Chapter 17: The King's Peace and the Whispers of Treason
The return to Riverrun was not the triumphant homecoming many of Robb's weary soldiers had envisioned. Yes, they were greeted with cheers, their path lined with grateful Riverlanders hailing their King, the Young Wolf who had savaged the Lions in their own den. But the plunder they carried could not mask the thinned ranks, the fresh scars, the ghosts of comrades left behind in Westerland soil. Robb Stark, now firmly established in his role as King in the North and of the Trident, found that the mantle of kingship was heavier in the quiet halls of governance than it had ever been on the battlefield.
He established his court at Riverrun, the ancient Tully castle now the heart of a fledgling kingdom at war. His days were a relentless grind of councils, petitions, supply requisitions, and strategic planning. Sunshine, his daily companion, was a vital crutch. Its morning surge cleared the fog of weariness from his mind, allowing him to absorb reports from Maester Vyman on grain stores, levy counts, and castle defenses with preternatural speed. During its noontime peak, he would often closet himself in his solar, ostensibly to review sensitive documents, but in reality, to harness the full force of his intellect for grand strategy, wrestling with the complex map of Westeros and the shifting alliances that Tony Volante's mind saw as a high-stakes poker game. He was learning to better control the outward manifestations of Escanor's pride during these peaks, channeling the immense self-assurance into an unshakeable regal calm rather than overt arrogance.
Catelyn Stark was a constant presence, her grief for Ned a raw, palpable thing that mirrored Robb's own, though hers was often expressed in fervent pleas and anxious advice. "Sansa, Robb, Arya," she would whisper, her hands clutching his arm. "We must get them back. Offer Jaime Lannister, offer anything! What is a kingdom if your sisters are lost to us?"
Robb would listen patiently, his own heart aching. "Mother," he'd explain, his voice gentle but firm, "Joffrey and Cersei will not trade my sisters for Jaime while they believe they can still crush us. To them, Sansa is a valuable pawn, a symbol of their dominion over a 'traitor's' daughter. Our strength, our victories, are the only currency they will truly respect. We will free them, I swear it, but it will be on our terms, not theirs."
The Riverlords, for the most part, were fiercely loyal, their admiration for the Young Wolf bordering on reverence after his Westerlands campaign. But there were still squabbles over land, precedence, and the quartering of Northern troops. Robb found himself mediating disputes that would have tried the patience of Solomon, sometimes using a subtle Snatch to "borrow" a bit of an argumentative lord's belligerence, feeling the hot rush of their anger only to inwardly cool it, leaving them more amenable to reason. He dispensed justice in the Great Hall, his rulings swift, fair, and decisive, earning him a reputation for wisdom beyond his years.
The situation with Roose Bolton was a festering sore. The Lord of the Dreadfort sent regular, meticulously detailed reports from his campaign in the northern Riverlands. He was, by his own account, successfully clearing out Lannister remnants and pacifying the region. But Robb's own trusted rangers, led by Hallis Mollen (Jory Cassel's replacement as captain of his household guard, a grimly efficient man), painted a different picture. Bolton's forces suffered suspiciously few casualties, yet the lands they "pacified" were often stripped bare, their local lords cowed into absolute submission to the Dreadfort, not necessarily to Riverrun. Whispers of the Flayed Man's banners flying where Tully or Stark banners should have been, and of the brutal methods employed by Bolton's men – particularly Ramsay Snow's contingent – reached Robb's ears.
"He strengthens himself, Your Grace," Brynden Blackfish said bluntly during a private council. "He builds his own little kingdom within your kingdom."
"I know," Robb replied, his eyes like chips of ice. He had felt the cold ambition in Roose Bolton. "But he is too cautious to act openly against me while I hold the loyalty of the North and the Riverlands, and while Tywin Lannister is still a threat. For now, he serves a purpose. But his leash is short, and my hand is on it." He sent another raven to Bolton, commending his "thoroughness" but also reminding him that all resources and newly levied men were to be directed south to Riverrun, and that he expected Lord Bolton himself to attend the next great council of war.
The news of King Renly Baratheon's death, and the bizarre, unsettling rumors of shadow magic surrounding it, had thrown the strategic landscape into fresh turmoil. Stannis Baratheon now commanded the bulk of the Stormlord forces and was, by all accounts, preparing his long-anticipated assault on King's Landing.
"If Stannis takes the Iron Throne…" Edmure Tully began, then trailed off, looking to Robb.
"If Stannis wins, he will not tolerate another king in Westeros," Robb finished for him. "He is a man of iron and law, however harsh. He will demand our fealty."
"And will you give it, nephew?" the Blackfish asked, his gaze sharp.
Robb paced his solar, the sun, now past its zenith but still potent, casting his long shadow. "Stannis Baratheon has the stronger claim, now that Joffrey's bastardy is all but an open secret. He fights the Lannisters, our common enemy. But the North and the Trident have named me their King. My first duty is to them." He paused. "I sent envoys to him before. Now, with Renly gone, Stannis is a greater threat to the Lannisters, but also potentially to us. We will not bend the knee. But if he can defeat Joffrey and deliver my sisters to safety, then perhaps an alliance, king to king, could be forged."
He knew, however, the likely outcome of Stannis's assault if Tywin Lannister and the Tyrells intervened. The Tyrells, with their vast wealth and the largest army in Westeros, were the key. Renly's death had left them unaligned, a powerful free agent.
"Mace Tyrell is a pompous fool, but his mother, Olenna Redwyne, the Queen of Thorns, is as cunning as any man in Westeros," Catelyn offered. "And Margaery… she is ambitious. They will not sit idle."
"Littlefinger will already be whispering in their ears," Robb surmised, remembering the Game of Thrones he had once only read about. "He will try to broker an alliance between Highgarden and Casterly Rock. A Lannister-Tyrell alliance would crush Stannis and then turn its full might on us."
It was a grim prospect. He dispatched Ser Perwyn Frey (one of Walder Frey's more tolerable sons, who had shown some loyalty and competence) as an envoy to Highgarden, carrying a carefully worded message. It acknowledged their shared grief over King Renly (a diplomatic nicety), hinted at Lannister involvement in King Robert's death, and proposed that an independent Kingdom of the North & Trident and an independent Kingdom of the Reach might find common cause against an overweening Lannister-controlled Iron Throne, or at the very least, agree to mutual neutrality and non-aggression. It was a long shot, a desperate diplomatic gamble, but Tony Volante knew you didn't win by not playing.
Weeks crawled by. The lack of definitive news from Theon Greyjoy and the Iron Islands was a constant source of anxiety. Robb had sent Theon with handpicked "advisors" and loyal Stark men crewing his ships, and a secret channel had been opened with Asha Greyjoy. But Balon Greyjoy was a stubborn, vengeful old fool. Robb could only hope his gamble wouldn't backfire catastrophically.
He received a coded message from Asha, delivered by a smuggler into Seagard and then relayed by Lord Mallister. "My father dreams of old glories and listens to the whispers of drowned gods and mad priests. My brother Theon is caught between his Stark loyalties and his Greyjoy blood. The situation is… a kraken tangled in its own tentacles. I work as I can. Beware the reavers' tide."
It was not reassuring. Robb ordered the Manderlys of White Harbor to increase their naval patrols along the North's western coast, and sent warnings to Bear Island and Deepwood Motte.
His days were filled with the minutiae of kingship. He listened to petitioners, settled land disputes between bickering Riverlords, oversaw the distribution of grain from the Westerlands plunder, and worked with Maester Vyman to codify a set of "King's Laws" for his new realm – laws that emphasized fair justice, protected the smallfolk from excessive taxation by their lords, and standardized weights and measures, concepts that were revolutionary to many but which Tony Volante knew were essential for a stable, prosperous state. He even began designing a system of relay stations for faster communication between Riverrun and Winterfell, using his best riders and horses.
He received regular raven-mail from Bran and Maester Luwin. Bran, under Luwin's tutelage, was becoming surprisingly adept, his messages clear and concise. He wrote of Winterfell's continued fortification, of the new recruits drilling in the yard, of Rickon growing wilder by the day. He also wrote of strange dreams, of a three-eyed crow, whispers that made Robb uneasy but which he had no time to decipher. He ensured Winterfell and Moat Cailin were strongly garrisoned, Ser Rodrik Cassel commanding Winterfell with a council of regency that now included Catelyn (in absentia, but her authority was recognized).
Jaime Lannister remained a sullen, defiant captive in Riverrun's dungeons. Catelyn visited him once, against Robb's better judgment. It was a bitter, fruitless encounter, filled with accusations and grief. She emerged shaken but more resolute than ever that her daughters must be freed. Robb, understanding her pain, redoubled his efforts to gather intelligence from King's Landing, using the network of spies and informants that Tony Volante had, in his past life, considered essential to any successful operation. He even managed to get a message to Varys, via a trusted merchant, hinting at future cooperation if the Master of Whisperers could aid in ensuring his sisters' safety. It was a pact with a spider, but spiders often had the most intricate webs.
Then, the news they had all been dreading and anticipating arrived. Stannis Baratheon had launched his assault on King's Landing. His fleet had sailed into Blackwater Bay. The battle for the Iron Throne had begun.
For days, Riverrun held its breath. Robb drilled his army relentlessly, ensuring they were ready to move at a moment's notice. He sent outriders far to the east, trying to get word of Tywin Lannister's movements. Had he marched to save Joffrey? Or was he still consolidating in the Westerlands?
The answer came with devastating speed. A series of exhausted riders brought the news: Stannis's fleet had been decimated by wildfire in Blackwater Bay. His army, attempting to storm the city walls, had been caught between the defenders and the sudden, unexpected arrival of Tywin Lannister's host, reinforced by the full might of House Tyrell. Mace Tyrell and his daughter Margaery had ridden into King's Landing alongside Tywin, hailed as saviors. Stannis Baratheon's army was shattered, he himself barely escaping with his life. The Lannisters and Tyrells were now united, Joffrey's throne secure, and Tywin Lannister was the undisputed power in King's Landing, named Hand of the King once more.
Robb Stark received the news in his war room, the map of Westeros spread before him. His commanders – the Blackfish, Greatjon Umber, Maege Mormont, Jason Mallister – looked at him, their faces grim. This was a disaster. Their most powerful potential ally against the Lannisters was broken. Their enemies were now stronger than ever.
Robb felt a cold dread seep into his bones, a dread that even Sunshine, now at its late afternoon ebb, could not entirely dispel. His gamble on Stannis weakening the Lannisters had failed. His overtures to the Tyrells had clearly been trumped by a marriage alliance with Joffrey (he knew Margaery would be betrothed to Joffrey now).
"So," the Greatjon Umber said, his voice a low growl. "The stag is gored. The rose beds with the lion. And Tywin Lannister sits higher than ever."
"He will turn his full attention to us now," Brynden Blackfish stated, his expression bleak. "He will not make the same mistakes again."
Robb looked at the map, at his small, isolated kingdom of the North and the Trident, now facing the combined might of the Westerlands, the Crownlands, the Stormlands (those who bent the knee to Joffrey after Stannis's defeat), and the Reach. The odds were staggering.
He thought of his father's execution, of his captive sisters, of the sacrifices his people had made. He felt the weight of his iron crown, the burden of their hopes.
Tony Volante, the survivor, the strategist who had faced down impossible odds in a different, more modern jungle, whispered in his mind: When cornered, a wolf does not despair. It finds a new way to bite.
Robb Stark, King in the North, straightened his shoulders. The grief was still there, a cold ache. But beneath it, a new, harder resolve was forming. He was immortal, gifted with powers beyond mortal comprehension. He had knowledge no one else possessed. This war was far from over.
"My lords, my lady," he said, his voice quiet but resonant with an unyielding determination that made them all look up. "The situation is grave. But we are Starks. We are Northmen. We are Riverlanders. We do not break." He met their eyes, one by one. "Tywin Lannister thinks he has won. He thinks the Young Wolf is trapped." A predatory smile touched his lips, a smile that held no warmth, only the promise of future pain for his enemies. "Let him think that. For winter is still coming for House Lannister. And this time, we will ensure it is a winter from which they never recover."
He had a new, desperate, and incredibly dangerous plan forming in his mind, a plan worthy of a cunning mafia boss and a prideful Lion Sin. The game was not over. It had merely entered its deadliest phase.