The fertility of The Riverlands' lush fields came to an abrupt end here; to the west lay the rugged, rolling mountains of the gold mines.
Along the border between The Riverlands and the Westerlands, banners of a golden lion on a red field lined the camp walls.
The wind swept through the Lannister camp, making the banners snap and flap loudly.
Inside the main command tent, a map of Westeros was spread across a long table.
Tywin Lannister set down the plea for help from Castle Stokeworth, the edge of the parchment rasping slightly under his fingertip.
It was quiet inside the tent, save for the whimpering of the wind whistling through the seams.
Knights stood by with their hands lowered, and a maester of the ravens waited silently to the side; no one spoke.
"That Dwarf, Tyrion," Tywin began, his voice as flat and cold as cold iron, "is at least not entirely stupid. He knows not to put all his eggs in one basket."
The letter was short.
Before Tyrion went to Duskendale, he had hidden Tommen at Castle Stokeworth.
When King's Landing fell, the boy escaped that fate because of it.
But The Crownlands were soon locked down by Aegon's army; they couldn't get out and were now completely surrounded.
Tommen was still alive. This was Tywin's only consolation at the moment, but it was far from enough. A drop in the bucket.
With Tommen alive, the Lannister claim to the iron throne was not extinguished. But that was all.
Tywin raised his eyes, his gaze falling on the knight below who commanded the spies and scouts.
"The families of The Riverlands lords," he asked, his tone devoid of emotion, "are they all under control?"
The knight stepped forward, his armor clinking softly.
"My Lord, in accordance with your earlier orders, when King's Landing fell and the situation first changed, I seized all the families of The Riverlands nobility who were loyal to Stark. They are being held under strict guard, without exception."
Tywin nodded slightly.
The messenger sent to Riverrun a few days ago had returned with an answer. A refusal.
That wolf cub of the North, Robb Stark, had rejected his proposal for a ceasefire.
Since persuasion had failed, it was time for a different approach.
"He refuses to bow his head," Tywin's voice was thin but laced with ruthless determination, "then we shall use hostages to force him to bow."
He tapped his index finger on the edge of the table, the sound echoing clearly in the quiet tent.
"Write to Riverrun. Either a ceasefire to jointly deal with Aegon Targaryen, or every family member of The Riverlands nobility will be buried with his stubbornness."
Having finished, his gaze fell back onto the plea for help.
This time, he would see what the young wolf chose.
...
Inside the council tent at Riverrun, the air was heavy enough to be oppressive.
The lords of the North and The Riverlands sat around the long table; the argument had been going on for most of the morning.
Aegon Targaryen, the iron throne he sat upon, and the new system he was implementing—every one of them felt like a stone weighing on their hearts.
Robb Stark sat at the head of the table and raised his hand.
The clamor in the tent gradually subsided.
"Aegon captured King's Landing and killed Joffrey," the youth's voice held a steadiness that belied his age, along with a trace of fatigue he couldn't quite hide. "This has indirectly avenged my father. I have no personal grudge against him."
The tent went silent for a moment, and some even showed strange expressions on their faces.
"But what he wants to take away," Robb's gaze swept across every face present, turning sharp, "are the lands you have passed down for generations, and your rights as vassals. He is the enemy of us all."
"Of this, there is no doubt."
The men finally nodded, but their worries did not dissipate. The allied forces of the North and The Riverlands were short on supplies, and now a powerful new enemy had arisen; where was the path forward?
Just then, hurried and frantic footsteps were heard outside, leather soles stomping heavily on the stone floor.
The tent flap was thrown open, and a guard rushed in, his face pale and his breathing heavy.
"Your Grace! Lord Rickard Karstark has broken into the dungeons with his men. He's cut down the guards and intends to kill the Lannister prisoners!"
Robb's brow furrowed instantly, and his heart sank.
Since the retreat from the Westerlands, the plan to ambush Tywin had failed, results were few, and supplies were scarce. Rickard Karstark had been complaining day and night.
His two sons had both died by Jaime Lannister's sword. The pain of losing them had long since made him irritable and obsessive; he had repeatedly clamored to execute Jaime for revenge, only to be suppressed by Robb's military law.
Without even stopping to explain to the lords in the tent, Robb grabbed the longsword at his side, stood up abruptly, and rushed out.
"Your Grace!"
Edmure Tully called out behind him.
Robb did not look back; his heavy footsteps quickly vanished outside the tent.
The lords inside the tent looked at each other, stunned for a moment before hurriedly rising to follow.
To get from the council tent to the dungeons, one had to cross a good portion of the allied camp.
Along the way, the guards saw the young king with a grim face, clutching his sword hilt as he strode forward, followed by a group of panicked lords; they all instinctively stepped aside to make way.
No one dared to ask a single question.
The smell of blood at the dungeon entrance grew suddenly intense after descending a few stone steps, a sweet, metallic scent of iron and dampness that hit the nose directly.
The dim firelight reflected a startling patch of red on the ground.
Rickard Karstark stood in a pool of blood, his longsword just having been pulled from a young corpse.
It was a boy from a branch of House Lannister. Another lay dead beside him.
Not far away, Jaime Lannister was chained to a stone pillar, watching it all with cold eyes and an expressionless face.
Karstark turned around, his blood-stained sword raised as he walked toward Jaime.
His eyes were bloodshot, his breathing heavy, and blood dripped from the blade onto the floor.
"Stop!"
Robb's shout exploded in the dungeon.
He rushed forward, his longsword swinging horizontally to parry Karstark's lethal blow aimed at Jaime's neck.
The sharp ring of metal on metal made everyone's eardrums tingle.
Rickard Karstark was knocked back two steps. He whipped his head around to glare at Robb, his eyes filled with nothing but manic hatred.
"Robb!" he roared, spit flying, "He killed my sons! Two of them! And you protect him? If you won't avenge my sons, what kind of King in the North are you!"
Robb's hand on his sword was tense, his knuckles white.
He looked at the vassal before him who seemed possessed by madness, his throat feeling dry. It wasn't that he didn't understand the pain of losing children, but he knew even better that once military discipline was broken, this allied army would be finished.
"Rickard," the youth's voice was low, carrying an unquestionable power, "I know your pain. But military law is supreme; no one is above it."
"Breaking into the dungeons, murdering prisoners, wounding guards... this is treason."
"To hell with your military law! I only want his life!" Rickard Karstark prepared to charge again.
Robb said no more and waved his hand to the guards behind him.
"Take him."
Several guards rushed forward, seizing the frantic Karstark and wrenching the sword from his hand.
Karstark was pinned to the ground, beast-like rasps coming from his throat, his bloodshot eyes never leaving Jaime, and then Robb.
Robb stood his ground, looking at his restrained vassal, his face showing not the slightest hint of softening.
He knew what this meant. But he had no choice.
Military law was as immovable as a mountain. It could not be broken.
That afternoon, in the clearing between Riverrun and the allied camp, the atmosphere was so heavy it felt as if it might freeze.
Rickard Karstark was forced to his knees on the rough stone, his hands tied behind his back.
He no longer roared; he simply stared fixedly at Robb, the deep-seated hatred in his bloodshot eyes almost overflowing.
After Robb Stark publicly read the charges, he ignored the dissuading or fearful looks of the surrounding lords and personally drew his longsword.
"If I spare him today, then tomorrow every soldier of the North and The Riverlands will defy military orders, and this army will simply fall apart!"
The blade fell. Blood splattered onto the bluestone, quickly soaking into a dark patch.
Robb sheathed his sword and stood on the high ground, his face as cold and hard as the frozen earth of the North.
Maintaining the unquestionable majesty a king should possess, he scanned the silent crowd below.
No one dared to meet his eyes; the soldiers of the North lowered their heads, and The Riverlands lords averted their gazes.
After the crowd dispersed, only he and a few personal guards remained in the clearing.
A small crack finally flickered in the depths of his forced hardness.
He stood alone for a while as the wind blew, carrying the metallic scent of the execution ground. He finally turned to leave, his footsteps heavier than when he had arrived.
The camp was still the same camp, and the alliance was still the same alliance, but he could feel that something had changed... it was the hearts of men.
A sliver of regret, like ice water, slowly seeped through his limbs with every step back to the tower.
He thought he was cutting down a rebellion, but now he vaguely felt that he might have severed something else, something more important. The feeling left him hollow inside, yet he could only force his back straighter.
Early the next morning, before the sun had fully risen, news reached the castle's main keep.
The forces of House Karstark had broken camp overnight and departed for the North.
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