[The Westerlands, 5th Moon, 299AC]
Dorren woke from his sleep, looking around him with eyes half lidded.
Shadow stood at the edge of the camp, black fur nearly lost in the dark, blue eyes fixed westward toward the broken hills.
As best a he could tell, there hadn't been any intruders, messengers, or disturbances in general, yet there he was, looking into the distance.
Dorren pushed himself up on one elbow and stared after him.
"You see something, boy?"
Shadow did not move.
That was answer enough.
Around him the forward camp slept uneasily. They were not far ahead of the main host, perhaps three miles, maybe four. A screen of Winter Guard outriders had spread through the lower ridges, joined by Stark household scouts and a handful of Mormont riders who had more patience than their lord. Robb slept near the remains of a small fire, Grey Wind stretched beside him like a grey shadow with teeth. Jon sat awake with his back against a tree, Ghost lying at his feet, red eyes open. Rickard Stark had fallen asleep with one hand resting on Winter's neck.
None of the wolves slept.
That bothered Dorren.
It had been happening more often.
He rose and reached for his sword belt. Jon looked over before he had it buckled.
"Shadow?"
"Aye."
"Ghost has been watching the same ridge for half the night."
Dorren glanced toward the white wolf. Ghost did not blink.
"You should have woken me earlier to tell me."
Jon gave a tired half-smile. "I thought you were enjoying your sleep."
"I was. Then my wolf decided sleep was for southron lords."
Robb stirred at that, opening one eye. "If you two mean to talk all morning, at least say something worth hearing."
Dorren looked down at him. "Shadow's watching the hills."
That woke Robb properly.
Grey Wind rose with him.
Within moments the small camp was moving. Not loudly. These were not green boys kicking pots and cursing in the dark. The Winter Guard outriders buckled helms, tightened straps, checked bowstrings, and stamped out the last coals.
Ser Mallador Holt commanded the patrol, a broad-shouldered knight sworn to Ser Desmond Manderly's company. His beard was black, his nose had been broken more than once, and he had the weary look of a man who expected every plan to go wrong eventually.
He came over while Dorren tightened Shadow's leather protective collar.
"Your wolf smell something, my lord?"
Dorren still had not gotten used to be referred to as 'lord,' something he could only dream of as a boy, and now, despite still being a Snow, he was a tested warrior, and competent commander.
"Maybe."
Mallador looked at Shadow, then toward the other direwolves as well.
"When one wolf stares at the dark, I call it a beast being strange. When four do it, I start wondering what the dark is hiding."
Robb was pulling on his gloves. "So, i take it we ride further west?"
"We ride carefully west," Jon said before Dorren could answer.
Robb looked at him. "I was going to say that."
"No, you weren't."
"I might have."
"You were going to say we ride fast."
Robb grinned. "Fast is careful if you don't fall."
Rickard groaned as he stood. "You sound like Smalljon."
"That is the cruelest thing anyone has said to me all war." Robb gasped, feigning true hurt
Dorren smiled despite himself, his attention once more being directed toward his companion.
Shadow, it would seem, had begun moving.
Not running, just walking west, nose low, ears forward, as if following a trail none of the men could see.
Dorren mounted.
The others followed.
They rode before dawn through country that felt half asleep and half afraid. The western hills were softer than the North, greener even after the passage of armies, with low stone walls cutting fields into uneven shapes and old roads winding between farms, orchards, and mining tracks. In daylight the land looked rich. In the dark, well, it felt unwelcoming.
Dorren had never liked the Westerlands.
Too many hills. Too many roads. Too many little towers where some knight's son might be hiding with a crossbow and more courage than sense.
Shadow kept ahead of his horse. Ghost vanished and returned without sound. Grey Wind ranged farther to the right, restless and eager, while Winter stayed near Rickard, calm but alert.
After an hour, they found the refugees.
There were maybe thirty of them, huddled in a hollow beside a broken cart. Farmers mostly. Two old men. Several women. Children wrapped in cloaks and sacks. One boy held a rusted knife in both hands, trying to point it at the riders without shaking.
He failed.
Ser Mallador raised one hand, and the Winter Guard slowed.
Dorren rode forward with Jon at his side.
"We're not here for you," Dorren said.
The boy kept the knife up.
An older woman pulled him back by the shoulder. "Put that down before you get us killed."
"We have nothing," one of the old men said. "If you've come for food, the lions took it. If you've come for coin, we never had any."
Robb rode up, Grey Wind beside him. Several of the smallfolk flinched when they saw the wolf.
Dorren noticed one woman staring not at Grey Wind, but at Shadow. Her lips moved silently.
"You've seen soldiers?" Jon asked.
The old man nodded. "Westermen. Lots of them. More than I could count. Boys with spears, old men with shields, knights in bright cloaks, wagons from here to the hills. They passed two days ago."
"Whose banners?" Robb asked.
"Lions. Boars. Some purple unicorn. Others I didn't know."
"Lannister, Crakehall, and Brax," Rickard muttered.
Dorren leaned down in the saddle. "Where were they going?"
"East. Toward Oxcross, mayhaps, or near enough. They said they were marching to chase wolves from the west." The old man glanced at the direwolves and swallowed. "No offense meant."
Robb smiled thinly. "None taken."
The woman who had been staring at Shadow finally spoke.
"I've heard tale that the Wolf King had beasts from the old stories, never thought I'd live to see those stories walk on four legs."
Dorren looked at her.
She was middle-aged, hair streaked grey, face lined from work and fear.
Around her neck, Dorren could barely makeout what seemed to be a weirwood pendant, hung around a twine necklace.
"Well, many tales have been told about our king as of late," he replied.
"Aye. They say he takes horses and grain, but leaves children breathing. Meanwhile, the lions take our sons and goods and call it our duty." Her eyes flicked toward the Winter Guard. "If that is true, then I hope your king keeps winning."
No one answered for a moment.
Then Jon said quietly, "Where are you going?"
"Anywhere the fighting isn't."
"That road is south," Robb said. "If you keep west, you may ride straight into Stafford's rear. Go north until you reach the stream, then follow it east. If you meet northern men, tell them Robb Stark sent you through."
The woman nodded.
The boy lowered the knife.
As they rode on, Dorren looked back once.
The woman was still watching Shadow.
Or perhaps Shadow was watching her.
By midday they found the first dead horse.
It lay in a ditch with two arrows in its neck and one in its flank. The saddle had been cut loose. The rider was gone.
Ser Mallador dismounted and crouched beside the tracks.
"Western arrows," he said.
"How can you tell?" Rickard asked.
Mallador held one up. "Cheap fletching, bad balance, and the sort of point a man makes when he thinks quantity is the same as quality."
Robb studied the ground. "A skirmish?"
"A small one," Jon said, patting Ghost who had just returned with blood on his muzzle, taking his place at Jon's side. 'Not human blood,' Dorren thought. Too dark. Hare or fox, likely. "Two horses went that way. One on foot. Maybe wounded."
Dorren looked at Shadow.
The black wolf stood with his nose to the wind.
Then he turned sharply north.
Dorren felt something tug inside him.
Not in his chest.
Deeper.
For half a heartbeat the world smelled wrong.
Sweat, blood, boiled leather, the stink of horses, followed by wet soil and the smell of men.
Too much at once.
He blinked hard and nearly swayed in the saddle.
Jon noticed.
"You all right?"
"Aye."
"You don't look it."
"I said aye." he bit back, steadying himself and shaking his head to clear his mind
Jon did not press, but his eyes stayed on him a moment longer.
They soon followed Shadow north.
The hills grew rougher there, broken by scrub trees and stone outcrops. The road disappeared into goat paths and dry gullies. Twice they had to dismount and lead the horses. The Winter Guard did not complain, but Dorren heard the mutters. Heavy infantrymen hated climbing hills in armor.
Near dusk, they found the western scouts.
There were twenty-three of them camped badly in a shallow fold between two ridges. No proper watch. No pickets far enough out. Horses tied too close together. A small fire burning where any man with eyes could see the smoke.
Stafford's men.
That was Dorren's first thought.
The contrast between these men, and those he saw of Ser Jaime's host amused him, those men had been trained and picked by Tywin Lannister himself, those scouts would have known better.
Robb saw it too. "Sloppy."
Mallador grunted. "Sloppy men can still kill you if you walk in front of them."
"We don't walk in front of them then, we take them unawares from behind," Jon said.
The fight lasted less than five minutes.
Grey Wind hit first, bursting from the brush with a snarl that turned the western camp into shouting chaos. Ghost came from the left, white and silent until he was among them. Shadow went low and fast, taking a man by the calf and dragging him down before Dorren even reached the camp. Winter stayed near Rickard until one Westerman tried to run, then brought him down by the cloak and stood over him growling until the man pissed himself.
Dorren killed one man who came at him with a spear and too much fear in his eyes. He knocked another down with the pommel of his sword. Jon disarmed a third and kicked his legs out from under him. Robb shouted for prisoners before the Winter Guard could finish everyone.
They took seven alive.
One of them, a knight by his boots if not his courage, refused to speak until Grey Wind sat down in front of him and yawned.
After that he spoke quickly, followed by a puddle forming between his legs.
Stafford's host had moved east with haste it would seem.
More than ten thousand men, maybe twelve, with more straggling behind.
Heavy wagons.
Poor discipline.
And only a few outriders here and there.
The main camp was shifting near the roads west of Oxcross.
"How far?" Dorren asked.
The knight looked at him, then at Shadow.
"Less than a day if you ride hard. More if you're marching with wagons."
Robb leaned closer. "How many scouts between here and the host?"
"I don't know."
Grey Wind growled.
"I don't know, I swear it. They send us out in clumps, no proper pattern. Half the men ride too far, half stay too close, and some don't leave camp at all. Ser Stafford says there's no need to fear raiders this deep in the west."
Robb and Jon exchanged a look.
Dorren laughed once, humorless. "That man is going to get a great many people killed."
The knight swallowed. "He says Lord Tywin will return with victory."
The silence after that was ugly.
Rickard spoke first. "Lord Tywin is in chains."
The knight stared at him.
"No."
"Aye," Dorren said. "Your army in the Riverlands is gone. Kevan Lannister is dead. Tywin was taken at the Western Pass."
"You northern barbarians tell lies."
"Well, believe what you will, all thats left for you lot is to die at the tip of a northern spear," Dorren said, shrugging and turning away after a moment.
The knight looked suddenly smaller.
They left Mallador with ten men to bind the prisoners and bring them back slowly. Dorren, Jon, Robb, Rickard, and a smaller party pushed farther west.
The sun was gone by then.
They should have turned back.
Dorren knew it. Jon knew it. Rob certainly knew it, though he would never be the first to say so.
But Shadow would not stop.
The black wolf moved ahead through the dark, more certain than any scout, and Dorren followed because something in him could not do otherwise.
Near midnight they stopped in a stand of twisted trees.
The men needed rest. The horses needed it more. Dorren sat with his back against a trunk and told himself he would only close his eyes for a moment.
Then he was running.
Not riding.
Running.
The earth was beneath his paws.
'Wait, not feet, paws?' he thought absent mindidly as he continued to run.
The world rushed past low and sharp, full of smells so strong they were almost colors. A rabbit under stone. A fox in the brush. Old blood in dry grass. Men, many men. Horse sweat. Fire smoke. Cooked meat, shit, iron, leather, and fear.
He ran faster.
The hill rose ahead.
He climbed it easily, claws digging into soil.
No, fingers.
No… claws?
At the top, he looked down.
Fires.
Hundreds of them, even thousands mayhaps.
A camp spread across the dark land below, sloppy and wide, wagons in poor lines, horse herds too loosely guarded, tents grouped by banner more than sense. Lions, boars, unicorns, shells, and many more. Men were laughing and drinking. Boys were asleep near spears they barely knew how to hold.
A large pavilion stood near the center with guards outside and too many banners around it.
The smell of lion was everywhere.
Then something turned.
A dog barked.
A man shouted.
Dorren woke with his heart hammering and dirt under his nails.
Shadow stood in front of him.
The wolf's deep blue eyes reflected the dying fire.
Jon was crouched beside him.
"Dorren."
Dorren sucked in a breath.
"What?"
"You were growling."
"I was what?"
Robb was awake too, one hand on Grey Wind's neck. Rickard stared at Dorren as if he had seen something he found amusing. Winter stood behind him, ears flat.
Dorren wiped at his mouth.
His hand shook.
"I saw… fires, men gathered around, it was a large camp, Stafford's host mayhaps."
Jon went still.
"What do you mean?"
Dorren looked at Shadow.
The wolf looked back.
"I don't know."
That was true.
It was also a lie.
Shadow turned and began walking into the dark.
Dorren stood.
Jon caught his arm. "If this is some wolf thing, say so."
Dorren almost laughed.
"A wolf thing?"
"You know what I mean."
"No," Dorren said. "I don't. And if you do, I would be grateful if you explained it."
Jon's face tightened.
He did not explain, it would seem even he wasn't entirely sure what to make of it.
They followed Shadow.
Less than an hour later, they crested the hill from Dorren's dream.
No.
Not dream.
The word no longer fit.
Below them, Stafford Lannister's host burned bright against the night.
Campfires spread across the fields west of Oxcross. Too many to count quickly. Wagons stood in crooked lines. Horses grazed beyond proper guard. Men sang somewhere in the camp, loud enough that the sound carried faintly to the ridge.
Robb stared down at it.
"Gods."
Rickard whispered, "You saw this."
Dorren said nothing.
Jon looked at him but did not ask.
A rustle came from the rocks nearby, and three men emerged with swords half-drawn. Winter Guard. Dirty, tired, and very relieved.
Their leader lowered his blade first.
"My lords. Thank the gods."
Robb recognized him. "You're from Mallador's missing patrol."
"Aye. We found the host yesterday but couldn't get clear. Too many riders behind us, and we thought it better to watch than die trying to outrun them."
Dorren found his voice. "Numbers."
"Ten thousand at least, likely closer to twelve. Maybe more stragglers west, their lines were poor. Their camp discipline is even more poor. Outriders are practically non-existant. They don't think anyone's close. They think the king is still plundering north of here."
Robb smiled then.
"We need to get back, tell Alaric of what we've seen."
And with that, they left and rode hard, back toward Alaric's camp.
By dawn, their horses were exhausted and stumbling. Dorren felt hollowed out, as if part of him had been left on that ridge looking down through Shadow's eyes. He did not speak much on the ride back. Jon stayed near him. So did Shadow.
When they reached Alaric's camp, the host was already stirring.
Tempest and Cinder stood outside the king's tent.
Both awake.
Both watching the road before Dorren appeared.
Alaric stepped out a moment later, fully dressed, dark hair loose around his shoulders, Ice across his back. He looked at Dorren.
For one uncomfortable moment, Dorren wondered what his brother saw.
"You found him," Alaric said.
Robb dismounted. "Aye. Stafford's camp is west of Oxcross. Ten to twelve thousand, maybe more. Poor order, worse scouts, the missing patrol confirmed it."
Alaric listened without interrupting.
Dorren gave his own report after Robb finished. He told Alaric about the fires, banners, wagons, horse lines, especially about the careless guards and singing in the camp. He did not speak of running on four legs and the weird sensation though.
When he finished, Alaric looked at him for a long moment.
"You did well." he said, a small smile on his face
Dorren almost shrugged it off, still not used to praise from others, much less his royal brother.
Instead he nodded.
"Shadow found the trail."
Alaric's eyes moved to the black wolf. "I imagine he did." his smile having grown ever so slightly
There was something in his voice that made Dorren uneasy.
Before he could ask, another scout rode into camp from the south-western road, nearly falling from his saddle in his haste. He confirmed everything. Stafford's host. The campfires. The poor screen. The position near Oxcross.
The command tent filled quickly.
Robb, Jon, Dorren, Rickard, Lord Jorah, Lucion, Smalljon, Derrick, along with Sers Desmond, Ellard, and Harald. The wolves came too. Tempest and Cinder entered with Alaric. Grey Wind settled behind Robb. Ghost sat in the shadows near Jon. Shadow stayed close to Dorren, so close his fur brushed Dorren's leg. Winter lay at Rickard's feet with his head raised.
Alaric studied the map while the reports were repeated.
This time he was not silent.
He asked a great many questions, and kept asking until every man in the tent understood the shape of what lay ahead.
"How far between their horse lines and their main camp?"
"Too far," Robb said. "A man could cut the herd loose before half the camp knew it."
"Good. How many fires near the command pavilion?"
"Too many," Dorren said. "They've made it easy to find."
Lucion gave a dry smile. "Stafford always enjoyed being seen."
Alaric looked at him. "Will he run when the camp breaks?"
"Stafford? He'll try to command first. Badly. Then he'll run when he realizes no one is listening."
"That is the most useful thing you've said all week." Derrick japed
"I am wounded." Lucion replied, punching the Umber in his arm
"You'll recover." he laughed in response, rubbing his arm
Smalljon leaned over the map, surprisingly not taking part in the quick banter. "Where do we hit first?"
"The scouts first," Alaric said. "Then the horse lines, followed by the wagons. Then we strike at the command center. If we do it properly, most of Stafford's army wakes to wolves in the camp, horses gone, wagons burning, and their lord shouting orders no one can hear."
Derrick grinned. "That sounds pleasant."
"It will be loud, bloody, and confused."
"Even better."
Alaric looked around the tent, and this time there was warmth beneath the sternness. Tired warmth, but real. "Listen to me now. We have done well, but doing well is not the same as finishing what we've started. Stafford is careless, not harmless. A frightened boy with a spear can kill a lord as dead as a knight can. No one rides off alone. No one chases banners into the dark. No one tries to win glory before the battle is won. If I hear that any of you ignored orders because victory looked easy, I will have you digging latrines until your grandchildren are ashamed of you."
Robb laughed. "Even me?"
"Especially you. You're a Stark of my blood. You need humbling more often."
Jon glanced at Dorren. "What about bastards?"
Alaric looked at them both, and for a moment he was not only king, but brother.
"Bastards usually find their humbling early. Still, I can arrange the same kind of punishment if either of you grows jealous."
That got a proper laugh from the tent.
Even Dorren smiled.
Then Alaric placed one finger on Oxcross.
"Tell the men to sleep while they can. We move before moonrise. Tomorrow, Stafford learns the war has reached him in full force."
Dorren looked down at the map.
Then at Shadow.
The wolf's blue eyes were already fixed on Oxcross.
And for a moment, Dorren could've sworn he felt the anticipation felt by his companion.