UaRoB: Chapter 41 — The Young and the Dead (Patreon)

Where last night had roared with war cries and the thunder of hooves, now there was only silence, broken only by the caw of crows and the wet squelch of boots in blood-soaked mud.

Robb walked beside me, his cloak pulled tight around his shoulders. He had not spoken much since dawn.

I didn’t blame him. What words could make sense of this? Of the bodies we stepped over, the shattered bones, the faces frozen in terror or twisted in agony?

Most of the bodies wore red and gold.

Too many of them were just boys.

Robb paused beside one with golden hair. He crouched, brushing soot from the boy’s breastplate. “He can’t be older than us,” he muttered.

“Six and ten,” I said. “At best.”

Robb rose slowly. His mouth worked, then stopped. He rubbed a hand over his beard, but it didn’t make him look any older. Just tired.

“Those look like Bran would,” he said at last. “In armor.”

Around us, the crows feasted without shame, tearing into cheeks and bellies, flapping wings heavy with gore. One perched on the chest of a dead Crakehall knight and pecked into his eyes.

“Should we drive them off?” Robb asked.

“We should burn the corpses,” I said.

Robb’s jaw clenched. “Aye, we invite disease if we leave it like this.”

“We tried to bury a few after the Bloody Whistle,” I said. “It took too long; we just burnt them all.”

“And we need to keep moving, the Westerlands are open.” Robb continued. “We’ll need more. More men. More horses. More bread.”

I nodded. “And more time. Which we won’t have.”

He looked at me, brow furrowed. “Tywin will march from Harrenhal.”

“Eventually. Or he’ll send someone else. He might even call his banners west and pull back, give us the ground to bait us into overreaching.”

“Not likely, Jon. He can’t afford to lose the Westerlands. He would lose all face.” Robb disagreed.

We fell into silence again, watching the ravens wheel overhead.

He turned toward me. “And what now? We’ve bloodied their nose. But the rest of the continent’s already in motion.”

The truth was bitter and cold.

“The Vale stays silent,” I said at last. “Three letters. Not a word in return. Your aunt is a cunt.”

“No argument here… She’s a Tully. She should stand with her kin.”

“She won’t,” I said. “Not until Littlefinger tells her.”

How I hated that fucker.

Robb shook his head in anger. “Then the Vale is useless to us.”

“Not entirely.” I let the wind carry the thought for a moment. “If we could find someone willing to act, put pressure from within—”

“That would take time we don’t have.”

“I know.” I looked out toward the western hills. “And the Iron Islands stir, I am sure. We haven’t heard from them.”

Robb’s expression darkened. “Do you think he’ll move? Even with Theon in our custody?”

“Yes, speaking of Theon, I heard he did well in command of that company.”

“Good for him, I had feared he would... fuck up.” Robb’s hands clenched again. “We’re boxed in. Enemies in the west, Falcons circling from the east doing Gods know what, and the South playing at thrones. Who is left?”

The Reach was bound to Renly through Margaery. The Stormlands were divided and ravaged by war. Dorne was with Aegon.

The letters I had sent to the Narrow Sea Lords had gone unanswered as of yet. Their men and their lords were all in the Stormlands with Stannis; they could not turn cloak just yet, not when surrounded by enemies.

We had no options left for allies.

My only hope was for Renly finally die soon and get the Reach on my side.

“We make them bleed here,” I said at last. “Take as much of the fighting strength of the Westerlands as we can.”

Robb gave me a sideways glance. “And then we will have to give battle again.”

“And then Tywin will have to give battle,; he must have already gotten word of the Golden Tooth. The moment he has the bare bones of a cavalry, he will move to us.” I corrected Robb. “We destroy his army, kill him, or capture him. Then go save our sisters in the Capital.”

“And let the others fight over the Stromlands.”

“Aye. Hopefully, by the time they are done, my ass is sitting on the throne and their strength is gone.” I finished.

A few men came towards us then.

Theon and Ser Cort advanced toward us across the field. I lifted a hand in greeting, and Robb did the same beside me.

“How did you do, Theon?” I asked. I already knew the answer; I had gotten the report from Theon’s second in command the second the battle had ended, but I had noted the man was nervous.

He looked nervous. Not his usual fidgeting, not swagger, trying to hide something. Real nerves. This might be interesting…

“I… I think I did well,” he said. “It was my company that managed to grab Lord Jast.”

Robb raised a brow. “Oh? I hadn’t heard that.”

I smiled at Theon. “Good job. If I decide he’s worth ransoming, your company will get a share.”

Theon tried for a grin, but it came out thin and shaky. “Thanks, Jon. I’m sure the men will be glad for that.”

Before I could reply, Ser Cort cleared his throat. His expression was grim.

“Theon has something to tell you both.” He pushed Theon a step forward.

My smile faded. “What is it, Theon?”

He let out a long, slow sigh. “Well… someone approached me before the battle. Before you gave me the command. I was in the camp, searching—”

Robb cut him off with a snort. “A whore? You were crawling around the camp followers again?”

Theon nodded, embarrassed. “I was nervous. After the slaughter at the Golden Tooth, I… needed relief. But a man found me first.”

He struggled to continue. I looked to Ser Cort. He gave a small nod.

So it was bad then, but not chains and executions bad.

“Go on, Theon,” I said. My voice came out harder. “All of it.”

Theon swallowed, then met our eyes. “The man was Ironborn. He said he was sent by my father and my sister. He said he could help me escape in the chaos of the battle.”

Robb swore loudly and took a step toward Theon, fury in every line of him. I stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

“And?” I asked.

Theon’s voice cracked. “I was tempted. For a moment. But when they came for me in the fighting, I… I didn’t want to leave. You’re my brothers. You were right, Jon. Home… home is with you. Not the Iron Islands. I told the man to fuck off and he got aggressive, and one of my men killed him.”

I exhaled in relief, thanks the fucking Gods, I did not want to kill Theon.

Robb’s anger softened into something warmer. “Good. We’re your family, Theon. Always.”

Theon nodded, eyes wet. “Always.”

I nodded, then asked him, “Why did you not tell us earlier?”

Theon looked down. “I was angry, Jon. Angry about my place here.”

“You will always have a place at our side, Theon. You know that.”

Robb stepped forward. “What does this mean for us?”

Before I could answer, Ser Cort gave us the rest of the information. “My lord, the man was not alone. We have taken five others from the camp followers. Ironborn, all of them.”

And that was probably not all of them, the camp followers were quite a lot. And it would be impossible to disband them without violence, they would just come back. Many had been following the army from Winterfell.

Still, it was a good moment to test Theon.

“Theon, what should we do with them?” I said.

“We question them. Then we execute them.” He straightened and answered with conviction. Fast enough to leave no doubt.

I nodded. “You heard him, Cort.”

Cort saluted and left.

As soon as he was gone, Theon spoke again, “I am sorry.”

“I know.” I looked at Robb, and he understood the message instantly.

My thoughts went back to the conversation Robb and I had a few days earlier.

After placing Theon as an officer among the mounted archers, we had talked about his future. If he performed well, we would send him to Moat Cailin to train with the new levies. My second Legion, even if the ‘first’ was still only a third of what it should be and going lower with each battle.

But now it felt necessary, not optional.

Out here on the march, Theon was exposed. He had clearly hesitated about following the Ironborn already. Sending him north would keep him safe from any sudden pullback to their side. It would also force him to choose. Training at the Moat meant standing with the North. If the Ironborn attacked, and he fought them, his loyalty would be set. If he faltered, I would have men watching him every hour of the day.

I told him, “Theon, after all this, I will not punish you for staying quiet.”

“Thank you, Jon. I swear I will not, I would never—”

I cut him. “But you will go to Moat Cailin. The ironborn have tried once, and they will try again. You will train with the men there, work through the officer academy, and return when the army is ready.”

He looked like he wanted to protest, but then he just nodded. “I will go get my things.”

Robb came closer and gave him a pat on the shoulder.

I gave Robb one last look and nodded towards Theon. He understood and went with him. Robb had always been closer to Theon than I was; he would do a better job smoothing edges.

Now I had work to do; if this was done, then it meant the Ironborn were coming.

Moat Cailin. The western coast. Winterfell. The North’s soft gut lay open to iron claws.

We had many new defenses to test. Hopefully, there would be enough.

I moved to the tent, dipping a quill in ink. My hand didn’t tremble, though my stomach churned. To the Glovers, Ryswells, Dustins, and Mormonts still in their keeps. To every Lordly house in the west and many deeper inland, too, asking them to reinforce the coast.

And of course, to the Moat.

To Ser Samwell Tarly, Steward of Moat Cailin.

The Ironborn are stirring. The krakens will strike again, and soon.

The Fever River is vulnerable. The Greyjoys are bold, but not without cunning. They will seek soft targets near shallow landings, small holds, timber ports, and fishing hamlets. I expect raiders to move along the coast and strike at undefended villages. The anti-raid protocols are now in effect, Sam.

They will also try to take critical keeps that are now less defended. The moat is probably among them.

Saltstream is likely in their path. You may defend it if you believe you can hold it, but I will not weep for abandoned port. Saltstream can be rebuilt. The lives of our people cannot.

If the Iron Fleet enters the river mouth, do not engage immediately. Let them commit. Let them drift into the narrowing bends. Then strike, kill the head and tail of the fleet, then burn the rest. Choke the river with ash and iron. No prisoners. No mercy.

Ser Forley is hereby granted full command of the men under training and to summon the remaining forces of the Manderlys of White Harbor and the Reeds of Greywater Watch. Use them as you see fit. The marsh is ours. Let the bogs eat invaders alive.

Hold fast. The lions crumble in the west, but wolves must still watch the sea.

King Deamon Targaryen I. King of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.

I finished the dozen letters and put the quill down.

Stopping the Ironborn is simple once you stop thinking like them.

They rely on surprise, on hitting empty shores and vanishing before anyone gathers a response. So the answer is to deny them empty shores.

Watchtowers go up along every inlet and beach worth landing on. Nothing fancy, just height, fire signals, and men who stay awake. Then we stationed mounted companies a few miles inland, spread out in a net. If a tower signals, the closest riders move, then the next, and the next. The ironborn want to raid, not fight a running cavalry hunt.

You hit them on the beach before they can scatter, kill their reavers, burn their longships. After a few losses, they will learn the North is not soft coastland anymore. Every landing becomes a trap. Every raid becomes a grave. That is how you stop them.

Then there were the keeps they wanted to get. In canon, they had hit the Moat, Deepwood Moat, and Barrowtown.

We had strategies for all of them.

Hopefully, the Ironborn invasion would be stopped before it even begins.

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Stafford Lannister’s tent had thankfully been put out before it was completely consumed by the fire. It still bore the Lion, bold and red against the scorched fabric.

He was dead now, his head somewhere on a spike, I think, but his shadow still clung to the canvas walls. We’d kept the tent. Easier than pitching another. More poetic, too.

I sat at his old war table, staring down at a map of the Westerlands, his own maps, better than our own.

So many red dots. So much empty space between them. Robb stood beside me, arms crossed, too tense to sit.

The others clustered around, Milton hunched over his notes, Greatjon Umber drinking too early again, Maege Mormont pacing like a wolf. Dacey was still watching me. Roose Bolton hovered in the corner like a pale idea, and Karstark looked ready to bite through his own teeth.

“We’ve broken their host,” I said, letting the silence break on my voice. “And now the land is open to us.”

That brought their eyes to the table. I tapped the map, Oxcross marked in fresh ink, the blood around it drying. We’d slaughtered Stafford’s army, but that wasn’t the victory the bards would sing about.

“They’ll expect us to raid,” I went on. “Pillage their fields, take smaller keeps. Sarsfield. Ashemark.”

“Dogs fighting over bones,” muttered Maege. “We’ve bigger prey.”

“Lannisport,” Karstark said. “It’s rich. And soft.”

“And garrisoned,” Milton added. “Heavily.”

I smiled. It must have been a half-deranged thing.

The tent quieted. Even Greatjon lowered his drink.

“Casterly Rock,” I said.

Maege scoffed. “You’d storm the Rock?”

“Not storm. Infiltrate.”

Milton laid a bundle of letters down.

“Found these in Stafford’s lockbox,” he said. “Most of it’s drivel. But this one, this is interesting.”

He opened a sealed scroll. I took it. The ink was smudged, but the desperation bled through every line.

“To Ser Stafford Lannister.

Father, along with the four hundred blankets sent from Crakehall, I’ve now managed to scrape together five hundred cloaks, the only ones I could find worth taking. The order has gone out for the one hundred stone of salt beef you requested; it should reach you by the fortnight if the roads hold and the gods are kind.

The officers’ papers are enclosed. The uniforms and shirts you asked for are included as well. Gods help me, I had to bully half the tailors of Lannisport into finishing the stitching by candlelight.

If by ill chance Lannisport fails to provide the blankets, do what I would: ask the townfolk of Oxcross. There’s no household that can’t part with some moth-eaten thing from a chest or loft. When all else fails, begging becomes a virtue.

You’ll find 400 saddles in the wagons. I’ve sent the only two trumpets I could dig up, packed in a crate with the next courier. The 2,000 spare spears you asked for are on the way, along with 200 tents and canvas pavilions. Only 1,500 men remain in the Rock after you asked for veterans. And that, father… is all.

That’s the lot.
I don’t know how I’ll wriggle out of the debts I’ve stacked to pay for it all, unless Lord Tywin grants me access to the Rocks vaults. If he doesn’t, I may show up at your camp myself, begging for a bite of the same jerky I just sent you.

Seven hells! Don’t ask for more, unless you’d like to hear I’ve hung myself from the rafters of the Rock just to escape another requisition.

Daven Lannister.”

“Fifteen hundred…” Robb repeated, his voice low.

“In a fortress that once housed ten times that,” I said.

Maege chuckled. “You’re mad, your grace.”

“Yes,” I smirked. “But I’m right. We can do this.”

Robb nodded. “It’s bold. If we get a team inside, open the gates... it could fall.”

Roose spoke at last, voice a breath of winter. “And if we cannot? The rock has never fallen to an army.”

“Then we fall back,” I said. “We burn what we can and go back to the Riverlands.”

Greatjon raised his cup. “Well. That’s a plan worth singing about.”

Tyrion took care of the upkeep of the sewers in the show. And I had found that this world seemed to be a mix of both the media I knew. And a bit of new things sprinkled in between.

That’s the secret. That’s the joke. The son his father hated was the only one who truly knew the bowels of Casterly Rock. Tywin gave him shit, literally, and Tyrion turned it into a way in, a way out, a goddamned blueprint for betrayal. He must’ve thought it clever, poetic even. The imp among the filth, laying roots like a rat.

In the show, Tyrion used the sewers to bring Daenerys’s Unsullied into the Rock like a knife in the ribs of the lion. I didn’t know that existed here, but if it did, then it was a knife to the Rocks' hearth.

The trick is always the same. Everyone defends the walls. But no one ever truly guards the shit tunnels. Tywin would never have imagined the Rock falling from below.

Along with men infiltrating the way I planned to get them in… it might be enough.

Some part of me still finds it funny. That all the legacy, all the gold, all the power of House Lannister might be undone by the lowest part of their castle if I can find that tunnel.

I might really see if the Lannisters shit gold.

When we take the Rock, and we will, I’ll owe Tyrion a drink. And I’ll leave a letter on his pillow, if he lives to return.

“Thanks for the tunnel,” I’ll write. “Your father should’ve let you build more.”

If I didn’t find that tunnel… well, I had other ideas that might work.

If not, it did not matter; we would get what I wanted anyway. I would not allow a thousand to die for the Rock. It would be mine by the end of the war, one way or the other, but I needed the men to fight the war.

If Tywin heard we were at the gates of the Rock, he would come, and I would get him out of Harrenhall and into the field, where I would finally kill him.

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I stepped through the back of a supply tent, where we’d rigged a side flap as a makeshift door. Inside, the lanternlight cast flickering gold on the armor pieces strewn across the floor, half-crushed Lannister helms, scratched breastplates, and yellow-and-crimson cloaks stained brown from mud and blood.

But many were intact. And that was what I wanted.

Renn the Hollow of the King's Swords was already waiting for me. Slouched on a camp stool, flicking a knife between his fingers as casually as a man flicks crumbs from his coat. His face was forgettable in that precise, unsettling way only born performers could master, his smile, his posture, his voice, all mutable. Renn could become anyone. That was his gift.

"Three and seventy," he said without preamble. “All Westerlands-born. Or close enough to lie about it. A few Riverland boys who grew up near Fairmarket, some mummers, two bastard sons of minor knights. I even found one fellow who used to squire at Kayce. Should pass muster, your grace.”

I nodded. "Good. How many can fake a limp? Or hold their ribs like they’ve taken a punch and still march a hundred miles?"

He tilted his head. “All of them. If they can’t act, they’re not going, your grace.”

I tossed him a rolled length of parchment, drawings of the Rock’s interior, what little I had. Combined from smuggled merchant sketches, stolen Lannister charts, and a cracked, water-damaged map I'd carried since Winterfell.

“Look into the sewers if you have the time,” I said, tapping the sketch. “There may be a tunnel out.”

“Charming,” Renn muttered, squinting at the sketch. “And you’re sure it exists, your grace?”

“I’m sure enough to stake your life on it,” I smirked.

He grinned. “Fair odds, I suppose.”

I crouched, pulling back the cloth that covered a crate of gear.

“You walk up to the gates of Casterly Rock like beggars,” I told him. “Half-starved, limping. You say your commander ordered a retreat through the forest. You say you’ve wandered for days. Maybe throw in that you saw direwolves, just to unsettle them or something like that.”

“And when they open the gate?” Renn asked.

“You’ll split. Infiltrate and take key positions; some head for the kitchens, some for the barracks, some for the tunnels. Play the nice Lannister soldier defending his homeland.”

“And then?”

“Then you open the gate. And we come through. When the time comes, you will receive a letter with the Wargs.”

He was silent for a long moment. Then he said, softly, “We’ll be dead if this fails.”

I didn’t disagree.

Instead, I said, “You open that gate, and you will have enough gold to build yourself a palace. You will be remembered for all eternity as the man who cracked open the Rock. If it fails… your families will want for nothing the rest of their lives, that I can promise without reservation.”

Renn looked up at me then, and I saw the choice harden in his eyes.

“We’ll open it, your grace,” he said.

I nodded and left him to brief his ghosts.

When I returned to my tent, I found my hands shaking.

I had watched this world from the outside once. In the dark, behind a screen. I had seen dragons soar and castles fall.

But that wasn’t fiction.

This is war.

And when we enter Casterly Rock, there won’t be any music. No cutaway. No clever edits or swelling violins.

Just stone. And steel. And screams in the dark.

If we fail, we die forgotten. But if we succeed, if we take the Rock…

Then the lion’s den becomes our throne room.

And no one, not even the gods, will forget the name of King Daemon Targaryen.

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I sat with my back against a log, half-listening, half-nursing a flask I hadn’t meant to open. The whiskey was strong and thick, and it warmed the ribs with something dangerously close to comfort.

“—and he tripped over his own damn sword trying to bow,” Robb was saying, gesturing wildly, flushed with drink and laughter. “Right there in front of the whole tent. Walder the Idiot, they called him after.”

Ah, shitting on the Freys… a time-honored tradition.

“Aye,” said Smalljon, his laughter like thunder. “He kisses the dirt more often than the ladies.”

Even Dacey chuckled at that. She leaned close to the fire, sharpening a long knife with slow, rhythmic strokes. “The man had two left feet and no brain between them... There are so many of them called Walder.”

“He asked me to duel, once,” Meera added, lounging on a saddle blanket right next to Robb, her chin resting in her palm. “I told him I’d sooner wrestle a toad. Better odds and less begging.”

Those two are getting closer, don’t do anything dumb, Robb.

The Karstarks sat as a unit, grim-faced but not joyless. Harrion nursed a cup, Eddard was chewing on something tough as bark, and Thorren actually cracked a smile, though only when Smalljon burped like a bear.

Meera tossed a pinecone into the flames and watched it spit sparks.

“We are really going after the Rock?” Asked Eddard.

“We’ll take the Rock,” Robb said, more quietly. Not a boast—an oath. “One way or another.”

“You sound certain,” said Harrion.

“I am.”

I caught Meera looking at me. So did Robb.

“He’s the one with the mad plan,” Robb added, nodding toward me. “Ask him.”

“Mad plans are the best kind,” Smalljon rumbled. “Less likely the enemy expects ‘em.”

“That’s not how it works—” Eddard began.

“It is if it works,” said Dacey, cutting him off with a grin.

I stretched my legs toward the fire, watching the flames catch in the dull metal of my greaves. “All it takes is one open gate,” I said. “A few ghosts in Lannister red.”

There was a pause.

Then Thorren said: “That’s either madness… or poetry.”

“Both,” said Meera. “Obviously.”

“His Grace is obviously being a dramatic arsehole…” Fuck you too, Robb.

That got a laugh out of everyone. I just took a sip and I coughed, then laughed.

“I could take your tongue for those comments,” I said.

We laughed.

Tomorrow, I’d wear armor again. Tomorrow, I’d send men to their deaths and break the legacy of five thousand years with a trick and a dagger.

But tonight, I sat with my friends, and we drank, and we joked.

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I stood beside Robb on the ridge overlooking the camp. Tents were being struck, fires doused, horses saddled.

Behind us, the map was staked into the dirt.

Sarsfield, Ashemark, and the Rock were inked in blood-red strokes.

I glanced toward the west road. The infiltrators had already left, disguised as survivors, battered Lannister men with Westerlands accents and false wounds. Renn the Hollow led them under the lion’s banner, a pack of ghosts in borrowed skin. If they reached the gates of the Rock in a few days, the plan would begin its slow, silent unfurling.

Seventy-three souls. Fewer than a hundred to crack a dynasty.

“Bolton marches first,” Robb said beside me. “Then Maege and the Glovers, then Umber. We'll make camp east of the Fair River in five days, then turn south. Let them hear hoofbeats on every hill.”

He looked at me for a long moment. “You’re certain this will work?”

“No.” I paused. “But it will work better than battering the gates of the Rock with ten thousand spears.”

Robb sighed. “I hate this part.”

“The waiting?”

“The walking.” He snorted. “I imagined war as battle and excitement, but we have spent most of the time marching.”

I clapped a hand on his shoulder. “It's good for your legs, brother.”

He gave me a thin smile. “Don’t suppose you have another of those Northern Fire barrels to share with my men?”

“Your men are getting fat and drunk.”

He snorted and got on his horse.

Once again, we marched.

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AN: I am on a four-day holiday right now, until Tuesday, so you will get two chapters next week!