Chapter 16: The King at Riverrun: Reckoning with Vipers and Shifting Tides
The return to Riverrun was a mixed affair. Though the main host of Tywin Lannister in the West had been shattered at Red Dawn Valley and the Pendric Hills mines crippled, the Westerlands were still hostile territory. Small bands of Lannister loyalists, enraged local levies, or simply desperate men turned to banditry, harassed Robb's weary, plunder-laden army as it made its slow, deliberate withdrawal eastward. These were pinpricks rather than serious threats, easily brushed aside by Robb's veteran rearguard, but they served as a constant reminder that the war was far from over.
When the towers of Riverrun finally came into view, a ragged cheer went up from the ranks. They had marched into the lion's den, ravaged his lands, broken his armies, and returned, if not unscathed, then undeniably victorious. The Tully trout flew proudly beside the Stark direwolf over the castle battlements.
Catelyn Stark was the first to greet Robb as he rode into the main courtyard, his iron-and-weirwood crown resting on his brow, his face grimed with road dust and a weariness that even Sunshine's morning resurgence couldn't entirely banish. She rushed to his side, her eyes scanning him for injury, her relief palpable.
"Robb! Oh, my son, my King!" she embraced him fiercely, tears streaming down her face. "They said… they said you met Tywin himself in battle! That you scattered his host! Is it true?"
"It is, Mother," Robb said, returning her embrace, the scent of her familiar Tully perfume a strange comfort amidst the smell of war. "Tywin Lannister's western army is broken. But he himself escaped. And many good men fell."
He saw the pride in her eyes, but also the deep, abiding fear that never left her now. They spoke long into the night, of his campaign, of his father's murder, and of Sansa and Arya, still trapped in King's Landing. Catelyn, her grief a raw wound, pleaded with him to use Jaime Lannister to ransom her daughters.
"Mother," Robb said gently but firmly, "Joffrey and Cersei care little for Jaime's life if it means acknowledging our strength or releasing valuable hostages like Sansa and Arya. Jaime is a weapon, a threat against their own actions, but not a simple piece for trade. I swear to you, I will not rest until my sisters are safe, but it will not be through appeasing the monsters who murdered Father."
Edmure Tully and Brynden "Blackfish" Tully greeted him with relief and admiration. Riverrun had been secured, its defenses strengthened, and the remaining Riverlords had rallied, their forces now formally integrated into Robb's army. The Riverlands, though scarred, were now largely under Stark-Tully control.
The most anticipated, and dreaded, arrival came a few days later. Lord Roose Bolton, at the head of his disciplined but unsettlingly silent Dreadfort men, finally rode into Riverrun. His pale, leech-like eyes surveyed the bustling wartime capital with an unnerving stillness. He offered Robb a cool, correct bow, his voice a soft whisper that somehow carried over the courtyard noise. "Your Grace. My felicitations on your… vigorous… campaign in the West. I regret I could not join you sooner. Lord Tywin proved a most… elusive adversary."
Robb received him in the Great Hall of Riverrun, flanked by the Blackfish, Greatjon Umber (now mostly recovered from his minor wounds), and Maege Mormont. The sun was high, and Robb let its power fill him, not with overt displays, but with an unshakeable aura of command, his gaze as cold and hard as Northern iron.
"Lord Bolton," Robb began, his voice deceptively mild. "Your reports from the eastern front were… sparse. And your advance, by all accounts, remarkably cautious. Lord Tywin seemed to pass through your screen with little impediment once he turned west."
Roose Bolton's face remained an impassive mask. "Your Grace, Lord Tywin's host, even in retreat, was formidable. My own forces were outnumbered. To engage him rashly would have been to sacrifice my men to no purpose. I judged it more prudent to conserve my strength, to shadow him, and to await your victorious return so our forces might combine for a decisive blow." He spoke of "scorched earth," "Lannister cunning," and "treacherous terrain," a litany of plausible excuses that Robb knew were carefully constructed lies.
As Bolton spoke, Robb focused his will, subtly employing Snatch. He reached out with his mind, trying to grasp the essence of the man beneath the veneer. He felt no fear, no remorse, only a chillingly profound ambition, a calculating coldness that was almost inhuman, and a deeply buried, almost imperceptible contempt for the young King he was ostensibly serving. It was like touching a frozen serpent.
Robb's eyes narrowed. He couldn't prove Bolton's treachery, not yet. Accusing him openly would risk civil war within his own ranks when Lannister wolves were still at the door. But he knew. Tony Volante had dealt with treacherous underbosses before.
"Your caution is… noted, Lord Bolton," Robb said, his voice taking on an edge that made even the Greatjon glance at him sharply. "However, the war now enters a new phase. Tywin Lannister will be licking his wounds, but he will not remain idle. And other matters demand our attention."
He assigned Roose Bolton and his Dreadfort men a new task: to march north along the Kingsroad, to clear out any remaining Lannister loyalists or bandits harassing their supply lines up to the Neck, and to secure key crossings along the Trident. It was a vital task, but one that also kept Bolton's forces separate from Robb's main host and moving in a direction where their actions could be more easily monitored by Stark loyalists. "I expect regular, detailed reports, Lord Bolton," Robb finished, his gaze unwavering. "And swift results."
Roose Bolton bowed again, his pale lips hinting at a smile. "Your Grace's wisdom is profound. The Dreadfort will serve." He then withdrew, leaving an almost tangible chill in the air.
"That man," Greatjon Umber growled once Bolton was gone, "has ice in his veins and shit in his heart. I wouldn't trust him as far as I could throw this castle."
"Nor I, Lord Umber," Robb agreed grimly. "But we need his men. For now. Keep a close watch on his movements."
With Bolton "handled," Robb convened a larger war council. The news from the south was chaotic and world-altering. King Renly Baratheon was dead, assassinated at Storm's End by, of all things, shadow magic, if the wild, disbelieving reports were to be credited. Most of his Stormlord bannermen had flocked to Stannis Baratheon, who now besieged Storm's End and was rumored to be preparing a massive naval assault on King's Landing itself. The Tyrells, however, Renly's most powerful allies, had withdrawn their forces from the field in disarray, their intentions unclear.
"A king killed by shadows?" Edmure Tully scoffed. "Madness. Stannis must have had him poisoned."
But Robb, with his knowledge of a world where magic was real, felt a chill. This changed everything. Stannis, if he took King's Landing, would be a far more formidable and unyielding opponent than Joffrey.
"If Stannis takes the Iron Throne," Brynden Blackfish mused, "he will not suffer another King in the North. He will demand our fealty, and he is not a man for compromise."
"What of Tywin?" Jason Mallister asked. "Our scouts report he has regrouped what remains of his western host, perhaps ten thousand men, near the Goldroad, and is being reinforced by levies from Lannisport. He makes no move east, for now. He seems content to defend his own borders."
"He is waiting," Robb said, his mind racing. "Waiting to see what Stannis does. If Stannis takes King's Landing, Tywin might declare for him to save his own skin, or he might try to hold the West as an independent kingdom. If Stannis fails…"
He knew, with sickening certainty, what would happen if Stannis failed. Tywin Lannister would march to King's Landing, save Joffrey's throne, and become the undisputed power behind it. And then, his full attention would turn to the rebellious North.
"We cannot allow Tywin to reinforce King's Landing if Stannis attacks," Robb stated. "If Stannis falls, and Tywin is there to pick up the pieces, our own position becomes untenable."
"So we march on Tywin again?" Greatjon asked eagerly.
"Not directly," Robb considered. "Not yet. Our army needs more time to rest, refit, and absorb new levies from the Riverlands. But we can prevent Tywin from easily marching east." He outlined a plan: strengthen the garrisons at key Riverland chokepoints – the Ruby Ford, the Stone Mill, the castles along the Red Fork. Send out strong raiding parties to harass Tywin's borders again, to keep him looking west. And, most importantly, consolidate their hold on the Riverlands, ensuring it was a secure base of operations.
"We also need to consider our own succession and governance," Maege Mormont said bluntly. "Your Grace is unwed, with no heir. If the unthinkable happens…"
The reminder was stark. Tony Volante had always planned for succession in his "family." Robb Stark, King, now had to do the same for his kingdom.
"Lady Mormont speaks true," Robb acknowledged. "My brothers Bran and Rickon are in Winterfell. Until I have an heir of my own body, Bran is my heir presumptive. Maester Vyman, draw up the decrees. Send them north to Winterfell, to be witnessed and sealed by Ser Rodrik Cassel and the lords regent I left there." He would also, he decided, formally name his mother, Catelyn, as part of that regency council, giving her a recognized role.
Catelyn, when informed of these discussions, was practical. "You need a Queen, Robb. An alliance. The Freys still expect a marriage."
Robb's jaw tightened. The Frey alliance was a bitter pill he'd swallowed for strategic necessity. "The Freys will have their due, Mother, when the time is right. But a Queen chosen for political expedience alone may not be what the North needs." He thought of Jeyne Westerling, a girl he barely knew from his history books, a marriage that had cost canon Robb so much. He would not make that mistake. His marriage, if and when it happened, would be on his terms, for his kingdom's benefit. Tony Volante would ensure any "love" was a distant second to strategic advantage, or a carefully controlled illusion.
Theon Greyjoy, who had fought bravely in the Westerlands and was now a celebrated captain within Robb's army, approached him with a new proposal. "Your Grace," he said, his eyes bright with ambition. "My father, Lord Balon Greyjoy, commands the Iron Fleet, the greatest naval power in Westeros. The Lannisters have no real fleet to speak of. If I were to sail to Pyke, as your envoy, I could convince my father to ally with us. His longships could raid Lannisport, Casterly Rock, the entire western coast! Tywin would be caught between our hammer and my father's anvil!"
Robb looked at Theon, his expression carefully neutral. This was the moment. The pivotal, treacherous offer. In his original timeline, Robb had agreed, and Theon had betrayed him, sacking Winterfell, "murdering" Bran and Rickon. Armed with this foreknowledge, Robb felt a cold knot tighten in his stomach.
He could refuse. He could keep Theon close, watched. But Theon was also becoming a popular, heroic figure in his own right within the army. To spurn his seemingly loyal offer without good cause might breed resentment. And the Iron Fleet… it was a powerful asset, if it could be turned.
Tony Volante's mind, ever the calculator of risks and rewards, saw a different path. A path of manipulation.
"An alliance with the Iron Islands would indeed be a powerful blow against the Lannisters, Theon," Robb said slowly, watching his ward's eager face. "Your father is a proud man. He would not ally with us easily. He would demand a high price."
"He would demand recognition of his own kingship over the Iron Islands, perhaps," Theon admitted. "A crown for a crown. And the right to reave the Lannister coast."
"Two kings allied against a common foe," Robb mused. "There is precedent. And the Lannisters have much wealth to… share." He paused. "If you were to go, Theon, you would go not just as an envoy, but as my trusted friend, empowered to offer generous terms. But your father must strike only at the Lannisters. No raiding of the North, or our allies."
"Of course, Your Grace!" Theon said, his chest swelling. "He would see the wisdom in that!"
No, he wouldn't, Robb thought. Balon Greyjoy is a bitter, foolish old man bent on past glories. But perhaps… perhaps his son can be… guided.
Robb made his decision. He would let Theon go. But not as in the original timeline. He would surround Theon with "advisors" – in reality, his own most ruthless and loyal agents, men from his ranger corps who were skilled in both diplomacy and silent killing. Theon would carry generous offers, yes, but also subtle threats. And Robb would ensure that any ships Theon took were crewed by men whose first loyalty was to House Stark, not House Greyjoy. He would also send a separate, secret envoy directly to Asha Greyjoy, Theon's more intelligent and pragmatic sister, with a different set of proposals, playing on her own ambitions. It was a complex, dangerous game, a web of intrigue Tony Volante would have relished.
"Very well, Theon," Robb declared. "You shall sail to Pyke. Make your father see reason. The fate of this war could rest on your success."
Theon beamed, falling to one knee. "I will not fail you, Your Grace! My King!"
Oh, I suspect you might try, Robb thought, his eyes like ice. But this time, Theon, the game has different rules.
With these new plans in motion, a colder, harder resolve settled over Robb Stark. The initial, raw grief for his father was crystallizing into a diamond-hard purpose. He was a King, with a kingdom to defend, a family to avenge, and treacherous allies to manage. The war in the South was a brutal, bloody chess game, and he was now one of its principal players. But he also remembered the whispers from beyond the Wall. The true enemy still waited. And for that, he needed to win this lesser war first, and consolidate his power beyond any challenge. His immortality was a secret comfort, but his kingdom's survival was immediate.
He would use every advantage, every power, every piece of knowledge he possessed. The Young Wolf had tasted blood. Now, he would learn to rule the pack.