The meeting had turned into a whirlwind of arguments, each lord convinced that their plan was the best and refusing to compromise. Robb Stark looked from one to another, weighing every suggestion carefully. As King, he was expected to hear all opinions, yet the ultimate responsibility—the choice that would shape lives—rested squarely on his shoulders.
Time passed. Abel, who had been ordered to prepare the meal, returned to the banquet hall carrying not only dishes but a few captive women to help serve. The aroma of food spread quickly, and the lords, previously engrossed in debate, finally fell silent.
Tender fried eggs glistened on the plates, savory bacon crackled in its own juices, soft, warm whole-wheat bread promised a hearty bite, and colorful salads drizzled with dressing invited eager tasting. Plate by plate, dish by dish, the bickering was replaced by the clatter of utensils and satisfied murmurs.
When rich, creamy fish soup was brought in, slurps and contented sighs filled the room. Abel, accompanied by the sharp and agile Konn and the gray-bearded, steady McKen, had ordered that steel swords be pressed against Ba'er Lan Nizes's neck. The former lord of Ox Town was now tasked with ensuring that his servants prepared the meal to the lords' standards.
At Konn's insistence, Ba'er had to taste every dish himself before it was served. McKen reminded him that even a minor mistake would cost every soul in Ox Town their life—servants, guards, everyone. Thanks to the cooperation of the three, the task was completed without incident. The exhausted lords, having fought all night, were finally satisfied.
Robb Stark, mouth full of bread and eggs, subtly glanced at Eddard Karstark, who sat silently beside him. Eddard had said little since the start of the meeting, unusual for a Hand of the King.
"Eddard Karstark," Robb finally said, his voice cutting through the murmur of chewing, "as my Hand of the King, do you have any suggestions for the upcoming battle?"
All eyes turned to Eddard. Almost everyone knew of the Hand of the King, though few had expected it to be this young, inconspicuous man from House Karstark. Greatjon Umber in particular was incredulous, feeling that he, who had supported Robb's claim, deserved the title.
Eddard set down his bread, meeting the stares of lords and knights alike. He smiled lightly. "Suggestions?" he said. "Lady Maege's idea is excellent. Sending out cavalry to round up local livestock will weaken enemy productivity considerably."
Lady Maege's lips pressed together as her suggestion was validated, though she noticed Eddard's eyes narrowing in thought.
"However," Eddard continued, "our march must be swift. Therefore, we keep only the horses. The rest can be slaughtered to feed our soldiers. Well-fed men fight better and with greater resolve."
Lady Maege furrowed her brow, clearly intending to interject, but seeing the King nod, she swallowed her protest. Robb's approval was firm; he seemed intent on Eddard's judgment.
"As for capturing castles and mining gold," Eddard added, "these offer little strategic value at this stage."
Greatjon scoffed, clearly displeased. Ser Brynden, the "Blackfish," regarded Eddard with a mix of skepticism and curiosity, his patience evident as he awaited the young lord's reasoning.
"Gentlemen," Eddard said, his voice steady, "consider Tywin, that old lion. How long have we held the Kingslayer? Surely he knows immediately. And yet… there is no reaction. Nothing but cold, ruthless indifference."
The banquet hall buzzed with whispers and quiet debate, though no one openly contradicted him.
"The old lion cares little for even his capable son, let alone minor vassals or inconsequential commoners," Eddard said, lifting his spoon in emphasis. "If we burn villages, kill select men, and strike swiftly, Tywin will have no choice but to respond."
He paused, letting the implications settle in. Any delay was dangerous. By the time news of Renly's death reached Tywin, the Reach's 50,000 soldiers combined with Tywin's 20,000 would vastly outnumber the North and Riverlands' combined forces of roughly 30,000. Even Dorne, under the Little Devil's influence, would pretend loyalty to the Iron Throne. A direct confrontation at that moment would be disastrous.
Eddard put down his empty soup bowl and tapped the table to restore order. "His Majesty needs a suggestion that is both quick and effective. We need to act now."
He leaned closer to Robb, speaking softly, outlining the plan he had spent days considering. Robb's expression darkened with thought. "Will this work?" he murmured.
"Trust me," Eddard replied firmly. "Even if it fails, the risk is minimal and time lost is negligible. If it succeeds, our objective is achieved instantly."
Ser Brynden, curious, leaned forward, silently evaluating Eddard's audacity. The other lords waited anxiously, eager to hear the King's decision.
Robb Stark considered for a moment before nodding. "Very well," he said. "We will march to Lannisport at dawn, two days from now."
The potential reward was immense; the risk, comparatively low. The lords shouted their oaths in unison:
"For the North!"
"For Winterfell!"
"For Stark!"
Greatjon Umber, still incredulous, could hardly believe that such a seemingly audacious plan had received the King's approval. Yet the order had been given, and all preparations for war began immediately.
Eddard, content with the King's decision, found a quiet room on the first floor, collapsed onto the bed, and soon slept, the sun shining warmly on the chaos of Ox Town outside. Cries echoed from burning houses, and soldiers' blades flashed in the morning light.
---
Three days later, Lannisport rose on the western coast, where the River Road, Golden Road, and Coastal Road converged. Normally bustling with merchants, travelers, and traders, it now braced for the looming threat of the North. Its streets and ports, lifelines of Lannister wealth, had become points of vulnerability.
Ser Davos Lannister stood atop the city walls, his golden-blonde hair framing a brow furrowed in worry. The son of Stafford Lannister, he bore his mother's brown eyes and a deep sense of responsibility. Clad in polished plate armor and gripping a greatsword, he watched distant banners fly—the black field with a white star marked House Karstark. Around a thousand Northern troops advanced from the forests.
Davos' father had instructed him to recruit local forces and young men eager for battle, as well as to find rest after months of duty. Yet two days later, the North's wolves had struck with uncanny speed, killing seasoned knights and scattering recruits. Even Martin Lannister had perished in the sudden raid.
As additional infantry approached, carrying House Maege's green bear banner, Davos' fury burned hotter. The Westerlands had been caught unprepared, their complacency exploited.
"Attack the walls if you dare," he vowed, "and I will make you pay."
He watched the Northern columns, counting their strength, preparing for the siege, his mind racing for strategies to defend the city he loved and serve the family he could no longer protect fully.
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