Red Pink City, the stronghold of House Piper, had been a temporary refuge for the armies of the North and the Riverlands. For over a week, the soldiers had rested within its walls, their banners fluttering lazily in the summer breeze. The castle, perched atop a gentle hill, was surrounded by slopes alive with wildflowers and thick greenery. A tributary of the Red Fork wound its way eastward, eventually merging into a placid azure lake, whose waters reflected the stars above. Fish darted lazily beneath its surface, blissfully unaware of the turbulence brewing elsewhere in Westeros.
Eddard Stark knelt at the water's edge, his long sword gleaming as it plunged into the lake. He pulled it out, a large trout skewered on the blade, its scales glinting in the firelight. Blood bloomed across the water, a stark reminder of nature's rawness.
Gripping the fish by the gills, Eddard cleaned it with his dagger, then skewered it over a small bonfire to roast.
"You should leave such tasks to the servants," Robb Stark said, reclining by the fire with a goblet of white wine. Grey Wind, the massive direwolf, squatted beside him, panting and flicking his tail. "Why do you insist on doing it yourself?"
Eddard shrugged, flipping the fish as the grease sizzled and dripped into the flames. "Preparing one's own food can calm the mind. It allows me to untangle thoughts from the chaos of recent events."
Robb, the King in the North, rarely had the chance to relax. Since his rise, he had been busy from dawn until dusk: managing logistics, planning battles, inspecting troops, and sometimes riding with Ser Brynden to scout enemy positions. Victory over Tywin Lannister had secured his reputation, making vassals cautious and obedient—even Roose Bolton, with his cunning and cruelty, followed orders without complaint. Nearly thirty thousand troops now gathered around Robb, an army forged from loyalty, necessity, and fear. For the first time in months, the weight of hatred and responsibility felt a little lighter.
"Robb," Eddard said quietly, turning the fish in the flames, "even small acts like this can help a man collect his thoughts."
Robb laughed softly, rolling up his trousers and stepping into the shallow water of the lake. He attempted to spear a trout like Eddard, but the fish proved slippery and elusive. Grey Wind, however, paddled into the water and returned triumphantly with a massive trout. Robb abandoned his attempts and returned to the fire, eager to taste the roasted fish.
The aroma was intoxicating once spices were sprinkled over the meal. Robb devoured half eagerly, muttering, "Eddard, you've changed. You're… different from before."
Eddard's expression darkened slightly. "We are all changed by what we endure. You are not the boy who left Winterfell months ago. You bear the weight of kingship now."
Their quiet moment was shattered by a sudden commotion.
"Your Majesty! Lord Eddard!"
Marko Piper, heir of Red Pink City, burst through the gate, eyes wide with panic. In his hand, a piece of parchment trembled as he shouted, "Renly Baratheon is dead! Renly Baratheon was killed by Stannis at Storm's End!"
Robb's fork paused mid-air, his mouth still smeared with grease. "Mother—Catelyn—was she with him?"
"She should be safe," Marko assured him. "The news came by raven, arranged by Lady Catelyn herself."
Robb exhaled, relief washing over him. The tension in his shoulders eased slightly, though the news of Renly's death still sent ripples through his mind.
Eddard's gaze sharpened. He leaned close to Robb and spoke in a low voice, careful that none overheard: "Your Majesty… now, if I were to suggest breaking your engagement with House Frey to wed Margaery Tyrell of Highgarden, would you consider it?"
Robb froze. "Why would I do that?" His surprise quickly gave way to a thoughtful frown.
Marko Piper, sensing opportunity, interjected eagerly: "Your Majesty, if you wed Margaery, the Reach will stand with us. With the support of the Riverlands, the North, and the Reach combined… even the Iron Throne could be within reach!"
Eddard nodded gravely. "Yes. Lady Lysa is related by blood. Though the Vale has yet to send troops, they would not rise against us. The Martells remain neutral. Stannis commands only the Stormlands, and loyalty there is uncertain. Tywin is trapped in King's Landing. A marriage to Margaery could solidify our position instantly."
Eddard paused, envisioning a life beyond war: returning to Golden Tooth, slowly accumulating wealth, marrying a daughter of a prominent family, and quietly building a loyal cadre of followers. He imagined strengthening the North, expanding influence over the Westerlands, and ultimately eliminating House Lannister—a life of calculated power and security.
Yet Robb Stark's nature was not that of a schemer. His honor and loyalty to his word were unshakable.
"No!" he said firmly, shaking his head. "I will never abandon House Frey for ambition or convenience. My father's teachings, my principles… I cannot betray them for political gain."
Eddard sighed, realizing argument would be futile. "Very well, Your Majesty, but understand this: if the Tyrells are swayed by the Iron Throne, we may face overwhelming odds. Thirty thousand against sixty thousand is not a contest we should take lightly."
Robb waved him off, his eyes bright with resolve. "Let them come. I have loyal vassals, brave warriors, and your guidance, Eddard. If we can defeat Tywin once, we can do so again. Our cause is just, and our resolve is stronger than any army!"
Eddard's lips curled into a faint smile. The young king's confidence, though bold, was inspiring. Still, he reminded himself that youthful courage and stubborn honor could be both a weapon and a vulnerability.
Robb's mind turned back to strategy. "If the Tyrells ultimately side with the Lannisters, we could face attacks from both flanks. Send my command. Call a council. We must plan accordingly."
As the bonfire crackled, the lake reflected the stars above, mirroring the delicate balance of power in Westeros. One king dead, another triumphant, alliances shifting like the tides. The game of thrones had claimed a victim, and the young King in the North was already thinking several moves ahead, determined that no obstacle—mortal or political—would halt his rise.
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