Northern Army Camp, Main Tent.
Catelyn sat slumped in a rough wooden chair, looking as though she had aged ten years overnight. In her trembling hands was a letter from Winterfell. It carried terrible news from the North.
Winterfell had fallen to the Ironborn. Bran's fate was unknown.
The tent flap opened, and Robb strode in, his face still stern from the war council he'd just adjourned.
"Mother, you sent for me?"
He stopped mid-sentence when he saw her eyes—eyes hollowed by despair so deep it seemed to devour all light.
Catelyn slowly lifted her head. Her gaze was empty and cold, burning only with hatred. Her voice, quiet but cutting as a blade of ice, broke the silence.
"Robb… Winterfell… has fallen."
The words hit him like a hammer. Robb staggered, nearly losing his balance.
"What?! Who?! The Lannisters couldn't—"
"Not the Lannisters!"
Catelyn shot to her feet and hurled the letter at his boots, her voice rising sharply.
"It was your good brother, Theon Greyjoy! That Kraken whelp we raised for ten years in our wolf's den! He led the Ironborn and struck at Winterfell!"
Her voice cracked with anguish, tears streaming down her cheeks.
"Bran… my Bran… that beast killed him too…"
Robb felt the world drop away beneath him, his heart turning to ice.
Catelyn's gaze fixed on him, sharp and accusing.
"Robb, how many times did I warn you? Yet you still sent Theon back, knowing full well that greed and treachery are carved into the bones of the Ironborn like salt from the sea. Why did you let him go?"
She stepped closer, tears breaking free in torrents.
"And this cursed war! If you hadn't rashly summoned your banners over Jon Snow's parentage, none of this would have happened! Your father would still live! Winterfell wouldn't have been taken! Bran—"
Her voice failed her. Her body shook so violently she seemed about to collapse.
Robb turned away, his face dark with anger. His tone hardened.
"This isn't about Jon! It was the Baratheons and the Lannisters who started this war! Father went to King's Landing to uncover the truth—for the realm! It was they who betrayed honor! They who murdered him! It was Theon who betrayed us!"
He tore the dagger from his belt and drove it deep into the wooden pillar beside him.
"Theon Greyjoy! I swear by the Old Gods and the New—I'll take his head with my own hands! I'll make the Iron Islands pay a hundredfold, a thousandfold for their treachery! I'll drown the Greyjoy name in blood for Bran and every Northman who died unjustly!"
Catelyn looked at her raging son, her despair untouched, her voice hollow with sorrow.
"Swear? Kill Theon? Even if you killed him ten thousand times, would it bring my children back? Would Eddard return? Robb, look around you!"
She pointed wearily toward the tent's entrance.
"We stand alone. The Lannister host watches us like wolves. Renly sits crowned in the South, commanding the armies of the Reach and Stormlands—and he calls us his enemies. Stannis Baratheon rules from Dragonstone and brands House Stark traitors in his letters to every lord, accusing us of sheltering Targaryen remnants. He vows vengeance. Every plea I've sent for aid has vanished without answer. We have no allies left, Robb! However brave the North may be, how can we fight enemies on all sides?"
The tent fell silent.
Robb's anger faded, smothered beneath the weight of her words. The pride and defiance of a crowned king seemed fragile now, crushed beneath the grim truth of war and loss.
After a long pause, Robb spoke.
"There might still be one path open to us, Mother. I've made my decision. We will seek aid from the Eastern lord across the Narrow Sea."
Before Catelyn could answer, he turned toward the entrance.
"Ser, come in."
A bald, heavyset man entered—Ser Wendel Manderly. His face was lined by years of wind and war, but his eyes still shone with resolve.
"Your Grace," he said, bowing slightly. "I advised this outside the tent as well—seek aid from the Eastern Conqueror. He's taken the Free Cities of the Three Daughters, defeated a Dothraki Khal, and rumor says he commands dragons. If we can pay a worthy price, perhaps he'll lend us an army strong enough to turn the tide."
Catelyn fell silent, lost in thought. The name of that Eastern conqueror was not unfamiliar to her. Eddard had once spent half a year in Tyrosh negotiating with him—to ransom back the Northern lords.
Robb looked at his mother and urged, "Mother, trust me. This is worth trying!"
Catelyn hesitated for a long moment before finally nodding. "We have no other choice. Go, Ser Wendel. Take your men down the Trident, cross the Narrow Sea, and seek aid from the King of the East."
"As you command. The fleet at White Harbor stands ready to assist!" Wendel solemnly acknowledged the order, a flicker of hope glinting in his eyes.
...
Late that night, at the edge of the Northern army's encampment.
The tent flaps were tightly drawn, with only a dim oil lamp casting flickering light inside. Helman Tallhart, Galbart Glover, and Robin Flint—the heir to Widow's Watch—sat together, their faces dark and heavy with unease.
Outside, the wind howled through the camp, making the silence within feel even heavier.
"Damn the Ironborn! Damn Theon Greyjoy!"
Helman Tallhart gulped down a mouthful of cheap ale, slamming his wooden cup hard against the low table, fury twisting his face.
Robin Flint, more composed than the others, still furrowed his brow deeply. "The worst part is, when His Grace Robb sent Theon back, Lady Catelyn fought against it. She saw clearly the Ironborn couldn't be trusted. But His Grace…"
He trailed off, but his meaning was plain enough.
Galbart Glover spoke grimly. "It wasn't just Theon. At the start of the war, the Lady urged the King to surrender Jon Snow in exchange for Lord Eddard. But the King, young and proud, wanted to show the strength of the North. He marched south instead. And what happened? Lord Eddard was killed, and now the Ironborn pillage our homeland…"
He fell silent, his thoughts drifting to Deepwood Motte, and pain creased his face.
"What good does it do to talk about this now?"
Helman scratched his head in frustration. "Lord Eddard is dead. Other than following that boy Robb down this road to the bitter end, what other path do we have?"
His own Torrhen's Square had been one of the Ironborn's first targets. Helman had long since lost any stomach for fighting in the south.
His words were coarse, but they spoke the bitter truth that weighed on every heart in the tent.
...
Meanwhile, at the far end of the encampment, in Roose Bolton's tent.
The Lord of the Dreadfort sat beneath the pale glow of a silver candlestick, reading a sealed letter. The wax was crimson red, stamped with the image of a roaring lion.
The flickering candlelight cast shadows over Roose's bloodless face, deepening its grim pallor. His pale eyes moved slowly across each word on the page, his expression cold and unreadable.
When he finished reading, he silently extinguished the flame.
...
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