The war council was loud and chaotic, as Northern lords had never learned subtlety in their speech. Voices boomed across the hall, demanding that they march immediately on King's Landing.
"Attack now! The Iron Throne shall be ours!" one shouted.
Brave words, but reckless. Few considered whether their army was prepared, or whether the timing was wise. The Riverlands lords, for their part, remained silent, observing, waiting for Robb Stark's judgment. They had long grown weary of war and were more interested in rebuilding shattered villages and reclaiming lands than chasing political glory. Their soldiers, too, carried the weight of battle in their bones. Widows and children awaited them in cottages across the Riverlands, hoping their men would return alive, unscathed, to continue their family lines.
"I'd like to cut off Tywin Lannister's head and display it on a spear for the people of King's Landing to see!" Greatjon Umber roared above the din. "Let them know the fate of the cruel is cruelty itself!"
Count Tytos Blackwood added grimly, "Gregor Clegane is gone, yet Tywin is the root of this bloodshed. His guilt cannot be forgotten."
Before Robb could speak, Eddard Karstark, Hand of the King, raised his hands to quiet the room. "My lords, the next battle cannot be rushed," he said, calm but firm. "Renly Baratheon's death has introduced countless uncertainties. If House Tyrell sides with Stannis, our involvement in the next battle may be unnecessary. Their combined forces alone could overwhelm King's Landing and the Lannisters. Negotiation, not war, may be all that is needed."
A ripple of surprise passed through the room, and Greatjon's face turned red with indignation. "Then why doesn't Tyrell choose the North? We have proven victorious!"
Eddard allowed himself a small inward smile. He glanced at Robb, silent and composed, before addressing the hall. "Mace Tyrell has lived a life of luxury and comfort, surrounded by flowers and fountains. He has little understanding—or perhaps little respect—for rough Northerners. It is only natural he weighs options that serve his interests."
Greatjon nodded, mollified by the explanation, convinced by its apparent logic.
"Let us consider our position," Eddard continued. "We hold Tywin's son and brother prisoner. We have expelled Lannister forces from the Riverlands. Now is the time to reorganize, rebuild, and watch the struggle between the Baratheons and the Lannisters. We may then reap the benefits of their conflict without needless bloodshed."
Silence settled over the room. Only Roose Bolton, the Old Flayer, spoke, his gray eyes narrowing. "Is this also His Majesty's intention?" he asked softly, a hint of suspicion in his voice. "I have heard that the Karstark young master has become Hand of the King. Does that make him the de facto King's Hand?"
Eddard, ever observant, looked at the Old Flayer and replied smoothly, his tone dripping with calm authority. "Whether I am Hand of the King or simply the King's adviser, my judgment remains superior to that of any lord here."
His gaze hardened. "I have also heard troubling reports regarding your bastard son, Ramsay Snow. He imprisoned Lady Donella of Hornwood Castle. Before her death from starvation, he forced her to write a will naming him heir to Hornwood. A bastard manipulating men and lands so depraved—it is shocking."
Ser Farryd Pohl, loyal to House Hornwood, slammed his gauntleted hand on the table. "The people of Hornwood will never forget this atrocity!"
Ser Wendel Manderly of White Harbor, large and imposing, even knelt before Robb, tears glistening in his eyes. "Please, Your Majesty, see justice done for my aunt!"
Lady Maege Mormont observed silently, struck by the uncanny skill Eddard displayed. With a few precise words, he exposed the weakness of others and turned it into political leverage. She wondered quietly where the young Karstark had learned such cunning.
Roose Bolton's eyes flicked from Eddard to Robb. His lips curled slightly, a faint sneer hidden beneath the surface. "What my son did is his own doing," he said carefully. "It has nothing to do with the Bolton family. He was a madman corrupted by his bloodline. He has now been executed by Ser Rodrik. The debt is paid, and I relinquish all claim to Hornwood's lands."
The room's tension did not ease. Eddard's eyes narrowed. "I have received reports from a trusted source in Dreadfort. That which was slain by Ser Rodrik was not Ramsay Snow—but a man named Reek. The true Ramsay still languishes in Winterfell's dungeons, using Reek as his alias."
Shock swept across the Northern lords. Ser Farryd and Ser Wendel instinctively prepared to kneel again, eager for vengeance. Robb raised his hand.
"Enough," the Young Wolf declared. "If this report is true, after the war, I will personally see Ramsay Snow's head severed to avenge Lady Donella. If it proves false, then Reek shall take the black and journey to the Wall. Justice will be served according to truth."
Roose Bolton's thoughts churned. Could Eddard have planted informants in Dreadfort? No matter—the boy's cunning was undeniable. And yet, Roose's murderous intent burned silently beneath his calm exterior.
Robb motioned to resume the meeting. Though called a discussion, the room understood that his word was law. Orders were given, and the lords were expected to execute them without hesitation.
At Golden Tooth, Count Rickard Karstark, Eddard's adoptive father, was entrusted with three thousand soldiers to hold the castle. Though the war was far from over, many already understood that the second son of House Karstark would soon take his leave from Karhold to rule Golden Tooth—a rapid ascent to power and influence.
Harrenhal, a fortress of infamous history, had already fallen. Before the Battle of the Red Fork, Ser Brynden Rivers had departed with several hundred cavalry and five thousand infantry. The castle was wrested from the Brave Companions, the mercenary company notorious for its brutality, and the men were taken into custody.
Robb consulted Eddard on how to handle them. Eddard's advice was decisive: Vargo Hoat should be named Count of Harrenhal, recognizing his role in capturing the castle. The remainder—criminals, exiles, and those who could not speak the Common Tongue—should face execution. Among them, only Maester Qyburn was of note, a scholar of dark arts whom Eddard considered keeping under strict watch for study.
"Immoral experiments and alliances with Lannisters alike make them a danger," Eddard argued. "Better that they perish than cause further harm."
Robb nodded and dispatched ravens with these orders. Harrenhal would be cleansed of its darkness, its command entrusted to loyal hands, and justice, as determined by the King in the North and his Hand, would be served.
Thus, the council ended, the lords dispersing with plans in motion.. Northern honor, Riverlands pragmatism, and the ever-present shadow of vengeance intertwined in the decisions made that day. The game of thrones continued, and with Ramsay Snow's fate now a question, even the Old Flayer could not escape the consequences of his bloodline's sins..
Outside, the summer sun shone over the Riverlands, oblivious to the plotting and politics below. In the eyes of the Young Wolf and his Hand, the future was as clear as the lake's waters—justice would be served, loyalty rewarded, and the North would not bow to any who defiled its honor.
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