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The Young Lion
Act 2 Ch 16: A Restless Night
The Grand Maester's laboratory smelled of vinegar, boiled leather, and crushed herbs.
Heat clung to the air like a damp cloth. Copper alembics bubbled softly over low flames, their glass throats sighing with slow breaths of steam. Mortars lay scattered across the wide oak table, pestles stained green and brown from tinctures meant to close wounds and soothe fevers.
Shadows from a dozen oil lamps crawled across stone walls etched with shelves of jars—powders, bones, dried flowers, preserved things floating in pale water.
At the center of all of it was the king.
Joffrey Baratheon sat shirtless upon a reinforced examination table while the Grand Maester bound a long, angry gash along his ribs. The cut was clean but deep, the skin parted like torn parchment before being stitched. Darkened blood had crusted along his side, and beneath the harsh lamplight his lean frame bore the quiet testimony of past violence: old scars mapped across him like pale rivers.
Four long claw marks raked from his left collarbone down toward the broad plane of his chest—faded now but unmistakable. The Shadowcat had nearly taken his throat over a year prior.
He had nearly died protecting Sansa from the beast, just as he nearly died today while protecting her from her own countrymen.
Around him stood his Small Council members, the men and women who helped him rule the kingdoms from cushioned chairs, were now gathered in a stone room heavy with the scent of iron and fear.
Sansa Stark clung to his leg as though he might vanish if she let go.
Her fingers fisted in the linen sheet draped across his lap. Her cheek pressed against his thigh, warm tears dampening the fabric. She had not cared that the room was full. She had not cared that he was half-undressed, with blood still drying on his skin. She had run to him the moment he returned through the Red Keep's gates, and she had not left his side since.
"Why would you do that?!" she burst out, her voice cracking. A hiccup caught in her throat. "You could've died!"
The words came raw, stripped of courtly composure. She struck her small fist once against his leg in helpless fury before burying her face against him again. "You reckless idiot."
The Grand Maester paused his stitching long enough to clear his throat disapprovingly, but upon seeing the king's stern gaze he chose not to rebuke her. No one did. Joffrey winced—not from the needle piercing flesh, but from the tremor in her voice.
"It was not recklessness," he said evenly.
His voice did not match the scene. It was steady, controlled, and almost too calm.
"They took us by surprise," he continued. "If I didn't lead the men they would've lost their morale and we'd be at the mercy of the rebels."
She lifted her head, eyes rimmed red. "But you're the king."
"Yes, I'm aware."
"Then you should be protected."
He held her gaze. For a moment, something softened behind his composure—but it vanished quickly.
"And I was," he replied. "Until I couldn't afford to be."
Across the chamber, Ser Barristan Selmy stood rigid, hands clasped behind his back. The white of his capelet bore fresh slashes where blades had glanced off his new armor. Blood—his or someone elses—had dried along the hem.
"I agree with my lady," Barristan said, voice grave. "How could you risk your life like that on the front lines?"
He didn't shout, he didn't need to. His voice alone carried the disappointment and distress he felt.
Joffrey's jaw tightened faintly.
"The men were faltering," he reiterated. "The rebels struck with ferocity, and besides any of that Sandor was about to be killed."
At the name, the Hound shifted where he leaned against a far pillar. His massive arms were folded, his helm removed, dark hair damp with sweat and battle grime. A bruise had already begun to bloom along his jaw. He had not spoken since they entered.
But now he looked up.
"That northern giant had him pinned," Joffrey went on. "If Sandor had fallen, the center would have collapsed, and the battle could've been lost."
Sandor's brow furrowed faintly. Surprise flickered there—subtle, quickly buried. The silence that followed felt heavier than the smell of herbs.
Tyrion Lannister stood near one of the shelves, one hand wrapped around the neck of a small wine flask he had not yet uncorked. His mismatched eyes studying his nephew. Seeing him in a different light.
"What kind of king," Joffrey continued, voice gaining a faint edge, "would I be if I let my men fight and die while I hid behind high walls?"
"A smart one," Tyrion replied dryly.
The words earned him a few glances, but no one laughed. Inside, however, Tyrion felt something he had not expected: a flicker of admiration. He had watched from the battlements as the king spurred forward into the fray. He had seen the daring moment Joffrey risked his life for his Sworn Shield—and the moment when the northern lord's greatsword had nearly taken his head.
Valor was a dangerous currency, but Joffrey had earned it that day. Finally Sandor pushed off the pillar.
"I think that's enough," he growled.
All eyes in the room turned toward him.
"Everything worked out," he said, shrugging one broad shoulder. "Plus he showed some balls, if you ask me."
There was something in his tone—low, grudging, almost protective.
The council's expressions soured slightly. They did not wish to encourage this.
Varys cleared his throat softly, silk sleeves rustling as he folded his hands within them.
"Still," the Spider murmured, voice gentle as drifting ash, "I cannot believe the Young Wolf would violate peace terms to stage a surprise attack. I guess he's less like his father than we had hoped."
Sansa stiffened, before she looked up sharply, fury blazing through her tears.
"My brother had nothing to do with this!" she shouted.
The room immediately stilled. Tyrion closed his eyes briefly, Barristan shifted uncomfortably, and Varys inclined his head, but said nothing.
They looked at her as one might look at a child insisting the world was fair, but before any of them could utter a word the king spoke up.
"She's right."
The words fell like iron on stone, making several heads turn at the same time.
Varys blinked.
Barristan frowned faintly. "Your Grace?"
"Robb Stark did not order that attack," Joffrey said calmly.
"And how," Tyrion asked slowly, "can you be so certain?"
Joffrey swung his legs off the table. The Grand Maester protested weakly, but the king ignored him.
"We've all heard the stories," Joffrey said. "Of how he moved against my grandfather. How he feigned retreat, split forces, struck supply lines. If even half are true, then there is zero chance he would order his men to charge like raging bulls at prepared lines."
He stood now, blood still seeping faintly through fresh stitching.
"That was desperate rage," he said. "Not strategy."
The room absorbed his words.
"Not that it matters," Joffrey added, as he reached for his white long-sleeved shirt.
As he pulled it over his head, the fabric brushed against his freshly bound wound. While the light of the chamber illuminated his physique, which was now lean but well-muscled and etched with several scars. As he covered his body a quiet disappointed sigh escaped Sansa and Ros.
Joffrey ignored them and turned towards his Master at War.
"Report," he ordered.
Ser Jacelyn stepped forward, his fist striking his chest plate before saluting.
"Three hundred of our brothers have fallen," He said with a hint of sadness in his tone despite his stoic expression. "With another four hundred wounded."
Joffrey took in his vice-commander's words, nodding his head.
"See that they are treated and well fed, they fought bravely today," he ordered. "Also have the bodies of our brothers prepared for their journey to the next life."
"It shall be done, your grace." He bowed his head.
Joffrey just tilted his head before turning to the others. "I'm heading to the baths. No one is to disturb me."
They all bowed their heads as he passed. All but Sansa. She watched him go, worry etched deep into her expression as she witnessed the brief flash of pain behind the king's eyes.
The corridor outside the laboratory was cool. Stone swallowed the bustling sounds of the city from below. Torches flickered in iron brackets, their light rippling across the polished floors.
Joffrey walked with measured steps, his back straight, as his expression remained a mask of stoicism. He walked several feet, until he heard the sounds of footsteps echoing behind him.
"Why?" Sandor asked.
Joffrey stopped but did not turn around. Sandor's shadow loomed long across the walls.
"Why'd you save me?" The Hound pressed the silent still king. "You could've died at the hands of that beast. So why did you do it?"
Joffrey finally turned to face the half burnt giant. Up close, Sandor could see it—the faint paleness beneath the king's color. The tightness around his eyes.
"Because you're my friend, Sandor," Joffrey said simply.
The word hung between them. Friend. Sandor's brow furrowed as though he might have misheard.
"And just because I pay for you for your company," he added, "Doesn't mean I don't enjoy it."
For a moment, Sandor Clegane—breaker of men, killer without hesitation—had no answer. Joffrey gave him a small nod and continued down the corridor. Sandor remained where he stood, utterly bewildered.
Now Joffrey walked alone. Guards straightened as he passed, saluting sharply. Maids bowed low, eyes lowered. He acknowledged each with a faint nod.
He turned a corner. Then another. And then another—deeper into the quieter enclaves of the Red Keep. Until finally, he found a narrow, seldom-used corridor lit by only two torches. No guards. No servants. No witnesses.
He placed one hand against the wall, the stone felt cold to the touch. His vision blurred, with the torchlights smeared into streaks, while his pulse roared in his ears. And suddenly—
No stone.
No torches.
No Red Keep.
There was smoke. And heat. And the screams of incoming fire. Of whistles tearing through the sky. Men shouting. Some were screaming his name. A name he no longer went by. One buried with another life.
Mud and blood and lots of burning metal. He still remembered the smell of burning flesh. The explosive fire that ripped through armored vehicles as it killed both soldiers and civilians alike.
One second he had been shouting orders and the next he was on the ground impaled on a piece of metal. Then came the burning. He could still feel it—the searing agony crawling up his spine, across his skin. The way his lungs had seized as smoke filled them. Then the darkness that followed.
Back in the corridor, his knees nearly buckled. He leaned heavily against the wall just to remain on his feet. His breathing slowed, trying to regain his composure. But the images wouldn't stop. Greatjon's sword swung down at him trying to cleave him in two. The soldier's screams as steel clashed with steel. The sound of his own heartbeat when Sandor's blade stopped the northerners.
The moment he realized he was about to die.
His fingers dug into the stone, the fingertips bleeding slightly from the pressure.
"I almost died again," he whispered.
The words were barely breathed into the air, as if he was afraid the walls could understand him. His chest rose and fell rapidly. He closed his eyes forcing air into his seized lungs
"One," he counted as he breathed slowly, making his heartbeat slow. "Two, three."
The Red Keep returned slowly. The stone beneath his palm returned. The torchlight steadied.
No smoke. No Fire. No screaming unit.
Just utter silence.
He immediately stood tall again, trying to project confidence and strength he didn't really feel. Slowly his kingly mask fell back into place, one of control and discipline.
He pushed off the wall and resumed walking toward the baths, each step steadier than the last. Behind him, the torches flickered. While ahead of him he had duties to attend to.
o-O-o
Away from the city, across from the bloodied field where northern soldiers were still collecting their dead sat the north's camp. And unlike two days prior where northmen stood as one proud army ready to seize glory. It now stood like a wound that continued to bleed.
The rain had begun following shortly after the sun had set and continued into the night, turning the forest beyond King's Landing into a churned mire of mud and trampled pine needles. Smoke from low cookfires drifted between dark trunks, clinging to damp wool and unwashed steel. The banners of House Stark hung heavy and soaked, their direwolves sagging as if burdened by the weight of what had transpired.
The treeline swallowed every sound. Even the distant walls of King's Landing seemed muted beneath the gray sky. In the center of camp, a rough square had been cleared. The earth inside the square was noticeably darker and wet.
At the center of the square stood a freshly cut stump—bark stripped, its surface still bright with sap. The pale wood had already begun to stain red.
The Stark Bannermen formed a ring around it. They did not cheer or speak. They just stood and watched.
Robb Stark stood at the edge of the square, his castle forged longsword resting point-down in the mud before him, both hands wrapped around its hilt. The blade gleaming in the rain as if it had been freshly stoned clean for just that occasion, which in some ways it had been. His cloak hung damp around his shoulders, fur collar heavy with moisture. Strands of auburn hair clung to his brow.
He looked weary. Far too weary for someone his age. But his eyes remained focused as he stared ahead. The spot to his right had remained empty, the place where Greatjon had once stood, and no one dared to try to fill it.
The Lord of Last Hearth had died on the field the day before—cut down in the chaos his own reckless charge had helped unleash. The northern traitors had broken from their lines without orders, without sense, howling defiance toward the Young Lion king as his men were now calling him and his guard. They had not listened when Robb commanded restraint, and had paid the ultimate price for it.
Though not all the traitors had fallen on the battlefield, and thus it fell to Robb to exact the toll.
Lord Karstark was brought forward first. He didn't struggle, he walked with his back straight and his chin held high.
His armor had been removed, with both of his hands bound in front of him. His gray beard was tangled with dried blood, though none of it was his. He walked as though toward a ceremony rather than a death.
Men of his house watched from the edges of the square, faces still as if carved from stone. Some wept silently. Others glared at their king.
Robb felt every one of their glares as he stepped forward.
"Lord Rickard Karstark," Robb said, his voice carrying across the clearing as he approached his boots sinking slightly into the mud as he did.
"You stand accused of treason against your king. You defied my command. You led an assault under a banner of false truce. You brought death upon our men and dishonor upon the North."
Karstark's lips curved faintly.
"Honor?" his face breaking into a disgusted expression. "Is that what you call kneeling to a lion cub? Honor?"
A murmur rippled through the watching ranks, but Robb did not flinch.
"You broke faith," Robb said. "With me. With your countrymen. With the oaths you swore."
Karstark lifted his chin.
"I swore to avenge my blood," he said. "And I almost succeeded."
"You swore to obey your king." Robb replied to the delusional lord.
"I swore those oaths to set the North free," Karstark shot back. "Not for you to give it away for some southern cunts' mercy!"
The air felt colder, while the king studied the man. He had known him since childhood. Had eaten at his table. Had heard his booming laugh in Winterfell's hall. Robb buried those feelings as he emotionally prepared himself to perform his duty.
"Do you deny leading the charge?" Robb asked.
"I do not."
"Do you deny acting without my command?"
"I do not."
"Do you wish to make any last words for your crimes?"
Karstark's eyes hardened.
"I curse you," he said quietly.
A sudden hush fell, while Karstark's voice rose—not in panic, but in solemn fury.
"You are no wolf or king of mine. You are a boy playing at crowns. May your mercy choke you. May your enemies rise in the night and tear down all you build. May the North remember that it was Karstark blood that tried to keep it free."
Some men shifted uneasily. Robb felt the words like cold rain down his spine. He thought of his father. Of Winterfell's godswood. Of a Night's Watch boy forced to kneel in snow.
"The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword." His fathers voice echoed through his mind.
Robb drew his sword from the mud, the blade sang softly as it rose.
"Kneel, my lord." He said coldly.
Lord Karstark knelt without assistance, placing his head over the stump himself.
"Rickard Karstark, Lord of Karhold here in the sight of gods and men I sentence you to die."
Lord Karstark remained focused on the ground, refusing to acknowledge the Young Wolf. Even as the young king raised his sword.
Robb paused, the world narrowing. Every one of his senses heightened. The mud under his boots, the breath in his lungs, the weight of steel in his hand.
Then he swung, the blade cutting clean. The sound was heavy, a thud of steel against wood. Then the dead silence that followed as blood spread across the stump, running in dark streams down the barkless sides.
Robb did not look away, whipping his sword once against a cloth. Then he stepped back. Karstark's men watched with hollow eyes. Some bowed their heads. Others turned away. But none of them uttered a single word.
"Bring the next," he ordered.
Unlike Lord Karstark, Lord Wyman Manderly did not walk. He had to be dragged. Where Karstark had been iron, Manderly was undone silk.
His face was pale as curdled milk. Sweat plastered thinning hair to his skull. His wrists strained uselessly against the rope binding them as two northern soldiers hauled him through the mud.
"No—no—Your Grace, please—" he babbled, voice cracking.
His boots scraped furrows in the earth.
"I was misled—misled—"
The men forced him upright before Robb.
Manderly's gaze darted everywhere but to the king.
"Lord Wyman Manderly," Robb said.
The lord whimpered.
"You stand accused of conspiring in treason, of commanding men in violation of truce, and of defying my command."
"I—I never meant—"
"Did you lead the men in that charge?" Robb demanded.
Manderly's lips trembled. "I was told—"
"By whom?"
His mouth opened and closed. His eyes flicked toward the gathered bannermen. Toward a tall, pale figure standing near the edge of the square.
Roose Bolton.
His expression was unreadable, and he stood as still as a statue.
Manderly swallowed. "Bol—"
The word died in his throat. His breath hitched.
"Speak," Robb ordered.
"I— I—"
His panic swallowed language itself. Words tangled, dissolved into gasps. The accusation that might have formed there collapsed beneath terror.
Robb felt irritation twist beneath his ribs.
"You will answer plainly," he commanded.
But Manderly only shook his head wildly, unable or unwilling to force the syllables out.
"Do you deny your role?" Robb pressed.
Silence. Manderly's mouth worked uselessly. The watching men shifted. Some frowned. Others even looked bored, while Robb's patience thinned.
"Have you any last words?" He finally asked.
Manderly stared at him, wide-eyed, lips trembling—but no words came.
Robb waited for his last words and yet nothing came. The northern king nodded his head, mistaking his silence for emptiness. For resolution.
"Very well," Robb nodded to the two guards who forced the whimpering lord to his knees. "Lord Wyman Manderly, for treason and defiance of your king's command, I sentence you to die."
Lord Manderly sobbed quietly, struggling weakly against the soldiers. It took three men to hold him steady against the stump still wet with Karstark's blood.
"Please," he whispered.
Robb hesitated for a moment, but just like with Karstark something inside him hardened and he brought the blade down.
The second thud managed to sound even heavier than the first. Robb stood over the bloodied stump, his chest rising and falling slowly.
Two lords were dead. His army whether he wanted to admit it or not would be forever fractured. The north watched their king. Some looked with pride, others with doubt, and some with fear.
Roose Bolton inclined his head slightly—just enough to be seen. His pale eyes betrayed nothing. Maege Mormont's jaw was firm and locked. Smalljon, the Greatjon's son, stood rigid, hands clenched.
Robb handed his sword off to his squire without muttering another word. His arm felt far heavier than they should.
"That ends it," he said, voice carrying. "No more insubordination. No more reckless bloodshed. We fight as one—or we fall as many."
A murmur of assent rose, but beneath it lay a deep fissure now. He could feel it, like a hairline cracks atop a frozen lake.
Robb stepped down from the square.
The mud sucked at his boots. Men parted before him. No one dared to meet his eyes for long. He had done as his father taught him. He had upheld justice.
"So why did it feel like a loss?" He thought.
Wind moved through the trees above, carrying the distant scent of the capital—smoke and stone and something foreign to northern lungs. They were far from home, too far, where everything seemed so much simpler.
His direwolf, Grey Wind, paced near the edge of camp, restlessly as if it could sense Robb's inner turmoil. Robb reached him and pressed his forehead briefly against the wolf's thick fur.
Grey Wind huffed softly as it licked his face. Behind them, servants began clearing the square, while the stump remained. A reminder to the others of the price for treason.
o-O-o
The war council tent smelled of damp wool, ink, and smoke.
Rain tapped steadily against stretched canvas overhead, each drop a hollow drumbeat marking time that no man in the tent wished to measure. Lantern light swayed gently from iron hooks, throwing long, unsteady shadows across the map table at the center of the space. The painted outlines of King's Landing blurred where water had seeped beneath the canvas edges and smudged the ink.
Robb Stark stood at the head of the table, gloved hands resting against its edge. He had not removed his armor yet. Rainwater still clung to the fur at his shoulders. The lords gathered around him looked older than they had that morning. Some bore fresh bandages. Others leaned heavier on canes or on the hilts of swords. None met each other's eyes for long.
Robb let the silence stretch.
"Numbers," he said at last.
The word was quiet, but it cut through the tent like a blade. No one answered.
Roose Bolton stood pale and composed, hands folded within his sleeves, gaze fixed on the map as though the painted city might answer instead. Smalljon Umber—broad as an ox and red-eyed from grief—rested both fists against the table, knuckles white. Lord Glover stood slightly apart, shoulders bowed as if he already carried the weight of what must be spoken.
"Numbers," Robb repeated more sternly this time.
Glover moved forward, clearing his throat.
"My king," he began, voice roughened by smoke and fatigue, "we have completed the count as best we can."
Robb nodded once. "Speak it."
Glover inhaled slowly. "Seven thousand eight hundred dead."
The rain seemed louder at the northern lord's words.
"Two thousand nine hundred maimed beyond further service. Limbs lost. Eyes taken. Backs broken." Smalljon's jaw tightened as he clenched his fists."And two thousand three hundred wounded who may recover, with proper rest and treatment."
The words slowly settled into the tent like an executioner's blade. Robb did the arithmetic before Glover finished speaking. They had marched south with just over twenty thousand and now nearly half of it was gone. He had lost men before. At the Whispering Wood. At Oxcross. War always demanded its price. But this—
Robb's fingers tightened on the table's edge.
"How many remain fit to fight?" he asked.
"Just over nine thousand in proper condition," Glover answered. "Perhaps more if we press the wounded early."
Robb nodded faintly. Nine thousand men. Against high stone walls. Against a king whose personal army had carved through northern lines like iron through saplings. He had heard of the survivors' descriptions of the enemy forces. They had not howled or charged wildly.
They had advanced in measured silence, shields locked, blades striking with unnatural precision. When they moved, they moved as one body. Demons, some of his men had whispered afterward. Black armored demons.
Robb did not believe in demons. But he believed in discipline, and what he had heard had deeply unsettled him.
"Supplies?" Robb asked.
"Stable for now," Bolton replied smoothly. "If the siege continues like this, we will feel the strain."
"Of course we will," Robb thought.
"Very well." He actually said.
"Your Grace, we should withdraw," Lord Bolton said quietly.
The words slid into the space like a knife between ribs.
Smalljon's head snapped up. "Withdraw?" he barked.
Bolton did not raise his voice. "Return to Riverrun. Rejoin our river forces. Regroup. Rebuild strength before pressing further."
"You mean run," Smalljon growled.
"I mean preserve what remains," Bolton replied.
Smalljon slammed his fist against the table.
"My father lies headless because we hesitated! Because we allowed southern devils to dictate pace! And you would slink back north?"
Bolton's pale eyes shifted to him slowly. "Your father died because he charged without command."
The tent tightened. Smalljon stepped forward, hand drifting toward his sword.
"Say that again."
Robb just shook his head exasperated by the northern lords.
But Lord Glover spoke over them. "Perhaps… Perhaps we should consider suing for peace."
Silence fell like a hammer.
Smalljon rounded on him. "Peace?! Peace!" he roared. "After what they did?"
Glover's voice rose defensively. "After what we did as well! We broke the truce! We attacked without sanction—"
"And they butchered us!" Smalljon shouted back.
"They defended themselves!" Glover shot back, surprising even himself.
The argument erupted fully then. Voices overlapping. Accusations being thrown. Grief had been given teeth.
Bolton remained silent, watching. Robb felt the sound pressing against his skull. They were coming apart. Not just from betrayal or defeat, but from doubt.
"We cannot afford this," Robb said, but his voice was swallowed by the noise.
Smalljon slammed a chair aside. "Peace is cowardice!"
"War without strength is suicide!" Glover shouted back.
Robb stepped forward and struck the table with his gauntleted fist. The sound cracked through the tent. Silence followed instantly.
"You will not fight each other," Robb said. "You will not dishonor the men who fell today by tearing at each other like starving dogs."
Nobody moved.
"We can not afford any more division," he said quietly. "Please."
Smalljon swallowed. "My apologies," he muttered.
Glover bowed his head. "Forgive me."
Robb nodded once, his expression still somewhat solemn.
But the damage lingered. He could feel it. The North was not united in purpose anymore. It was splintering beneath the heavy strain of the day's slaughter.
"What do you intend to do, Your Grace?" Bolton asked at last.
All eyes turned to the King in the North, and he felt the weight of every one of them. The weight of seventy five thousand dead. The weight of two executed lords. The weight of walls he had no idea how to breach.
He looked down at the map of King's Landing, on parchment it seemed like a simple task. Just some ink and some lines. But now he had seen first hand the devastation of its defenses, and the black armored soldiers that manned them.
"The king has requested another parley," he finally said after a moment.
Smalljon's lips curled at his king's words.
"You'd speak with him again?"
"Yes," he responded immediately.
Lord Bolton's eyes sharpened slightly. "And if he decides to change terms?"
"Then we will show him northern resolve," he replied, as he completely straightened his back and stood proud. "I will ride out tomorrow to meet him."
Murmurs rose, Smalljon looked displeased to say the least.
"We should strike while he expects words," he muttered.
"No," Robb said firmly. "We have bled enough for pride."
The words tasted strange in his mouth. Pride. Had that been part of it? Had he believed the city would fall simply because he believed it should? He locked eyes with Lord Bolton.
"Ensure the men are formed visibly when I ride," Robb ordered. "Armor polished. Banners high. If the southern king seeks to seek an advantage, he will see that we are not broken."
Smalljon nodded, Glover looked relieved, the rest seemed to be just going with the flow.
"You have your orders," he said sternly, "see to them."
"Yes, your grace." They said in unison bowing their heads and exiting the tent one at a time.
Once the last northern lord exited, Robb was left alone with only maps, parchments, and rain to keep him company. After sheathing his sword he left the tenant without calling for an escort.
The rain had steadied into a thin, endless drizzle. It soaked into clothing, hair, and bone alike. The campfires burned low, smoke mixing with the metallic scent of blood that lingered heavily in the air.
He walked between tents along a path of churned mud. Cries reached him as he walked. They were low at first, but only grew louder and sharper. A man screaming as a bone was set. Another begging someone unseen not to leave him.
The wounded tents were lit bright as day within, lanterns glowing through canvas like swollen moons. Shadows moved violently inside—healers bending, men thrashing.
Robb slowed.
A soldier near the path struggled to his feet as he passed and bowed his head despite a sling binding his arm.
"My king," the man rasped.
Robb inclined his head to the soldier and continued to walk. Further on, two men sat side by side in silence, staring at nothing. One's face was bandaged nearly entirely. The other held a blood-stained rag in both hands, unmoving.
They did not rise. They did not acknowledge him. They simply stared off into the distance, as if their spirits were elsewhere. Robb felt a tightening in his chest at the sight of his men's despair.
He walked on leaving the men in peace. He did not stop until the camp sounds had dulled behind him. Beyond the last ring of tents, the trees opened slightly, granting a view toward the illuminated distant city, glowing faintly though the fog.
Robb just stood staring at it and its impossibly high walls.
He filled his lungs with the cool night air and exhaled slowly trying to calm his nerves. For the first time since he called his banners he didn't know what to do. Internally he wasn't sure he and his forces could defeat Joffrey in the field anymore. Sure he had his uncle captive, but Joffrey held his father and both of his sisters.
The thought struck deeper than any blade. He felt as though he was balancing on a frozen lake with ice too thin to hold him. If he failed he'd lose everything. His father, his sisters, his soldiers faith, perhaps even the north itself.
Slowly he sank to one knee in the wet earth, and bowed his head.
"Old gods," he murmured. "If you are listening then please…show me the way."
Only the rain answered his call. Water dripping from the nearby branches and leaves. Robb remained kneeling in the mud long after the cold seeped through his armor and into his bones. He waited for guidance, and all he received was silence.
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