When the Karstark family's army appeared at Winterfell, everyone knew that the great host was about to march.
Bran Stark sat in his chair, looking at the sea of people filling Winterfell. For a moment, he felt dazed—even when the king had come last time, there hadn't been this many people.
Fortunately, Robb had made many arrangements early on. Though there were a lot of people now, it wasn't crowded. Each family occupied its own area, with little friction between them. Instead, everything appeared unexpectedly orderly.
Bran had heard that this peace had come at the cost of more than a dozen heads personally chopped off by his brother Robb.
"How many people came earlier?" Bran asked curiously, turning to Maester Luwin beside him.
Maester Luwin had been so busy lately that his feet barely touched the ground. While scribbling and sketching on parchment, he replied, "More than twelve thousand. The Karstark family alone brought over two thousand men. The city's grain stores are already running low. The army has to depart soon, or we'll all be begging on the streets."
"Less than fifteen thousand people… can we really rescue Father?"
Luwin's scalp tingled from calculating numbers all day. "There are still the crannogmen. Once the army reaches a bit farther south, Lord Manderly and Lord Flint will join as well. Near the Kingsroad, there should also be some knights from the barrowlands who want to try their luck."
Hearing that many more would still join, Bran felt a little reassured. Watching the Karstark banner—black with a white sunburst—slowly enter the city, unease crept back into his heart. "Brother should host a banquet for them."
"The Karstarks not only shared the same bloodline as your family over a thousand years ago," Maester Luwin said, "but among the nobles who've arrived, they're the strongest—along with House Cerwyn, House Umber, and House Bolton. Your brother will definitely host them in the grand hall."
There were simply too many nobles, and almost all of them had brought their sons. Winterfell's reception hall couldn't hold them all, so Robb could only host banquets in batches according to each house's strength.
Bran hated such occasions. As Robb's brother, he would sit at Robb's left hand—the most honored seat besides Robb himself. But as someone crippled from the waist down, he could feel the resentment in the lords' gazes.
Why should a cripple sit in that seat?
No one said it aloud, but Bran had heard that sentence countless times.
Tonight was another banquet. Once again, he would have to sit in that position, enduring everyone's strange, scrutinizing looks. If he could, Bran truly wished he could fall seriously ill right now—recover only after those people had all left.
But once those people left, Robb would leave too…
Though still young, Bran understood the cruelty of war. If anything truly happened to Robb on the battlefield, House Stark would truly collapse.
Then Father in King's Landing—and Sansa and Arya—would never be saved…
Lost in chaotic thoughts, time slipped by second by second. Soon it was time for the banquet welcoming House Karstark. Someone sent by Robb came to invite Bran to dress and prepare for the great hall.
Bran felt a dull ache in his head. He let out a soft sigh, changed his clothes, and set off anyway.
On the way to the hall, Bran felt that this road was even harder to walk than the one his brother had taken to King's Landing.
At last, they reached the doors of the great hall. When they opened, numerous lords sat around a long table, voices booming, emotions running high. Several smaller tables stood nearby, where the younger people were seated.
Robb was the first to see Bran arrive. He stood, took the wheelchair handles from the servant, and pushed Bran to the seat on his left.
Bran seemed to hear those illusory voices of doubt again, but his expression remained calm. Influenced by his brother, he had learned to hide his emotions, never letting others see what he was thinking.
After settling his brother, Robb raised his wine cup. "Welcome, Earl Rickard Karstark. House Stark will not forget this friendship. Our forces are now assembled. Tonight is not only a banquet in honor of Uncle Rickard, but also a council before we march."
With House Cerwyn, House Umber, House Bolton, and House Karstark all present—plus the soldiers of House Stark—the strength of the North was almost fully gathered. It was time to raise the banners and go to war.
"Rescue Lord Eddard!"
"To King's Landing—kill that old biaozi!"
"Damn it, back when I fought the Mad King with the old lord, that biaozi didn't even know where she was selling herself. And now she dares imprison Ned? To King's Landing—kill her!"
Once the call to arms was made, the lords of the North erupted with excitement. Some thirsted for glory, some were driven by brotherhood forged with Ned in battle, and others were simply loyal to House Stark.
After the lords finished venting their emotions, Robb smiled faintly and continued, "When you return, make your preparations. Tomorrow at noon, the army marches."
At that moment, a rough, booming voice rang out—so loud it was like thunder exploding beside everyone's ears:
"Our house's troops must march at the front—at the very least, we won't be behind House Cerwyn!"
The sudden roar startled everyone present. Only Robb remained calm, a faint smile still at the corner of his lips.
Robb looked toward the speaker—Jon Umber, head of House Umber. Because the son beside him, wolfing down food, was also named Jon, people usually called him the Greatjon. He stood over two meters tall; even wrapped in heavy armor, his massive, powerful build was obvious. A ferocious beast—that was everyone's first impression of him.
Robb spoke unhurriedly. "Greatjon, you are now within my army. We can discuss specific plans, but the result may not be what you wish. Lastly—and this is most important—once a military order is issued, whether you are satisfied or not, you must carry it out. Understand?"
The Greatjon didn't listen at all. "Orders, my ass! If my men are placed in the rear, I'll turn around and go home immediately!"
The expressions of Medger Cerwyn and Rickard Karstark both changed.
Robb, however, was in no hurry. He sat back leisurely and looked at Maege, the newly appointed captain of the military law squad. "If the Greatjon truly leaves—having sworn loyalty and then deserting before battle—according to our newly established military law, what is the punishment?"
Maege shot to her feet. With a build no less imposing than the Greatjon's, she met his gaze head-on, one hand gripping the hilt at her waist. She spat out two words, slow and clear:
"Beheading."
No one doubted that if Robb gave the order, she would swing without the slightest hesitation.
"You say I'm deserting before battle? You piss-green little brat!"
The Greatjon didn't react much to the word "beheading," but the accusation of desertion—a stain on one's honor—instantly sent him into a rage. He had fought beside Ned his entire life, straightforward in nature, valuing honor above life itself. Hearing that, his mind went blank as his hand reached for his waist.
He was going for his blade.
"AWOOOO—!!!"
Grey Wind, who had been gnawing on a bone at Robb's feet, suddenly sensed danger. He leapt onto the table in a flash, eyes splitting wide, jaws opening as he lunged toward the Greatjon, who was about to draw his sword against his master.
Everything happened too fast. None of the nobles present could react.
But what followed left them even more stunned.
An invisible force of suction-like gravity suddenly appeared around Robb. Bran, closest to him, felt it most clearly—he felt as if he were about to be pulled out of his wheelchair, flying straight toward Robb!
Grey Wind froze mid-pounce in the air. The next instant, under that force, his body was violently yanked backward, flung precisely onto the table in front of Robb!
This was a form of gravity magic—one that pulled targets toward the caster.
Robb had controlled the direction and main target, drawing mainly Grey Wind. Otherwise, everyone in the room would have instantly lost their balance and collapsed to the floor!
What kind of miraculous power was this?
Everyone's mind went blank for a moment. Old Gods above—was this a divine miracle?
"Whine… wuu…"
Pulled back by gravity, Grey Wind instinctively tried to lunge forward again. But his entire body was firmly pressed down by a single hand—Robb's hand. Grabbing Grey Wind by the spine, Robb slammed him flat onto the table. The struggling wolf paws knocked over the bowls and dishes in front of Bran.
The nobles stared wide-eyed at Robb, who leaned casually against his chair. What terrifying strength—subduing a direwolf with one hand!
Only Maege showed no surprise at all. After all, Robb could crush her hand bones directly; restraining a direwolf wasn't that shocking in comparison.
Holding down the furious direwolf with one hand, Robb smiled and spoke to him gently, as if explaining, "Don't be so excited, Grey Wind. The Greatjon just wants to help us carve up the fattest cut of mutton."
(End of Chapter)