The political order of Westeros rests upon a rigid feudal structure, one older than the Conquest itself. Since the days when the Kings of Winter ruled from Winterfell, land has flowed downward like meltwater from the Wall. A great lord holds his domain from the Iron Throne, and in turn grants lands and castles to bannermen sworn to him. Those bannermen may then divide smaller keeps and holdings among landed knights and household captains.
Yet the chain of loyalty has limits.
A lord may command his direct vassals, but he does not command the sworn swords of another man's sworn sword. In the North, this tradition is as old as the First Men. A Karstark answers to Winterfell, but a landed knight sworn to Karhold answers first to House Karstark.
A vassal's vassal is not my vassal. A lord's lord is not my lord.
Of course, there are always ambitious or rigid-minded nobles who stretch such principles when it suits them. After all, in a realm where inheritance determines everything, some men would argue even blood may be interpreted to their convenience. If a crown can deny trueborn heritage, why could not a petty lord deny his own kin? Westeros has never lacked for twisted logic.
Under such a system, Robb Stark understood that he did not need to win over every landed knight in the North. He needed only to secure the unwavering loyalty of the principal houses sworn to Winterfell: Umber of Last Hearth, Karstark of Karhold, Glover of Deepwood Motte, Mormont of Bear Island, Hornwood, Cerwyn, Tallhart—and, most dangerous of all, Bolton of the Dreadfort.
If the great lords stood firm, their banners would follow.
Inside the solar at Winterfell, beneath carved beams darkened by centuries of smoke, Robb issued calm and precise instructions to Maester Luwin.
"Prepare a temporary encampment outside the eastern walls large enough to accommodate fifteen thousand men. Use the lower fields near the Kingsroad, but leave space for cavalry movement. Have the smiths expand the forges—more spearheads, more arrowheads. Commission additional wagons from the carpenters. We cannot expect every lord to arrive fully provisioned."
Luwin raised a brow at the number.
"Fifteen thousand, my lord? That would rival the host your father marched south with during the Rebellion."
Robb nodded slightly. "The North is vast. If we are to march into the riverlands, we must do so with strength."
A firm knock interrupted them.
The door opened to reveal a guardsman.
"My lord. House Cerwyn has arrived."
A faint smile touched Robb's lips.
"Cerwyn answers swiftly. Their castle lies but half a day's ride from Winterfell. Still, it is good to see such eagerness."
Maester Luwin added gently, "Proximity does make for quick response."
Robb's gaze sharpened. "Distance does not diminish loyalty."
In truth, House Cerwyn had long been among Winterfell's staunchest bannermen. During the War of the Five Kings, Lord Medger Cerwyn would ride beneath the direwolf banner and pay for that loyalty with his life at Harrenhal, executed by Ser Gregor Clegane. His heir would later fall in the chaos that consumed the North after Theon Greyjoy's betrayal.
History remembered their faithfulness.
Robb did as well.
He rode out from Winterfell accompanied by Theon Greyjoy and a detachment of mounted guards. Grey Wind padded silently beside him, massive and watchful.
In the distance, a column advanced beneath a white banner marked by the black battle-axe of House Cerwyn. Roughly two thousand men marched in disciplined formation. Three hundred rode horses; the rest were infantry—levies drawn from fields and forests.
At their head rode Lord Medger Cerwyn and his kin.
Robb dismounted before them.
"Lord Cerwyn," he greeted warmly. "Your speed honors Winterfell."
"The men of Cerwyn are sworn to House Stark," Medger replied. "When the direwolf calls, we answer."
Yet beneath his courtesy lay scrutiny. Robb saw it clearly.
He is young, the lord thought. Fifteen. Can he truly lead us against the lions?
The doubt was natural. War was not a tourney. It was blood, mud, and broken oaths.
Robb gestured toward the castle. "Come inside. We have much to discuss."
To Theon, he added lightly, "See the men settled and provisioned."
There was irony in assigning Theon such responsibility. In another path of fate, Theon would betray Winterfell, seize it in Robb's absence, and execute boys passed off as Bran and Rickon Stark.
But that future was not yet written in stone.
Within the council chamber, Robb poured wine for Lord Cerwyn himself, a gesture both respectful and deliberate.
"You have brought considerable strength," Robb observed.
"Three hundred riders, two hundred trained men-at-arms," Cerwyn replied. "The remainder are smallfolk levies. Farmers, woodsmen. Brave, but untested."
"The North has never lacked for hard men," Robb answered. "Gold may buy swords in the Westerlands, but it cannot buy endurance."
He spoke of the Lannisters' wealth—their gold mines beneath Casterly Rock, their power in King's Landing since Cersei Lannister placed her son Joffrey Baratheon upon the Iron Throne. He reminded Cerwyn that Ned Stark had uncovered the truth of Joffrey's parentage before his arrest, that the boy king was born of incest between Cersei and her twin brother Jaime.
"Would you have such a king judge the North?" Robb asked quietly.
Lord Cerwyn's jaw tightened.
"No."
Robb leaned forward.
"There is another matter. I ask that five hundred of your levies be placed under direct Stark command."
Silence followed.
Though Robb, as liege lord, could issue battlefield orders, direct command over sworn men was another matter entirely. To surrender five hundred men outright meant entrusting their lives wholly to Winterfell's strategy.
It was a significant concession.
Cerwyn hesitated. "Those men are my people."
"And mine," Robb said steadily. "When the Iron Throne names the North traitor, it names us all. I swear before the old gods and the new that their sacrifice will not be squandered. When victory comes, House Cerwyn will be honored."
The invocation of the old gods carried weight in the North. The carved face of the weirwood in Winterfell's godswood seemed almost to watch from memory.
At last, Cerwyn nodded.
"So be it."
Trust passed between them like a drawn blade.
Robb clasped his forearm. "Winterfell remembers."
He added in a lower tone, "When House Bolton arrives, observe them closely. Roose Bolton bends the knee, yet the Dreadfort has long memories of its own."
House Bolton, flayed men upon pink banners, had once worn the skins of Stark kings. Though sworn for centuries, ambition still flickered behind pale eyes.
Cerwyn understood the implication. "I will watch."
In the days that followed, the courtyard of Winterfell transformed into a sea of banners.
The Greatjon of House Umber arrived roaring for battle. Maege Mormont rode from Bear Island with her daughters. Rickard Karstark brought grim-faced sons eager for glory. Even Roose Bolton came quietly, pale and unreadable.
One by one, Robb received them. He listened to grievances, measured ambitions, calculated rivalries. He ensured encampments were orderly, food distributed fairly, and command structures clearly defined.
In the history remembered by the realm, Robb Stark had led with courage but sometimes trusted too easily. He had won stunning victories at Whispering Wood and the Battle of the Camps, capturing Ser Jaime Lannister himself. Yet later, fractured alliances and wounded pride would erode his strength.
This Robb intended no such oversight.
He expanded supply lines toward Moat Cailin to secure the Neck. He coordinated with Catelyn Stark in the riverlands, mindful of her father's seat at Riverrun. He calculated the movements of Tywin Lannister, whose discipline and ruthlessness rivaled any commander in Westeros.
The North's strength lay not merely in swords, but in unity.
Many lords had brought nearly all their fighting men, leaving castles thinly defended. Such was their faith in House Stark. It was a testament forged over thousands of years since Bran the Builder raised the Wall.
The original Robb had borne that burden with hidden anxiety, sometimes retreating to solitude to release the pressure of expectation. For a boy of fifteen, he had been remarkable.
But now, something deeper steadied him.
Fear did not gnaw at him in the night. The thought of marching south did not shake his resolve. He had faced death before—many times, in lives half-remembered and battles no maester could record.
Commanding thousands was new.
And strangely… exhilarating.
Standing atop the battlements, looking over a host gathering beneath direwolf banners, Robb felt the vast weight of history and possibility.
The North had crowned kings before.
If fate demanded it again, he would not shrink.