably harder than that.” “The Golden Tooth is beautifully fortified,” the elder Piper said.
“Only a surprise strike stands any real chance against it.
We haven’t the numbers, or the proper siege engines, for anything more methodical.” “That’s true enough,” Roman agreed.
He didn’t add that they lacked the time for it too; a proper siege could easily eat up a month or two.
“Then the men need drilling,” Ser Brynden said, summing things up and moving straight into orders.
“Our strongest, steadiest fighters go first.
They’ll drive straight for the castle gates the moment we’re in position.” He tapped his knuckles against the table, just beneath the map.
“Here’s what I have in mind.” The assembled lords listened closely to the Blackfish’s plan.
His uncle wasted no time laying it out.
Roman had a few thoughts of his own, but on this, his very first real campaign, he’d firmly decided against pestering seasoned men with amateur advice.
He simply watched the others, trying to gauge their reactions from their faces and the occasional muttered remark.
Whatever the risks and difficulties involved, no one seemed to seriously object.
Brynden Tully, it seemed, spoke and planned wisely enough to earn that kind of trust.
Breakfast that morning was oatmeal, bread, and fried sausage, thick with the smell of smoke and alder wood.
Hunger and the crisp morning air made everything taste better than it likely was.
They washed it all down with the weak, watered wine that seemed to accompany nearly every meal in Westeros, however modest.
com/Hezzario