Roose Bolton's pale eyes flickered as he spoke:
"My lords, Renly has raised his banners at Bitterbridge. I expect Lord Tywin will soon wish to negotiate with us. I volunteer to ride to Casterly Rock and discuss terms of truce. I can secure us a favorable—"
"You coward!"
The roar came from Greatjon Umber, seated at Robb Stark's left. His voice thundered through the tent, drowning Bolton's words.
Jon Umber—called the Greatjon—stood nearly seven feet tall, a mountain of muscle. When Robb had first summoned his banners at Winterfell, Umber had drawn his sword on him in challenge—until Robb's courage and presence won him over. Since then, the Greatjon had become his fiercest champion, boasting that he'd hack off the knees of any man who refused to kneel to Robb Stark.
Lady Dacey Mormont pointed at Bolton, her voice blazing:
"To beg for peace is to show weakness! The women of Bear Island don't lick the Lannisters' boots!"
White-bearded Rickard Karstark slammed his fist.
"To the Seven Hells with the Lannisters!"
The tent erupted in shouts and curses until Robb raised his hand for silence.
His sharp blue eyes swept his bannermen.
"The Lannisters hurt my family," he said.
With a metallic ring, he drew his longsword and laid it on the table before him. The steel gleamed cold against the rough wood.
"I'll negotiate with the Lannisters only through this."
The Greatjon was the first to shout his approval. The others joined in, pounding fists and steel on the table.
Then, with a sudden motion, Greatjon sprang to his feet.
"My lords!"
All eyes turned toward him.
"Let me speak my mind about these two kings!"
He spat to the side and bellowed:
"Renly Baratheon's not worth a dog's fart—and Stannis no better! Why should a man who sits among the roses of Highgarden or the sands of Dorne rule over us? What do they know of the Wall, of the Wolfswood, or the barrows of the First Men? Even their gods are false! As for the Lannisters—let the Others take them all!"
"I've had enough!" The Greatjon reached over his shoulder and drew his massive greatsword.
"Why can't we rule ourselves again, as we used to?"
He leveled the blade toward Robb on the dais.
"My lords, if I must kneel to a king, I'll kneel to only one!"
With a heavy thud, Greatjon dropped to one knee before Robb Stark, shouting in a voice like thunder:
"The King in the North!"
The tent fell still. Then Rickard Karstark rose slowly.
"In that case, let those southern fools keep their Red Keep and their Iron Chair!"
He unsheathed his sword and cried:
"The King in the North!"
Lady Maege Mormont stood next, her voice ringing like steel:
"The King in the North!"
One by one, the northern lords rose—swords drawn, knees bent toward Robb.
"The King in the North!"
"The King in the North!"
"The King in the North!"
"The King in the North!"
For the first time in three centuries—since Aegon the Conqueror's unification—the ancient title returned in full majesty, echoing through the Neck.
Five days later – The Eyrie.
The sunrise over the Vale bathed the eastern sky in rose and gold.
Catelyn Tully rested her hands on the carved stone rail, watching the light spill across the fields and forests. Darkness faded to blue, then to green. Water fell like ghosts from the cliffs—long streams plunging from the Giant's Lance, casting white mist over Alyssa's Tears.
They said Alyssa Arryn had watched her husband, brothers, and children slain before her eyes, yet never wept. The gods decreed that after death, her tears would fall forever—until the day they reached the valley floor, where her loved ones lay buried. Six thousand years had passed, and no drop had yet touched the ground.
My Ned…
At the thought of her husband, Lady Catelyn's heart broke anew.
He had told her: The living go south, the bones go north. He belonged to Winterfell. He had said it again and again—but had she listened? No. She had told him, You must go, for our family, for our children.
Her fault—all her fault. When she died, would her tears fall as a waterfall of their own?
"Good morrow, Cat," came Petyr Baelish's rasping voice behind her.
Catelyn did not turn. She drew a long breath, mastering herself.
"Petyr, you will call me Lady Stark—or Lady Catelyn."
Petyr stood neatly dressed in grey and black velvet, hands clasped behind him.
"Forgive me. I keep remembering the days when we were young. It slips out."
"I don't like that excuse, Littlefinger."
She turned to face him, her face calm again.
Petyr gave a helpless smile. "I'll try, Lady Catelyn."
Her eyes flickered. Lately, she too had found herself recalling things long forgotten—games they'd played as children, when she'd been Sansa's age and Lysa younger than Arya, and Petyr younger still. She and Lysa had taken turns kissing him—sometimes solemnly, sometimes giggling—and it all came back so vividly now.
Then she remembered—Lysa whispering shyly that Petyr had tried to put his tongue in her mouth, and that she had liked it. Had her sister fallen for Littlefinger even then?
Catelyn's face grew colder. That shy girl had become a woman both vain and frightened, fanciful, careless—and worst of all, she had dared imprison her own sister.
Her voice was ice. "If you're not here to release me from the Eyrie, Petyr, I refuse to see you."
A few days ago she had swallowed her anger to seek him out, desperate for news. Instead she found only pain—and the sight of Lysa's madness.
Petyr spread his hands. "My lady, I cannot stand by while sisters destroy each other."
He sighed. "I only wish to help you and Lysa reconcile."
Catelyn's eyes flashed. "Is it my fault? If not for my trust in my sister, would I ever have come here alone?"
"Don't be angry—" He took a half step, halted by her glare.
He shrugged awkwardly. "Catelyn, our Lysa suffers nightmares every night. She needs our help."
"Your Lysa, you mean, Littlefinger."
That stung him. "Catelyn, you must know—after she came to the Vale, she lost many children. Her mind… has not been well."
He sighed and stepped closer. "At least she trusts me. I was her childhood friend. She believes I won't harm her, and listens to my counsel. If my affection eases her pain, how can I deny it? Catelyn…"
Five miscarriages, two stillbirths… Catelyn could hardly imagine such grief. If it had been her, she would have been shattered.
When she realized he had drawn near, her voice was sharp. "Petyr!"
He ignored the warning. "My heart has never moved from that place, Catelyn."
Her anger flared hotter. "Petyr!"
He smiled bitterly and stepped back.
"I'll not repeat myself," she said. "You will call me Lady Stark!"
Feigning outrage, he said, "The most I can do is Lady Catelyn. To call you Lady Sta—Seven save me, I'd rather meet the Stranger!"
She met his jest with a cold smile, gesturing toward the window. "Please."
He blinked, coughed to hide his embarrassment, and averted his eyes.
"Very well, Lady Stark," he muttered.
Her gaze stayed on him—cold, but faintly distant. For a heartbeat, she'd seen the boy he'd once been. Clever, sly Littlefinger indeed.
Turning to the window again, she said evenly, "Leave me. I don't wish to be disturbed."
Her auburn hair shone in the morning light—still beautiful, still dangerous to him.
"My lady, are you sure you want me gone?" he said softly.
"I just received word from your son. If you're not interested…"
Catelyn whirled. "Robb? What news?"
"Good news—be calm, Cat."
He smiled faintly. "I'll have to give up calling you that soon…"
With an elegant bow, he looked up at her.
"Robb has been proclaimed King in the North, Queen Mother Catelyn."
King in the North?
Catelyn clapped a hand over her mouth.
How could he do such a reckless thing?
Their enemies had been only the Lannisters—now they would have both Baratheon brothers besides. The North would stand alone—beset on every side.
Ned's death had nearly broken her. She longed only for her daughters' safety, to return home and weep for her husband until her days ended.
She had wanted Robb to live in peace—to rule Winterfell, kiss a girl in the godswood, wed, and be happy.
"If I hadn't been imprisoned here," she cried, "I could have stopped this!"
Panic filled her heart. She had called the banners for her family's safety—now war only grew. Would Lannister and Baratheon join to crush her son?
Petyr's smile deepened. His eyes gleamed. "Catelyn, it sounds like you think someone urged your son to take the crown."
"Of course they did!"
"Not necessarily…"
"You don't know my son!"
"I don't," he said smoothly, "but I know people."
He leaned closer. "Who but a Stark himself could move a Stark?"
Catelyn sagged against the window, helpless. Robb was so like his father—unyielding. Why had he rushed to crown himself? Could he not see the peril? She could not guess the reason.
Then she turned to Petyr, pleading. "Petyr, I must go to him. He needs me. Help me!"
Petyr looked pained. "You know I can't refuse you, Catelyn…"
He sighed again. "But Lysa will not let you go. My own freedom is little better—I'm confined to this castle myself."
You're lying. You always have a way.
"Petyr," she said softly, "help me, and I'll owe you a debt."
He hesitated under her gaze, then nodded slowly. "Let me think…"
He paced back and forth, fingers at his chin, then turned back to her.
"Catelyn, your son's proclamation can't be undone. And I doubt he would revoke it—it concerns his dignity as a ruler."
Catelyn knew he was right. Robb was not just her son; he was Ned's heir. He had taken the crown; his lords had knelt. If she now scolded him, it would be like a mother sending her child to bed without supper. His bannermen would mock the boy-king ruled by his mother's tongue. Robb needed respect—and even fear—and mockery is poison to fear.
Petyr smiled, poised and confident.
"Catelyn, don't worry. I wouldn't raise a problem without offering you its solution."
.
.
.
🔥 The Throne's Last Flame — A Song Forged in Ice and Wrath 🔥
📯 Lords and Ladies of the Realm, heed the call! 📯
The saga burns ever brighter—30 chapters ahead now await, available only to those who swear their loyalty on Patreon. 🐉❄️🔥
Walk among dragons, defy the cold, and stake your claim in a world where crowns are won with fire and fury.
🔗 Claim your place: www.patreon.com/DrManhattanEN
👤 Known on Patreon as: DrManhattanEN
Your loyalty feeds the flame. And fire remembers.