RUYAN
For weeks, there had been only silence. No ravens from the capital, no word from Lord Stark. Even the usual whispers from King's Landing had stilled, as if the city itself were holding its breath. It was the kind of quiet that preceded storms in Yi Ti — too long, too unnatural. And now, the letter had come.
Ruyan sipped her tea, watching her husband's face as he read the missive from King's Landing. The parchment trembled slightly in his grip. His jaw clenched halfway through—a small tell she had catalogued months ago. When Robb Stark was angry, he held it in his jaw before it reached his voice.
"Treason?" he said, voice strained. "Sansa wrote this?"
"She sings the tune," Ruyan replied, setting her cup down without a sound, "but did not write the song."
"It is your sister's hand," Maester Luwin confirmed, his chain clinking softly as he shifted. "But the queen's words. A summons to swear fealty to the new king."
Robb's fingers tightened around the parchment's edges. "Joffrey puts my father in chains, and now he wants his ass kissed."
Ruyan noted how his Northern accent thickened when emotion breached his careful composure. The roughness suited him better than courtly restraint.
"This is a royal command, my lord," Maester Luwin cautioned. "If you refuse—"
"I won't," Robb said quickly, cutting him off. "If His Grace summons me, I'll go." His eyes hardened. "But not alone."
Ruyan observed the order of his gaze—not to her first, as protocol might dictate, but to Theon Greyjoy. Then, second, to her. She registered this without reaction.
"Call the banners," he declared.
Maester Luwin hesitated. "All of them, my lord?"
"They've all sworn to defend my father," Robb said, straightening. "I'll see what their words are worth."
"You're afraid," Theon said. Not a question.
Robb's hand shifted, fingers flexing. A gesture Ruyan had seen before when he admitted something he preferred to conceal. "I must be."
"Good," Theon said.
"Why is it good?"
Theon's lips curled into a familiar smirk. "It means you're not stupid."
Ruyan studied the interaction. The Greyjoy boy possessed insight, though he cloaked it in carelessness. She allowed the corner of her mouth to lift slightly in acknowledgment, then smoothed her expression before placing her cup precisely on its saucer.
"Well observed, Lord Greyjoy," she said. "Might I have a moment with my husband?"
Theon gave a crooked smile, halfway to a grin. His eyes flicked between them with unsubtle curiosity. He made a small bow—more mockery than deference—before turning to leave.
"Don't take too long," he called over his shoulder. "We've got a war to start."
Ruyan waited until the door closed behind him, counting the fading footsteps to ensure privacy. Three seconds longer than necessary—a calculated margin of safety.
"Now you'll have men," she said, turning back to Robb. "Allies, if we time our march well."
Robb nodded once, eyes fixed on some middle distance. "I wish I could be calm like you," he said. "You make it sound easy."
Ruyan registered the observation without correcting it. The appearance of calm served its purpose, regardless of what lay beneath.
"You must be," she said. "Especially when the lords arrive. They'll want plans. Command. Clear lines."
He sat down heavily, shoulders dropping as though invisible weight had finally settled upon them. His hands splayed across the table, fingers pressing into the wood.
"I'll have to leave Bran as acting Lord," he murmured. "He's only just begun walking again. Baby steps. He should be healing, not ruling. He's ten."
"In Yi Ti," she said quietly, "some have ruled younger."
He didn't answer that. The silence stretched between them—not hostile, but separate, like parallel rivers that didn't quite meet.
Ruyan allowed the silence its moment before continuing. "We won't leave him defenseless," she said. "Ten of my men remain with Bran and Rickon. The others ride."
"We'll need coin. The mines—"
"Must run," she completed his thought, a practice that sometimes narrowed his eyes with suspicion, sometimes with grudging appreciation. Today, she noted, it was the latter. "I've drafted routes. We'll post three hundred at Sea Dragon Point. Three hundred at Torrhen's Square. Two hundred at Moat Cailin."
Robb frowned. "Torrhen's Square doesn't have the men."
"Then leave a garrison. House Tallhart can manage it. We only need them held."
Ruyan watched the calculations move across his face. Despite his initial resistance to her methods, he had grown into strategy as naturally as breathing. This was another shift in their arrangement—acceptance of her approach without requiring emotional alignment.
"I'll leave two hundred in the mines," he said slowly. "Two hundred in Winterfell."
"Enough to hold," she said. "Not enough to weaken us."
She studied him as he stared at the map on the table. There was tension in his shoulders, in the set of his mouth. He did not look at her yet. Not until—
"You never told me to stay," she observed.
That made him meet her eyes directly. A rare occurrence in their daily interactions.
"Because I don't want you here," he said. "I need you with me."
Ruyan catalogued the distinction. Want versus need. The difference was significant in both their cultures, though for different reasons. She did not smile, did not soften her posture. There was no purpose in such gestures between them. Their arrangement had always been about function, not sentiment.
"Then I'll see to it that things are a bit easier for Bran before we leave."
She turned toward the door, movements precise and economical. Behind her, she could still feel his silence—heavy with words neither of them had vocabulary to express. She turned toward the door. Behind her, she could still feel his silence.-
ROBB
Two weeks had passed since Sansa's raven arrived, its message written in her perfect hand but carrying words that had changed everything. Two weeks since he'd read of his father's imprisonment, his sisters' captivity, the accusation of treason against House Stark. The parchment had crumbled in his fist that day.
Now, the North had answered his call.
Robb adjusted the heavy cloak across his shoulders as he stood outside the Great Hall. Grey Wind pressed against his leg, yellow eyes alert, sensing his master's tension. From inside came the sound of hundreds of voices—lords great and small, their sons and captains, gathered under Winterfell's ancient roof to answer the summons of their liege lord.
Their liege lord. Him.
Earlier that day, he had instructed Lord Glover to leave a garrison at Sea Dragon Point. "Three hundred men should suffice," he'd said, tracing the coastline on the map spread across the table. "The ships will use it as their primary port once we march."
"Wise," Glover had replied, though something in his tone suggested surprise at Robb's foresight.
It wasn't his foresight. It was Ruyan's. She had planned for this contingency moons ago, when she knew tensions were brewing. Her trading ships would sail for Seagard once the host moved south—cutting straight across to the western coast while the army marched down the causeway. Supplies would flow like blood through veins, keeping their forces fed and armed.
She had known. And she had prepared.
"Are you ready, my lord?" Maester Luwin asked, appearing at his side.
Robb released a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. "No," he admitted. "But it doesn't matter."
With that, he strode forward, Grey Wind at his heels. The doors swung open.
The noise hit him first—the clamor of too many men in too small a space, the clatter of cups against tables, the competing voices of lords unused to being anything but heard. Then the smell—sweat and ale and roasted meat, the scent of men preparing for war.
The hall fell quieter as he entered, faces turning toward him. He felt every gaze like a physical weight. These men had fought beside his father. Some had fought beside his grandfather. They had known him since he was a boy playing with wooden swords in the practice yard.
Now they waited to see if he was worthy of their banners.
Robb deliberately bypassed the high table where his parents always sat. Instead, he made his way among the benches, choosing a seat between Lord Karstark and the Glovers. Grey Wind settled at his feet, massive and watchful.
"My lords," he said, voice carrying through the momentary lull. "Eat. Drink. Tomorrow we have war to discuss."
The noise resumed, though muted now. The feast was far from festive—the mood somber despite the rivers of ale flowing. Food was passed, bread broken, meat carved. Yet beneath it all ran a current of tension, of anticipation.
These were not men who wanted war. But they were men who would have it nonetheless.
The discussion began naturally, as such things do among warriors. First comparing numbers, then debating routes, then arguing tactics. The squabbling grew louder as cups emptied.
"The vanguard must hit hard and fast," Lord Glover insisted. "We cannot afford to lose momentum once we cross the Neck."
"Aye," agreed Lady Mormont, her voice cutting through the male clamor. "But who leads it?"
That was when the real argument began.
"I'll not march behind Glover's pretty banners," the Greatjon declared, his voice booming across the hall. "My men won't stand for it."
Glover's face darkened. "And I suppose House Umber thinks itself better suited? When was the last time you commanded more than a raid against wildlings, Greatjon?"
"I've killed more men than you've bedded women, Glover," the giant lord retorted, rising to his feet. "My house has bled for Starks since the First Men walked these lands."
"As has mine!"
"The vanguard is mine by right," the Greatjon continued, addressing Robb directly now. "My men are the fiercest fighters in the North."
"Your men lack discipline," snapped Glover.
The Greatjon's face reddened, spittle flying as he shouted back. "You insolent little—"
"Enough."
Robb found himself standing, though he didn't remember rising. The hall quieted, but the Greatjon remained defiant, massive arms crossed across his chest.
"Lord Umber," Robb said, his voice controlled despite the anger thrumming through him. "You will take your seat."
"I will not be commanded by a green boy," the Greatjon shot back. "Even if he is Ned Stark's son."
Robb stepped away from the bench, aware of every eye upon him. Grey Wind rose with him, hackles lifting.
"Then you are welcome to go home, but not before I hang you for being an oathbreaker." Robb said resolute.
He went on to draw his sword. Grey Wind was on him in a heartbeat, his jaws clamping down on the hand before the blade could clear its scabbard. Two of the Greatjon's fingers flew across the hall.
There was a stunned silence. Then the Greatjon laughed.
"Your meat is bloody tough," he roared, grinning even as he clutched his maimed hand. "But I'll chew it."
The tension in the room broke. Men laughed—the uneasy, relieved laughter of those who had expected blood and gotten a jest instead. Robb maintained his composure, though relief flooded through him.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Ruyan give a subtle nod to a servant. Her face remained impassive, but he recognized the signal—a healer would be summoned. Not a word spoken, no attention drawn, just practical response to what needed doing.
Robb cleared his throat, reclaiming the hall's attention. "My lords," he said, "We cannot leave the North defenceless when we march south. Garrisons will be left at Sea Dragon Point, Torrhen's Square, and Moat Cailin. Nearly a thousand men will remain to hold the North while we march."
Murmurs rippled through the gathered lords—concern, calculation.
"A thousand men?" Lord Cerwyn frowned. "That's a significant portion of our strength, my lord."
"One we can ill afford to spare," added another voice.
Lady Mormont stood, her bear sigil gleaming on her breastplate. "House Mormont supports Lord Stark's decision," she declared, her voice brooking no argument. "What good is winning the war if we lose the North while doing it?"
"The Lady speaks sense," Robb acknowledged with a grateful nod. "Our mines must remain operational. Our supply lines secured. Winter is coming, even if war comes first."
He looked around the hall, meeting the eyes of his father's bannermen. "This is not a headlong rush for glory. This is a campaign to free my father and sisters. To restore the North's honor. It requires strategy as much as strength."
Domeric Bolton, who had been quiet all evening, finally spoke. His voice was soft but carried nonetheless. "These arrangements," he observed, "seem remarkably prepared. As if they were already in place before the raven from King's Landing."
The implication hung in the air—suspicious, questioning. Robb felt a flicker of defensiveness rise in his chest, but kept his expression neutral.
"My wife anticipated the possibility of escalation," he answered without hesitation. "She put plans in motion moons ago. Had war not come, the preparations would have served us for winter."
Eyes shifted to Ruyan, who sat at the high table, her Yi Tish attendants nearby. Her face remained composed, revealing nothing of her thoughts.
"And what of your Yi Tish men, Lord Stark?" Lord Karstark asked, his weathered face skeptical. "What role do they play in this Northern campaign?"
"They manage our sea-bound logistics," Robb explained. "Their ships will carry supplies, maintain communications, and ensure our forces remain provisioned regardless of how far south we march."
Karstark's eyes narrowed. "And the princess herself? Surely she remains at Winterfell?"
Before Robb could answer, Ruyan's clear voice cut through the hall.
"Do you leave your allies when you march, Lord Karstark?"
The bluntness of her response—so un-Westerosi in its directness—silenced the hall. Karstark's expression shifted from skepticism to something like surprised respect.
Despite everything—the weight of command, the impending war, his father in chains—Robb felt a smile tugging at his lips. He tried to hide it, but suspected at least some had seen.
In that moment, he realized a truth he had been resisting: he was not walking his father's path anymore. He was forging his own.
After the feast, as the lords begin to file out to their quarters, Domeric approaches Robb.
"Any word from Sansa?" he asks.
"Only the one that summons me to King's Landing," Robb replies. "Not her best song." His tone, almost unintentionally, echoes Ruyan's.
"I wanted to get her out of there when I noted from her letters about the situation," Domeric admits.
"We will get her out," Robb says, certain.
It feels strange, talking to Domeric like this — but he will be his good-brother soon. And now they will see what the Bolton alliance is worth.