A/N: Sorry about the late chapter, I got busy editing a really difficult future chapter that was just frustrating to get right. Hope you enjoy the chapter!
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Year 299 AC/8 ABY
White Harbor, The North
The solar of the Wolf's Den felt less like a lord's chamber and more like the belly of an ancient wooden beast. A single hearth struggled to warm the room, its flames reflecting in the small, hard eyes of the men and women gathered around the heavy trestle table. The air smelled of salt, old pine, and the tension of men reconsidering their oaths.
Daenerys sat at the far end, her hands folded in her lap. She kept them still by sheer force of will, resisting the urge to reach down to the basket beside her chair where Viserion, Rhaegal, and Morghaes slept in a tangle of scales and wings. They were her comfort here, her only truth in a room filled with strangers who looked at her as if she were a disease they had been forced to swallow.
Lord Eddard Stark stood at the head of the table, his face a mask of frozen granite. He had gathered his "Iron Core," the lords he trusted above all others. Lord Wyman Manderly occupied a reinforced chair that groaned beneath his immense bulk. Lady Maege Mormont stood near the fire, clad in mail and bear fur. Beside her stood Galbart Glover, his face lean and sharp, and the massive, bearded figure of Hugo "Big Bucket" Wull.
And then there was the Greatjon. Lord Jon Umber was a giant of a man, taller than Ser Jorah and twice as broad. He had been pacing the length of the solar for the last hour, his heavy boots thudding against the floorboards like war drums.
Finally, he stopped. He turned his massive head toward Daenerys, and the conflict in his eyes made the air in the room feel thin.
"I said the words," the Greatjon rumbled. His voice started low, a growl deep in his chest. "In the Merman's Court, with the wine in my belly and the roar of the crowd in my ears, I said them. I drew my steel for her."
"You swore an oath, Jon," Ned said, his voice calm but carrying a warning edge.
"I swore to you, Ned!" The Greatjon slammed his fist onto the table. The wood cracked, a sharp sound like a breaking bone. "I swore because Manderly spoke of vengeance and scaring the lions. But in the cold light of day..." He pointed a thick finger at Daenerys. "I look at her and I see him. I see the silver hair and I remember the fire. I remember Rickard cooking in his armor while Aerys laughed."
"I'll not march for a dragon," Hugo Wull added, his voice like grinding stones. "I shouted with the rest when the moment was hot, but my people remember. We remember the Stark who knelt. I'd rather die freezing than burn kneeling."
"I cannot do it," Umber roared, his voice thick with shame and fury. "I cannot lead my men to die for the Mad King's get. Release me from the vow, Ned. I'm taking my men home. We'll hold the Last Hearth against the dead if they come, but I will not fight for her."
The room fell into a suffocating silence. Maege Mormont looked at the floor, her expression grim. It was clear she shared the Umber's hesitation, if not his volume.
Daenerys felt a cold knot of terror tighten in her stomach. If the Umbers left, the alliance would fracture before it even began. She moved her hand to the basket, her fingers brushing the warm, dry scales of Morghaes.
"Sit, Your Grace."
Ned Stark's voice was not loud, but it stopped her movement instantly. He did not look at her. His grey eyes were fixed on the Greatjon.
"You wish to be released from your oath to Daenerys Targaryen," Ned stated.
"I do," Umber spat.
"Good," Ned said. "Because we do not march for her."
Ned Stark stepped away from the head of the table. He walked to the shadows in the corner of the room, where a small man had been standing so quietly that the larger lords had seemingly forgotten he was there.
"Lord Reed," Ned said. "Tell them."
Howland Reed stepped into the light. "I was there," the crannogman said softly. "At the Tower of Joy. In the Red Mountains of Dorne."
The Greatjon frowned. "Aye. We know the story. Ned slew the Kingsguard. Found his sister dying."
"He found his sister," Reed corrected. "But she did not die alone."
Ned turned back to the table. He placed both hands on the wood. "We do not march for Daenerys Targaryen. We march for the blood of Lyanna Stark."
Confusion rippled across the faces of the lords.
"Jon Snow," Ned said, the name hanging in the air. "He is not my son."
The Greatjon blinked. "What?"
"He is the son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark." Ned's voice was steady, stripping away fifteen years of lies with brutal efficiency. "He was born in that tower. His mother died bringing him into the world. She made me promise to protect him. To keep him safe from Robert's wrath."
"A bastard, then," Maege Mormont said, though her voice was hushed. "Born of rape?"
"No." Ned shook his head. "Think, Maege. Ser Arthur Dayne. Ser Oswell Whent. The Lord Commander Gerold Hightower. They were at the tower." Ned looked at his bannermen, his eyes hard. "They were not on the Trident with Rhaegar. They were not on Dragonstone with the Queen. The Kingsguard does not guard royal bastards while their King dies. They do not stand vigil over a mistress while the realm burns. They were guarding the heir."
He looked at Howland Reed. The crannogman nodded once.
"I have no paper shield to prove it," Ned admitted, his voice rough. "But I knew those men. They were the finest knights who ever lived. They died to keep me from him. He is Daemon Targaryen. The trueborn son of the Dragon Prince and the Winter Rose."
Daenerys watched the faces of the lords. She saw the exact moment the rage drained out of the Greatjon, replaced by a stunned, hollowed-out silence.
"You..." Umber breathed. "You stained your honor. You let the world call you faithless... all to protect him?"
"He is Lyanna's blood," Maege Mormont whispered. Tears welled in her eyes. "The little wolf. We thought her line ended in that tower."
"He has the Stark look," Wyman Manderly murmured. "More than any of your trueborn sons, my lord. We all saw it."
"The Ned's boy," Hugo Wull rumbled, his fierce eyes widening. "A King of Winter and Fire? By the gods, I want to live to see that. I want to taste that victory before I die."
"If he is the King," Galbart Glover asked, pointing at Daenerys, "then who is she? Why do we march behind a banner that isn't his?"
Daenerys stood. She didn't wait for Ned to explain. This was the plan they had forged on the ship, and she would play her part.
"Because the King is not here," she said. Her voice was clear, ringing in the silence. "He is in the South. In the Reach. Surrounded by lords who would sell him to Robert Baratheon for a bag of silver if they knew his true name."
She stepped forward. "If you declare for him now, while he is alone and exposed, he will be dead before he ever reaches the Neck. The Lannisters will kill him. The Baratheons will kill him."
She lifted her chin. "But a dragon draws the eye. I am the Mad King's daughter. I have the silver hair. I have the dragons. Let the Lannisters hate me. While the realm is busy hunting the Mother of Dragons, they will never look twice at a bastard returning home."
She looked at Ned Stark last. "I will be your Queen. I will wear the crown and take the hatred. I will be the shield that protects your nephew."
The Greatjon stared at her for a long moment. He looked from her determination to the dragons sleeping in the basket, and then to Ned Stark's grim affirmation.
"A shield," Umber grunted. "Aye. A shield of fire."
Slowly, the giant fell to one knee. The floorboards shuddered under the impact.
"To the Queen," he rumbled. It was not a pledge of fealty to a monarch. It was a pact between conspirators.
"To the Queen," Hugo Wull echoed, slamming his fist against his chest. "And to the King in the Shadows."
The door to the solar opened with a groan of rusted hinges. The Maester entered, his chains clinking softly in the quiet room. He carried a scroll in his hand, the wax seal broken. He looked pale, his hands trembling slightly as he offered the parchment to Lord Stark.
"My lord," the maester said. "A raven. From Riverrun."
Ned took the scroll. The room seemed to hold its breath as he unrolled it. Daenerys watched his eyes scan the words, saw the way his jaw tightened until the muscles jumped beneath his beard.
"What is it?" Maege Mormont asked, her hand tightening on her mace.
"The Mountain," Ned said, his voice flat. "Gregor Clegane has crossed the Red Fork."
A curse rippled through the room. The Greatjon spat on the floor. "Tywin's mad dog."
"He is burning the Riverlands," Ned continued. "Sherrer, Wendish Town, the Mummer's Ford... they are ash. He puts the smallfolk to the sword. Edmure calls his banners, but Tywin Lannister is mobilizing two hosts at Casterly Rock."
Ned walked to the map table, tracing the line of the Trident. "He means to draw us out. Tywin knows I cannot sit idle while my wife's homeland burns. He wants us to rush south in a disorganized rabble so he can crush us in the field."
"Then we stay!" the Greatjon argued. "Let the riverlords bleed him. We have the Moat. Let him try to cross the Neck!"
"We cannot stay," Ned said quietly. "My wife's family is dying. And if the Riverlands fall, the Lannisters will control everything south of the Neck."
"We'll need more than just the North," Galbart Glover noted, studying the map. "Even with the Riverlands, Tywin has the gold and the numbers."
"The Vale," Ned said. "I will write to Lysa Arryn. She is Catelyn's sister. The Knights of the Vale are fresh and unbloodied. If they march, we can pinch Tywin between three armies."
Lord Wyman Manderly cleared his throat, a wet, rumbling sound. "My lord, I would not pin my hopes on the Eyrie. My spies in Gulltown report... movement."
Ned looked up. "What kind of movement?"
"A certain mockingbird has flown the coop," Wyman said, his small eyes glittering. "Littlefinger has arrived in the Vale. Sent by Joffrey, they say, to secure Lady Lysa's loyalty for the crown."
"Baelish," Ned swore softly.
"If Baelish is there, the Vale is lost to us," Hugo Wull grumbled. "He'll whisper poison until she shuts the Bloody Gate and locks herself in her high tower."
"No," Ned said, straightening. "Lysa may be swayed, but the Lords of the Vale are men of honor. Bronze Yohn Royce knows what is coming. Andar Royce is with us even now. The Vale will not sit idle while the realm burns, no matter what Littlefinger whispers."
He looked at Daenerys. "We march South."
"The plan?" Wyman Manderly asked.
"We divide," Ned said, his finger moving across the map. "Howland, you will return to the Neck. Garrison Moat Cailin with archers. Bleed anyone who tries to march north. Hold the causeway at all costs."
Reed nodded. "The bog devils will feast."
"Greatjon, Maege, Hugo," Ned continued. "You will take the vanguard. Fast riders. Harass their supply lines. Do not engage the main host. Make them chase shadows."
"And the main host?" Daenerys asked.
"We march down the Kingsroad," Ned said, meeting her gaze. "With you. And the dragons. We link with the Tully forces at Riverrun. We present a target so large, so terrifying, that Tywin Lannister cannot ignore it."
"You want him to look at me," Daenerys said.
"I want him to look at the dragons," Ned corrected. "I want him to fear the fire so much that he never sees the wolf coming for his throat."
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The docks of White Harbor were a chaotic symphony of shouting men, creaking wood, and the snap of canvas in the wind. The grey sky hung low over the Bite, threatening snow, but the activity on the ground was hot and frantic. Thousands of Northmen were boarding ships or forming columns to march, their breath misting in the cold air.
Daenerys stood on a raised wooden platform near the marshalling grounds, watching the preparations. She wore a heavy cloak of black wool trimmed with white fur, a gift from Lord Manderly.
Viserion, Rhaegal, and Morghaes were playing near the edge of the platform. They chased each other over crates of salted fish, their wings snapping as they made short, hopping flights. Viserion let out a playful chirp as he pounced on Rhaegal's tail.
Ned Stark stood beside her, watching his men. He looked tired, the weight of command pressing down on his shoulders.
"They are ready," he said quietly. "We march within the hour."
Daenerys nodded. She watched Rhaegal wrestle free from Viserion, his green scales flashing in the dull light. It was a peaceful moment, a rare breath of innocence before the war began.
Suddenly, the dragons stopped.
It happened all at once, as if a string had been cut. Viserion froze mid-pounce. Rhaegal dropped his tail. Morghaes, who had been chewing on a piece of driftwood, lifted his head, his black nostrils flaring.
They turned. All three of them. They turned away from the ships, away from the army, away from the south.
They looked North.
Their bodies went rigid, the scales along their spines standing up like hackles on a dog. Daenerys felt a sudden, sharp pain in her chest, a cold ache that seemed to bypass her skin and settle in her heart. It wasn't the wind. It wasn't the winter air.
Screeeee!
The sound tore from their throats in unison. It was not the playful chirping of hatchlings. It was a shriek of pure, primal aggression, a warning cry that made the horses on the dock scream and rear in terror. The sound scraped against the bone, ancient and terrible.
Morghaes opened his mouth, and a hiss of black smoke spilled out. Rhaegal snapped his jaws at the empty air. Viserion spread his wings, his gold eyes wide and dilated.
Daenerys clutched her chest, gasping as the cold sharpened into a knife point. She felt... she felt a hunger. A vast, empty hunger that wanted to swallow the world.
"Your Grace?" Ned's hand was on her arm, steadying her. "What is it?"
She looked up at him. Her vision swam for a moment, the grey docks overlaid with a vision of blinding white snow and blue shadows.
"Something is wrong," she whispered, the words tasting of frost. She pointed North, where the sky was darkest. "In the North. They feel it."
The dragons shrieked again, a chorus of fire challenging the ice.
Ned looked North. His face hardened, the lines around his eyes deepening until he looked like the statues in his crypts. His hand moved to his waist, his fingers curling around the leather-wrapped hilt of Ice.
"I know," he said, his voice heavy with a sorrow that went deeper than the sea. "The enemy is there. The real enemy."
He turned back to the army, to the men preparing to march in the wrong direction.
"But we must fight the living," Ned Stark said, "before we can fight the dead."
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Fist of the First Men, Beyond the Wall
The wind howled around the Fist of the First Men, a lonely sentinel of stone thrusting up from the Haunted Forest. It was a place of old ghosts and older memories, its summit crowned by a ringwall of grey stone erected by men who had fought with bronze and obsidian. Now, it was the anvil upon which Robb Stark hoped to forge an alliance that would defy history itself.
He rode near the front of the column, his destrier snorting clouds of steam into the biting air. To his left rode Mance Rayder, the King-Beyond-the-Wall looking less like a monarch and more like a bard who had stolen a lord's cloak. To his right rode Val.
Robb found his eyes drawn to her. She sat her horse with an easy, fluid grace that put highborn ladies to shame. Her hood was thrown back despite the cold, revealing a braid of dark honey that whipped in the wind. She wore breeches of rough-spun wool and a tunic of cured leather, layers of fur piled atop, yet she looked more regal than any queen in silk.
He noticed a shiver run through her—slight, barely there, but enough to stir the gallantry his mother had drilled into him since he could walk.
"My lady," Robb said, pitching his voice over the wind. He began to unfasten the heavy clasp of his cloak, a thick garment of grey wool trimmed with white fur. "The wind has teeth up here. Take my cloak."
Val turned to look at him. Her expression was not one of gratitude, but of amused curiosity, the way one might look at a pup trying to growl. A smile played at the corners of her mouth, sharp and white.
"Keep your wool, kneeler," she said, her voice carrying easily over the gale. "If you are cold, it is because your blood is thin. The Free Folk do not freeze so easily."
Robb paused, his hand halfway to the clasp. He felt the heat rise in his neck, and not from the warmth of his furs. "I only offered courtesy."
"Courtesy warms nothing in these lands," Val laughed, turning her gaze back to the path ahead. "Keep your steel sharp and your eyes open, Stark. That will serve me better than your cloak."
From the other side, Mance Rayder chuckled softly. "She's taken, Stark."
Robb blinked, glancing between the king and the woman. "Taken?" He looked for a husband, a suitor riding nearby, but saw only the hard-bitten faces of Mance's guard.
"Not wed, in your southern way," Mance explained, his eyes dancing with mirth. "But stolen. Or near enough to it. Among the Free Folk, a man must steal a woman to prove his strength. And a woman must fight him every step of the way to prove hers."
"A charming custom," Robb murmured, adjusting his cloak back into place.
"It ensures strong sons," Mance said with a shrug. "And strong daughters."
They reached the picket lines that marked the perimeter of the main encampment on the slopes of the Fist. A group of wildling raiders stood watch, leaning on spears of sharpened weirwood and bronze. As the party approached, a young man stepped forward from the line.
He was lean and dangerous-looking, with hair like pale straw and eyes that burned with a quiet intensity. He wore a shirt of sewn bronze scales that clinked softly as he moved. He did not bow to Mance. He did not look at Robb or the direwolf padding silently at his horse's flank.
His eyes were only for Val.
"Jarl," Val said, pulling her garron up.
The man, Jarl, reached up. He did not take her reins. He placed a hand on her thigh, a gesture of possessive familiarity that made Robb look away. Val covered his hand with her own, leaning down to murmur something in his ear that made the grim raider smile. It was an intimacy so casual, so undeniable, that Robb felt a sudden, sharp sting of disappointment in his chest.
Don't be a fool, he chided himself. She is a wildling, and you are the Lord of Winterfell. Your path lies elsewhere.
But the Force whispered of missed chances and paths not taken. He pushed the feeling aside, he was here for an army, not a wife.
"The chiefs are waiting," Jarl said, finally acknowledging the rest of them. He looked at Robb with cool appraisal. "Up top. They're not happy."
"They're never happy," Mance said, spurring his horse forward. "Come, Lord Stark. Let us see if we can keep them from killing you long enough to save their lives."
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The summit of the Fist commanded a view that stole the breath from Robb's lungs. To the north, the Haunted Forest stretched out like a dark ocean, endless and brooding. To the west, the Milkwater was a frozen scar cutting through the valley. The wind here was a physical force, screaming over the ancient stones of the ringwall.
In the center of the ruins, a great fire had been built, the flames whipping wildly in the gale. Around it stood the men and women who held the fate of the Wildlings in their hands. It was not merely a council; it was a gathering of nightmares and legends.
Robb dismounted, signaling the Smalljon and his other lords to stay back by the horses. "This is for me to do," he told them.
"They'll skin you if you say the wrong word," the Greatjon's son grumbled, his hand resting on the pommel of his greatsword.
"Then be ready to avenge me," Robb said. "But do not interfere unless I call."
He walked toward the fire, Grey Wind at his heel. The direwolf was a shadow made flesh, his yellow eyes scanning the gathering.
Mance Rayder stood at the center, but he was surrounded by figures that made the tales of Old Nan seem tame.
To Mance's right stood Styr, the Magnar of Thenn. He was tall and straight as a spear, clean-shaven and bald, his skin pink and raw from the cold. He held a helm shaped like a closed bucket in the crook of his arm, looking at Robb with the imperious gaze of a man who was treated as a god by his people.
Beside him lurked The Weeper. He was a lean man with blond hair falling over his face, carrying a great curved scythe of heavy steel. His eyes were watery and red, tears constantly leaking down his cheeks to freeze in his beard, giving him a look of perpetual sorrow that contrasted sharply with the cruelty in his smile.
Harma Dogshead squatted near the fire, her cheeks ruddy with wine and wind. She hated dogs, it was said, and she glared at Grey Wind with open malice. A banner pole was planted in the snow beside her, topped with the rotting head of a large mastiff.
There was Alfyn Crowkiller, a man with a face like a clenched fist and a reputation for butchering the Night's Watch. Soren Shieldbreaker, a warrior of immense girth and muscle, leaned on an axe that looked heavy enough to split a boulder.
Morna White Mask stood silent, her face hidden behind a weirwood mask carved into a weeping woman, marking her as a warrior witch of the frozen shores. Beside her sat the massive bulk of the Great Walrus, wrapped in sealskins, his tusks gleaming. And preening near the edge of the light was Gerrick Kingsblood, tall and handsome, boasting of his descent from Raymun Redbeard.
And, of course, Varamyr Sixskins, twitching in his grey skin, surrounded by his shadowcat, wolves, and snow bear.
"So this is the pup," a voice sneered.
Rattleshirt, the Lord of Bones, stepped away from the fire. He was smaller than the others, wiry and quick, clad in his hideous armor of clattering bones. His helm was a giant's skull.
"The kneeler boy who thinks he can command the Free Folk," Rattleshirt mocked.
"I command nothing here," Robb said, his voice steady, projecting over the wind. "I offer an alliance."
"Alliance?" The Magnar of Thenn spoke, his voice devoid of inflection. "You offer us cages. You want the Free Folk to man your stone walls, to wear your black cloaks, to bow to your laws. The Thenns bow only to the Magnar."
"I want you to live," Robb countered. "The dead are coming. You know this. You have seen them."
"We have fought them!" The Weeper hissed, wiping a tear from his cheek. "We do not need kneeler walls to fight. My scythe cuts wights as easily as it cuts crows."
"Then why are you running?" Robb asked quietly.
The silence that followed was heavy. The Great Walrus grunted, shifting his weight on his sled.
"We ain't running," Rattleshirt snarled, stepping closer. The bones of his armor clacked like dice. "We're advancing. To the south. To the green lands. And we'll take them with strength, not by begging scraps from a boy who smells of summer."
Harma Dogshead spat into the fire. "I smell wolf on him. I hate wolves." She fingered the dagger at her belt. "Maybe I'll add his beast's head to my pole."
Grey Wind let out a low, vibrating growl that seemed to shake the ground. Robb rested a hand on the wolf's neck, quieting him.
Rattleshirt turned to Mance. "And you. You call yourself King? You bring this... this child into our council? You listen to his soft words? Alfyn has killed more crows than this boy has seen winters."
"He speaks sense, Lord of Bones," Mance said, his face weary. "We cannot fight the Walkers and the Northmen at the same time."
"Because you've lost your stones!" Rattleshirt laughed, a harsh, grating sound. He turned back to Robb, circling him. "Look at him. Soft skin. Pretty hair. Probably never bedded a woman or killed a man who was looking him in the eye."
Robb felt the anger flare in his gut, hot and sudden. Anger clouds judgment. He breathed it out, letting the Force flow through him, cool and clarifying. He sensed Rattleshirt's intent—the man wanted to provoke him, to make him look weak or foolish in front of the dangerous chiefs like Styr and the Weeper.
"I have killed men," Robb said calmly. "And I have killed things that were not men. Have you?"
Rattleshirt stopped. The giant's skull tilted. "I've killed crows, boy. I've gutted rangers and worn their bones. I've cracked the marrow from their shins." He raised his staff. "You think you're a wolf? You're just meat."
He spat at Robb's feet. "Go back to your castle, summer child. Before I peel that wolfskin off your back and wear it."
The challenge hung in the air, absolute and undeniable. Soren Shieldbreaker crossed his massive arms, waiting. The Weeper gripped his scythe. Even Gerrick Kingsblood stopped preening to watch. To refuse was to lose them. To let the insult stand was to admit weakness.
Robb unclasped his cloak and let it fall to the snow. He unbuckled his sword belt, but kept the scabbard in his hand.
"Grey Wind," Robb said softly. "To me."
The direwolf looked at him, gold eyes questioning.
"Back," Robb commanded. "Stay."
Grey Wind whined once, but obeyed, retreating to the edge of the ringwall.
Robb turned back to the Lord of Bones. He drew his sword, the steel hissing into the cold air.
"You talk of bones," Robb said, settling into a stance. His feet found purchase on the frozen ground. He held the blade high, the tip angled toward Rattleshirt's throat. "Let us see if yours break as easily as any other man's."
Rattleshirt howled with laughter. "A duel? You want a duel, little lord? I'll drink your blood from your skull!"
"One on one," Robb said, his voice cutting through the laughter. "If I win, you listen. All of you. You listen to the terms."
"And if you lose?" Styr asked, his earless head gleaming in the firelight.
"Then you can burn my body and march to your deaths," Robb said. "But I won't lose."
Rattleshirt didn't wait for a signal. He lunged.
The Lord of Bones fought like a rabid animal. There was no form to his movements, no elegance, only a frantic, overwhelming aggression. His staff was a blur, the heavy bone knob at the end whistling through the air, aimed at Robb's head.
Robb stepped into the attack.
Form V. Djem So. Dominate the engagement.
He didn't retreat. He met the staff with a hard block, his sword catching the weirwood shaft with a ringing crack. The impact jarred his arm, but he didn't give ground. He shoved back, using his legs to drive Rattleshirt off balance.
Rattleshirt spun away, cackling. He used the momentum to swing the staff low, sweeping for Robb's legs.
Robb sensed the blow before it moved. The Force was a whisper in his ear, a tug at his gut. Low. Left.
He hopped over the sweep, bringing his sword down in a vertical slash. Rattleshirt barely got his staff up in time. Steel bit into wood, shaving off a sliver of pale weirwood.
"Fast for a kneeler!" Rattleshirt taunted. He pulled a jagged knife from his belt with his off-hand—a dirty trick.
He thrust the knife at Robb's gut while swinging the staff at his head. A pincer move designed to gut and crush in one motion.
Robb's perception narrowed. The world slowed. He saw the snowflakes hanging suspended in the air. He saw the madness in the dark sockets of the skull helm.
But more than that, he felt him.
Through the Force, Rattleshirt was a void of jagged glass and old blood. There was no honor in him, no potential for redemption. Just a festering malice that enjoyed pain. Robb realized then that Luke's teachings about mercy applied to enemies who could be turned, or battles that could be avoided.
But this was not the South. These were not smallfolk or knights bound by oaths. These were Wildlings. They did not follow names; they followed strength. If he showed mercy now, they would not see a king being generous. They would see a boy too weak to do what was necessary.
To lead wolves, you must be a wolf.
Block. Riposte.
Robb caught the staff on his crossguard, locking it high. At the same moment, he released his left hand from the hilt and thrust his palm forward.
He didn't touch Rattleshirt. He didn't have to.
He pushed the air itself. A pulse of kinetic energy, focused and sharp, slammed into Rattleshirt's chest. It wasn't enough to send him flying—Robb was still learning—but it was enough to stop the knife thrust cold.
Rattleshirt stumbled, his breath rushing out in a grunt of surprise. "What the—"
Robb didn't give him time to think. He pivoted, bringing his sword around in a two-handed cleave. Djem So was the way of the Krayt Dragon, the Falling Avalanche. It was power.
He struck the staff again, at the same weak point he had notched earlier.
Crack.
The weirwood shaft shattered.
Rattleshirt stared at the broken pieces in his hands. Before he could drop them, Robb moved. He stepped inside the wildling's guard, dropping his shoulder and slamming into Rattleshirt's chest. The bone armor clattered and crunched. Rattleshirt went down hard on his back, the breath driven from him.
Robb stood over him. He placed the point of his sword against the throat of the giant's skull, right where the bone gave way to the man's neck.
Silence fell over the Fist. The wind seemed to hold its breath.
Rattleshirt froze. His chest heaved. Through the eye sockets, Robb could see the man's eyes, wide and white with shock. But even now, there was no fear. Only hate.
"Do it," Rattleshirt hissed, his hand creeping toward another knife hidden in his boot. Robb felt the intent ripple through the Force like a snake striking. "Finish it, kneeler. Or are you too soft to—"
Robb didn't let him finish.
He didn't look at Mance. He didn't ask for permission. He simply drove the steel down.
The blade punched through the throat, crunching through bone and windpipe, burying itself in the frozen earth beneath. Rattleshirt thrashed once, a violent spasm that rattled his bone armor like dice in a cup, and then went still. Blood pooled dark and hot against the snow.
Robb wrenched his sword free. He looked around the circle of chieftains.
The Weeper had stopped wiping his eyes. Harma Dogshead was gripping her dagger, but she made no move. Styr watched with impassive approval.
Robb felt the adrenaline thrumming in his veins, but beneath it was a cold clarity. He felt no regret. The Force felt cleaner now that the Lord of Bones was gone.
"I didn't come here to kill the living," Robb said, his voice ringing in the silence. He wiped his blade on Rattleshirt's cloak and sheathed it with a sharp snick. "But I will not tolerate a mad dog snapping at my heels when the wolf is at the door."
Tormund Giantsbane let out a roar of approval. He drew his own sword and banged it against his shield. Thump. Thump. Thump.
"Har!" Tormund bellowed. "The pup has teeth! Did you see that? Gutted the bag of bones like a fish!"
Soren Shieldbreaker grunted, nodding his massive head. "Strong," he rumbled. "Good kill."
Styr, the Magnar of Thenn, drew a bronze dagger and rapped it against his breastplate. Clink. Clink. Clink. A sound of disciplined respect.
Even Jarl, standing at the edge of the circle with Val, drew his knife and joined the rhythm. Val watched him, her expression unreadable, but she did not look away.
The sound grew, a cacophony of steel on wood, bone on bronze, a heartbeat of war drumming against the wind. It was not submission. It was recognition. One of their own had fallen, but he had fallen to someone stronger.
Mance Rayder stepped forward, glancing down at the corpse of the man who had once been a rival, then up at Robb. "Well done, Lord Stark. You speak our language better than I thought." He gestured to the gathered chiefs. "You have their ears. Now... tell them how we survive."
The tension broke like a fever. Casks of mead were rolled out from the tents. Fires were stoked higher. The summit of the Fist transformed from a battleground into a feast hall beneath the stars. The body of the Lord of Bones was dragged away without ceremony, his armor stripped by those who needed it more.
Robb stood near the edge of the ringwall, watching the celebrations. He accepted a horn of mead from Tormund, who slapped him on the back hard enough to rattle his teeth.
"Har! You got a heavy hand, boy!" Tormund shouted, his beard glistening with drink. "Rattleshirt had it coming a long time! Har! Maybe I'll let you marry my daughter. She's got a mustache thicker than yours, but she's strong as an ox!"
Robb managed a weak smile. "I am honored, Tormund, but I fear my heart is... otherwise engaged."
"Bah! Engaged!" Tormund took a swig that would have killed a lesser man. "Southron words. You steal her, you keep her. That's the way!"
He wandered off to harass Varamyr, leaving Robb alone with his thoughts.
The alliance was fragile as new ice, but it was there. Styr had agreed to garrison Greyguard—the Thenns respected the structure of the Watch castles. Tormund would take Oakenshield. They would move the women and children through the Wall first. It was madness. His father would be horrified. The Northern lords would be suspicious.
But looking at the thousands of fires burning in the valley below, Robb felt a sense of rightness. He was saving them. Not wildlings. Free Folk. Living men and women.
He took a sip of the mead. It was sweet and strong, burning on the way down.
Then, the wind died.
It didn't taper off. It didn't fade. It ceased. Instantly.
The flapping of the banners stopped. The roar of the fires muted, the flames turning sluggish and dim, as if the air itself was being sucked away. The laughter and shouting of the Free Folk seemed to be swallowed by a sudden, suffocating blanket.
Silence. Absolute, heavy silence.
Robb lowered the horn. The hair on his arms stood up.
He reached out with the Force, seeking the life of the camp, the vibrant chaos he had felt moments ago.
He found a void.
It was a sensation like falling into a frozen lake. The Force, usually a river of energy connecting all things, had gone still. Cold. So cold it burned. It wasn't just the absence of heat; it was the presence of an anti-life, a hunger so vast and ancient it made the stars seem young.
Grey Wind, who had been gnawing on a bone near the fire, dropped it. The direwolf stood, his ears flattened, his tail tucked. He backed away from the ringwall, baring his teeth at the dark.
"Robb?" It was the Smalljon's voice in his memory, or perhaps Benjen's from across the fire. But no one was speaking. Every man on the summit had stopped. They looked around, confused, fearful.
The wind had died. The fires were guttering low, suffocated by a sudden, heavy stillness.
Then, the animals went mad.
It started with Varamyr's beasts. The shadowcat hissed, backing away from the northern slope, its spine arched. The wolves whined, tails tucked between their legs, slinking toward the center of the ringwall. Even the snow bear, a creature that feared nothing, rose on its hind legs and roared—not a challenge, but a sound of pure terror.
Below in the valley, the mammoths began to trumpet, a discordant chorus of panic that rolled up the hill. Horses screamed and tore at their tethers.
"What in the seven hells is spooking them?" Tormund growled, hand going to his sword.
Robb stared at the tree line at the base of the hill. The darkness there was shifting. A mist was rising, white and thick, flowing up the slope not like weather, but like water rising to drown them. It moved against gravity, climbing the hill with silent, inexorable purpose.
Within the mist, lights flickered. Not the orange of torches. Not the yellow of campfires.
Blue.
Bright, burning stars of ice-blue. They appeared in pairs, blinking into existence within the fog. Dozens. Then hundreds.
Robb felt his heart hammer against his ribs. The Force screamed a warning so loud it nearly brought him to his knees. A void was opening before them, a cold hunger that sought to swallow the world.
The mist crested the ringwall. The temperature plummeted, freezing the breath in their lungs. The fires hissed and died completely, plunging the summit into shadow.
Out of the white fog, the shambling things came first. Men with black hands and blue eyes. Bears with rotting fur. A giant, lumbering forward with half its head missing.
But then, the dead parted.
A single figure stepped through the ranks of the wights. It was tall and gaunt, its flesh pale as milk. Its armor shimmered like moonlight on broken glass, shifting color with every movement. It carried a sword that was not steel, but a shard of crystal that glowed with a faint, pale light.
The Weeper stopped weeping. Harma Dogshead took a step back. Even the Magnar of Thenn looked frozen.
"A White Walker," Mance Rayder whispered, the name barely a breath.
The pale figure stopped. It did not look at Mance. It did not look at the chiefs. Its blue eyes, bright with intelligence and mockery, fixed solely on Robb Stark. It raised its crystal sword, and the air shrieked as the ice cracked.
Robb Stark drew his sword. The metal sang, a defiant note in the face of the end of the world. His breath misted in the unnatural cold, freezing instantly in his beard.
"They're here."
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