Dragon Hidden in the Wolf's Shadow - Chapter - 90

The morning mist clung to the Red Fork River, shrouding the land in a ghostly haze. Lord Robb Stark and his vanguard stood at the edge of the forest, their eyes fixed on the Golden Tooth—a fortress nestled between two towering mountains, guarding the only safe passage into the Westerlands. The fortress's golden-hued walls glinted faintly in the sunlight, a stark reminder of Westerlands wealth and power.

The position of the Golden Tooth made it almost impregnable. Any army attempting to pass through the narrow valley would be spotted long before they could approach. Its location served as both a choke point and a death trap, ensuring that no force could enter the Westerlands unnoticed.

Robb turned to his commanders, his brow furrowed in thought. “The Golden Tooth stands between us and our goal. If we move directly toward it, they’ll see us coming and alert Tywin Lannister before we’ve even begun.”

Lord Howland Reed, nodded grimly. “The walls are high, the defenses strong. A direct assault would be suicide. We’ll need another way.”

For days, Robb’s army camped in the woods, carefully staying out of sight of the fortress’s vantage points. Scouts were sent to explore the surrounding terrain, searching for any weaknesses or hidden paths.

One evening, as the campfires burned low, Robb’s direwolf, Grey Wind, padded into the camp. His fur was matted with dirt, and he carried the scent of the mountains. At his heels was a scout, a wiry man named Grover, who knelt before Robb.

“My lord,” Grover began, his voice steady, “I believe I’ve found something. There’s a trail—narrow and hidden—that winds through the mountains. It’s treacherous, but it leads past the Golden Tooth without coming into its line of sight.”

Robb’s eyes lit up. “You’re certain?”

Grover nodded. “Grey Wind found it first, my lord. He led me to it. The trail is steep and dangerous, but it’s passable. If we’re careful, we can move the army through without being seen.”

Robb called a council of his commanders to discuss the discovery. The map of the area was spread out before them, with the Golden Tooth marked prominently between the mountains.

“This trail is our only chance to bypass the fortress,” Robb said, tracing the route Grover had described. “If we can get through without being detected, we’ll be deep in Lannister territory before they even realize we’re here.”

Lord Reed frowned. “It’s risky, Robb. If the trail is as narrow as Grover says, it’ll slow us down. If we’re caught in the middle of the pass, we’ll be sitting ducks.”

Robb nodded. “I understand the risk, Lord Reed. But the alternative is a direct assault on the Golden Tooth, and we don’t have the numbers or siege equipment for that. This trail is our best option.”

Torfin the freefolk grinned, his teeth flashing in the firelight. “A little danger never stopped me before. Let’s take this secret path and show the lions what real wolves can do.”

The next morning, the army began its cautious trek up the hidden trail. Grover and Grey Wind led the way, the scout’s sharp eyes and the direwolf’s keen senses ensuring the path was clear.

The trail was as treacherous as Grover had warned. Narrow ledges hugged the mountainside, with sheer drops on one side and jagged rock walls on the other. The soldiers moved in single file, their armor clinking softly in the still air.

Robb rode near the front, his eyes scanning the horizon. “Stay sharp,” he murmured to his bannermen. “If the Lannisters have scouts in these mountains, we’ll need to deal with them quickly.”

The soldiers pressed on, their movements careful and deliberate. Despite the danger, morale remained high. The discovery of the trail had given them hope, and they knew that every step brought them closer to their goal.

After twelve grueling days, the army emerged from the mountains, their path taking them far beyond the Golden Tooth’s line of sight. They stood on a ridge overlooking the Westerlands, the golden fields and rolling hills stretching out before them.

Robb allowed himself a rare smile. “We did it,” he said, turning to Howland. “We’re in Lannister territory, and they don’t even know it.”

Howland Reed clapped him on the shoulder. “Now the real work begins. Let’s make them regret ever crossing the Starks.”

The army descended from the mountains, their spirits high. They moved swiftly and silently, avoiding major roads and settlements to maintain the element of surprise. Their destination was deep into Lannister lands, where they could strike at the heart of Tywin’s power.

The shadow of the Golden Tooth was behind them, but the battle for the Westerlands was just beginning.

After the grueling journey through the treacherous mountain trail, Robb Stark allowed his men a much-needed respite. The soldiers pitched their tents in a secluded valley, the lush greenery and bubbling streams providing a stark contrast to the harsh terrain they had just traversed. Fires crackled as the men rested, tended to their wounds, and prepared their weapons for the campaign ahead.

Robb himself sat at the center of the camp, surrounded by his trusted commanders. The rest was well-earned, but he knew their mission was far from over.

“We’ll give the men two days,” Robb said, his voice firm. “They need to recover their strength, but we can’t afford to linger. Tywin Lannister will catch wind of us eventually.”

Howland Reed nodded. “Agreed. But we should use this time wisely. Scouts can gather information about the area, and we can make sure no messages reach the Lannisters.”

Robb turned to his scout leader. “Send out your best men. I want every road watched, every raven intercepted. If the Lannisters don’t know where we are, we’ll keep it that way.”

Over the next two days, scouts fanned out across the surrounding area. They moved silently, their keen eyes scanning the skies for ravens and their ears attuned to the slightest sound of movement.

Late in the afternoon of the second day, one of the scouts returned to camp, clutching a captured raven. A small scroll was tied to the bird’s leg.

The scout approached Robb with urgency. “My lord, we intercepted this raven. It was heading west, likely to Kingslanding.”

Robb took the scroll, his fingers steady as he untied it. The seal bore the mark of House Lannister, and the handwriting was elegant yet hurried. The contents made Robb’s brow furrow.

“It’s a letter to Tywin Lannister from his cousin, Ser Saffron Lannister,” Robb said, his voice steady but cold. “It says they’ve recruited and trained a fresh batch of soldiers—ten thousand strong. They’re preparing to send them to the battlefield.”

The Marsh Lord leaned over Robb’s shoulder, reading the letter. His expression darkened. “Ten thousand fresh recruits,” he muttered. “If they reach Tywin’s forces, it’ll be a serious problem. Fresh soldiers, even inexperienced ones, can tip the balance of a prolonged campaign.”

Robb nodded. “Especially if they’re given time to gain battlefield experience. If we let them join Tywin’s army, they’ll bolster his strength and make it that much harder to defeat him.”

Torfin, who had been listening quietly, grinned. “Then we don’t let them join. Ten thousand green boys won’t stand a chance against seasoned warriors like us. Let’s hit them before they even know what’s happening.”

Robb spread the map of the Westerlands on the table before them, his eyes scanning the terrain. “If Ser Saffron is training new soldiers, they’ll need a camp large enough to hold them. It’ll likely be near a reliable water source and close to a supply route.”

Howland pointed to a location near the southern edge of the Sarsfield. “Here. There’s a fort near the village of Highstream. It’s large enough to serve as a training ground, and it’s close to Casterly Rock’s supply lines.”

Robb tapped the map thoughtfully. “If that’s their location, we need to strike hard and fast. A direct assault could scare them into scattering, but we’ll need to ensure none of them escape to warn Tywin.”

Torfin slammed his fist on the table. “Surround them. Block every road, every path. If they try to run, we’ll cut them down like cattle.”

The camp buzzed with activity as Robb’s forces prepared to march. Scouts were sent ahead to confirm the location of Ser Saffron’s camp, while Robb’s commanders organized their men into strike teams.

Robb addressed his soldiers, his voice carrying across the valley. “We face a force of ten thousand recruits. They’re green, untested, and unprepared. But don’t underestimate them. They’ll fight hard if cornered. Our goal is simple: strike swiftly, cut off their escape, and end this threat before it can reach Tywin’s army.”

The soldiers cheered, their morale high after their successful journey through the mountains. They knew they were on the offensive, striking at the heart of Lannister power.

As the army marched, Robb’s scouts returned with confirmation of Ser Saffron’s location. The recruits were indeed camped near Highstream, their tents spread across the fields like a makeshift town. The camp was well-organized but lacked the defenses of a seasoned army.

Robb Stark and Howland Reed sat across from one another in the dim light of the command tent. Between them lay a detailed map of the Westerlands, marked with the location of the Lannister training camp near Highstream. The two commanders had spent hours discussing strategies, but the options before them seemed bleak.

“We only have 15,000 soldiers,” Howland began, his voice calm but firm. “If we engage the Lannister recruits in open battle, we’ll likely win. But the cost will be too high. Losing more than half our men before we reach Casterly Rock is a price we can’t afford.”

Robb leaned back in his chair, his expression troubled. “So, what do you propose, Howland? You’re suggesting we use poison. That’s not the Northern way.”

Howland’s sharp eyes met Robb’s. “War isn’t about honor, Robb. It’s about survival. If we fight them head-on, even if we win, we’ll be too weak to continue our campaign. Poison is efficient. It will cripple their army without risking the lives of our men.”

Robb’s jaw tightened, his inner conflict evident. “And what happens to our reputation, Howland? What will people say about the North if they hear we used poison against our enemies?”

Howland sighed, his tone softening. “They’ll say we were smart. They’ll say we were decisive. The history books won’t remember the methods, Robb. They’ll remember the victory.”

The room fell silent as Robb stared at the map, his thoughts racing. He had been raised on stories of honor and justice, of noble warriors who faced their enemies head-on. But those stories didn’t account for the brutal realities of war.

“It feels wrong,” Robb said finally, his voice low. “To kill them like this, without giving them a chance to fight back.”

Howland leaned forward, his gaze intense. “And what will feel worse, Robb? Watching thousands of your men die in a battle we don’t need to fight? Or ensuring the survival of the North and the Riverlands? Sometimes, the harder choice is the right one.”

Robb closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. “Fine. Do it. But I don’t want to know the details. Just... make it quick and quiet.”

Howland wasted no time. He gathered a small group of Riverlands soldiers, men who could mimic the accents of the Westerlands with ease. They dressed in stolen Lannister armor and carried forged documents identifying them as suppliers for the training camp.

“You’ll pose as merchants bringing fresh provisions upon Lord Tywin's orders,” Howland instructed them. “The Lannister camp won’t question you. Once inside, you’ll poison the food supplies. Use enough to weaken them, not kill outright. We want them sick, not dead.”

The men nodded, their expressions resolute. They knew the risks but understood the importance of their mission.

The wagons approached the Lannister camp at dusk, their wheels creaking softly against the dirt road. A pair of sentries stood at the gate, their swords at their hips and their expressions relaxed.

One of the guards stepped forward, his hand raised. “Halt. Who are you lot?”

The leader of the group, Alric, didn’t hesitate. “Supplies from the Crownlands,” he said, his tone casual but confident. “Lord Tywin's orders.”

The guard glanced at the wagons, then back at Alric. “Through the Golden Tooth?”

Alric nodded. “Aye. Came straight through this morning. You think they’d let us through if we weren’t meant to be here?”

The guard chuckled and waved them in. “Fair point. Golden Tooth doesn’t let anyone through without a good reason. Take it to the quartermaster.”

The group passed through the gates, their nerves hidden beneath practiced indifference.

The men guided their wagons into the camp, their hearts pounding as they passed rows of tents and young recruits practicing drills. The camp was bustling with activity, the air filled with the clanging of swords and the laughter of soldiers unwinding after a day’s training.

Once at the supply depot, the Riverlands soldiers began unloading the wagons. They worked quickly and efficiently, their movements rehearsed to avoid suspicion.

As they distributed the supplies, they slipped small vials of poison into the barrels of ale and sacks of grain. The poison, provided by Howland, was designed to cause severe illness rather than death.

One of the soldiers, a wiry man named Corvin, glanced nervously at Alric. “Are we sure this will work?” he whispered.

Alric nodded, his voice calm. “It’ll work. Just keep moving and don’t look suspicious.”

Within an hour, the job was done. The men left the camp, their wagons empty and their mission complete.

The next morning, chaos erupted in the Lannister camp. Soldiers fell ill by the dozens, clutching their stomachs and vomiting uncontrollably. The training ground, once filled with the sounds of drills and commands, was now a scene of disarray.

Lord Saffron Lannister stormed through the camp, his face red with fury. “What is happening here?” he bellowed.

The quartermaster approached, his expression panicked. “It’s the food, my lord. Something’s poisoned it.”

Saffron cursed, his fists clenching. “Who’s responsible for this?”

No answers came, and the camp descended further into chaos. The recruits, weakened and demoralized, were in no condition to march or fight.