The field stretched for miles, a wasteland of mud, steel, and blood. Dawn light crept across the horizon, grey and thin, showing the dead where they lay. Ravens circled overhead, their cries cutting through the silence left behind by battle.
Tywin Lannister rode at a slow pace through what remained of the northern host. His horse's hooves sank into the sodden ground with each step. Around him, the field smoked, black trails rising from burnt wagons. The smell of death was everywhere: blood, charred flesh, and the sharp tang of iron.
Lannister soldiers moved among the corpses in silence, their boots squelching in the mud. Some checked for survivors, others stripped the fallen of weapons and armour. A few groaned from the ground. wounded men clutching at their bellies, legs, or throats. Each time, a soldier leaned down and silenced the enemy wounded with a swift blade. No one gave orders; they knew what was expected.
The wind shifted, carrying the low moan of the dying across the plain. Tywin didn't react. He had long since grown used to such sounds.
He passed a broken banner half-buried in the dirt, a grey direwolf, torn nearly in two. Its pole was snapped, its edge scorched. Further on, a trampled falcon lay beside a crushed helm. The blood of the North, the Vale, and the Riverlands mingled together here, indistinguishable from one another.
He rode in silence, his eyes cold and steady, watching his soldiers carry out their work. Every man moved with precision. No celebration, no laughter. Only the quiet order of victory.
A knight rode up beside him, helmet under his arm, breastplate dark with soot. "My lord," he said. "We've cleared the western ridge. No more resistance."
Tywin gave a single nod.
The knight hesitated. "A few still live."
"Not for long," Tywin said.
The knight turned his horse and rode off to relay the order.
Tywin continued forward.
The ground was thick with corpses, horses sprawled with arrows jutting from their flanks, men lying half-buried in mud, faces twisted in pain or frozen mid-scream. Armour had been split and blackened. Shields lay cracked open like fruit. The air still shimmered faintly from the heat of fires that had burned through the night.
He remembered the shape of the battle clearly. The northern host had turned to face him on the Kingsroad, their lines stretched thin and uneven. He had let them. The boy leading them had been brave, but bravery had its cost. When the Lannister vanguard hit their centre, the formation shattered before the second charge. The Vale knights fell next, their discipline crumbling as the Riverlanders broke beside them. By midday, it had been done.
None of the men had been prepared.
Demoralised from the chaotic battle outside of Kings Landing, exhausted after a night of travelling and not properly armoured from a nights celebration before everything went wrong, it had been easy work for the properly armoured Lannister army, even if they too had been tired. Especially with the advantage of the hill.
Tywin had given the order to encircle the survivors. No quarter. No mercy. The North would learn the price of defiance.
Now, in the pale light of morning, the lesson was written clearly across the land.
He guided his horse past a group of soldiers kneeling by a pile of bodies. They had stripped them of weapons and were dragging the corpses into a mound for burning. One man struck a flint and lit a torch. The flames caught quickly, spreading across the heap with a dry hiss. The smell grew stronger, heavier, until even the wind could not carry it away.
Tywin didn't slow.
Ahead, a group of Lannister soldiers emerged from the smoke, escorting several prisoners. Their wrists were bound, their armour torn, faces streaked with mud and blood. Some walked with limps, others barely moved at all. They were a mixture of northerners, a few Riverland knights, and one or two from the Vale.
The lead soldier bowed low as Tywin approached. "My lord. Prisoners from the enemy host. Lords, by their speech."
Tywin looked down at them. They didn't meet his gaze.
"Benjen Stark?"
"Not yet, my lord. No sign of Lord Stark."
Tywin was silent for a moment. "Take them back to the city. The King's peace will judge them."
The soldier nodded and barked orders. The prisoners were pulled to their feet and led away. The youngest among them stumbled and fell. No one stopped to help him.
Tywin turned his horse slightly and looked back across the plain. The sun was higher now, catching on pools of water that glimmered between the bodies. The crows had begun to land, settling among the fallen, pecking freely.
A gust of wind stirred the banners. The crimson and gold of Lannister lions stood tall amidst the ruin, clean, unbloodied, proud. They fluttered against a sky that was already beginning to darken with the smoke of pyres.
Kevan Lannister rode up behind him, armour shining faintly in the light. "My lord," he said, lowering his head in respect.
"Report."
"The field's ours," Kevan said. "The enemy's dead or fled. Our scouts say what's left of their strength is running north along the Kingsroad. We've sent riders to pursue."
"How far?"
"They won't get far," Kevan said. "Most are wounded or without mounts."
Tywin nodded. "Good."
He studied the horizon for a moment, the low hills to the north, the black smoke rising from the last of the fires. "Dispatch the cavalry."
Kevan frowned. "To pursue, my lord?"
"No." Tywin's tone was calm, steady. "Riverrun."
Kevan blinked, surprised but not questioning.
Tywin's gaze didn't leave the horizon. "Take the crossings. Secure the river. The Lady Catelyn is there with her son. Bring them to me."
Kevan hesitated. "The child, my lord?"
Tywin's eyes shifted to him briefly. "Alive. He'll serve better that way."
Kevan gave a short nod and turned to give the order.
Tywin watched him go, the wind tugging at his cloak. The sound of crackling fire filled the silence. Another pyre had been lit nearby, the flames spreading fast through the piled bodies. The air shimmered from the heat.
A group of soldiers passed, carrying torches and oil. They began dousing the wreckage of carts and tents, setting more fires as they moved. The flames grew higher, painting the sky orange and black. Ash drifted like snow over the field.
Tywin's horse shifted beneath him, uneasy with the smell. He steadied it with a light hand.
-X-
The wind carried the smell of smoke. It had followed them since dawn, faint, bitter, impossible to ignore. Even this far north, the air still carried the scent of burnt flesh and wet earth. The field they'd left behind was only a smear on the horizon now, but the memory of it clung to everything: the road, the armour, the men.
Benjen Stark rode slowly, his horse limping beneath him. Blood had dried dark on his sleeve where a cut ran from elbow to wrist. Every movement sent a dull ache through his ribs where a blow from a mace had found him. He ignored it. The pain was a reminder that he was still alive, and that too many others weren't.
Ahead, the survivors of his host trudged northward. What had once been an army was now a column of ghosts, tired men marching in silence, their faces grey with soot. Their boots dragged through the dirt. Banners hung limp in the cold wind, the sigils stained with blood and ash.
They'd been five thousand strong when they turned to face the Lannisters. Fewer than half that number remained.
Benjen shifted in his saddle and looked over them. The sight filled him with a hollowness words couldn't touch. They were all that was left of the North's strength in the south, men who had followed him out of loyalty to a name, not because he'd earned it. They still did, but he could feel their silence weighing on him. The looks they gave when they thought he wasn't watching. The whispers carried through the night when they thought he was asleep.
He'd heard the words.Fool's war. The boy's pride. A Stark's temper and none of his father's sense.
They weren't wrong.
The plan had been madness from the start. Their men were tired, ill-fed, and scattered. He'd forced them to turn and fight anyway, not because it was wise, but because it was all he could think to do. His brother had been murdered, his house disgraced, and vengeance had been the only thing left that made sense. He'd wanted to make the Lannisters bleed, to show them that the North would not crawl away.
Instead, he'd led his men to ruin.
He glanced over his shoulder. The south was a smear of dark smoke and low cloud. Somewhere beneath it lay the battlefield, a wasteland of corpses and crows. He'd left good men there. Men who had trusted him.
The guilt pressed on him like a weight he couldn't shift.
A group of mounted soldiers rode past, men of House Reed and House Glover, their armour dented, their cloaks ragged. They nodded to him as they passed. It wasn't respect; it was habit. They still called him "my lord," still bowed their heads, but there was no faith left in the gesture.
The Riverlanders had already begun to leave. What few remained were stragglers, their lords captured or dead. The Vale men were no better, some had fled toward the mountains, others south to beg mercy from Robert's army. The rest trudged along in silence, bound to the column only by fear.
Benjen turned his eyes forward again. The Kingsroad stretched ahead, long and empty. Every step took them closer to home and further from honour.
He thought of his family, of what home even meant now. His father burned, his brothers gone, his sister in the south. All that remained of House Stark was himself, a boy of fifteen trying to wear the face of a man.
The thought made his chest tighten.
He'd grown up watching his brothers lead men. Brandon had been fearless; Ned had been steady. Even when war came, they'd seemed certain, as if leadership were something bred into them. He'd thought he'd be the same when his time came. But now, sitting atop a limping horse with his people broken and his cause lost, he realised how foolish that had been.
He wasn't Brandon. He wasn't Ned. He wasn't their father. He was the last son of Rickard Stark, and he didn't know what to do.
The sound of hooves drew his attention. Galbart Glover rode up beside him, his beard streaked with dried blood. "The men are making camp a few miles ahead," he said. "There's a stream for water and ground high enough to see both ways."
Benjen nodded. "Good."
Glover hesitated before speaking again. "We lost more during the night. Leives, mostly. They slipped away before dawn."
Benjen's jaw tightened. "Let them go."
"They'll be hunted on the road," Glover said quietly.
Benjen said nothing.
The man studied him for a moment longer, then gave a small nod and rode ahead.
When he was gone, Benjen exhaled slowly. He knew the truth, the levies had no reason to stay. Their lords were gone, their homes far behind them. They had followed for duty, not belief, and duty had died on the battlefield.
Only the knights and men-at-arms remained now, those who had seen too much to turn back.
The road climbed gently, and from the crest he could see the land stretching northward. Forests and marshes began to break the flat plains. Beyond that, in the far distance, lay the faint outline of mist-shrouded hills. The North.
"Home." He whispered the word to himself. It didn't feel real.
The horse stumbled, nearly losing its footing. Benjen steadied it, wincing as pain flared through his ribs. He adjusted his grip on the reins, breathing through the ache. He could still feel where the Lannister mace had struck him, a deep, dull pain that pulsed with each heartbeat.
He could still hear the sounds of the battle too. The thunder of hooves. The clash of metal. The screams when the lines broke. He'd shouted himself hoarse trying to rally them, but no one had listened. They'd fought bravely and died quickly, swallowed by the red tide.
He forced the memory away. Thinking of it did no good.
The column slowed as they reached a patch of higher ground. Benjen rode to the front, where a few of the remaining lords were gathered, Galbart Glover again, Lord Reed, and a handful of others who still clung to the Stark banners. They looked to him, waiting.
Benjen studied their faces. They were older, more experienced, but none of them would speak first. That, at least, was something his blood still commanded, silence until the Stark spoke.
He said, "We can't face them again."
No one argued.
"They'll follow," Reed said. "Tywin Lannister won't leave wars half-finished."
Benjen nodded. "Then we don't let him finish it."
Reed frowned slightly. "What do you mean?"
"We ride for Moat Cailin," Benjen said. "The Neck will hold them. It always has."
There was a murmur of agreement, quiet and uncertain.
Glover leaned forward in his saddle. "And what then, my lord? What happens when the Lannisters reach the Neck?"
Benjen looked north. "Then we remind them where the North begins."
The words sounded stronger than he felt. Inside, he was hollow. He knew how weak they were, how few men they had left, how little food, how tired the horses were. They couldn't win another battle. But they could survive one more.
He turned his horse slightly, glancing south. The sky there was still streaked with smoke. "We'll make our stand at Moat Cailin," he said. "But first… I have to go to Riverrun."
The men exchanged uneasy glances. Reed spoke carefully. "Riverrun, my lord?"
"My nephew's there," Benjen said. "The heir of Winterfell. The North won't stand without him."
-X-
Rain fell heavy over Riverrun, soaking the banners that hung limp from its towers. The rivers below ran high and dark, swollen from days of storm. Smoke still clung to the horizon to the south, a dull grey smear that carried the scent of fire and death.
Benjen Stark rode through the gates with his cloak plastered to his shoulders and his horse limping beneath him. The guards recognized him and stepped aside without a word. There was no need to ask questions. Everyone in the castle had already heard what had happened at the Trident and at King's Landing.
A servant led him through the keep, his boots leaving wet prints on the stone floor. The air was thick with the smell of wax and damp, and the echo of his steps filled the long, empty halls. When they reached the great hall, Lord Hoster Tully was waiting beside the hearth.
Hoster looked older than Benjen remembered, heavier around the shoulders, slower in his movements, his eyes dark with fatigue. He had a heavy cloak draped over his shoulders and one hand resting against the table for balance.
"Benjen Stark," Hoster said quietly as the doors shut behind him. "You've come from the south."
"I have," Benjen said.
"There's talk the war's ended," Hoster continued. "Robert Baratheon has taken the throne. Is it true?"
Benjen's voice was steady but cold. "True enough. The fighting's over, but there's no peace. Tywin Lannister marches with ten thousand men of the Westerlands at his back."
Hoster's jaw tightened. "And you came here, of all places?"
"I came for Robb," Benjen said.
Hoster's eyes narrowed. "My grandson?"
Benjen nodded once. "He's the heir of Winterfell now. I'm taking him north before the Lannisters reach the Riverlands."
Hoster's gaze lingered on him for a long moment. "And my daughter?"
"She stays," Benjen said simply. "She's only just given birth. She can't travel, not at the pace we need. If you declare for Robert after we leave, Riverrun will be safe. Tywin won't strike at an ally of the crown, not openly."
Hoster's mouth thinned. "You sound certain."
Benjen met his gaze. "I've seen what happens when men aren't."
A silence passed between them. The rain outside had become harder now, the sound filling the hall like distant thunder. Finally, Hoster gave a small nod and gestured for him to follow. "Come. You should see them."
-X-
The study was dim and warm, lit by a single fire and a few half-burnt candles. The air was thick with the smell of smoke and rain leaking faintly through the shutters.
Catelyn sat by the hearth, pale and worn, her red hair falling loose about her shoulders. She held the infant close, wrapped in cloth, rocking him slowly as he squirmed and fussed. She didn't look up until the door opened.
A man stood near the wall, tall, a size comparable to the mountain, broad-shouldered.
He straightened as Benjen entered. "My lord," Walder said, his deep voice steady and respectful.
Benjen gave a single nod, relief in his voice at seeing a familiar face. "Walder."
Catelyn glanced up, her tone careful. "You've ridden far, my lord Stark."
"I have," Benjen said, turning to her. "And I've no time to rest. The Lannisters are coming."
Her brow creased. "Coming here?"
"They've taken the south," Benjen said. "The Riverlands are next. Tywin means to break anything that doesn't bend."
Hoster's voice came from behind him. "He's come to take the boy north."
Catelyn stiffened. "Take him?"
Benjen stepped closer to the fire, his voice calm. "Robb is the heir of Winterfell. He can't stay here. If the Lannisters come, they'll use him. And if they use him, the North falls with him."
Her arms tightened around the baby. "He's safe here."
"Now," Benjen said. "But not for long."
"I'll go with him," she said quickly. "If you mean to take him, you'll take me as well."
Benjen shook his head. "You can't travel. You've just given birth. We'll have to ride fast and light, through country already burned. You wouldn't survive it."
Her voice hardened. "And you'd risk my son's life on the same road?"
"I'd risk it to keep him out of Tywin's hands," Benjen said.
Catelyn's lips trembled, but she held his gaze. "You've no right."
"I've duty," Benjen said. "And no time to argue it."
Hoster took a slow step forward, his voice low. "Catelyn."
She turned to him sharply. "Father, you can't—"
He didn't let her finish. "If the boy lives, our blood lives. The rest we can mourn later."
Her eyes filled with disbelief. "You'd give him away like he's nothing?"
"I'd keep him alive," Hoster said, voice firm. "And that's more than most fathers can promise now."
Benjen moved closer. "I'll see he reaches the North safely. You have my word, my lord."
Hoster nodded. "Then go."
Catelyn's voice shook as she said, "You'll take my child and leave me here? Alone?"
Benjen's answer was quiet. "He needs to live. You'll be safe here if your father swears for Robert."
Her breath came short, almost a sob. "You don't understand."
"I understand well enough," Benjen said.
He looked to Walder. "Get ready. We leave before nightfall."
Walder bowed his head. "Aye, my lord."
Catelyn stood, clutching the child tighter as Walder moved to obey. "You can't," she said, her voice rising, cracking under strain. "You can't take him from me."
Benjen's eyes softened for a moment, only a moment. "I must."
He reached forward. Catelyn stepped back, shaking her head, but exhaustion betrayed her. Her arms weakened, and the baby stirred restlessly in her grip. Benjen took him gently but firmly. The child whimpered, a small, frightened sound that filled the room like a bell.
Catelyn stared at them both, her breath breaking, Hoster holding her back when she went for Robb.
Benjen adjusted the cloak around the infant and nodded to Walder, who took the child carefully in his massive arms.
Catelyn's voice came out raw. "Please. He's my baby."
Benjen didn't look at her. "He's my blood."
Then he turned and walked for the door. Walder followed without a word, the baby crying softly in his arms.
Catelyn stood motionless by the fire, her hands trembling as if she could still feel the weight of her son there. Hoster stepped to her side but didn't speak. Outside, the rain grew heavier, drowning the sound of her quiet sobs.