Chapter Text
2nd Month of 298AC
Robb stark
In the shadow of Moat Cailin, the host assembled, a force of 20,000 Northmen ready to march south and confront the might of Lord Tywin Lannister in the Riverlands. Their leader, his fingers tracing the path of the Tumblestone on the map before him, weighed his options as his lords argued the merits of engaging Tywin or his son, Jaime.
A hush fell over the gathering as he declared, "Enough, my lords. I have made my decision." The weight of his words was not lost on those present. The eyes of his bannermen were upon him—Glovers, Mormonts, Hornwoods, Karstarks, Cerwyns, Manderlys, Flints, Ryswells, and more. Among them, the cold and calculating Roose Bolton, a man he trusted little.
"We shall cross the Tumblestone here," he announced, pointing to the map. "And we shall meet Lord Tywin in open battle. The old lion is absent, and lions without their leader are mere cats that can be scattered. The remaining Lannister forces lack the prowess and reputation that Lord Tywin commands."
" It would not be easy to take down the old lion " , said Bolton in soft voice.
He nodded his head
" aye it would not be easy but who said what we are facing south would be easy " he replied "uncle brynden " He spoke
his uncle looked at him expectantly then he said
"You are to take 500 riders and rally what ever forces Riverlands has left and keep kingslayer pinned "
His uncle nodded his head and said, " very well robb. But if you defeat Tywin, Lannister's can still retreat back to wester lands "
" That is the plan uncle" he said "With tywin gone kings landing is ripe for picking. While Riverlands's forces keep kingslayer pinned in wester lands, Northern army can march and take the city and if he decides to march to kings landing then he leaves westerlands ripe for looting "
Most of his lords looked excited at the latter prospect. Both grey wind and ghost growled beside him.
His uncle had a calculating expression on his face. Then nodded and said that " this could work "
( battle of the hills )
Robb Stark stood atop the rolling hill, the cold morning wind whipping his cloak as he surveyed the battlefield below. Grey Wind and Ghost prowled restlessly at his sides, their breath misting in the dawn air. The Lannister host stretched before them, crimson banners snapping in the wind, golden lions gleaming in the early light.
"They're forming up exactly as you predicted, my lord," Dacey Mormont observed, her voice steady despite the tension in the air. "Tywin's putting his heavy horse on the flanks."
"Pride," Robb said softly, a ghost of a smile playing at his lips. "The Old Lion thinks his better-equipped cavalry can match our numbers. He's forgotten that the North remembers more than just grievances - we remember how to fight."
The Greatjon let out a rumbling laugh. "Aye, the Lannisters may shit gold, but gold plate won't save them from Northern steel!"
Below, the massive Lannister host of 30,000 men assembled in their battle formations. Their center bristled with spears and pikes, while their flanks gleamed with the armor of four thousand mounted knights and men-at-arms.
Robb turned to his commanders. "Remember the plan. Lord Glover, you'll hold the center with the pike formations. Bend, but do not break. Make them commit their reserves."
"They'll not break us, my lord," Glover assured him, his hand gripping his sword hilt.
"Lord Karstark, you'll command the right cavalry wing. Greatjon, the left is yours. When you see their horse engage, that's your moment. Don't let their armor intimidate you - Northern riders are worth twice their number in Westermen."
The horns sounded across the valley, their deep notes echoing off the hills. Robb drew his sword, and the steel sang in the morning air.
"My lords!" he called out, his voice carrying across the assembled commanders. "Today we show the realm why the North is not to be trifled with. Today we remind them that winter is coming - and it comes for House Lannister!"
A roar went up from the Northern lords, and they rode to their positions. Robb watched as his carefully planned crescent formation took shape - pike blocks in the center, with cavalry wings protected by spearmen on the rising ground of the hills.
The battle began with a thunderous charge from the Lannister center. Tywin committed his forces hard against the Northern line, believing his superior numbers would quickly overwhelm Robb's infantry. The sound was deafening - the crash of steel on steel, the screams of men and horses, the battle cries of thousands.
"Hold!" Robb shouted as he saw his line beginning to curve inward. "Hold the formation!"
On the flanks, the superior Northern cavalry began to make their presence felt. The Greatjon's booming voice could be heard even over the din of battle: "Forward! Show these golden shits how real men fight!"
The Northern cavalry smashed into their Lannister counterparts. Though the Westermen were better armored, they couldn't match the skill and ferocity of the Northern riders. Robb watched as the Karstark cavalry executed a perfect wheeling maneuver, taking the Lannister horse in the flank.
"Now!" Robb roared. "Drive them back!"
The Lannister cavalry began to crumble. Tywin, seeing his flanks dissolving, committed his reserves to the center - exactly as Robb had predicted. But instead of breaking, the Northern line held firm, reinforced by the troops Robb had held in reserve.
"They're clogging their own center," Dacey observed with grim satisfaction.
"And now they're trapped," Robb replied. He raised his sword. "Personal guard, with me! It's time to end this!"
With Grey Wind and Ghost leading the charge, Robb led his mounted guard into the Lannister rear. The direwolves were terrifying to behold - Grey Wind's jaws crushing armor like parchment, Ghost moving silent and deadly through the chaos, both wolves leaving trails of broken men in their wake.
Robb himself was a whirlwind of steel, his sword rising and falling in deadly arcs. A knight of House Crakehall charged him, the boar on his breastplate gleaming - Robb met his charge head-on, his blade finding the gap between gorget and pauldron.
Through the press of battle, he caught sight of Tywin Lannister himself, the Old Lion's golden armor splashed with mud and blood. Their eyes met across the chaos, and then they were riding toward each other.
"Tywin!" Robb called out as their swords met with a clash of steel. "Your army is broken! Yield!"
"The Lion does not yield to wolves," Tywin snarled back, his blade whistling through the air.
They exchanged a furious series of blows, but Robb was young and fresh, while Tywin had been fighting for hours. The Old Lion's strikes became slower, his parries less sure. Finally, Robb's blade found its mark, sliding through a gap in Tywin's armor. The Lord of Casterly Rock fell from his horse, his golden armor now stained crimson.
The battle turned to a rout. The Lannister host broke apart, thousands fleeing into the countryside. Among the dead lay the Mountain, Gregor Clegane himself, a lance protruding from his massive throat. Amory Lorch was found with an axe buried in his skull, his body trampled in the retreat.
As the sun set on the battlefield, Robb stood with his commanders, surveying the aftermath. They had lost 6,500 brave Northmen, but had virtually destroyed Tywin's army, killing 14,000 and scattering thousands more.
"What now, Your Grace?" asked Ser Brynden Tully, who had arrived to witness the battle's end.
Robb gazed south, toward King's Landing. "Now, uncle, we show them that the North remembers. And winter is coming for them all."
The remaining Lannister forces split - 8,000 under the Imp rode to reinforce Jaime, while 7,000 fled to King's Landing, leaving a token force at Harrenhal. But they all knew the truth - with Tywin dead and his army broken, the war had entered a new phase. And the Young Wolf's legend had only begun to grow.