"We need to let the army make camp and recover, my lord," one of the older earls counseled gently. "Only then should we march into the Riverlands. Once we join our strength with House Tully, we will surely defeat the Kingslayer."
"He's right, Lord Robb," boomed the Greatjon, Lord of Last Hearth, his rough voice filling the command tent. "Our soldiers need rest. We can't push them any harder." Even he, known for his ferocity, knew that a vengeful boy-lord could easily lead them all to ruin.
Seated quietly to the left, Roose Bolton spoke in his unnervingly soft voice. "The proper course is to advance steadily. We must unite with the armies of the Riverlands to oppose the Westermen. The Kingslayer has burned and pillaged his way through their lands, earning their deepest hatred. If we stand with them, defeating him will be a simple matter."
The other northern lords voiced their agreement, urging Robb not to let his grief cloud his judgment. Though the seventeen-year-old knew they were right, the pain of his father's murder was a raw, unbearable wound. He fought to keep his composure, refusing to show any weakness in front of his vassals, forcing back the tears that threatened to fall.
After giving the orders to make camp, he retreated to his tent. Only then, in the privacy of the canvas walls, did he finally break down and weep.
Standing guard outside, Theon Greyjoy heard the faint, stifled sobs from within, and his own eyes reddened. Though he was technically a hostage in Winterfell, Eddard Stark had treated him like a son. The man's kindness had not been forgotten, and news of his execution had left Theon with a hollow sense of loss.
Far to the east, Lady Catelyn was riding to the Vale to persuade her sister to join the war against the Lannisters when the news reached her. The moment she heard her husband had been beheaded by Joffrey, she fainted.
Her escort brought the carriage to a halt, surrounding it anxiously. Ser Rodrik Cassel, Winterfell's master-at-arms, looked on with deep concern, his own heart heavy with grief for the lord he had served his entire life.
Fortunately, Catelyn awoke a few moments later, her face stained with tears.
"My lady…" Ser Rodrik began, his voice thick with worry.
Catelyn wiped her eyes and clenched her fists, her sorrow hardening into a steely resolve. "Keep moving," she ordered, her voice firm. "Faster. I must see my sister Lysa as soon as possible."
"Yes, my lady," Ser Rodrik bowed. He gave the order, and the column of soldiers mounted up and continued their journey.
Alone in the carriage, Catelyn's resolve crumbled once more. She collapsed onto the bed, crying softly for the husband she had lost. If she had known it would come to this, she would have never let him ride south to be the King's Hand. Now, not only was he dead, but her daughter Sansa was a hostage in the clutches of Cersei and Joffrey, and Arya was lost somewhere in that wretched city. Catelyn had never known such profound despair.
At the Green Fork of the Trident, Robb's army made camp before the twin castles of House Frey. The lord of the crossing, Walder Frey, had responded to the northern host by raising his drawbridges and barring his gates. Passage was denied.
Robb had already sent emissaries multiple times, pleading for permission to cross. The Twins was the only viable crossing for leagues. Further south, the river widened, making a crossing perilous, especially with the risk of an attack by the Kingslayer's army.
The plan Robb had forged with his lords was simple. He would lead the cavalry and a contingent of infantry across the river to break the siege of Riverrun, where his uncle, Edmure Tully, was trapped by Jaime Lannister's army. The main infantry force, commanded by Lord Roose Bolton, would march south along the Kingsroad to engage Lord Tywin Lannister's host. Once Robb had defeated the Kingslayer and freed the river lords, their combined forces would strike Tywin from the west while Bolton attacked from the north.
It was a good plan, but it depended entirely on crossing the river. Walder Frey's refusal had brought the entire northern campaign to a halt, leaving Robb furious and frustrated.
It was then that a scout reported the arrival of Lord Jason, the Earl of Starfire City, with a thousand fresh cavalry. The news was the first bright spot in days. Robb immediately took his personal guard and went to greet Jason himself. The other northern lords emerged from their tents as well, their eyes widening at the sight of Jason's men. They were fully armored, well-equipped, and moved with a discipline that marked them as elite soldiers.
Robb strode forward to meet him, his eyes filled with emotion. "Jason, thank you for coming," he said, his voice thick with gratitude. "Thank you."
He knew Jason was under no obligation to answer his call. His house was not a vassal of the Starks. This act of loyalty was a personal one, and it forged a powerful bond between them. Words failed to express how much it meant.
Thrust into the role of Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, Robb was keenly aware that many of the older, more experienced lords did not truly respect him. Theon had told him that some referred to him in private as just "the boy." He was desperate to prove himself, to earn their trust. Jason's arrival felt like a validation. Here was one lord he knew he could count on.
Jason looked at the young man before him. He saw the exhaustion and sorrow etched on Robb's face. It had been over a year, and Robb was taller and stronger, with a boy's beard now shadowing his lips. He had grown up far too fast.
Jason stepped forward and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Robb," he said, his voice full of sincere sadness. "I am so sorry for your loss. You have to be strong now. You have to lead us all to avenge him."
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