Lord Jon Umber abruptly stood from his seat. His immense frame towered nearly a head above everyone else, his broad shoulders seemingly capable of carrying the weight of a bull. His rugged face was marked with irritation and disdain. His voice boomed like a bell, ringing in the ears of all present.
"Lord Roose, spare us your nonsense! Jon Snow, Blackfyre, the son of Rhaegar—those are just excuses the people of King's Landing use to fight us Northerners!"
His massive hand slammed onto the table, sending cups and plates scattering.
"Lord Eddard is our lord, the Warden of the North! He's locked in the dungeons of the Red Keep! His wife, the daughter of House Tully, is besieged by Tywin's army! The Riverlands bleed! Our allies cry for help! And you..."
His thick fingers pointed at the hesitant lords, finally fixing on Robb.
"And you, boy! Your father was a true direwolf, but you, Robb Stark? Is it wolf's blood or fish's blood that runs through your veins? You sit upon your father's chair, but do you have his courage? Are you fit to lead us Northerners into battle? Or are you planning to write to King's Landing, like your mother, and whine and beg for mercy from those haughty southerners?!"
He spat contemptuously. "Ha! You're just a wolf cub still suckling from its mother!"
The hall fell silent once more, the tension in the air heavier than ever. All eyes were now focused on Robb and Greatjon.
Karstark glared at Umber, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. Lord Manderly turned pale with fear. Lady Mormont's eyes were like ice. Roose Bolton narrowed his eyes slightly, a barely noticeable smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
Robb's face turned from red with fury to pale with shock. Greatjon's insult struck him like a whip, hitting him both in the face and the heart. He felt a rush of hot blood flood his head, nearly drowning his reason. His hand, clenched tightly under the table, dug his nails into his palm.
Just as the tension reached its peak, Grey Wind, the direwolf lying at Robb's feet, stirred. Without warning, the massive beast rose silently, like a silver-gray specter. It didn't roar, nor did it bare its teeth. It simply locked its ghostly green eyes on Jon Umber, who was still bellowing.
Greatjon's roar cut off abruptly. He felt the deadly threat, instinctively trying to retreat. But it was too late. Grey Wind moved, fast as lightning!
A massive silver-gray shadow lunged forward, cutting through the air with a sharp sound. Its target wasn't Greatjon's throat or vital organs, but his defiant, arrogant index finger—pointing at Robb.
Snap!
The bone-crushing sound of breaking bones echoed in unison with Greatjon's agonizing scream. Grey Wind clamped down with perfect precision, sinking its teeth into Jon Umber's thick index finger. The powerful jaws snapped, severing it clean off. Blood spurted from the stump like a small fountain, splattering the dark wood of the table and the clothing of nearby lords.
Half a finger, thick with calluses and still in its shattered leather glove, fell to the cold floor.
"Aaah—!!! My hand! My hand!"
Greatjon clutched his bloody right hand, his face contorted in pain. His massive body staggered backward, knocking over a chair with a loud crash. His eyes were filled with terror and shock, staring at Grey Wind.
Having landed its blow, Grey Wind did not pursue. It picked up the severed finger in its jaws and walked back to Robb, elegant and cold. It lay down again at his feet, licking the blood from its muzzle, its eerie green eyes still locked on the howling Greatjon. A low, rumbling growl emerged from its throat.
The entire hall was dead silent. Everyone was frozen by the sudden, bloody, violent scene. Even Karstark, the fiercest of them all, was momentarily speechless. Only Greatjon's anguished howls, heavy breaths, and the crackling of the hearth fire filled the air.
Robb took a deep breath, forcing down the turmoil of rage and blood surging within him. Grey Wind's action had served as both a punishment for the challenger and, in the most primal way, a declaration to all the lords of the North: who truly ruled here, and who possessed the real power.
He rose slowly to his feet. The youthful innocence had vanished from his young face, replaced only by the cold winds of winter.
He strode to the far end of the long table, towering over the cowering Greatjon, who writhed on the floor in agony and terror.
"Lord Jon Umber, do you question my blood? My courage? My ability to lead The North?"
He pointed at the severed finger on the floor.
"Now answer me, House Umber! Do you still swear allegiance to the Starks? Are you still prepared to follow this 'wolf cub' south to King's Landing, to make the Iron Throne pay for its blood debt?!"
The agony nearly sent Greatjon into unconsciousness, but Robb's icy words and Grey Wind's haunting green eyes instilled a fear unlike any he had ever known.
He struggled to lift his head, staring at the young Lord before him—suddenly towering, radiating an authority that brooked no challenge—and at the giant wolf crouched beside him.
All arrogance vanished, leaving only humiliation, agony, and profound awe.
Clutching his bleeding hand, he roared with every ounce of strength:
"Loyalty! House Umber... forever... loyal to Stark, following... Lord Robb...!"
Each word was accompanied by a gasp of excruciating pain.
Robb's gaze shifted away from Greatjon, sweeping like a blade across the face of every lord present.
His voice rose abruptly, filled with unyielding resolve:
"And you?!"
"House Karstark, to the death!"
Rickard Karstark drew his sword first, slamming it hard into the ground.
"Bear Island, with Lord Robb!"
Dacey Mormont's voice was as sharp as a blade.
"Deepwood Motte, with Lord Robb!"
The Glover brothers spoke in unison.
"White Harbor... with the Starks!"
Wyman Manderly's voice still trembled, yet his resolve was unshaken.
"House Tallhart..."
"House Feint..."
One by one, the lords rose, drew their swords, or pounded their chests with clenched fists, swearing their allegiance.
The hall echoed with the clang of steel and the deep, resonant chorus of affirmation.
Roose Bolton rose last, slowly. His pallid face remained serene and unruffled. His pale eyes fixed deeply on Robb, then glanced at the glaring pool of blood and severed finger on the floor. Bowing slightly, he spoke in his soft voice:
"The Dreadfort answers the call of Winterfell, Lord Robb."
His tone betrayed no emotion.
Robb stood at the far end of the long table, his young face illuminated by the hearth fire and the gazes of the lords of The North—a mix of awe, resolve, and complex thoughts.
In the hall, the great direwolf banner fluttered slightly in the warm air rising from the hearth.
"Good! Send word! Muster the armies of all my lords! We shall show the Iron Throne what happens to those who provoke the pack..."
His gaze, like burning Ice, swept over the map to the position of King's Landing.
"The North remembers!"
"The North remembers!"
The hall echoed with thunderous oaths, shaking the ancient stone walls. The war horn had sounded at Winterfell. Outside the window, The North's icy wind seemed to grow even more biting and piercing.