A/N:Hope you enjoy the chapter :D
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Year 299 AC/8 ABY
Kings Landing, Crownlands
The crimson tide flowed through the Gate of the Gods, a river of steel that choked the streets of King's Landing. From the high balcony of the Tower of the Hand, Tyrion Lannister watched his father's army occupy the city. It was not a liberation. It was a suffocation.
The gold cloaks, usually so swaggering in their authority, looked like nervous children in the presence of wolves. They pressed themselves against the walls of Flea Bottom shanties, making way for the endless columns of Westerlands heavy infantry. The smallfolk had vanished. Shutters were drawn tight. Doors were barred. The silence of the city was heavier than the summer heat, broken only by the rhythmic tramp of iron-shod boots and the clatter of hooves on cobblestones.
"He looks happy," Bronn observed, leaning casually against the stone railing. The sellsword was picking his teeth with a dagger, watching the figure of Tywin Lannister riding at the head of the column.
Tyrion squinted at the distant figure on the great warhorse. His father sat erect, gold-encrusted armor gleaming in the sun, his face a mask of imperious indifference. "Happy?"
"Looks just like his murder face," Bronn shrugged. "Hard to tell the difference with men like that. Usually means the same thing for everyone else."
"In this case, I suspect you are right." Tyrion turned away from the balcony, the sight of the occupation churning the sour wine in his stomach. "My father does not occupy cities to throw festivals. He comes to impose order. And order, in Tywin Lannister's lexicon, usually involves a great deal of sharp steel."
He waddled back into the solar, the room where he had played at being Hand for a single, disastrous moon. The desk was cluttered with parchments he would never finish reading. He poured the last dregs of the Arbor gold into his cup. It tasted flat.
His tenure had been a catastrophe. Robert murdered. The Master of Whisperers executed by a boy king with a crossbow. The realm fracturing into war. And now, the true Hand had arrived to sweep away the debris.
"Well," Tyrion raised his cup to the empty room. "To the Acting Hand. May history forget him entirely."
He drank as the door opened without a knock.
Kevan Lannister stood there, solid and reliable as a castle wall. "He is here," his uncle said simply. "He summons the family to the solar. Now."
"The Throne Room?" Tyrion asked, setting down the cup.
"No," Kevan replied, his face grim. "Here. He has no patience for the Iron Chair today."
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Tywin Lannister did not sit behind the desk. He stood before the hearth, stripping off his riding gauntlets with slow, deliberate movements. The fire had not been lit, yet the room felt stifled, the air sucked out by the sheer gravity of his presence.
Cersei sat in the high-backed chair, her spine rigid, clutching a goblet of wine as if it were a shield. Jaime stood by the window, staring out at the city, his white cloak hanging heavy from his shoulders. He had not looked at anyone since entering the room. And Joffrey... Joffrey sat on the edge of the desk itself, swinging his legs, wearing the crown that looked too large for his head.
Tyrion pulled himself up into a chair opposite his sister, feeling the familiar sensation of being a child awaiting punishment.
Tywin threw his gauntlets onto the table. They hit the wood with a heavy, wet slap.
"The King is dead," Tywin said. It was not a question. It was a foundational statement, the starting point of the new reality. He turned his pale green eyes upon them, dissecting them one by one. "I have heard the songs being sung in the streets. Stark assassins. Shadowblades. Treason."
He walked slowly toward Cersei. "That is good fodder for the mob. It keeps them angry at the right people. But you have created another enemy we do not need at this moment so do not insult my intelligence by repeating that lie here." He stopped, looming over the Queen Regent. "How did he die?"
Cersei lifted her chin. She looked regal, Tyrion had to admit, even in her terror. "He was drunk," she said, her voice steady, though the rim of her goblet trembled. "Drunk and irrational. He burst into my chambers, raving like a madman."
"About what?" Tywin asked almost softly.
"The taxes," Cersei lied smoothly. A half-truth; the best lies always were. "He had discovered the increases I ordered on the North. He accused me of destroying his friendship with Ned Stark. He was violent. He attacked me."
She took a sip of wine, her eyes flicking briefly to Jaime's back. "Jaime intervened. He had to. He is a Sworn Brother of the Kingsguard. He defended his queen. In the struggle... the King fell."
The room hung in silence. It was a clumsy fabrication. A man like Robert Baratheon, a warrior born even if he was past his prime, 'falling' in a struggle? It reeked of improvisation. Tyrion looked at Jaime. His brother remained motionless, a statue of guilt carved in ivory and gold.
Tywin looked from Cersei to Jaime, then back to Cersei. His expression did not change. He knew. Tyrion could see it in the slight tightening of his father's jaw. He knew or suspected this was a lie covering a regicide far more damnable than a simple struggle.
"Clumsy," Tywin pronounced, his voice devoid of emotion. "But irrevocable."
He turned away, dismissing the death of a king as one might dismiss a broken vase. It was done. The cost would be managed.
"We have a war to win," Tywin said, pacing the length of the room. "And we are beginning it blindly."
"I have not been blind!" Joffrey piped up. The boy king hopped off the desk, puffing out his chest. He looked around the room, eager for the praise he felt was his due. "I dealt with the traitors, Grandfather. I showed them the strength of the crown."
Tywin stopped. He turned slowly to face his grandson. "Strength?"
"Yes!" Joffrey beamed, oblivious to the temperature in the room dropping to freezing. "The eunuch. Varys. He was conspiring with my uncle Renly. I executed him myself. With my crossbow." He mimed the action, a cruel smile playing on his lips. "Right through the throat. He squealed like a pig."
Tyrion closed his eyes. You fool. You utter, damned fool.
"You executed the Master of Whisperers," Tywin repeated, his voice dangerously quiet.
"He was a traitor," Joffrey insisted, his smile faltering slightly under Tywin's gaze. "A spy."
"He was a spy for us," Tywin said. The words cracked like a whip. "He was the eyes and ears of this city. He knew what men whispered in their bedchambers. He knew which ships docked in the harbor and what cargo they carried."
Tywin took a step closer to the boy. Joffrey shrank back, his bravado evaporating.
"Tell me, Your Grace," Tywin said, the honorific sounding like an insult. "Do you know where Stannis Baratheon is with the royal fleet right now?"
Joffrey blinked. "I... he fled. To Dragonstone."
"And from there?" Tywin pressed. "Has he sailed for Storm's End? Is he blockading the Gullet? Is he treating with the Free Cities for sellswords?"
"I... I don't..." Joffrey stammered.
"Do you know which lords Renly is meeting with this very hour at Highgarden?" Tywin continued, relentless. "Do you know if the Tyrells have pledged their swords to him, or merely their daughter?"
Joffrey looked to his mother for help, but Cersei was staring into her wine cup.
"Do you know what Eddard Stark is doing in the North?" Tywin's voice rose, just a fraction, sharp as a blade. "Is he calling his banners? Is he marching for the Neck? Is he already treating with the Tullys?"
"He is a traitor!" Joffrey shouted, his face flushing red. "I will have his head!"
"You cannot have his head if you do not know where he is!" Tywin snapped. "And what of the Stark bastard? We had reports he was in the Reach. Do you know where he is now? Do you know who he is meeting? Do you know if he carries messages between Winterfell and Highgarden?"
"I don't care about some bastard!" Joffrey spat.
"You do not know," Tywin whispered, leaning down until his face was inches from the King's. "You do not know because you killed the one man whose job was to know. You have blinded us. In the middle of a war, surrounded by enemies, you put out our eyes to satisfy a moment of cruelty."
Tywin straightened, looking down at the boy with profound disgust. "That is not kingship. That is idiocy."
The silence that followed was absolute. Tyrion felt a dark, twisted satisfaction. He had wanted to say this for days.
Joffrey trembled. His fists clenched at his sides. Tears of humiliation stung his eyes. "I am the King!" he screamed, his voice cracking. "I am the King! You cannot speak to me like that! I will have you—"
Tywin turned his back on him. He looked at Jaime.
"The King is tired," Tywin said calmly. "See him to his bed."
"I am not tired!" Joffrey shrieked. "I command you to—"
Jaime moved from the window. He crossed the room in three long strides, gripping Joffrey by the shoulder. It was not a gentle grip. "Come, Your Grace," Jaime said, his voice flat.
"Let go of me!" Joffrey thrashed, but Jaime was iron. He hauled the fuming, shouting boy toward the door. Joffrey kicked and screamed, a tantrum echoing down the hall as Jaime dragged him out, leaving the adults in the silence of the solar.
Tywin did not watch them go. He walked to the side table and poured himself a cup of watered down wine.
"He is a child," Cersei said defensively, though her voice lacked conviction. "He needs guidance, Father, not public humiliation."
"He needs a keeper," Tywin corrected. "And since you have failed to be one, I will appoint another."
The door opened again. Kevan Lannister entered, carrying a roll of parchment and a grim expression. Jaime slipped back inside a moment later, looking weary, as if dragging the King down the hall had been more exhausting than any battle.
"The map," Tywin ordered.
Kevan cleared the table, sweeping Tyrion's unread parchments onto the floor without a glance. He unrolled the great map of Westeros, weighing down the corners with heavy iron inkwells.
The family gathered around the parchment world. Tyrion wheeled his chair closer, studying the geography of their doom.
"The situation is dire," Kevan stated, tapping the map. "Stannis holds the sea. He sits on Dragonstone, a dagger at our throat. If he blockades Blackwater Bay, the city starves."
"Renly is the immediate threat," Tywin said, pointing to the Reach. "He has the numbers. If the Tyrells back him fully, he commands eighty thousand swords. He will be marching up the Roseroad. He will moves slowly if only stopping for the Fat Flower's incessant need for feasts, but he moves."
"And the North," Jaime added, pointing a gloved finger at Winterfell. "Stark will be mobilizing, too. He has too after accusation. The Northmen are slow to gather, but they are hard to break. If they march south and join with the Riverlands..."
"I have dealt with the Riverlands," Tywin said coldly. "I have sent word to Ser Gregor to burn the villages from the Golden Tooth to Pinkmaiden. He leaves no shelter, no food. Edmure Tully is a sentimental fool; he will scatter his forces trying to defend every inch of his land. The Riverlords will be fragmented before they can unite with Stark."
"But Stark is the key," Tyrion murmured, looking at the vast expanse of the North. "If Ned Stark brings twenty thousand Northmen down the Neck, and joins with Hoster Tully's levies... we are caught between the hammer of the North and the anvil of the Reach."
"We need to stop Stark from marching," Cersei said. "Send assassins. Finish the job."
"Assassins," Tywin said, his voice flat as iron on stone. "Crude. Reckless. And beneath this house."
Tyrion watched his father's jaw tighten, the muscle jumping beneath that severe, clean-shaven face. The hypocrisy was almost beautiful in its audacity—Tywin Lannister, who had drowned Castamere and butchered babes in their cribs, now preening about honor.
"You would not say that if it were expedient," Tyrion murmured.
His father's eyes cut toward him, cold and green as winter glass. "If I required a blade in the dark, I would use one. But not now. Not when Stark is already watching for it. The first attempt on his daughter has made him wary. A second would only confirm our guilt and rally the North to blood vengeance."
Cersei's lips pressed into a thin line, her fingers drumming against the edge of the table. She looked like she wanted to argue, but even she knew when their father had closed a door.
"We need strategy," Tywin continued, his gaze returning to the map. "Not desperation."
"I will take a host," Jaime said suddenly. His eyes were bright, feverish. "Give me ten thousand men. I will ride for the Neck and cut them off before they cross the causeway. Or better yet, I will ride to meet Eddard Stark and challenge him in single combat. I can end it with one stroke."
Tywin looked at his eldest son with a mixture of pity and annoyance. "This is not a tourney, Jaime. We do not have ten thousand men to spare on a glory ride into the swamps. If you get bogged down in the Neck, the Northmen will bleed you white with arrows from the reeds. And while you are playing at heroes, Renly will take King's Landing."
Jaime's jaw tightened, but he fell silent.
"We cannot fight them all at once," Kevan noted. "We are surrounded."
Tyrion studied the map. He looked at the North. It was vast, empty, and formidable. But it had a weakness. The Starks were looking South. Their eyes were fixed on King's Landing, on the injustice done to their house. And they were looking North, to the Wall, where Ned Stark had gone.
"They are looking the wrong way," Tyrion said softly.
Tywin looked down at him. "Explain."
Tyrion reached out, his stubby finger tracing the western coastline of the North. The Stony Shore. The Rills. Deepwood Motte.
"The Starks are entirely focused on the South," Tyrion said, his voice gaining confidence. "They are marching their strength down the Kingsroad. They are leaving their home unguarded."
He tapped the Iron Islands.
"Balon Greyjoy," Tyrion said. "He has been sulking on his rocks since Robert crushed his rebellion. He hates the Starks. Ned Stark took his son as a hostage. He took his pride."
"Balon is a mad dog," Cersei scoffed. "He will not ally with us."
"We don't need an alliance," Tyrion countered. "We don't need him to love us. We just need him to be who he is. A reaver and a pirate."
He looked up at his father. "The western flank of the North and the Riverlands are wide open. If Balon Greyjoy were to know... if he were to be told that the Wolf has left the den unguarded... that Seaguard to Deepwood Motte are ripe for the taking..."
"He would strike," Jaime murmured, seeing the logic. "He wouldn't be able to help himself."
"Exactly," Tyrion nodded. "If the Ironborn attack the North and the Riverlands, Ned Stark cannot march South. He will have to turn back to defend his home and his allies. He will be tied down fighting the squids in the snow while we deal with Renly and Stannis."
Tywin stared at the map. For a long moment, the only sound was the crackle of the torch in the sconce. He looked at the Iron Islands, then at the North, calculating the distances, the hatreds, the inevitability of it.
He looked at Tyrion. There was no warmth in his eyes, but there was something else. Recognition.
"Kevan," Tywin said, not looking away from his son. "Write the letter."
"To Balon Greyjoy?" Kevan asked, reaching for a quill.
"Yes," Tywin said. "Do not offer him an alliance. Do not ask for his help. He is too proud to accept a favor from a Lannister."
Tywin's voice was hard as iron. "Tell him only this: The King is dead. The North marches South. The Wolf has left his door unlocked. I am not asking you to help me; I am telling you that your enemies are vulnerable."
"Direct him to the Seaguard," Tyrion added. "And Deepwood Motte. This will keep Stark's forces scattered."
"Do it," Tywin commanded Kevan. "Send it by swift raven to Pyke tonight."
Tywin turned back to the room. He looked at Cersei, then Jaime, and finally rested his gaze on Tyrion.
"Littlefinger is gone," Tywin said. "Sent to the Vale on a fool's errand by a fool King. The treasury is a disaster. We have no gold, immense debts, and a war to fund."
He walked to the desk and picked up the heavy chain of office that Littlefinger had left behind—the chain of the Master of Coin. He tossed it to Tyrion.
Tyrion caught it, the metal cold and heavy in his hands.
"You are the new Master of Coin," Tywin said.
"Father, I—"
"Do not thank me," Tywin cut him off. "It is a poisoned chalice. You will find gold where there is none. You will pay the army. You will bribe whoever needs to be bribed. You will keep this city from starving."
Tywin moved toward the door, his purpose fulfilled. He stopped and looked back at Tyrion.
"And one more thing," Tywin said. "The boy. Joffrey."
"What of him?"
"He requires management. Cersei has proven she cannot control him. Jaime is... compromised." Tywin's eyes flickered to the Kingsguard. "You will bring him to heel, Tyrion. If he tries to execute another council member, if he tries to make another speech, if he so much as breathes a word that damages our cause... you will stop him."
"How?" Tyrion asked, weighing the chain in his hands. "He is the King."
"Be clever," Tywin said. "I will be busy fighting a war. I do not have time to parent a vicious idiot. That is your task now."
Tywin opened the door. "Do not fail me again."
He left. Kevan followed, clutching the parchment that would set the North aflame. Jaime lingered for a moment, looking at Cersei, but she turned her face away, staring into the cold hearth. Jaime exited silently.
Tyrion sat alone in the solar with his sister. The silence stretched, taut and brittle.
"Master of Coin," Cersei said, her voice dripping with venom. "He gives you the scraps."
"He gives me the gold," Tyrion corrected, draping the chain around his neck. It clinked softly. "Or the lack thereof."
He looked at the map, at the Iron Islands, at the North. He had just condemned thousands of Northern and Riverland smallfolk to fire and sword. He had unleashed the ironborn reavers to save his own skin, to save this wretched family that despised him.
"We are going to win," Cersei whispered, almost to herself. "We have to."
Tyrion poured himself another cup of water, wishing it were wine. "We might survive," he said. "Winning... I think we passed the point of winning when Joffrey pulled that trigger."
He wheeled his chair around, facing the door. He had ledgers to read. He had a King to leash. He had a war to finance with empty vaults.
"Sleep well, sweet sister," Tyrion said. "I suspect none of us will be sleeping much in the nights to come."
He rolled out of the solar, the chain of office heavy around his neck, the wheels of his chair squeaking on the stone, sounding like the cries of distant ghosts.
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Near Fist of the First Men, Beyond the Wall
The wind here did not just bite; it gnawed. It chewed through wool and leather, seeking the marrow of the bone. Robb Stark huddled into his furs, his breath freezing in his beard, but the cold he felt went deeper than flesh. It pressed against his mind, a heavy, suffocating blanket that dulled his senses and made the Force feel thick and sluggish, like trying to wade through frozen mud.
They navigated the rocky spines west of the Fist of the First Men, a jagged landscape of grey stone and white drifts. Grey Wind padded beside his destrier, the direwolf's paws silent on the ice-crusted snow. Through their bond, Robb felt the wolf's hackles rising, a constant, low-level growl vibrating in the animal's chest.
We are watched.
Robb felt it too. Not the eyes of men, hidden in the crags with bows of horn and weirwood. This surveillance was anticipated. It felt like the space between stars that Master Luke had described, a malevolent emptiness that tracked their every movement. Eyes in the snow.
"My lord," Qhorin Halfhand said softly, pulling his garron up beside Robb. The ranger's face was a mask of frost-bitten leather, his eyes scanning the ridge ahead. "We are close."
Robb nodded, shifting in his saddle. Behind him, the party of Northern lords rode in grim silence. The Smalljon, usually loud enough to wake the dead, had not spoken in hours. Wendel Manderly looked miserable, his bulk ill-suited for the harsh terrain, while Artos Flint rode with the easy grace of a man born to the mountains, his hand never straying far from his hilt.
They crested the final ridge, and the world opened up before them.
Below, the Milkwater wound through the valley like a ribbon of white jade. And spreading out from its banks, filling the valley floor, was the host of the free folk. Thousands of fires sent pillars of grey smoke into the slate sky. Tents of hide and fur stretched for miles, a chaotic sprawl of humanity that dwarfed any army the North had fielded in generations.
"Gods be good," Wendel Manderly gasped, the mist of his breath obscuring his face for a moment. He pointed a trembling gloved hand toward the river's edge. "Look. There."
Robb followed the gesture and felt his breath catch.
Lumbering through the deep drifts were shapes that defied reason. Massive, shaggy beasts with curved tusks that swept the snow, driven by riders who looked like children atop them.
"Giants," Cley Cerwyn whispered, his face draining of color. "And mammoths. The Old Nan's tales... they are all true."
Smalljon Umber stared down at the creatures, his mouth a grim line. The Greatjon's son was a giant of a man himself, but looking at the true giants below, he seemed to shrink. The brash confidence that usually armored him had cracked, revealing the boy beneath the warrior.
"They are real," Robb said quietly, his voice carrying over the wind. "And they are desperate."
He urged his horse forward, down the slope. "Raise the banner. Let them know we come in peace."
Harrion Karstark unfurled the white banner of truce, the fabric snapping violently in the gale. They rode down into the teeth of the wildling camp.
The descent was a gauntlet. As they reached the valley floor, wildling spearmen emerged from the drifts, clad in mismatched furs and boiled leather. They jeered as the Northern party passed, spitting into the snow and brandishing weapons of bronze and obsidian.
"Kneelers!" a woman with a spear of weirwood shouted, her face tattooed in blue swirls. "Go back to your castle, little lords!"
"Fresh meat for the crows!" another laughed, a man missing half an ear.
Artos Flint's knuckles were white on his reins, his other hand resting on the pommel of his sword. His eyes darted left and right, assessing threats, ready to draw at the slightest provocation. Robb sent a wave of calm toward him through the Force, subtle and steady. Hold. Do not break.
But not all the voices carried mockery. Some of the Free Folk watched in silence, their eyes tracking the Stark banners with something that looked almost like hunger—not for violence, but for salvation. A woman clutched a bundle to her chest, and Robb caught a glimpse of an infant's face, blue-tinged and still. Dead from the cold. Her gaze met his for a heartbeat, and in it he saw a desperation that cut deeper than any insult.
An old man leaning on a staff nodded once, almost imperceptibly, as if acknowledging what the Northern lords represented: a chance. A thin thread of hope in a world that had offered them nothing but ice and death.
Grey Wind stayed close to Robb's stirrup, a low, rumbling growl emanating from his chest as the scent of the giants washed over them—musk and old wool and something ancient and earthy. The direwolf bared his teeth at a passing shadowcat that slunk between the tents, but he did not attack.
They reached the center of the encampment, where a massive tent of sewn mammoth hides stood dominating the clearing. The flaps were tied back, revealing a warm, smoky interior.
"Wait here," Robb commanded his escort, though he signaled for his lords and Qhorin to dismount and accompany him. "Keep your steel sheathed unless I draw."
He dismounted, the snow crunching loudly under his boots, and ducked into the tent.
The warmth hit him first, smelling of peat smoke and roasting meat. The tent was surprisingly spacious, the floor covered in thick furs. At the far end, a man sat on a pile of cushions, strumming a lute with casual disregard for the armed lords entering his domain.
Mance Rayder did not look like a king. He wore black wool and red silk, a cloak of slashed velvet that had seen better days. His face was sharp, his eyes brown and shrewd, crinkling at the corners as he played a melancholy tune.
To his right sat a man who could only be Tormund Giantsbane. Massive, with a white beard that looked like a snowdrift, he was tearing into a leg of mutton with aggressive gusto, grease shining on his chin. He eyed the Northern lords with open amusement, chewing loudly.
But Robb's eyes were drawn to the shadowed corner of the tent.
A figure stood there, leaning against a tent pole as if it were the only thing holding him upright. He was gaunt, his face hollowed by exhaustion, his black cloak tattered and grey with dust.
"Uncle," Robb breathed.
Benjen Stark stepped into the light. He looked ten years older than when he had ridden out from Winterfell, his eyes haunted by things no man should see. There was a tension in his posture, a wariness that was directed not at Robb, but at the man playing the lute.
"Robb," Benjen said, his voice rasping like dry leaves.
Robb crossed the distance in three long strides, embracing his uncle. Benjen felt thin beneath his layers, brittle as a winter twig. He returned the hug fiercely, but only for a moment, before pulling back.
"You shouldn't have come," Benjen whispered, his voice low and urgent. "He's desperate, Robb. He thinks you've come to demand surrender. He won't kneel. He can't."
"I didn't come for surrender," Robb murmured back.
He turned to face the King-Beyond-the-Wall. The lute music stopped abruptly. Mance Rayder rested his hand on the strings, silencing the vibration.
"So," Mance said, his voice pleasant but with steel beneath the velvet. "The another Wolf comes to the den."
Robb moved to the center of the tent. His lords fanned out behind him, a wall of steel and fur—Smalljon towering and grim, Wendel sweating in the heat, Artos silent and dangerous.
"Mance Rayder," Robb said, inclining his head slightly. Not a bow, but an acknowledgement.
"Take a seat, Stark," Mance gestured to a pile of furs opposite him. "Unless you prefer to stand on your dignity."
Robb sat, crossing his legs, resting his hands on his knees in the way Luke had taught him. It grounded him, connected him to the earth beneath the furs.
"The Heir of Winterfell comes all this way," Mance mused, setting the lute aside. "With the Halfhand and the flower of Northern chivalry in tow. Are you here to tell us to die quietly, boy? To go back into the dark so your father can play his games of thrones in the South?"
Smalljon Umber bristled at the insult, stepping forward, his hand tightening on his sword belt. "You speak to the acting Lord of Winterfell, turncloak," he growled, his voice filling the tent. "Watch your tongue, or I'll cut it out."
Tormund Giantsbane laughed, a sound like boulders crashing together. He tossed the mutton bone aside. "Har! Listen to the little pup bark! Thinks he's a direwolf because he's standing in the big tent." He grinned at Smalljon, showing teeth stained with meat. "Need to be housebroken, that one. Pissing on the rugs already."
Harrion Karstark's face went red. "I'll show you who's housebroken, savage."
The tension in the tent snapped tight as a bowstring. Hands went to hilts. The air crackled with violence.
"Enough!"
Robb's voice was not a shout, but it carried a force that slammed the tent into silence. He did not stand. He did not draw steel. He simply looked at his men, his grey eyes hard as flint.
"Smalljon. Harrion. Stand down."
They hesitated, then stepped back, cowed by the authority that radiated from him—not just the authority of his name, but the strange, calm power that Luke had awakened.
Robb turned back to Mance. "I am not here to trade insults, nor to demand you bend the knee. I know what is happening out there." He gestured vaguely to the north. "I know you are running. I know they are herding you."
Mance's eyes narrowed. "You know nothing of it, southerner."
"I know the dead walk," Robb said quietly. "I know the white shadows are at your heels. And I know that if you stay here, you die."
"And if we march south, we die on your swords," Mance countered. "A choice between ice and steel."
"I am here to offer a third choice," Robb said. "Not full submission. But survival."
Before Mance could respond, the tent flap swept open again. A draft of freezing air cut through the warmth, carrying snowflakes that danced in the firelight.
A woman entered.
She was dressed in white and grey furs that hugged a lithe, powerful frame. A bone knife hung at her hip, utilitarian and deadly. She carried a flagon of mead, but she moved like a queen entering her court. Her hair was the color of dark honey, braided back from a face that was striking in its fierce beauty.
The conversation died instantly. Even the Smalljon's jaw clamped shut.
Robb felt the air leave his lungs. For a heartbeat, the war, the cold, the Others—it all vanished. He stared at her, struck dumb. It wasn't just her appearance; her presence in the Force was a bright, burning flame, wild and uncontained.
She stopped, her pale eyes sweeping over the Northern lords with cool appraisal. She lingered on Robb for a second longer than the others, her gaze unimpressed, assessing him as one might assess a horse or a weapon.
"Tormund," she said, her voice clear and sharp. "If you're going to eat like a bear, go outside with the rest of the beasts. You're getting grease on the furs."
She set the flagon on the low table between Robb and Mance with a thud.
Robb shook his head, physically forcing himself to break the spell. Focus. He inhaled deeply, the cold air stinging his nose, and exhaled slowly, visualizing the distraction flowing out of him with his breath. Emotion, yet peace. The mantra Luke had drilled into him steadied his racing heart. The intrigue remained, a warm coal in his chest, but his mind cleared.
He looked back at Mance, his demeanor shifting. The lordly mask dropped away, leaving only the young man who had seen the dead rise.
"I do not ask you to kneel, Mance," Robb said, his voice stripping away the politics. "I ask you to fight. Not for me. With me."
Mance studied him for a long moment, the mockery fading from his face. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
"You have seen them?" Mance asked softly.
"At our camp. Four nights ago," Robb admitted. "Wights. A ranging party of the dead."
Mance nodded slowly. "They are picking off our stragglers. The old, the sick, the slow. They nip at our heels like wolves, driving us forward. Panic spreads like a plague. We cannot hold the Fist much longer. If we stay, we feed their army."
"And if you cross," Robb said, "the Night's Watch cannot stop you. Not alone. But they will bleed you. And while you fight the crows, the Others will take you from behind."
Robb leaned in. "The Wall was built to stop the dead, Mance. Not the living. The Night's Watch has forgotten that. But the North remembers."
Robett Glover shifted uneasily behind him. "My lord, you cannot mean..."
"I mean that we need every sword," Robb said, not looking back. "Every spear. Every giant."
"The Watch will never agree," Leobald Tallhart murmured, though his tone was thoughtful, calculating the odds.
"The Watch is dying," Benjen Stark spoke up from his corner. His voice was rough, but steady. "Jeor knows it. Qhorin knows it. We are bleeding out, drop by drop. If we stand alone against what's coming, the Wall will fall." He looked at Mance. "My nephew speaks with honor. He is not bound by southern superstition. He sees the threat."
Mance looked from Benjen to Robb. "And your bannermen? Will the Umbers march beside Tormund Giantsbane without putting an axe in his skull?"
Robb glanced at the Smalljon. The big man looked like he was chewing on a stone, but he met Robb's gaze and nodded, once, sharp and stiff.
"They will follow my command," Robb said. "If the terms are right."
"Terms," Mance repeated. "Let's hear them."
"You bring your host closer. We review the numbers. If we agree to let you pass..." Robb held up a hand to forestall the objection he sensed coming from Artos Flint. "You will garrison the abandoned castles along the Wall. Greyguard, Oakenshield, the Nightfort. You will man them against the dead. You will hold the Wall with us."
"We become crows?" Tormund spat. "I'd rather freeze."
"You become guardians," Robb corrected. "You fight for your survival, and ours."
"And food?" Wendel Manderly asked, his practical mind cutting to the chase. "There are thousands of you. The Gift cannot support such a host in winter."
"The Stark stores are full," Robb said.
"My lord!" Rickard Ryswell protested. "Those are winter stocks for our own people!"
"These are people, Lord Ryswell," Robb snapped, the Force flashing with his irritation. "Living people. Would you rather feed them to the Walkers to swell the army that will kill us all?"
Ryswell fell silent, his mouth working.
"Two conditions," Robb said, turning back to Mance. "First, the castles. Second... you uphold the King's Peace. Northern law. No raping. No reaving. No stealing from the smallfolk. If a man of yours breaks the law, he answers to Stark justice."
Mance leaned back, picking up his lute again. He strummed a chord, the sound jarring in the tense silence.
"Free Folk are not easily tamed, Stark. They follow strength, not laws written on parchment."
"Then show them strength," Robb said. "Show them the strength it takes to keep a pact that saves their children."
Mance looked at the woman, Val, who was watching Robb with a strange, unreadable expression. Then he looked at Tormund. Finally, he looked back at Robb.
"We will move the host to the Fist," Mance said. "We will talk again. But no promises, Stark. If I smell a trap, if I see one arrow nocked in betrayal... we will drown you in blood."
"If you break faith," Robb replied, "winter will be the least of your worries."
He stood. "We will return in two days."
Robb turned and walked out of the tent, his lords falling in behind him. He stepped out into the freezing twilight. The snow was falling harder now, thick flakes that obscured the valley floor.
He looked out at the vast camp, the thousands of fires flickering against the encroaching dark. He felt the sheer weight of humanity down there—mothers, fathers, children, warriors. And he felt the cold pressing in from the north, the hungry void watching them all.
Keeping the Smalljon from killing Tormund would be a nightmare. Feeding this host would drain the North dry. Convincing the Watch to open the gates might start a mutiny.
But as he mounted his horse, feeling the reassuring warmth of Grey Wind against his leg, Robb knew he had made the only choice that mattered.
The war for the dawn had begun.
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