When the banners of House Karstark were sighted along the Kingsroad, word spread through Winterfell like wind across snow. The white sunburst of Karhold on black rode at the head of a long column of armored riders and grim-faced infantry.
Everyone understood what it meant.
The host was complete.
The war would begin.
From a high window overlooking the yard, Bran Stark watched the tide of men and horses flood the outer ward. The clang of armor, the snorting of destriers, the shouts of quartermasters—it was louder even than the day Robert Baratheon had ridden north with his glittering royal procession. That had been spectacle.
This was war.
The courtyard had become a forest of banners: the flayed man of House Bolton, the roaring giant of House Umber, the black bear of House Mormont, the mailed fist of House Glover, and now the sunburst of House Karstark.
Yet despite the numbers—well over twelve thousand men within and without the walls—there was order. Each house occupied a designated section of field beyond the east gate. Supply wagons were stacked methodically. Tents stood in neat rows.
Bran had heard whispers that his brother had enforced that order personally—more than a dozen executions in the first week for theft, assault, and drunken violence between banners. Justice swift and public.
"Order bought with steel," one guardsman had muttered.
Bran shifted slightly in his wheeled chair.
"How many now?" he asked quietly.
Beside him, Maester Luwin continued scratching numbers across parchment.
"More than twelve thousand already within Winterfell's sphere," Luwin replied. "House Karstark brings over two thousand—three hundred heavy horse, near five hundred men-at-arms, and the rest levies. Lord Wyman Manderly will join from White Harbor when the host marches south. Flint and Tallhart as well. By the time the army reaches Moat Cailin, we may approach twenty thousand."
Bran swallowed.
"Is that enough to save Father?"
Luwin hesitated. Far to the south, in King's Landing, Eddard Stark remained imprisoned under the rule of Joffrey Baratheon. No raven had brought good news.
"It must be," Luwin said gently.
Bran watched the Karstark riders pass beneath the gate. Their armor gleamed darkly beneath northern sunlight. He felt unease he could not name. House Karstark had split from House Stark a thousand years ago, when a younger son had been granted lands in the east. Their blood was Stark blood—distant, but real.
"Robb will hold a feast," Bran murmured.
"Yes," Luwin nodded. "Lord Rickard Karstark must be honored. The great houses must see unity."
The Great Hall could not contain all who had gathered in Winterfell these past days. Nobles had arrived with sons, heirs, sworn captains, and favored knights. Robb had therefore divided the feasts by rank and military importance. Tonight belonged to the Karstarks, Umbers, Boltons, Mormonts, and Cerwyns—the backbone of the northern host.
Bran did not look forward to it.
As Robb's brother, he would sit at Robb's left hand—the place of highest honor beside the lord of Winterfell. Yet he could feel the glances that would follow him: the crippled boy who had fallen from a tower in the south.
Though none spoke the words aloud, he imagined them.
Why place a broken child so high?
If only he could feign illness. If only he could stay in his chamber and avoid their eyes.
But if he stayed away, it would look like weakness. And if Robb looked weak, the North might fracture. Bran understood that much, even at his age.
And if the North fractured… Father would surely die. Sansa and Arya would remain trapped in King's Landing.
So Bran dressed.
The path to the hall felt longer than usual.
When the doors opened, noise spilled out in waves—laughter, pounding mugs, the scrape of benches. Lords filled the long tables. At smaller side tables sat younger heirs and sworn swords.
Robb saw Bran immediately.
Without hesitation, he rose from his seat, crossed the dais, and personally guided Bran's chair into position at his left. It was deliberate. Public.
Bran felt the weight of a hundred eyes, but he kept his face calm, as Robb had taught him.
When all were seated, Robb lifted his goblet.
"Lord Rickard Karstark," he declared, "Winterfell thanks you. The North stands together tonight as it did when my father rode with yours against the Iron Islands."
Rickard Karstark rose stiffly. "The blood of Karhold is the blood of Winterfell."
Cheers erupted.
"Save Lord Eddard!" someone shouted.
"To King's Landing!" another roared.
"Death to the lions!"
Some curses were more colorful, aimed squarely at Cersei Lannister. Veterans who had fought in Robert's Rebellion shouted that they would finish what they began when they toppled Aerys II Targaryen.
The hall shook with fury and loyalty.
When the noise ebbed, Robb spoke again.
"The host marches at midday tomorrow."
A thunder of approval followed.
Then came a booming voice that cut through the celebration.
"My men will ride at the van!"
All turned toward Greatjon Umber. Towering, red-bearded, clad in mail stretched across a massive frame, he looked less like a lord and more like a giant strayed from legend.
"We'll not trail behind Karstarks or Boltons!"
Murmurs stirred.
Robb did not raise his voice.
"Greatjon," he said calmly, "this is a united host. Placement will follow strategy, not pride."
Umber snorted. "Strategy? If my men march behind, we turn home!"
Rickard Karstark stiffened. Bolton's pale eyes observed.
Robb leaned back slightly.
"You swore your banners to Winterfell," he said evenly. "Under the articles of war now established, refusal to march as ordered constitutes desertion."
The word struck like a hammer.
"Desertion?" Greatjon roared. "You dare?"
Before tempers could escalate further, Maege Mormont rose from her seat. Her scarred face was expressionless.
"Under the war code," she said bluntly, "desertion is punishable by beheading."
Silence.
Greatjon's hand dropped toward his sword hilt.
That was when Grey Wind moved.
The direwolf, enormous and white-furred, launched from beneath the table in a blur of muscle and teeth, fangs flashing toward Umber's throat.
Gasps erupted. Benches scraped.
But before wolf met flesh, Robb's hand shot out.
He seized Grey Wind by the scruff and hauled him back with astonishing force, slamming the direwolf onto the table before him. Cups overturned. Meat scattered.
Grey Wind snarled, straining forward, yet Robb held him fast with one arm.
The hall fell utterly still.
Few men could restrain a direwolf. Fewer still with one hand.
Robb's voice was almost amused.
"Peace, Grey Wind. The Greatjon merely wishes the choicest cut of mutton."
A heartbeat passed.
Then, to everyone's astonishment, Greatjon threw back his head and laughed—a booming, thunderous sound.
He lifted his tankard. "If the wolf can take two fingers from me and I still drink, I'll follow him anywhere!"
In another telling of history, Grey Wind would indeed bite off two of the Greatjon's fingers before loyalty was sealed in laughter.
Tonight, Robb's display had sufficed.
Greatjon lowered his hand from his sword and sat heavily.
"You have steel in you, boy," he admitted. "I'll march where you say."
The tension drained from the hall.
Bran watched it all with wide eyes.
His brother had not shouted. Had not threatened wildly. He had demonstrated control—over beast, over law, over men.
The North would march tomorrow.
And for the first time since Father's arrest, Bran felt something stir that was not fear.
It was belief.