Leaving the Lord's Hall, Robb Stark walked alone, his steps heavy as he made his way into the deep, shadowy corridor behind the hall. Here, only the cold wind whistled through the stone walls, and the pale daylight seeped through the narrow slits in the high windows. The air was thick with the damp chill and the scent of stone dust, a signature of the ancient castle. His straight back seemed fragile in the vast emptiness of the corridor, and the heavy cloak draped over his shoulders did nothing to dispel the chill in his heart.
"Young lord!"
A voice, strained with suppressed anxiety, broke the silence. Maester Luwin hurried out, his worried expression clear. His wrinkled hand reached out, grasping Robb's arm urgently.
"Young lord, why did you not relay the Lady's orders? Summoning the vassals south is a reckless and dangerous venture. If... if these vassals learn the truth, they will surely voice their discontent toward House Stark—especially toward you!"
Robb's body tensed instantly. He didn't pull away from the old man's grip but jerked his head up. His blue eyes were filled with a mixture of struggle and anguish, like a trapped young wolf. Suddenly, Robb slammed his tightly clenched fist hard against the cold, rough stone wall beside him. The dull thud echoed harshly through the corridor. A sharp pain shot through his knuckles, and a trickle of crimson seeped into the stone crevices.
His voice was hoarse and dry.
"Master Luwin... You know this too. Father is imprisoned, Mother is stuck in the Riverlands. As the eldest Stark son, I must shoulder the responsibility..."
Maester Luwin looked sorrowfully at the blood dripping from Robb's knuckles. He sighed deeply and said, "Then, young lord, you should follow the Lady's instructions and send Jon to King's Landing. Let the King judge him. That way, you can secure the freedom of your father, Lord Eddard."
Robb whipped his head around, disbelief filling his eyes as he stared at Luwin. His face twisted with grief and pain.
"Master Luwin, even you think this? I know Mother never liked Jon. She saw him as a stain on Father's honor, wishing he'd vanish forever... But now the truth is clear—Jon isn't Father's bastard. He's Prince Rhaegar and Aunt Lyanna's child. Yet Mother... what did she say in her letter? She actually demanded I hand over... Jon? No, I cannot do this! If I were to do such a thing, I could never forgive myself for the rest of my life!"
Earlier, amidst the heated emotions in the hall, Robb had deliberately withheld part of the letter's contents. Catelyn's letter was soaked in despair and anguish. When she learned her husband Eddard had been imprisoned and charged with treason for protecting Jon's true identity, she had nearly collapsed.
Jon's identity had finally resolved a long-held emotional knot for her, but it also inflicted a deeper wound. For the sake of his sister's dying wish, to protect this child, Eddard had willingly borne the stain of dishonor for over a decade, enduring her resentment. Through Catelyn's distorted vision, Jon was the source of all calamity, the very eye of the storm.
Then, a raven from the Iron Throne delivered its command. The North must cooperate with the Gold Cloaks, journey to Castle Black at the Wall, and escort Jon Snow back to King's Landing. Catelyn clung to this as if it were a lifeline. Handing over Jon would save Eddard! This thought overwhelmed her. Almost hysterically, she commanded Robb in her letter to send men immediately to the Wall, bring Jon back, place him under strict guard, and await the king's envoy to take charge.
As Robb read those cold words, a chill ran from the soles of his feet to the top of his head. He could not imagine pushing the brother who had trained swords with him since childhood, scaled walls together, and sworn in the godswood to be each other's shields—pushing him toward the executioner's block. He could not do it! If he did, he would spend the rest of his life in an inescapable abyss of guilt and self-reproach, his soul forever restless!
Maester Luwin's sorrowful face spoke volumes.
"No, young lord. I never wished to harm Jon. Even if he were the Lord's bastard, I would not do such a thing. I have always regarded him as a child of Winterfell—taught him to read and write, to understand history. I watched him grow just as I watched you and the other children. But now Jon's true identity is known. If we refuse to comply with the Iron Throne's demands, if we insist on sheltering Jon, then the Iron Throne will have ample justification to brand the entire North as traitors. They will spare no effort in crushing us, and your father, Lord Eddard…"
Luwin trailed off, but the implication was heavier than any spoken word. Robb's back straightened abruptly, his grief overshadowed by fierce resolve.
"Then we'll settle it on the battlefield! I'll lead the North's horsemen to trample the gates of King's Landing! I'll hold my sword to the King's throat and demand he release my father!"
Maester Luwin's face betrayed resignation and weariness. The young lord before him was utterly consumed by youthful passion. He valued his brotherhood with Jon above all else. Faced with the choice between marching to war and handing over the hostage, he chose the former. This meant the North would stand alone, facing the forces loyal to the Iron Throne. Perhaps the Riverlands might join them, but alas, the Riverlands were still reeling from the ravages of the Westerosi army, unable to spare any aid.
The old maester's mind was a tangled knot. He could never have imagined that Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn's journey south would unleash such a colossal storm, dragging the entire House Stark—indeed, the entire North—into this bottomless vortex…
…
The towering walls of Winterfell cast immense shadows, dappling the sprawling encampments beyond the city gates with patches of light and dark. The air was thick with the smoke of campfires, the aroma of simmering stews, the pungent stench of horses, and the coarse chatter of soldiers.
Within one of the dark tents, made of thick woolen felt, the atmosphere was starkly different from the outside clamor—oppressive and cold. A dim tallow lamp hung from the central pole, its flame flickering uneasily, casting shifting shadows across several faces, each wearing a different expression.
Lord Roose Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort, sat upright on a simple wooden stool, his posture retaining aristocratic composure. His long, pale fingers—almost translucent—held a pewter tankard with elegant grace, its depths holding a dark, bitter ale. He sipped slowly, his eyes—as pale as winter ice—scanning the other four men in the tent without warmth.
Lady Flint of Widow's Watch, Ser Herman Tohar of Torrhen's Square, and the Glover brothers of Deepwood Motte.
Roose Bolton's voice was soft as he spoke:
"I think we should face the truth: Winterfell is now ruled by a hot-headed boy. Are we, the lords of The North, truly prepared to wage war against the men of the south?"
Ser Helman hesitated slightly. "It is not that we desire war. Lord Eddard's imprisonment by the Iron Throne is a declaration of war."
Seeing no response, he added, as if to convince himself, "We have sworn allegiance to House Stark."
Lady Flint's tone was sharp and cutting:
"Allegiance depends on whom you pledge it to, and more importantly, whether it's worth sacrificing everything you own. Look at that noble lady at the Barrow Hall—she didn't even show her face herself, just sent some foot soldiers to make up the numbers. Isn't that telling?"
Helman Tallhart instantly understood—Lady Flint was referring to Lady Barbrey Dustin of Barrow Hall. That lady hadn't even come to Winterfell herself, merely sending a few soldiers to House Stark as a perfunctory gesture. Clearly, Lady Dustin's actions had left Lady Flint feeling rather aggrieved.
The Glover brothers chewed silently on Lady Flint's words, their eyes betraying a hint of agreement.
Roose Bolton set down his cup, its base tapping softly against the rough wooden table. His pallid face grew even more somber in the flickering lamplight as he spoke flatly,
"Must we fight even when better solutions exist? A year and a half ago, my heir followed Lord Eddard to the Narrow Sea. What returned was only news of his death... Hand over Jon Snow, that Targaryen child, and The North may still live in peace with the Iron Throne."
Ser Helman sighed. "I wish I could agree, but..."
Lady Flint shot him a cold glance.
"But that wolf cub thinks he's something special. He insists on marching south. I don't believe Lady Catelyn or the maester by his side haven't told him that yielding to the Iron Throne's demands is the wisest course."
Galbart Glover fixed Lady Flint with a piercing gaze before adding, "Indeed. No one desires war against all the southern houses. The North would be destroyed in such a conflict."
Roose Bolton narrowed his milky-white eyes.
"Even a vassal has reason to defy a child-lord's folly. And Robb Stark is no lord of ours—merely a son of Eddard Stark. We must show the resolve befitting a vassal."
"I agree!" Lady Flint declared loudly.
A resolute expression hardened her face, deepened by dark purple bags under her eyes.
"I shall make the Widow's Watch's stance clear to that boy shortly. I will not join his army. If he desires my troops, for Stark's sake, I may allow my heir to take a portion of soldiers to gain experience. But no more. The Widow's Watch must be defended. My subjects must be protected."
Roose Bolton nodded calmly.
"Unfortunately, I too recall a pressing matter. When we answered Lord Eddard's call to arms for the Narrow Sea, the elite forces of the Dreadfort suffered heavy losses. Our ranks have yet to be fully replenished. This time, I can only spare a limited number of men. I shall personally explain this difficulty to Robb Stark."
He had brought only three hundred men to Winterfell this time; the rest remained at the Dreadfort, awaiting his orders. The cunning old man would never foolishly follow Robb Stark into the thick of battle.
The Glover brothers exchanged a glance and nodded.
"Like you, Deepwood Motte can only spare a portion of its men."
Ser Herman frowned. So these two intended to conceal their strength as well. He had once been quite loyal to House Stark. But after being stirred by Roose Bolton and Lisanne Tully, and following the Glover brothers' lead, the scales in Ser Helman's mind began to tip toward them.
The truth was clear: Robb Stark was undoubtedly withholding something from them. Otherwise, how could Lady Catelyn's letter have omitted any mention of Jon Snow, allowing the North to march south to confront the mighty Iron Throne?
"Very well. Our House Tallhart will likewise send only a limited force southward."
Helman Tallhart declared with a sigh of relief, seeing the others' agreement.
Within the tent, under the dim light, five figures reached a silent understanding.
...
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