The night air was a thick blanket of fog as a Northern guardsman led Robb and Torrhen through the outer perimeter of the camp. The torch in his hand flickered weakly, struggling against the unnatural chill that seemed to cling to the Stark cousins.
They reached an isolated clearing where a heavy iron cage sat under the dark canopy of the trees. Inside, chained tightly to a thick wooden pole positioned dead center—far out of reach from the iron bars—was Jaime Lannister. He was dirty, his golden armor stripped away, but his arrogance remained perfectly intact.
Robb stepped into the cage, the iron door groaning on its hinges. Torrhen did not follow him inside. He stood just beyond the threshold, melting into the shadows, his pale skin catching the faint torchlight and his metallic, silver eyes locking directly onto Jaime's face.
Jaime leaned his head back against the wood, a mocking smile twisting his lips. "King in the North. I keep expecting you to leave me in one castle or another for safekeeping, but you drag me along from camp to camp. Have you grown fond of me, Stark? Is that it? I've never seen you with a girl."
Torrhen's gaze didn't waver. He stood perfectly still, like a statue carved from glacier ice, his silver eyes boring into the Kingslayer's soul.
Robb kept his voice flat, unbothered by the baiting. "If I left you with one of my bannermen, your father would know within a fortnight. And my bannerman would receive a raven with a message: 'Release my son and you'll be rich beyond your dreams. Refuse and your house will be destroyed, root and stem.'"
Jaime's smile tightened slightly. "You don't trust the loyalty of the men following you into battle?"
"Oh, I trust them with my life," Robb replied smoothly. "Just not with yours."
"Smart boy," Jaime sneered, his voice dripping with condescension. "What's wrong? Don't like being called 'boy'? Insulted?"
Robb didn't answer. Instead, his gaze drifted to the dark woods behind the cage.
Jaime noticed the look. A sudden, tense silence fell over the clearing, broken only by the heavy, rhythmic thud of massive paws stepping through the damp leaves. Jaime nervously strained his neck, trying to look over his shoulder, his brave facade cracking as a giant, silver-grey shape materialized from the fog.
"You insult yourself, Kingslayer," Robb said, his voice dropping into a dangerous register. "You've been defeated by a boy. You're held captive by a boy. Perhaps you'll be killed by a boy."
Grey Wind stepped fully into the light, his amber eyes locked onto the prisoner. The direwolf squeezed his massive frame through the cage door, letting out a low, vibrating growl that rattled the iron bars. Jaime drew his legs up as much as his chains allowed, his breathing turning shallow.
"Stannis Baratheon sent ravens to all the high lords of Westeros," Robb continued, stepping closer to the trembling knight. "King Joffrey Baratheon is neither a true king nor a true Baratheon. He's your bastard son."
Jaime forced a dry laugh, trying to recapture his composure. "If that's true, Stannis is the rightful king. How convenient for him."
"My father learned the truth. That's why you had him executed."
"I was your prisoner when Ned Stark lost his head."
"Your son killed him so the world wouldn't learn who fathered him," Robb growled
Jaime shifted his weight, his eyes darting between Robb and the massive wolf sniffing at his boots. "You have proof? Or do you want to trade gossip like a couple of fishwives?"
"I'm sending one of your cousins down to King's Landing with my peace terms," Robb said coldly.
"You think my father's going to negotiate with you? You don't know him very well."
"No," Robb said, turning his back on the Kingslayer. "But he's starting to know me."
"Three victories don't make you a conqueror," Jaime shouted after him.
Robb stopped at the door, glancing back over his shoulder. "It's better than three defeats."
With a sharp nod, Robb nudged Grey Wind forward. The direwolf lunged, snapped his jaws inches from Jaime's face, and let out a terrifying, throat-tearing roar. Jaime flinched violently, closing his eyes in anticipation of the teeth. But when the snapping stopped and he opened his eyes, Robb and the wolf were already stepping out of the clearing.
The Knight's Secrets
Robb walked back toward the path, but Torrhen remained. He stepped out of the shadows, approaching the iron bars. The temperature around the cage plummeted instantly, Jaime's breath turning into a thick cloud of white vapor.
"Tell me, Lannister," Torrhen said, his voice a low, melodic chill that seemed to vibrate inside Jaime's skull. "Do you love your children?"
Jaime looked up, his brow furrowing as he met the terrifying, metallic silver gaze of the Frost Demon. He let out a harsh, defensive laugh. "What is a monster like you talking about?"
"Because one of them is about to die soon," Torrhen stated, his tone completely flat, devoid of cruelty but heavy with absolute certainty. "And another will be torn away and sent to the far south. This is what I saw in the ice."
Jaime's laughter turned into a bitter scoff. He shook his head, leaning back against the pole. "You Northmen are all the same. Screaming about your trees and your magic. Believe your own fairy tales if it makes you sleep better, boy. You know nothing of my family."
"Believe what you want, Lannister," Torrhen replied. He stepped closer to the bars, his pale face inches from the iron, his presence radiating an aura so ancient it made Jaime's blood run cold. "But I know you pushed Bran. I know every secret you think you buried in the dark."
Jaime opened his mouth to mock him again, but Torrhen's next words choked the breath right out of his lungs.
"I know how you killed Aerys Targaryen," Torrhen whispered.
The Kingslayer went completely rigid. The mocking glint in his green eyes vanished, replaced by a sudden, paralyzing shock.
"I know he was screaming for his pyromancer to light the wildfire caches below the streets," Torrhen continued, his silver eyes flashing with a lethal, knowing clarity. "I know he wanted to burn the capital into ash, to turn a million innocent people into a funeral pyre rather than give the city to Robert Baratheon. I know you drove your sword through his back to stop the fire. You saved the city, and the world called you a traitor for it."
Jaime stared at him, his mouth slightly open, a cold sweat breaking out across his neck. No one knew that. Not Ned Stark, not Robert, not his father. He had never told a living soul the true reason he broke his vows that day.
"You cannot hide anything from me, Jaime," Torrhen said, his voice echoing like wind over a frozen lake. "Your past is an open book to my sight, and your future is already breaking"
Torrhen turned on his heel, his midnight hair catching the edge of the torchlight as he glided silently back into the fog, leaving the Kingslayer alone in the dark, shivering from a cold that had nothing to do with the night.
Throughout the entire council, Torrhen remained melted into the heavy shadows at the back of the command pavilion. He stood completely motionless, a silent, ice-pale specter watching the politics of men unfold. He purposefully let Robb hold the center stage, letting him be the King. To Torrhen, the crown was nothing but a tedious hassle, and he didn't even know if he wanted any part of a royal name. The fully synchronized 100% library of his mind didn't care for courts, laws, or titles anymore; all he truly knew now, down to his glacier-dense bones, was the cold reality of the fight, the calculation of strategy, and the harvest of death.
Robb sat at the head of the table, looking down at a bound, exhausted prisoner.
"You're Ser Alton Lannister?" Robb asked.
"I am, Your Grace," Alton replied, his voice shaking slightly under the weight of the Northern lords' gazes.
"I offer your cousins peace if they meet my terms," Robb declared, his voice ringing with a newfound iron authority. "First, your family must release my sisters. Second, my father's bones must be returned to us so he may rest beside his brother and sister in the crypts beneath Winterfell. And the remains of all those who died in his service must also be returned. Their families can honor them with proper funerals."
"An honorable request, Your Grace," Alton murmured, casting a nervous glance toward the frozen corners of the tent.
"Third..." Robb leaned forward, his jaw set. "Joffrey and the Queen Regent must renounce all claim to dominion of the North. From this time, till the end of time, we are a free and independent kingdom."
Ser Alton looked at him, wide-eyed and breathless.
"The King in the North," Ser Rodrik Cassel spoke up firmly, his hand resting on his sword hilt.
"King in the North!" the other lords at the table echoed, their voices low but resolute.
"Neither Joffrey nor any of his men shall set foot in our lands again," Robb warned, ignoring the flare of pride in the room. "If he disregards this command, he shall suffer the same fate as my father, only I don't need a servant to do my beheading for me."
"These are... Your Grace, these are..." Alton swallowed hard, trembling under the absolute weight of the demands.
"These are my terms," Robb said, cutting him off cleanly. "If the Queen Regent and her son meet them, I'll give them peace. If not, I will litter the south with Lannister dead."
"King Joffrey is a Baratheon, Your Grace," Alton offered weakly, trying to appeal to the laws of the realm.
Robb's eyes flashed with a cold amusement. "Oh, is he? You'll ride at daybreak, Ser Alton. That will be all for tonight."
The Kraken's Bait
The lords cleared out, leaving only a few candles burning low. Theon Greyjoy stayed behind, stepping closer to the war map as Robb let out a heavy breath.
"A word, Your Grace?" Theon asked.
"You don't have to call me 'Your Grace' when no one's around," Robb sighed, rubbing his face.
"It's not so bad once you get used to it."
"I'm glad someone's gotten used to it."
Theon leaned over the table, his eyes bright with ambition. "The Lannisters are going to reject your terms, you know?"
"Of course they are."
"We can fight them in the fields as long as you like, but we won't beat them until you take King's Landing," Theon pressed, his voice dropping to an urgent whisper. "And we can't take King's Landing without ships. My father has ships and men who know how to sail them."
Robb's brow furrowed. "Men who fought my father."
"Men who fought King Robert to free themselves from the yoke of the South, just like you're doing now," Theon argued passionately, striking his chest. "I'm his only living son. He'll listen to me. I know he will. I'm not a Stark. I know that. But your father raised me to be an honorable man. We can avenge him together."
Robb looked at him, tempted by the sheer strategic weight of the Iron Fleet, but before he could answer, the cold from the back of the tent seemed to creep closer. Torrhen's silver eyes flashed in the dark, but he remained silent, letting the conversation end.
The Price of Free Girls
Later, in a different tent, the discussion resumed with Catelyn Stark, away from the prying ears of the lords.
"You don't want Balon Greyjoy for an ally," Catelyn stated flatly, her eyes hard.
From the corner of the room, Torrhen stepped into the candlelight. The frost on his leather bracers glistened slightly.
"I can't believe I am saying this, but I agree with Lady Catelyn," Torrhen's voice cut through the air like a razor slide. Both Robb and Theon turned to look at him. "You do not want Balon Greyjoy as an ally, Robb. From what I have seen in the currents of the world, he is a broken, bitter old man who lives on old grudges. He will betray you the moment he even entertains the idea of an alliance. He does not respect a wolf; he only respects the lash."
Robb shook his head, looking back at the map. "I need his ships. They say he has two hundred."
"They say a million rats live in the sewers of King's Landing," Catelyn countered sharply, continuing to pack various items into a traveling chest. "Shall we rally them to fight for us?"
"I understand you don't trust Lord Greyjoy," Robb muttered.
"I don't trust Lord Greyjoy because he is not trustworthy," Catelyn said, her voice rising with maternal fury. "Your father had to go to war to end his rebellion."
"Yes. And now I'm the one rebelling against the throne," Robb shot back, standing tall. "Before me, it was father. You married one rebel and mothered another."
Catelyn stopped her packing, looking at her eldest son with raw pain. "I mothered more than just rebels, a fact you seem to have forgotten."
"If I trade the Kingslayer for two girls, my bannermen will string me up by my feet," Robb admitted, his voice cracking under the tactical reality.
"You want to leave Sansa in the Queen's hands?" Catelyn pleaded, stepping toward him. "And Arya... I haven't heard a word about Arya. What are we fighting for if not for them?"
"But we will have them back," Torrhen interrupted, his chilling voice instantly calming the rising argument. "And we will have no reason to fear any retaliation they may take from this war against them. They will be safe."
Torrhen stepped closer to the table, his metallic silver eyes reflecting the small flame of a candle.
"Listen to me, Aunt Catelyn. I know their situations," Torrhen shared, sharing a few deliberate details from his visions. "Sansa is a hostage, yes, but Cersei keeps her under lock and key because she knows the girl is the only shield protecting her favorite son's neck. They will not touch her so long as Jaime draws breath. And Arya... Arya is no longer in the Red Keep. She escaped the day Uncle Ned was taken. She is clever, she is small, and she is moving through the Riverlands under a false name, hidden right beneath the Lannisters' noses. I am tracking her path. They cannot use what they do not hold."
Robb looked at Torrhen, a massive wave of relief washing over his face, though he kept his professional mask on. "It's more complicated than that! You know it is. The lords need to see us win a war, not just bargain for children."
A long pause followed. The weight of the world seemed to settle into the canvas walls. Catelyn sat down heavily on a wooden stool.
"It's time for me to go home," she whispered, her strength flagging. "I haven't seen Bran or Rickon in months."
"You can't go to Winterfell," Robb said softly.
Catelyn looked up, her eyes wide. "I beg your pardon?"
"I'll send Ser Rodrik back to watch over the boys," Robb explained, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Because tomorrow, you'll ride south to the Stormlands."
"Why in the name of all the Gods—"
"Because I need you to negotiate with Renly Baratheon," Robb said, leaning over her. "He's rallied an army of one hundred thousand. You know him. You know his family."
"I haven't seen Renly Baratheon since he was a boy," Catelyn protested, her shoulders sinking. "You have a hundred other lords—"
"Which of these lords do I trust more than you?" Robb asked, his voice softening with genuine affection. "If Renly sides with us, we'll outnumber them two to one. When they feel the jaws beginning to shut, they'll sue for peace. We'll get the girls back through steel, not trades. Then we'll all go home for good."
Catelyn stared at her son, seeing the shadow of Eddard Stark standing in his place. She closed her eyes and let out a long breath. "I will ride at first light."
Robb stepped forward, gently kissing her forehead, and they embraced tightly.
"We will all be together again soon, I promise," Robb whispered into her hair.
"You've done so well," Catelyn said, her voice thick with unshed tears as she pulled back to look at him. "Your father would be proud."
Robb paused, a bitter taste in his mouth as he remembered the crown he never asked for. "Give Lord Renly my regards."
Catelyn offered a small, weary, warning smile as she turned back to her packing. "King Renly. There's a king in every corner now."
The iron-dense muscles of Torrhen's arms corded as his twin short blades sliced through the midnight air.
He was a whirlwind of motion in the center of the dark clearing, miles away from the camp. His movements weren't the calculated, calm strikes of a seasoned duelist; they were violent, desperate, and frantic. As he spun and lashed out, the raw, ancient magic of his fully synchronized soul leaked out into the environment. A localized, sub-zero gale ripped through the clearing, catching up a massive vortex of dead leaves, snapping twigs, and frozen dirt, spinning them into a roaring wall of debris around him.
For all his terrifying power, inside his mind, a rare, suffocating panic was raging.
"I am trapped," the internal voice of the modern soul roared against the ancient ice of the Vessel. "I have one hundred percent absolute sync, the power of a literal god of winter, and yet I am chained to a desk of mortal politics. I am stuck riding shotgun in Robb's war while the clock ticks down."
He slashed upward, a crescent of pure frost flying from his blade and shearing a massive oak branch cleanly in two.
He couldn't stay still. The ticking timeline was driving him mad. He knew exactly what was coming. He needed to get to Arya before she was captured by the Mountain's men and dragged to Harrenhal. He needed to infiltrate King's Landing and rip Sansa out of the Red Keep before Joffrey's psychological torture broke her spirit completely.
But his mind raced even further, stretching across the world and into the grand cosmic horror of it all. He needed to cross the Narrow Sea, to find Daenerys while she was still wandering the Red Waste with her newly hatched dragons, and convince her to forge an alliance early—to bring fire and ice together before the continent bled itself dry.
And then there was the North.
Torrhen shattered a boulder with a brutal downward strike, the stone exploding into frosted gravel. He had to save Bran. He had to stop his little cousin from ever reaching that cursed cave, to keep the Three-Eyed Raven from hollowly digesting the boy's humanity to feed an ancient, indifferent entity. He had to march into the Lands of Always Winter, look the Night King in his burning sapphire eyes, and put an end to the Long Night before it even crossed the Wall—to put that ancient, cursed creature out of its misery and set it free from its thousand-year torment for good.
He slammed his blades back into their sheaths, his chest heaving as the whirlwind of leaves slowly collapsed into the frosted dirt around him. His breathing formed thick, rhythmic plumes of white steam in the dark.
"And Leaf," Torrhen growled out loud, his knuckles turning white as his hands clenched into fists, his silver eyes flashing with a very human, deeply modern irritation. "When I find the Children of the Forest, I am going to punch Leaf square in her wooden face for dragging a human to a weirwood tree and jamming a dragonglass dagger into his heart in the first place. Millions of deaths because they couldn't handle their own war."
He stood in the center of the ruined clearing, the silence rushing back to fill the void of his tantrum. The panic was still there, a low, buzzing electric current beneath his translucent skin, but the physical exertion had brought back the razor-sharp focus of the King of Winter.
He was a god in a world of mortals, trapped in a script he was desperately trying to rewrite. He couldn't play the part of a loyal cousin in a tent forever. Soon, the chains of Robb's war would have to break, because the world was burning, the dead were marching, and Torrhen Stark had a list of targets that spanned from King's Landing to the ends of the earth.
The cold snap in the clearing didn't recede; it deepened. The frost crept up the trunks of the surrounding trees, turning the rough bark into pale columns of ice as Torrhen's mind drifted to the sickening reality of the capital.
Through the unyielding library of his sight, he could see the impending horror brewing in the streets of King's Landing. He could see Janos Slynt and his gold cloaks sharpening their iron daggers, preparing to raid the taverns, the hovels, and the brothels on the orders of a paranoid Queen and a sadistic boy king.
"All those innocent children..." Torrhen muttered, his voice dropping into a dangerous, gravelly whisper that vibrated against the frozen earth. "Babies. Toddlers. Boys and girls who have never even seen the inside of a castle."
He slammed his fist against a frozen tree trunk, the impact echoing like a hammer on an anvil.
"They are going to be slaughtered in the dark. Hunted down by the gold cloaks like stray dogs just because they carry a drop of Robert's blood in their veins. Children who don't even know what a king is, let alone that they are related to one. They have no names, no titles, no ambitions. They just want to breathe."
His silver eyes flashed with a blinding, metallic rage as the modern soul within him fought against the sheer, barbaric injustice of the world he was trapped in.
"All of it..." Torrhen hissed, the air around him crackling with a sudden surge of static frost. "All of it because Cersei's little monster was born of incest. Because that golden-haired bastard isn't the true heir, and they are willing to paint the entire capital in the blood of infants just to keep their fragile, stolen throne from slipping away."
The sheer helplessness of being miles away in the Riverlands while the clocks ticked down to the purge in King's Landing made his teeth grind. Joffrey's reign was a disease, a rot that was starting to butcher the completely innocent just to protect a lie.
Torrhen slowly drew himself up to his full height, his midnight hair catching the dim starlight. The panic was gone, entirely burned away by a cold, calculative wrath. He couldn't stop every single blade in the capital from here, but he could make sure the price the Lannisters paid for those children would be written in absolute ruin.
"Let them spill their blood," Torrhen whispered into the frozen dark, a terrifying promise anchoring his synchronized mind. "Every life Joffrey takes in that city is another nail in his coffin. I am going to dismantle their house piece by piece, and when I finally reach the Red Keep, I will make sure Cersei and her little monster watch their entire world turn to ash before the cold takes them."